So You’re Saying My Kid Is Not Going To Be The Next Pelé?

When my oldest son was five years old he absolutely dominated on his soccer team. He was like the Michael Jordan-Tom Brady-Tiger Woods (pre-sex scandal) of elementary school age soccer. And it just tickled me. I’m not gonna lie; I had total mama-bear pride.
So naturally when he made the jump up to club soccer I expected him to continue his meteoric rise to soccer stardom. Well…um. Not so much. Yeah, he kinda crumbled under the pressure of bigger, more aggressive, equally skilled kids. When the opposing team challenged him for the ball he folded like a house of cards. He was still a skilled soccer player but he was so intimidated that he quickly became the team bench warmer. I knew he could be good if he just had some confidence. And that’s hard to watch.
And by hard to watch I mean it took every ounce of self-control to not run out onto the field and scream: “You’ve got this kid! He’s got nothing on you! I hear he still wets his bed! Your can take him!” Did I mention I’m competitive? But I held back. And my son spent the rest of the season trying his little heart out but spending most of it on the sidelines.
When it came time for try outs for the next year’s team he cried uncle. It was pretty heart breaking for me. Not because he had lost his zest for something he had once loved so much – although I definitely felt a small twinge of sadness over that loss – but because he broke down crying, thinking that I would be disappointed that the didn’t want to play anymore. At eight-years-old he had an adult-sized emotional meltdown and said things to me like: “I know how much to and dad like watching me play soccer.” And “I don’t want to make you and dad sad because I don’t want to play anymore.” And ” I try my hardest but no one thinks I am and it makes me so sad.” All while crying inconsolably.
It broke my heart.
I couldn’t help but beat myself up because unbeknownst to me I had turn into that parent who made my child think that he was responsible for my happiness.
So I choked back my own tears and tried to explain as best I could that I didn’t care what he did as long as he did something – dance, theater, baseball, violin, chess, water polo – whatever makes him happy would make me happy. And I vowed to myself that I would check myself regularly and ask my sons straight up to make sure I don’t become crazy dance or chess club mom. So that they will never feel responsible for my happiness to the point where it impinges on theirs. So a year from now, if you hear me gloating about my kids latest bad-ass check mate please remind me it might be time to re-read this blog!