At the end of my 7-year old’s soccer game this afternoon, her team (the YELLOW LIGHTNING) gathered together to perform a cheer for the other team. It went went as follows:
Two, four, six, eight…who do we do we appreciate…PURPLE CHEETAH PRINCESSES!!!
I love when the coaches let the players choose the team name.
At my daughter’s soccer game today, Luca took a pass near mid field, dribbled the ball towards the goal with several opposing players running alongside. She neared the goal and gave the ball one last kick which launched it into the goal.
She jumped up and down and ran towards her fellow players and they all hugged and jumped and then jumped some more. Her coach cheered. The parents on our side of the field cheered.
And then I noticed something inspiring. The parents from the other team who were sitting on the opposite side of the field were cheering just as enthusiastically for Luca. So was the other coach. He wasn’t yelling at his team for allowing a score or pacing the sidelines. And it wasn’t just this one instance. When one of the opposing players made a nice kick or score, the parents on Luca’s team cheered as did her coach.
Luca in yellow and her friend, Halley
I believe this is how it should be at this age. I’ve heard the horror stories of parents bulling coaches, opposing players and even their own children when they don’t perform well. At this point it becomes more about the parents than the kids and that’s wrong.
I can’t help but believe Luca’s confidence is boosted higher when she notices everyone cheering her on. It doesn’t take any of the competitive fun away to acknowledge a good play even when it’s a player from the other team. I wish all youth team sports could show this level of sportsmanship.
As the school bus pulled away full of 40 first graders I listened to the teacher explain the bus riding rules which included no standing, no yelling and absolutely no arms or legs in the aisle. I immediately sat up straight lest my left arm dangle into the forbidden area.
I counted to six before all three rules were broken by all 40 kids. The noise level in my house can reach ear piercing levels with only four children. Now multiply that by ten and toss in the acoustics of a big yellow metal tube of a bus and you have the formula for permanent hearing loss.
We arrived at Woodland Park Zoo and I was put in charge of five kids. The teacher told me that I’d been given two “challenging” boys because I was the only father who volunteered. One little girl took my hand and said, “Let’s go find the rabbits!” With that we walked fewer than 20 steps when three of the five said they were ready for lunch. It wasn’t quite 10 am.
I showed the kids the map and asked what they’d like to see first. Surprisingly, I got five different answers. So I made an executive decision and herded the kids in the direction of the brown bears. On the walk over we stopped twice to tie shoes and once to chase squirrels.
It was at this point I realized that seeing the animals ranked about 112th on their priority list today. Seven-year olds have a lot of energy. And unless it’s channeled through play, bad things happen. Like offering fruit leather to the monkeys. What the kids want most is to play together. To interact. To share stories with each other. Lots and lots of stories told at high volume.
Five Funny and Hungry First Graders. Luca is in pink coat.
We saw all types of animals including the howler monkeys, hippos and chimpanzees. The kids moved through each exhibit like a tidal wave, stopping only long enough to ignore the “Please do not knock on glass” signs before skipping off to the next area. We made our way to a large patch of grass to have lunch. Each child brought a sack lunch and they swapped and shared food until everyone was happy.
All five kids were a joy to be around. But I knew it was getting time to leave when one of the girls asked me if I had a debit card. When I told her yes, she said, “Cool. Let’s go over to the Zoo Shop”. We visited a play area where the kids climbed ropes, hid in small caves and climbed trees. The animals were all but forgotten by now.
When the time came we boarded the bus in single file fashion. It made me smile when all five kids asked to sit by me on the ride home. As I sat by Luca our butts bounced up and down on the well padded seat cushions. We laughed and I could tell she enjoyed spending the day with her dad. I wish I had more time to spend with her and her class but today was great fun. One can’t help but smile and feel good about life being around such a lively group.
As a dad, I’ve made a number of mistakes. I’ve failed to use fabric softener on a number of occasions which means the kids clothes come out of the dryer looking like a gigantic cotton bolus. I’ve given the kids Diet Coke and filled the bath water to questionable depths. I’ve even been known to let the kids watch the Forensic Files with me when their mom is running errands. Call the Family and Social Services hotline if you must.
Most of my mistakes are quickly forgiven or forgotten by the next morning. But the mistake I made two weeks ago has lingered, and the kids continue to point out my big blunder. If they had access to a large, red capital “L”, I’m sure they’d paste it to my forehead.
You might wonder what I could have done that would cause my oldest child to proclaim, “Boy, dad, you blew it”. Well, in my defense, I didn’t intentionally try to disappoint anyone. All I tried to do was update our DirecTV programming from their website. DirecTV recently sent me a notice saying my programming package had changed and that I needed to select one of their new packages. I logged in and selected what I thought was a comparable package.
But it wasn’t long before the error of my ways was brought to my attention by my son who asked, “Hey dad, how come that one station that shows Scooby Doo doesn’t work anymore?”. That was soon followed by my daughter telling a friend “My Dad broke the TV”.
