Sports and Parents: Usually a Very Bad Combination

I was at the bus stop this morning. This is a good thing, as I don't always make it out the door. Too many kids, too many morning dramas, too many forgotten items usually means I am either driving someone in to school, driving some thing to school or sitting with my five year old while the morning meltdown slowly comes to a sputtering stop. This morning I made it out and was able to talk with actual adults. This is why I look forward to the bus stop mornings. It is not just because three of the four kids are gone for the day, it is mostly because there are other parents with which to converse. I get to catch up on what is going on in the neighborhood, at the schools and around town. This morning was all about sports drama. Who made what team, when which parent found out and who was hopping mad. So much for my daily uplift at the bus stop.

What is it about the combination of parenting and competitive sports that makes the most rational and charming adults turn into a complete idiots? I know that when it comes to my children, I have little perspective. Apparently a little perspective is better than none at all. My boys, in my mind, are either totally horrid (and only I can say that) or complete angels (and that is most likely when they are sleeping). I want to think that they are all bright, athletic, polite, kind and popular. Still, I know that they need help learning certain skills, that they can't always make the right decisions and that they can't always be the best at whatever they try. It is my job to help them learn what they need to learn, make better decisions and feel good about themselves for honest effort, no matter what the end result. I thought that was the definition of parenting. I guess I was grossly misinformed.

Hearing the stories this morning was not unique. It is a tune sung much too often at any given field, court or pool. For that matter, it is often sung at school, at play dates or any other place where some kids excel more than others. In my experience, it seems to be at its very worst during sports. "It isn't fair." "My (child) is better than the child who made the more advanced team." "My (child) should be starting." "My (child) is not getting enough playing time." "My child is not getting enough attention from the coach." "My (child) is not going to play for this team- I'm moving him to a league out of town." Blah, Blah, Blah. Why is this the case? Is it the dreams of glory? It is playing out of dreams deferred? It is blindness? I don't know the psychology behind it, but is mentally exhausting to watch it unfold.

First and more most, they are KIDS. I'm all for learning life lessons from competitive sports, but complaining, bitterness and entitlement, as far as I know, are not the lessons they should be learning. This isn't the NBA, NHL or the Summer Olympics. I'm talking about kids in elementary and middle school. Speaking of the NFL and the like, don't we love the sports hero who takes the time to sign autographs, to visit sick children in the hospital, who looks into the camera and thanks his/her Mom? Don't we secretly hate the sports legend who won't make time for his/her fans, who gets arrested, who makes millions without giving back? Do we honestly think that the virtues that separate these two types of people are born in a vacuum? When a signing bonus, a Nike endorsement contract or a full college scholarship are on the line for your kid, go whole hog! Until then stop and think about what you are really conveying about sports to your kids.

I learned some of the most important life lessons from my years of track and field, soccer, field hockey and basketball. I learned them all the hard way, thorough sweat, sweat and more sweat. Only running came easily to me. The rest, I had to work hard just to make the team. I learned I can not always be the best no matter how much I want it. I learned that a team can't win unless everyone works as a team whether or not you like all your teammates or not. No one wins alone. No matter where you rank in the standings it is a requirement to give support to all your fellow teammates- the best, the worst and the mediocre. I learned that you show and work hard up when a team depends upon you whether you feel like it or not. Every time. No exceptions. I learned that you can work at 100% peak effort everyday of the season just to gain 10% improvement in the end. Still, it is improvement. Never getting in the game, but cheering from the bench after killing yourself in practice after practice is still part of the team. Go ahead and bask in the glory of a first place win but don't act like a jerk to those who came in behind you. I learned that playing dirty is no way to win and still have any self respect. The hardest lesson I learned was you must always respect your coach who, in reality, may be a complete jerk, but who runs the team and therefore is the boss. These all translate into the stuff of life: work, family, responsibility. I never, ever learned that winning was the only lesson.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up when I hear the stories of these crazy sports parents. These are often the same parents who wonder aloud why other parent's kids these days are so entitled, so disrespectful and so lazy. Let the kids play the game. Let the coach coach the teams and let the refs make the calls. Sure, some of the calls are clearly wrong. Of course, not all coaches are fair. So what?! Your kids hear you when you swear about a bad play, when you complain about an incompetent coach, when your face registers disappointment at the loss. Cheer when they win, hit a home run or make a goal. Sympathize when they miss, make an error or don't make the cut. Work with them to improve but don't EVER send them the message that being the best is the only way you will be proud of them. Parents can't play the game for their kids, they can't run their race and they can't will them to pro-sport glory. What can parent can do is to raise decent, competitive, and hard working children. Let that be the lesson you teach.

