Let’s not kid ourselves. In today’s world of über kiddom, parents are training Olympians. Kids start training at four in their parent’s desired sport of choice, and by six are doing three to four days a week of practices and private lessons. Forced to pursue their parent’s dream and pay for college with their finely tuned talent and lost childhood.
Who wouldn’t love to see their child be amazing in something? The world’s best! A thrilling reverie, however unlikely.
My husband and I stood at the pool’s edge, anxious excited. Our competitive juices pumping. For the past four years, and laboring through an assortment of other sports first, our cumulative efforts to guide Wheels into swimming were about to pay off as he chose to tryout for a year round swim team. Four years of general how not to drown swim lessons, learning the strokes, encouraging him with swimming is a lifelong sport and consciously reminding, Sports are for fun! Do your best and we will be proud, had slowly turned his disdain to love. We were ready to watch him, at 8, grow in the first sport he’s enjoyed.
As the swimmers before him dove in, we noticed the fluidity of their strokes. The poise in their breathing. The steady velocity of their kicks. Up to this point, we restrained ourselves from over coaching and infusing Wheels with his parents’ rabid desire to win. But quickly after watching the others, nervousness cropped up.
We are not sitters. So standing poolside arms crossed, with crazy intense eyes, seemed most appropriate when attempting to make your child feel at ease.
Wheels stepped onto the block and took position. My husband leaned in whispering, “He just needs to show he has potential. He’s ready. He’s got this.”
The coach bellowed GO! and Wheels plunged, full cannonball belly-flop dive with arms correctly together over his head, but were the last body parts to enter the water. Surfacing in the same spot, he began butterfly. Arms flying, flailing really. No rhythm, no kick, just a frantic splash-filled effort to not sink. Up, down, up, down his arms gesticulated as a flying fish who just can’t seem to catch air. I have never seen anything like it. It looked like a seizure.
Nearly 30 frantic fly strokes in, he finally swam halfway down the lane where my husband I stood. Just as he reached us, he was over taken by the seven year old girl next in line.
“Oh holy mother of God,” I muttered, “We failed him.”
Without connecting dumbfounded eyes, my husband pinched his as though having a migraine, and sighed “Yep!”
For years, we had been concerned about injecting our competitive natures into the boys too young. Our desire to be the best has served us well. It allowed me to attend a wonderful college and be one of the top goalkeepers in the country, all while my husband swam his way around the world in the Commonwealth Games and Olympic Trials. We were pushed hard by those around us, internalizing both good and bad from the experiences.
While dating, we found out quickly we could never be on the same team in Pictionary (that was cookie, not a pizza!). I have been known to toss Goblet because in 11 years of marriage I have yet to defeat him, just as he refuses to play Connect Four and Backgammon with me. To this day, we have different partners during Hand and Foot and I will refuse play, if I do not sit to his immediate right because he fiddles so long with his cards I can never determine if I have enough time to get a snack!
Yes! We are competitive. But that instinct has provided us with all the gifts we possess. For our kids, we hoped to develop this once they reached double digits.
But according to this tryout, we waited too long. With these kids, there was no way, no matter how much he wanted it, that Wheels was going to make the team.
After the final length he pulled himself out of the water, eyes wide, knowing. Dripping he sulked to us wringing his goggles and asked, “Mom, Dad. I don’t think I made the team. Do you?”
I put my arm around him and looked him in the eye, “No baby. You didn’t. So now what do you want to do?”
“Well, I would like real lessons so I can make it next year.”
Looking up at my husband, I felt more pride than if he made the team. He was determined. And that is the most dignified and valuable quality of being competitive.
*Note*
To our great surprise, the coach emailed us impressed with his effort and asked Wheels to join the team. The boy teared up and accepted.
We are still conflicted.
Mom-dern Vignettes 