A small voice came from the backseat.

“Mommy, why did you sign me up for basketball camp?”

We were on our way to the third day of basketball camp. The first two days of camp, Annabelle insisted she loved it. Til last night, when she admitted that she cried once during warm ups, because she was trying to dribble the ball and it bounced off her foot and rolled away.

“But then I realized it was silly to cry and I stopped!” she announced this morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house. (The conversation had continued on — and on.)

That was awfully stoic. The stoicism faded as we approached the arena, and by the time we got inside, the tears were welling up. It was barely past 9, but warm ups were already well underway, and I realized why she was upset. Shit, that was hard! I watched her grab a ball, take her spot, struggle.

“You know, my mother never made me stay at anything more than the first day if I didn’t like it,” my dear friend Mrs. M. said in my ear. She’s the reason I even knew about the camp; her daughter’s in it, too. Mrs. M. is very wise.

“Yeah, mine never made me do much I didn’t want to do either,” I replied, watching Annabelle chase after her ball. It was so big and her hands were so small; a losing proposition.

She didn’t ask to leave. She’s so brave. I thought about swooping her up and taking her with me — far away from horrible things like running and large balls and coaches with booming voices — but instead I split the difference by summoning a kind looking young woman.

The woman brushed me off at first. “She’ll be fine!” she said. “As soon as you leave, she won’t be upset.”

“No,” I explained, “it’s not that. She really can’t do any of it! She just needs someone to tell her that’s okay.”

The woman and I watched for a few moments. Then she smiled an I-feel-sorry-for-your-uncoordinated-family kind of smile with her lips together and walked over to another young woman, and whispered to her. The woman nodded and walked over by Annabelle.

I felt a little better. I’m not sure about Annabelle.

“What do you mean?” I asked her, when she wondered why I sent her to basketball camp. Did she mean, “Why are you torturing me?” Or, “Do you expect me to actually learn how to play this game?” Or, “What kind of a crappy mother are you?”

Or –what?

She couldn’t really tell me, or wouldn’t. I think I know what she meant, though. In any case, at least tomorrow’s the last day of basketball camp. Next week we’ll be back to arts and crafts and a different kind of drama.

I wonder if someday, Annabelle will make her daughter go to basketball camp.