Ruth Ayres hosts a weekly celebration on her blog. I appreciate this invitation to look for the positives in my week.
This week, I am celebrating the serendipitous and unexpected ways we learn about what it means to be a parent, a child, a family. This is a photo of Warriors point guard and NBA league MVP Stephen Curry with his daughter and his mom. We are big sports fans and have been following the NBA playoffs. We love watching the basketball games, but we just might love watching Curry with his family even more.
It all started a couple of weeks ago. Before a playoff game, the camera caught Curry on the sidelines bending down to accept a kiss from his two-year-old daughter.
“That’s his daughter!” my son yelled. “Look! That’s his daughter! She looks just like him!”
Curry’s wife was also at the game, and the camera cut to her in the stands several times.
“Oh! She looks like her mom too!”
My son loves to trace physical resemblances among family members. He is fascinated by the ways that shared genetics show on faces. Curry’s parents were sitting next to his wife, and so we had to pause the screen to discuss whether Curry looks more like his mom or his dad.
I thought it might end there, but mild interest in the Currys only grew this week after I showed my son the clip of Riley Curry stealing the show at a press conference. He has asked to watch clips from this press conference a couple of dozen times. I never intend to sit and watch again with him–I mean, I’ve seen it 20 times by now. But I find myself caught up in the sweet dynamic between Curry and his daughter. I still laugh every time she giggles when she first hears her father’s voice in the microphone and then complains, “That’s too loud, Daddy. Be quiet.”
My son was thrilled when Curry brought Riley to another press conference. We’ve watched this one a dozen times too, and he dissolves into giggles every time at her exaggerated yawn and curtain antics. He’s especially fascinated by the tender dynamic between father and daughter. He studies and comments on every touch and glance between them.
My son’s best learning, though, has come from Curry’s parents. They seem to be there for every game. The camera frequently cuts to them. Del always looks calm. Sonya always looks intense. My son is terrified that turning eighteen, graduating from high school, moving away, will mean the loss of his family. But there are Del and Sonya, showing up for every game, experiencing every win and loss with their son.
Steph took a really nasty fall in a game this week. It looked like he should have some broken bones or at least a concussion from it. After the fall, the camera cut to Sonya, who leaped to her feet. We could read her lips. Get up, baby. You’re okay. Shake it off, baby. My son’s head spun toward me, and I knew just what he was thinking.
I call him baby all the time, and at least a couple of times a week he challenges me on that.
“Will I still be your baby when I’m in college?”
“What about when I’m forty?”
“Okay, what about when I’m eighty and you’re dead?”
And here is Steph Curry, a grown man with a wife and daughter. He’s the MVP of the league. And his mama stills calls him baby. He is still her baby.
The camera followed Curry leaving the court and heading down the hallway to the locker rooms for an examination.
“Where’s his mom?” my son cried. “He needs his mom!”
My husband and I exchanged a triumphant look.
Steph was out of the game for about an hour. When he did return, the camera zoomed in on him looking up into the stands and mouthing, “I’m okay.”
“Look!” my son said. “He’s telling his mom he’s okay.”
I’m not sure he understood why I couldn’t stop smiling.