04/18/2026
’Twas the night before comp, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring… except this tired cheer mom spouse.
The bows were laid out and the bags packed with care,
With hopes we’d remembered every single hair.
The athletes were sleeping, all snug in their beds,
With full-out routines still stuck in their heads.
And I in my leggings, no chance for a nap,
Had just settled in… when I spotted a trap.
A smell from the corner—what could it be?!
That uniform top was staring at me.
I snatched it up quick and let out a cry—
“How is it crunchy?! Dear lord, WHY?!”
To the sink I went, sleeves rolled with dread,
While visions of score sheets danced in my head.
I scrubbed and I soaked and I prayed to the stain,
“Please come out fast, we don’t have time for this pain!”
With detergent and grit and a whole lotta spite,
I battled that funk in the dead of the night.
While glitter still clung like it paid rent for space,
And hairspray somehow had glued half the lace.
The clock it kept ticking, the hour grew late,
But a clean uniform was non-negotiable fate.
So I rinsed and I wrung and I hung it to dry,
Muttering “we’re fine” while side-eyeing the sky.
Then back to the checklist—shoes, makeup, tape,
Half-eaten snacks tossed in just in case of escape.
And just when I thought I could crawl into bed,
I remembered… “THE BOW!” and I whispered, “I’m dead.”
But alas it was there, in all of its glory,
And I laughed to myself at this all-star story.
So I finally crashed, just a few hours to spare,
Dreaming of zero deductions and perfect comp hair.
And I whispered (half delusional, running on fumes),
“Let’s hit zero, stay fierce… and please, no more dirty uniforms.”