Now quit your bitchin' or you may get a random slap upside the head from me if I see you at my kid's game.

A Little Cleaning Makes It Okay

I thought that my cleaning gene had hidden itself somewhere in my ovaries, fallopian tubes or other female parts as not one of my sons has ever exhibited any tendency to pick up, clean or tidy unless I became a screaming maniac. I was shocked into silence (no small feat) when my five year old son was found in the bathtub this morning. What makes this so shocking is that he was not bathing (a favorite pastime of all my boys for hours on end with an endless array of plastic men who die in explosions or hails of gun fire) he was CLEANING. Yes, he was on his hands and knees with a wet washcloth cleaning the inside of the tub. I just stood there, mouth agape, wide eyed and silent. He looked up with a big grin and said, "I'm cleaning, Mom!" Indeed he was.

Since this was 8 a.m. and there were two other boys to get out the door to make the school bus, I had to leave this beautiful sight and head down to the kitchen. About 15 minutes later he ambled down the stairs, two damp rags in hand, and proceeded to "wash" the windows that I spent a few hours really washing last weekend. I was quite proud of myself for not screaming "Stop!" as I wouldn't want to damper his cleaning enthusiasm in any way. I simply gently redirected him to come into the kitchen and start on the walls that he and his three brothers had coated in some sort of goo that blends in very well with Benjamin Moore paint I chose in a subtle shade of spring green.

His industrious was infectious, so I grabbed one of his damp cloths, rinsed it out, and started on the other side of the kitchen cleaning more goo off more walls. I tossed it in the laundry basket in the laundry room when I was done and moved on to the breakfast dishes. My darling cleaner looked up and demanded to know what happened to his other cleaning cloth. I explained to him that the cloths had to be washed when they were done being used to clean out all the dirt and germs. He replied, "Yeah, that's a good idea. I think they had some germs because I used them to clean the toilet."

After returning to a shade of pale better than the green I was a moment before, I had to laugh. Although it was very, very bad that my kitchen walls were now covered in whatever four boys had sprayed all over their bathroom walls over the last few days, I had to be grateful that the toilet was indeed clean. (Or at least as clean as a five year old can make it.) If there is one thing I hate more than cheap, imitation leather shoes, it is cleaning the bathroom. This has been exacerbated four-fold (really 1,000-fold) since I have four semi-potty trained boys living in my house. I say semi-trained, because no matter the age- between 11 and 5- not one of them consistently pees IN the toilet. There is always something left on the rim, the sides, the floor, the wall, the radiator and/or the side of the sink cabinet. It always amazes me how little pee actually makes it in the waiting toilet water. Well, at least one of them attempted to clean it up.

After an hour of scrubbing with 409, gloves, clean cloths, and more 409, my kitchen walls are sparking. I rewashed all the windows in the bathroom and living room with glass cleaner, along with the bathroom mirror and bathroom sink. All in all, my little cleaner added an extra hour of intense cleaning to my day, but it was worth it. The look of pride on his face in a job"well done" and at his own initiative was priceless. I betting that it will be another five years or so before he does it again on his own, but I could be wrong. I guess the cleaning gene found its way out of my girl parts after all.