No Boomerang is making me very angry
Well, I’ve broken a number of things around the house but I’ve never been accused of breaking the TV. But I did make the mistake of selecting the “wrong” programming package that didn’t include the Boomerang cartoon channel and several others the kids were accustomed to watching.
So Scooby Doo is back. So is Sylvester and Tweety. And who can forget Marvin the Martian. Next time I need to update our programming, I’ll just ask Luca to take care of it. I’m obviously not the skilled internet wonder dad I thought I was.
We do our best to get our kids to bed at a reasonable hour. Plans are made and intentions are well placed. But the wild card to the equation are the kids. One would assume spending an entire afternoon running around the zoo would wear a young body out making bedtime a welcome hour.
Wrong. Very wrong.
Even the very definition of bedtime has changed with each child. When the first child arrived, bedtime meant our daughter was asleep by 8:30. By the time child number four arrived, bedtime means we can locate three of four kids within our zip code.
So when the parents are more exhausted than the kids a plan must be hatched in order to keep the kids in their beds. We’ve tried bribes and threats with little success. Sometimes I’d tell a story which would work if the story lasted long enough to bore the kids to sleep. But lately even that hasn’t worked well.
But I came across something this weekend that worked well. When I say it worked well, I mean it kept the kids from running up the down the stairs asking us questions like, "Can I play Nintendo tomorrow after pre-school?" Basically, it keeps the kids in their beds. They’re still wide awake but they aren’t running through the kitchen looking for a snack. My secret has been to tell them a scary story. In the past I’ve told them about the Ghost outside the Window or the Goblin in the Chimney. Both kept the kids in their beds until Luca announced, "There’s no such thing as a ghost or goblin". What a lame dad!
She’s just too dang smart. So I had to concoct a more devious plan. I turn off all the lights and begin telling a story about three young kids who happen to be the same ages as our kids. They also live in the same color house and have a dog eerily similar to ours. Even the children’s names were similar. The story plods along until I explain how TWO HUGE, HAIRY TARANTULAS have taken up residence under their beds. Their eyes grow wide and I can see the wheels churning in their minds. Legs quickly stop dangling over the side of the bed and are placed under the covers and they snuggle up close to each other.
I’ll know the story has served it’s purpose when Lincoln asks, "How big are the Tarantula’s legs?" or "How hairy are his legs?"
"Huge and Very" I tell them as they all scoot towards to the middle of the bed. I then tuck each of them in bed. Luca wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. Lincoln wraps his arms and legs around me like a crab while Anna Lynn lures me in with open arms and, at the last second, tries to lick my ear.
Of course, there are no Tarantula’s where we live. I’m sure it won’t be long until Luca Google’s that fact and spoils the plan. Until then the Tarantula legend lives on. And those legs get huger and hairier with each telling.
“Hey, Dad, watch me do this”. I must hear that phrase at least twenty times a day. I hear it when my son wants me to watch him finish off the final monster in Zelda. My youngest daughter will say it when she’s about to let loose an earth-shattering burp that’s entirely too loud for such a small body.
As I sat at the computer this weekend, I heard Luca open the front door and yell, “Hey, Dad, come watch me!!” So I headed for the front yard where I saw her doing this:
One of our neighbors brought over a hula hoop and Luca decided to teach herself. She’s a perfectionist and possesses her father’s competitive nature. As she whipped the oversized hoop around her waist she said, “I can do it 40 times”. By the time Kim came outside to watch she was counting well into the two hundreds.
Children like to try new things. They aren’t afraid to fail. If the hoop falls, just pick it up and try again. This is what being a kid is all about. Learn something new and then show others what you’ve learned.
I’m aware of few “hula hoops” that I’ve kept from attempting because I’m afraid I’ll fail. I’ve wanted to try snow boarding for many years. Yet I recall how the first few times skiing I spent more time on my butt than on my skis and I don’t want to look stupid. I need to get over it and just try it.
We visited the Woodland Park Zoo near downtown Seattle this afternoon. The temperature was in the 70’s, the sky was clear and the sun felt great on my face.
We visited a number of the exhibits. The kids loved watching the howler monkeys climb up high in the trees and make goofy but very loud noises. My favorite exhibit was the birds of prey area. Several times during the day the zoo brings out a person to show and talk about the different birds. Today he brought a Peregrine Falcon. What an awesome bird! That tiny red spot near the falcon’s mouth is a piece of meat the handler had just given her.
Here’s what I learned about this magnificent bird:
Watching today’s show made me want to return to learn about the other birds of prey. Well worth the visit, but call ahead to confirm exhibit times.
I should have known that watching my 5-year old son play in his second soccer game was going to be interesting when, on the way to game, he told me “The best part of the game is getting MY OWN water bottle”. About 5 minutes later he revised that statement by proclaiming “The best part of the game is getting to wear MY OWN uniform”. And I’m certain, had the ride taken any longer, this would have continued.
Coaching a group of 5-year olds must feel comparable to trying to capture three dozen superballs that just dropped off your kitchen counter. Their bounce is unpredictable, they’re elusive, and their sheer numbers wear you down.
