Broken Ears and Fallen Fences
Em is back in the land of “broke-eared boys.” After several months of good hearing health, he’s had infections in November, February, and now March. Depending upon the outcome of this second round of antibiotics, I may have to have him put down. I’ve grown attached to him and would, of course, miss him but I can’t bear to see him suffer or have “Whatcha say, Daddy?” become his catchphrase. It simply won’t do.
Supposing he makes it through the night, he has his second soccer game tomorrow afternoon. His performance in his first game last weekend was just stellar—and for the moment I am free of sarcasm. My little Pele’ scored four goals (two of them for his own team) and mixed it up like a four-year-old pro. I could not have been more proud. Not just because he did well and behaved and tried hard, but because he seemed to truly enjoy himself. It made my heart swell. What a difference a year makes. Last March, he’d strike a Rubenesque pose and lay like a model in the middle of the field while the other kids competed all around him; he kicked the dirt; got his head stuck in the net of his opponents’ goal; sat down at the edge of the woods and counted sticks; pulled his shorts up to his chin. In general, he made me crazier than the norm and caused me to restructure my levels of patience. This year though he is participating. He is trying. And that pleases me. I certainly am not one of those over-the-top sports dads who tries to live vicariously through the freakish superstardom of a young child. I do, however, take tremendous pride in my son doing a thing well. I take particular pride in the fact that he is beginning to recognize the benefits of camaraderie, structure outside of the home, and the self-discipline that can come from having others depend upon him and vice versa. In general, I am not a fan of “organized” anything. But when approached and appreciated properly, I do believe organized sports can bolster lessons I have already initiated. We shall see.
So I will run him like a greyhound tomorrow and then see how adept he is at helping me dismantle what’s left of the rotted fence that blew over during Thursday’s killer storms. If he proves capable, I’ll have him replace the nonexistent roof, the hanging gutters, the equally rotted and listing deck, the ceilings in the computer room and bathroom, rebuild the central air unit, and then maybe mop the floors. Either that or I will ignore each of those daunting and upsetting tasks, and go by the library, swing by the Germ Pit at the mall, contemplate the growing, ignored stack of correspondence, figure out something unhealthy for dinner, and wrestle with the Boy until we are both exhausted.
Either way, it’s win win.
Supposing he makes it through the night, he has his second soccer game tomorrow afternoon. His performance in his first game last weekend was just stellar—and for the moment I am free of sarcasm. My little Pele’ scored four goals (two of them for his own team) and mixed it up like a four-year-old pro. I could not have been more proud. Not just because he did well and behaved and tried hard, but because he seemed to truly enjoy himself. It made my heart swell. What a difference a year makes. Last March, he’d strike a Rubenesque pose and lay like a model in the middle of the field while the other kids competed all around him; he kicked the dirt; got his head stuck in the net of his opponents’ goal; sat down at the edge of the woods and counted sticks; pulled his shorts up to his chin. In general, he made me crazier than the norm and caused me to restructure my levels of patience. This year though he is participating. He is trying. And that pleases me. I certainly am not one of those over-the-top sports dads who tries to live vicariously through the freakish superstardom of a young child. I do, however, take tremendous pride in my son doing a thing well. I take particular pride in the fact that he is beginning to recognize the benefits of camaraderie, structure outside of the home, and the self-discipline that can come from having others depend upon him and vice versa. In general, I am not a fan of “organized” anything. But when approached and appreciated properly, I do believe organized sports can bolster lessons I have already initiated. We shall see.
So I will run him like a greyhound tomorrow and then see how adept he is at helping me dismantle what’s left of the rotted fence that blew over during Thursday’s killer storms. If he proves capable, I’ll have him replace the nonexistent roof, the hanging gutters, the equally rotted and listing deck, the ceilings in the computer room and bathroom, rebuild the central air unit, and then maybe mop the floors. Either that or I will ignore each of those daunting and upsetting tasks, and go by the library, swing by the Germ Pit at the mall, contemplate the growing, ignored stack of correspondence, figure out something unhealthy for dinner, and wrestle with the Boy until we are both exhausted.
Either way, it’s win win.
posted by Ryan at 1:00 AM
2 Comments:
I like to take my 5-year-old to Dave and Busters at Opry Mills. She is addicted to the horse racing game, probably because there is a long history of gambling problems on her mom's side. The added bonus is that there is a bar, so I get shitfaced on Bud Lite and shots of bourbon, and she drives home because she doesn't drink.
The trying is all that matters. I tell my kids that all the time - try, that's all.
I tell my students that if they fail my class and do their absolute best, I'm a jerk. If they fail my class for any other reason, they're the fool.
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