peevish mama

There seems to be some law of nature that I mustn’t be allowed to sit on my laurels, wallow in any semblance of contentment, cruise along a highway of satisfaction or otherwise exist in a state devoid of neurotic self torture for too long. My last post about traveling soccer was what, two days ago? I was feeling good about sports. I was beaming at my boy’s skills. I was basking in the afterglow of a game well played by my really handsome son with great footwork and even better hair.

But along came Top Dog Hockey Camp to do me in. I was already feeling a bit sheepish and stupid about my kids’ over-scheduled lives. I try like the dickens to weed out extraneous activities and avoid chasing that elusive prize of having the most “well rounded” kid. But I have failed. Miserably. There is, quite literally, no end to all the things a kid can do these days if you have the time, money and inclination to sign’em up. There are wacky building laboratories for blossoming inventors. There are music, theater and dance programs at our top notch and beloved Children’s Theater. There are naturalist and biology classes at myriad nature centers where kids can learn to do field research, monitor and preserve ecosystems and generally muck around and take stewardship of our earth. There are rock camps, art studios, pottery studios and writers’ lofts. And that’s but a tip of the iceberg, not even touching sports!

I believe you can’t do it all. I believe you shouldn’t do it all. I believe kids need time to be bored so they are forced to seek out neighborhood friends, crack a book, climb a tree, color all over their bodies with face paint, make potions in buckets out of mud and sticks. I spent an entire summer concocting perfumes with my friend using petals from her mother’s garden. I believe in idle time, lazy time. I love myself a bit of leisure. I do.

Then how to explain the hour of cringing guilt I spent on the top bleacher of the Augsburg Ice Arena yesterday?

We didn’t put Saint James into “BIG HOCKEY” because that particular year, Devil Baby was a squawling, colicky newborn who had us on the run. As a couple, Dash and I were in total survival mode and taking on what we perceived to be a huge lifestyle commitment just wasn’t in the cards. Doctor Dash had played hockey and loved hockey, so we thoroughly tortured ourselves, but ultimately decided against it. Eventually we found out about  neighborhood park hockey where the kids play for a much shorter season, splitting their games between indoors and out. It seemed a perfect fit for us. Saint James would still learn how to skate and we liked the “pond hockey” vibe of the whole thing. This year Supergirl played too and we had a blast. They’re cute, they look like they’re skating underwater, they score sometimes and when you don’t think about the kids in real hockey, they actually seem pretty good.

Last summer I signed Saint James up for Top Dog Hockey Camp because his buddies were doing it. As luck would have it, he broke his pinky and couldn’t go. So this year, I was determined to use our credit and signed him up again. On the first day I was a little shocked to see how small all the other players were, but it was on the last day, when we got to watch a scrimmage, that I realized what we were dealing with. A self selecting group of campers, these puny babies were skating circles around Saint James. I sat in the bleachers thinking he looked like a retarded giant compared to the rest of them. (Hush now, I said retarded giant, not giant retard – big dif). Saint James never looks like the retarded giant. But he did yesterday. These much younger kids possessed that fluidity and ease that comes from lots and lots of hockey. Beautiful to watch. As opposed to Saint James tripping onto the ice holding the bottom of his stick. Who holds their stick from the bottom?

As I watched with increasing dismay, I felt myself shrinking. Oh God, it’s my fault for being so lazy that I didn’t sign him up for hockey and now he sucks and it’s too late and he must feel so bad being lapped by midgets and why do I even care, this isn’t his sport, but I love hockey, I got the hots for Dash watching him play hockey and now Saint James will always be awkward on the ice which is blasphemous for a Minnesota boy and no one will get the hots for him and it’s all my fault and Devil Baby’s fault and I suck and he sucks and we all suck and oh God get me out of here. 

Sigh. Yes, I know. Psychotic much?

And after it ended Saint James did feel bad. He’s no fool. I didn’t even get to take a shot on goal, he grumped while I helped him get his gear off. I really didn’t know what to say – the kid was right. But as it tends to go with him, the clouds eventually lifted and in the quiet minutes before he went to sleep, he told Doctor Dash that he liked the camp, that it was good overall. Oh, my dear sweet little retarded giant, way to be a trooper.

So I guess I just need to chill out. Lesson learned: it’s OK to suck and play anyway. It’s OK to play for – dare I say it? FUN! As much as I fancy myself to be mellow about my kids “performance,” I suppose I’m not all that far removed from the mothers frantically rouging their daughters’ smooth cheeks for beauty pageants. I want to be mellow, but I am not mellow. I need to chill. The hell. Out.