Lincoln’s team is made up of three boys and one girl. The girl was the only player who seemed to realize that a soccer game was taking place. One boy wandered over to the sideline of the opposing team and struck up a conversation with anyone who would listen. Another boy was kicking the ball towards the goal when a ladybug landed on his jersey which suddenly became a lot more interesting than the game. When his hat wasn’t pulled over his eyes, my son got in a few good kicks, some of which, were booted in the right direction. During halftime, one of boys excitedly ran up to his dad and said, “I think I’m sweating!!”
The coach spends most of his time getting the kids moving in the right direction. Good things happen when everyone is moving in the right direction. Kicking the ball into the goal is almost an afterthought with this group. The kids are most excited about the pre-game jumping jacks, the orange slices at half time and the water bottle at game’s end. Oh, and I can’t forget how “cool” it looks if one ends up with a little mud on the uniform. Nothing tells your sister how hard you played like mud on the uniform.
I loaded Lincoln and Anna in the car after stopping for lunch. As we drove home Lincoln said, “Dad, do you know what’s the best part of the game?” I replied that I wasn’t sure so maybe he should tell me. “The best part is when you take us to McDonalds and I get my OWN ROOTBEER”.
The pretty much puts today’s game in perspective.
The time just before the kids go to bed are some of the most hectic, loud, pull-your-hair-out-wanna-scream minutes of the day. At least one person is crying while another is running around the house naked. And that’s just the parents.
My goal at this point is to settle the kids down enough where I can catch them two at a time and fling them over my shoulder like sacks of potatoes. Then I make a beeline for their rooms before they can escape my grasp or give me a wet willie.
One after another, each child is delivered to his or her bed where the next escape can be plotted. We say prayers, give hugs, and an occasional high five before I retreat to my computer in the basement to recover from the ordeal.
Yet I know what’s coming. As much as I’d like to think I did an admirable job of tucking them into bed I know that Luca is quietly tip toeing down the stairs. She’ll come up behind me and ask for one last hug. She wrap her hands around my neck while her cute, blonde and damp hair smacks me in the face.
Damp hair hugs from my 7 year old daughter. Best part of the day? You bet.
“NOW PLAY SOME DEFENSE!!” the dad yelled as his 14 year old son ran down the court after hitting a three point shot to tie the game. I sat on the sideline watching this boy’s face turn from jubilation to sadness. The excitement of the shot he’d just nailed was wiped off his face as fast as it took the ball to swish through the net. No matter what this boy did his father was there to point out what he’d done wrong.
Watching this father coach his son by tearing into his every wrong move brought back a flood of memories. I know this boy’s father who is the basketball coach at a local high school. He’s a good man. So is my father who was a high school coach for many years and coached me in basketball, baseball and football. But I can relate to how this boy felt tonight because I’ve been in that same situation a few times. Like the time I played my first football game in 9th grade. I caught the only touchdown our team scored and was so excited to tell my dad who wasn’t able to watch the game. He picked me up from the game and when we got to the car he turned to me and said, “Coach said you played poorly on defense”. Excitement dashed. Touchdown forgotten.
When your father is the coach you’re expected to be a good athlete. I was able to get into the school gym to practice any weekend I wanted. My dad would spend hours working on my shot, tossing baseballs and footballs so I could improve my skills. For that I’m very grateful because I know he made me a better athlete which lead to earning an athletic and scholastic scholarship to college. I knew I had to be better than my competition or my dad would start the other player. He was careful not to play favorites when it came to starting games and playing time.
But there are downsides. By far the toughest part to manage was the coaching didn’t end when the buzzer sounded or the last out was recorded. In fact, most of my coaching took place at the dinner table. When I played a good game, the meal was enjoyable. When I didn’t play well, I just wanted to be left alone. I know my father meant well. He wanted me to reach my full potential just like his dad demanded of him. To his credit, he backed off me as I matured and moved onto the varsity teams.
I have a good relationship with my father today. As good as it’s ever been. The good times we had in athletics together far outweigh the challenges we had. As my children begin to play sports I continually remind myself that how I react to their performance can have a lasting impact on how much enjoyment they derive from the experience. Watching Luca play soccer last year, Kim had to remind me to chill out a number of times as I yelled for my daughter to be more aggressive with the ball.
One of my goals as a father is to find the positive is my children’s performances. Be it sports or music or school or whatever.Even if they misjudge a pop fly or miss open shots or play the wrong key, I can encourage my kids by searching for the good. Even if that means saying, “Hey, you really hustled out there today. Great job.” I don’t want to be like the mom in American Beauty who, after watching her daughter perform cheers tells her, “You didn’t screw up once!”
I recall a time when our basketball team was playing in the state tournament. We played the first half very tight. Our shots weren’t falling and we all hung a heads as we filed into the locker room. My father sensed the tension and the pressure we’d placed on ourselves. He ended that half time discussion by saying, “You’re not making a million dollars to play basketball. Let’s go out and have fun because that’s what it’s all about”.
That’s great advice I need to remember as my kids pass through the inevitable ups and downs of athletics. And life.
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