Going Pro

This past weekend my five year old son became a professional soccer player.  Professional, that is, to the extent that I am now paying him. And the question I have been pondering this week is:  why do I care so much?

This need for motivation in sports is a new experience in our household.  My eldest child was, startlingly, a natural athlete.  Once we placed him on the field and explained the basic idea that you get points for taking the ball from others and putting it in the goal, he was off.  As I watch him out there, his small body bending and twisting with agility and grace, I am sure of one thing:  I am making no genetic contribution to this phenomenon.  I'm no couch potato, but my sports of choice -- swimming, running, hiking -- have in common that the main requirement is a determination to move from point A to point B, and eye hand coordination is secondary.  (It is fairly difficult to fall off a hiking trail, although the consequences may be dire.)  I watch him with joy, but there's also a lingering wonderment as to where he got it from.

With Samuel, soccer is a different game.  In soccer as in all things, this kid rows his own boat.  Lest you get the impression that my husband and I are soccer-pushing super parents, I assure you that we are not.  He was eager to join the team, loves putting on the uniform, gets excited when there is a game.  Once the game commences, however, he trots sedately up and down the field.  He's careful to stay close enough to the pack to be included, but not so close as to compete with the team stars for an opportunity to actually touch the ball.  He is neither naturally graceful nor particularly clutzy.  He's just relaxed.  Sometimes he quits watching the game altogether because he has a (non-soccer-related) thought that he wants to communicate to the sidelines using uninterpretable sign language.  Post-game analysis is usually focused on the quality of the week's snack, regarding which his criticism is sharp and relentless.

Samuel seems quite content with this approach  to the game.  His father and I are a different story.  It's a hard sell to bundle four kids into the car and cart all their equipment down to a damp grassy patch so that you can sit for an hour and watch your child amble casually somewhere near a game in which he does not actually appear to be participating.  My husband must occasionally be banished so that he will not embarrass himself (OK, me) by shouting instructions from the sidelines --which incidentally, if you were thinking of trying it in a similar situation, does no good whatsoever. 

Maybe my kid just has a happy-go-lucky disposition.  But I wonder if there's something not so sunny at work.  This kiddo is nothing if not a pragmatist, and I suspect that he has summed up the situation as follows:  I am not the best, and if I run around after the ball, it's going to be hard and I'm probably not going to score.  So I'll hang out in the back here where I can be part of the team, but not try too hard.  (And as a bonus, I'll get a snack.)

This is not a pattern for life that I want to encourage.  So this past weekend, in a stroke of genius or desperation, I had a parking lot heart to heart with my son.  I reminded him that Mom and Dad didn't really care if he was the best, OK, or not very good at soccer.  We just cared that he tried his hardest.  I asked him to be more...stubborn.

We talked about how stubborn is bad sometimes, like when Mom wants you to eat a vegetable or when you won't compromise with your brother, but it's also good sometimes, like when you can't do something very well yet but you keep trying and don't give up.  And to help this stubborness along, I offered an incentive:  every time his foot touched the ball, he would get a penny.  A light was kindled in his little eyes.

"So if I get enough pennies will I get some of the grey money?  If I get five pennies I can get one of those big grey monies and if I get ten pennies I can get one of the other grey moneys?"

I assured him that I would make change for nickels and dimes.  And we shook on it. 

And here's the thing:  it worked.  For the first part of the game he did his usual thing, but at some point he got in a kick.  He looked up at me, grinned, and held up one finger.  And he was off again. 

Was he transformed into a fierce, talented soccer playing machine?  Uh, no.  He was not what anyone would term a scoring threat.  But he kicked the ball thirteen times, and each time he looked toward the sideline with his excited smile, and held up his fingers to show me his tally. I wasn't quite sure why, but my inner parenting gut told me we had done something good here. I am out one small grey money and three cents, which seems like a bargain. 

Over the days I've puzzled on what happened here, and whether it was good.  Here is the conclusion I've reached:  I think it's good, because Samuel and I together figured out how to transform a game where he felt like he couldn't compete, into a game where he could compete against himself.  And in the process he discovered that more effort got more results. 

I really, truly don't care (at least I think I don't) whether my son is good at soccer.  But I know there will be many more times in his life when he tries at something and does a big belly flop.  And I hope that with my pennies I can help him learn that if he digs in his heels and keeps trying, he may still not be the best, but he will get better,and he will be doing HIS best, which feels pretty good.  

If he demonstrates anything like his natural tenacity for avoiding vegetables...we may see him in the World Cup yet. 

Then and Now

How did this...

Turn into this...

I swear I only left the room for a minute.

Mrs Watson

Like a lot five year old boys (and, I would suggest, all of the best ones), Samuel just loves his kindergarten teacher.  This week his conversation has included some particularly great Mrs. Watson stories.  Today's edition:

"Mommy, Mrs Watson says that if we feel just a little sick we are not supposed to come to school".

"Really?"

"Yes she does, because today Luke felt just a little sick and he came to school anyway and then he threw up on the rug". 

Point taken, Mrs Watson.

Mrs. Watson's job has some brighter spots.  Tonight Samuel composed a letter and sealed it up in an envelope to take to school tomorrow:

"Dear Mrs Watson, I am going to be a scaree dragon for Halloween.  I have a poerful tial and poerful wings. Roooooooor. Scare you right out of your pants.  Love Samuel"