Parenting Blunder

First of all, let me begin by saying that I do not blame Tighe for this incident. Nor do I accept all the blame myself. It was a consensual decision. Impulsive. We were exhausted. Cold. Mildly hungover. Mildly. 

And I don’t think either one of us had eaten a complete, nutritious meal that day. 

In truth, it had been a long week. 

Sam got sick. Tighe was out of town. Lou was “blue,” which was his teacher’s description. Then Tess got sick. By Friday, we were back to normal, but Tighe and I had tickets to a 10pm stand-up show, and it ended up being a long night. We were in bed by 2am and then up by 7:30am for Tess’s 9am soccer game.

She sat at the breakfast table, tearfully spooning soggy Cheerios into her mouth. She was excited about her game, but she was adamant that she was not going to spend the day going to all the boys’ games afterwards. We had Nate’s football at 11am, Lou’s soccer at 2pm, and Sam’s flag football game at 7pm, way up north.

Honestly, I was feeling overwhelmed by it all, too. I’d have to oversee snacks, cash for concession stands, jerseys that fit, water bottles, shin guards, cleats, mouthguards, all the things. And deal with everyone’s inevitable mood swings. When would we have time for that oh-so-necessary nutritious meal? 

But I stayed calm, trying my darndest not to escalate her emotions by controlling my own. After a marathon of back and forth arguing with Tess—Tighe and I basically played good cop/bad cop with a sprinkle of reverse psychology—we got out the door, braved the breezy misty morning, came home with a win, and scooped up Sam, Lou, and some steaming hot chocolates to make it in time for Nate’s game.

Another win!

This day just kept getting better. 

Until it got worse.

We headed home for some outfit changes—dry clothes, please!—and a quick lunch, and then headed back to the soccer complex for Lou’s game.

It should be noted that Lou is an enthusiastic soccer player. He exists with a certain joie de vivre that I’ve never seen in a 4 year-old. Upon waking up each and every morning, he sits up and asks, groggily, “Do I have my soccer game today?”

And I have to walk that delicate line between telling him, “no” without setting him off to the point that he refuses to get dressed and go to school. There’s a lot of stalling. A lot of vague replies from me. I ask some questions that I actually know the answer to, like, “I don’t know, what day is it again?” Or something evasive like, “I’ll have to check the schedule.”

Let’s not forget I was a political science major and an enneagram 9. Which means I don’t like confrontation. 

But Lou always follows up. Always asks to see the calendar so he can confirm the date, and together we count the days and talk about how hard he’s going to work in the game. It’s beautiful, really. 

So as we drove to soccer that Saturday afternoon, he was in the zone. As he always is. He stares out the window, dialed in to Jay-Z or Outkast or Eminem or whatever his pump-up song of choice is that day.

We tumbled out of the car, Lou holding Tighe’s hand, his soccer ball tucked under his other arm. He was ready.

Until he wasn’t.

I really can’t describe what happened next with complete certainty. We walked through the gates and strolled across turf. We’ve lived in Kansas City for ten years now, so it feels like we know everyone with small children. A group of kids, some on Lou’s team and some not, immediately ran up to greet us. 

And I think that’s when we lost Lou.

Suddenly he needed to be held. 

I tried to put him back down on the ground, but he wouldn’t let go of my neck. So I knelt down with him still clinging to me and closed my eyes. I was so tired, it felt really good to close my eyes. I don’t know whether I was trying to soothe Lou or myself.

“Lou, this is your soccer game. You’ve been waiting all week for this! This is your chance to dominate!”

Sam and Tess had already run off with a group of older kids, and Tighe was standing a few yards away recounting the details Nate’s football game to another dad. Dads are a special breed.

Lou’s favorite teammate and his older sister had come to check on Lou, and they stood inches from my face. They were trying to be helpful, but I think their proximity just overwhelmed him even more.

“What’s wrong with Lou?” they asked, after he was unresponsive to their direct inquiries.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “He loves soccer, he was so excited. Lou! You were so excited!”

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head in the direction of his coach, who was looking our way, inquisitively. 

And then Tighe, now wrapping up his oration of the football game, walked over.

“Okay, we’re done! Lou, if you’re not going to play, we’re leaving!”

“Yeah,” I agreed with Tighe. “Let’s go.”

And we did.

But why did we do that? That’s not what we’ve done in the past!

All four of our kids, against better judgment, played on these same soccer fields starting at three years old. Was it a good investment? Probably not. It’s not like any of them are better athletes BECAUSE of this tiny-person, small ball field. In fact, all of them had a day or two or many, that they didn’t even want to play. 

When Nate was this age, he wrestled on the sidelines with his buddies while the girls on his team followed directions and paid attention to the game. Sam often sat on a picnic blanket with his best friend Jimmy, who refused to step onto the field until he was about 5. And Tess was engaged depending on which friends were on the field with her. Otherwise, she was on the sidelines, coloring.

But we stayed for all of them, encouraging, but not pressuring, each child to get in the game while we chatted on the sidelines with the other parents. 

Even last spring, when we showed up to an early morning game for Lou when it was bitter cold and overcast, and almost every small child refused to play, we stayed. Lou laid on the damp turf, sobbing. Then whimpering. Then occasionally glancing up to see what his friends were doing, what all the cheering was about. And eventually, Lou cheered up and decided to play. And he had a blast!

Each time, by staying for the entirety of the game, we were teaching lessons about teamwork. Resilience. Tenacity. Grit. 

You’re part of the team, so even if you don’t play, you have to stay and cheer on your friends. You can do tough things! You can persevere in bad weather! And you’ll be rewarded for it! With joy, endorphins, a sense of triumph and confidence! And sometimes donuts.

I’m a big proponent of kids sports. Obviously. For so many reasons! Physical activity is good for mental health; being part of a team helps make friends; lots of kids find an outlet for their anxiety, depression, or anger; kids who may not have found success in school or socially might find success in sports; being outdoors can boost vitamin D intake, and the list goes on.

So why did we leave this particular time? 

Just before we turned left on 63rd street to head for home, we gave Lou one last opportunity. 

“Lou, this is your last chance. What do you think? Do you want to play soccer today?”

“No,” he muttered, staring out the window. “I do not want to play.”

“Alright, that’s it. I think you’re gonna be bummed later.”

Poor little guy. In the back of my head, I know that’s a lot of pressure for a 4 year-old. He’s impulsive; he can’t predict how his current actions will affect his feelings in the future. He lives life in four-minute increments.

But as I sat in the comfy, heated leather seat in Tighe’s Yukon Denali, I was already dreaming about an extra hour on the sofa watching college football before we had to head out to Sam’s game that evening. And I know Tighe was, too. 

If Lou’s soccer game had been the only activity of the day, I think we probably would have attempted to overcome his bad mood. We would have stayed, chatted with our parent friends, and cheered on the little kids, which hopefully, would include Lou.

But instead we went home.

Instead of teaching perseverance and resilience, we taught a lesson about regret and missed opportunities. At least, I think we did. Maybe we just taught a lesson about tired, old parents who stayed up too late the night before and how easily they give up.