I’m a Richard Sherman fan. I have been for well over a year. I follow him on Twitter. I’ve read about him in magazines and online – about his charity softball game, the schools he visits in our community, the foundation he started, his mom and dad. I’ve watched a video of him making Fruit Gushers meatballs with his brother. If I were to buy a player jersey, it’d be his I’d choose. When the post-game interview for Sunday’s game happened – and then exploded – I watched, quite honestly, in amusement. I replayed it over and over. Shocking. Surprising. Crazy. Outlandish. Outrageous. Not the run-of-the-mill, feel-good sound bite we might’ve been expecting after a Championship game. But as I read tweets and Facebook comments and talked with my sister, I soon realized that my Bay Area friends were getting quite a different introduction to the guy, and definitely not a positive one. Like many, over the past couple days I’ve read various articles about the hot-button topic and pondered it from different perspectives.
But as things in the Northwest started to return to normal yesterday – back to school, back to the routine – and I was on my morning run, it was the unexpected emotion of Sunday night that I was thinking about, about what was captured for the world to see. My thoughts turned from Richard Sherman to myself. That time on a street in Manhattan and in a parking garage in Kirkland, when I unleashed an ugly tirade on my oldest son — when loud, hurtful, angry words seemed to just spew from my mouth almost uncontrollably. Moments when passersby and strangers might’ve (probably) thought “Bad mom” or worse “If she’s screaming that way in public, what does she do behind closed doors?” Moments when I was later embarrassed by the person I showed myself to be, let alone the mom. Moments when my emotions almost consumed me and simply got the best of me.
In those moments, those snippets and glimpses into my life, I know there were folks who probably looked at me and shook their heads. Maybe in disbelief, disgust or an “I-can’t-believe-that-mom” way. But I also know there were folks who looked at me and nodded. Those who looked in my eyes and seemed to say “Yep, I’ve been there. I get it.”
Our emotions get the best of us. And when they do, I vow to try harder, do things differently next time, count to ten or take a deep breath.
Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t.
I just hope that when I’m the one watching— in my everyday life or something in the national spotlight —when I catch those snippets and glimpses, I’ll be more inclined to nod in understanding rather than shake my head in disbelief.
I tried to resist writing this. “Who really cares what you think, Kira? You don’t need to add your two cents.” I said to myself.
But it came down to this:
As I said in the beginning, I am a Richard Sherman fan.