The Kid With the Helmet
I'm feeling like Super Bitch right now, because Bob's t-ball practice has put me in the foulest of the foul moods.
Something shifted in his head during the night, and instead of laying in bed until Much Too Late and arguing with me over every single freakin' thing, Bob was up, out of bed, dressed, and watching tv when I got up this morning. Wow. He was also cheerful. Double wow.
Around 10:30 this morning, after our receptionist got fired (HOORAY!), I called the school to let one of the teachers know we need a receptionist and to tell her daughter to come in for an interview. While we were on the phone, I asked how Bob was doing. "He's better today than he's been all week." I suspected as much. Just another stage in the endless cycling.
When I picked him up at 5:00, he was bouncing off the walls. We drove to a nearby high school to get Bob's t-ball stuff from Ben's car (he was there covering a game), then got McDinner, then stopped at the house to get Bob's Sensible Shoes, then we were off to the ballpark.
Within the first five minutes, Bob was spinning around in circles. Throwing his glove up in the air. Turning cartwheels. Rolling in the grass. Basically doing anything but paying attention to practice and/or the coaches and/or the other kids.
I know that he's five. I know that t-ball may not be his sport. Truthfully, I wouldn't give a rat's ass if he were the shittiest t-ball player on the team or in the whole league--if he would just fucking try. If he would make the slightest effort to keep his head in the game and do a good job. But he doesn't care.
I sat there for an hour and with each passing minute I wanted even moreso to melt into the ground beneath me. I know the other parents were probably busy watching and being embarrassed by their own children (I don't think any of those kids are major league material), but I couldn't help but think everyone's watching him and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. Halfway through practice I was ready to scoop him up under one arm, carry him to the car, and drive far far away and never return and just scrap the t-ball idea and write off the $45. But Ben brought up that if we quit, we're not only setting a bad example for Bob, we're more than likely giving db more fodder for court ("she pulled him off the team when I started going to the practices, she just doesn't want me to be involved in his life"). At last, it was 7:00, practice was over, and we were released. And we get to do it all over again come Monday.
Yippee.
I'm not upset that Bob won't be the next Derek Jeter. I'm upset that I got the Special Kid. The kid who could leave his batting helmet on all day long and no one would be all that surprized. The kid who acts like there's something definitely not right with him.
The truth is I'm a perfectionist, and if Bob's not perfect, it means I've failed. Yes, I know what a completely fucked up train of thought that is, but it's the truth. I wanted the kid who was a self-defeating perfectionist just like me--only I hoped he would be slightly less self-defeating and in turn be an over-achieving neurotic. I wanted my eyes to well with pride when he walked across the stage at his high school graduation as the principal announced all of his honors and accolades.
At the rate we're going, I'm going to be grateful if he even graduates from high school. And that sucks.
I know that what really matters is for him to be happy and well-adjusted and grow into a happy, well-adjusted adult. I just don't see how that's going to be possible if he can't even get through a stupid ass 55 minute t-ball game. And yes, I know one's success cannot be measured by one's team sports participation at the age of five, but this isn't an isolated event--this is day-to-day life for Bob, for us, for almost his entire life so far.
Ah, well. Time to go pry his helmet off and get him to bed.
Something shifted in his head during the night, and instead of laying in bed until Much Too Late and arguing with me over every single freakin' thing, Bob was up, out of bed, dressed, and watching tv when I got up this morning. Wow. He was also cheerful. Double wow.
Around 10:30 this morning, after our receptionist got fired (HOORAY!), I called the school to let one of the teachers know we need a receptionist and to tell her daughter to come in for an interview. While we were on the phone, I asked how Bob was doing. "He's better today than he's been all week." I suspected as much. Just another stage in the endless cycling.
When I picked him up at 5:00, he was bouncing off the walls. We drove to a nearby high school to get Bob's t-ball stuff from Ben's car (he was there covering a game), then got McDinner, then stopped at the house to get Bob's Sensible Shoes, then we were off to the ballpark.
Within the first five minutes, Bob was spinning around in circles. Throwing his glove up in the air. Turning cartwheels. Rolling in the grass. Basically doing anything but paying attention to practice and/or the coaches and/or the other kids.
I know that he's five. I know that t-ball may not be his sport. Truthfully, I wouldn't give a rat's ass if he were the shittiest t-ball player on the team or in the whole league--if he would just fucking try. If he would make the slightest effort to keep his head in the game and do a good job. But he doesn't care.
I sat there for an hour and with each passing minute I wanted even moreso to melt into the ground beneath me. I know the other parents were probably busy watching and being embarrassed by their own children (I don't think any of those kids are major league material), but I couldn't help but think everyone's watching him and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. Halfway through practice I was ready to scoop him up under one arm, carry him to the car, and drive far far away and never return and just scrap the t-ball idea and write off the $45. But Ben brought up that if we quit, we're not only setting a bad example for Bob, we're more than likely giving db more fodder for court ("she pulled him off the team when I started going to the practices, she just doesn't want me to be involved in his life"). At last, it was 7:00, practice was over, and we were released. And we get to do it all over again come Monday.
Yippee.
I'm not upset that Bob won't be the next Derek Jeter. I'm upset that I got the Special Kid. The kid who could leave his batting helmet on all day long and no one would be all that surprized. The kid who acts like there's something definitely not right with him.
The truth is I'm a perfectionist, and if Bob's not perfect, it means I've failed. Yes, I know what a completely fucked up train of thought that is, but it's the truth. I wanted the kid who was a self-defeating perfectionist just like me--only I hoped he would be slightly less self-defeating and in turn be an over-achieving neurotic. I wanted my eyes to well with pride when he walked across the stage at his high school graduation as the principal announced all of his honors and accolades.
At the rate we're going, I'm going to be grateful if he even graduates from high school. And that sucks.
I know that what really matters is for him to be happy and well-adjusted and grow into a happy, well-adjusted adult. I just don't see how that's going to be possible if he can't even get through a stupid ass 55 minute t-ball game. And yes, I know one's success cannot be measured by one's team sports participation at the age of five, but this isn't an isolated event--this is day-to-day life for Bob, for us, for almost his entire life so far.
Ah, well. Time to go pry his helmet off and get him to bed.
posted by Mitzi Green at 5:26 PM
3 Comments:
Just ride the roller coaster, and remember to breath. You may find out that you need to travel this road more for Bob than for you. And remember, he's only 5, and a high-strung 5 at that, just revel in the good times, know the difficult times do pass, enjoy him with his new discoveries and try not to dwell on the fact that he's not as you had envisoned things. Coming from the other side of the fence, I would have given anything to spend the time with Zak that you get to spend with Bob. I thought I would have been the best mother, but circumstances dictated differently.
Oh, and congrats (I am guessing) on the new receptionist. I wish one of the 2 we have at the firm would leave too!!
I meant breathe**
I have one of those medicated, "high spirited", has his OWN timetable on everything, needed a helmet during temper tantrums kind of child(a boy). Stand your ground mitzi, and he'll turn out okay. I have found that my son has a unique sense of humor that is different even from his siblings (he's 12 and 1/2 now). I actually have learned not to dread the rollercoaster, choose your battles. When he is on the field with his team, let his coaches handle it unless they specifically ask for your help. You'll enjoy him someday, you might not always like him, but you love him.
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