I Say Just Let The Kids Have Fun

It’s officially September which means several things.  Summer is unofficially over, pumpkins are soon to ripen, and Fall sports are ready to ramp up. I know my grandchildren have their uniforms and water bottles ready to go.

Recently, my son asked me to take his daughter, Eileen, to her soccer practice due to some scheduling conflicts. Eileen is 7, and she subsequently asked me if I would stay and watch her. Now, I must be honest and tell you that when my children played any sport, I never stayed to watch them practice. I usually had someone else I needed to transport at the same time. Also, I always thought this was the coach’s time to coach.

However, because Eileen asked, I stayed. Escorting her to the practice field, I became confused. The entire side of the field was lined with parents sitting in collapsable lawn chairs. Did I misunderstand and this was indeed a game? I wondered what in the world was so interesting about watching 7-year-olds practice soccer. My granddaughter was apparently more interested in doing cartwheels and reviving ballet moves from last year’s dance recital than working on soccer ball skills. It didn’t matter to me. She was having fun.

Regardless, I settled in to watch, enjoying the sweet waves from afar from my fun-loving Eileen. It was one of those bankable moments, if not for the very verbal dad sitting next to me. By the way he was shouting at his son, you’d think this dad thought his 7-year-old son was destined to win the World Cup. It wasn’t only the constant parental coaching from the sidelines that disrupted my spiritual, emotional and physical equilibrium, he paced along the sidelines, following his son with constant commentary as if he were trying to channel his best wannabe life. In other words, this very loud and opinionated dad completely hijacked my space.

Now, I am not a cranky type. I am quite good at landing sunny side up in most things, but this dad sitting next to me at soccer practice for 7-year-olds totally stressed me out. Furthermore, I would challenge any parent so critical of his or her child to find some shin guards and lace up some snug soccer shoes and play the game in just the way they shout from the sidelines.

Ok, I realize I need to take a deep breath, but all I could do was watch this little boy as he no-doubt heard the obnoxious directives from his dad. I wanted to be the universal Nona, hug him, and tell him how wonderful he is despite the fact he wasn’t “attacking” the ball to his father’s approval.

I get that now that I’m in grandparent status and the degree of vestment in my grandkids’ winning is probably close to nil. I just like to watch them.

After practice, Eileen and I went to get some ice cream. She told me how much fun she had playing with her friends, and “Nona, did you see how I kicked the ball backwards?” I told her she played simply awesome. For Eileen, she showed up, she played, and apparently, she conquered. And then we moved on to ice cream fun.

For those super critical parents who expend such valuable time in a constant judicious mode, I wish I could remind them of the lingering effects of memories. Sometimes, we think being a good parent means being critical and censored. As someone on the other side of raising kids, I can honestly say for the most part, kids will long remember how they felt after trying.  Reminding them they did a great job always makes everyone a winner.