As parents, we have expectations for our children. We expect them to eat their vegetables, to be polite, to do well in school, to grow strong, to get a job, to contribute to society. I'd like to think that these expectations are universal, but judging by what I see in the world around me, they might not be.
That's ok, because those are the expectations I have of my children and they seem to be doing a fairly good job of fulfilling the ones that they can at this point in their young lives.
There are times, however, when we have other expectations for them. Expectations that aren't so universal. Expectations that we place on them for one reason or another, that often time, they have a hard time living up to, no matter how hard they try to please us. Expectations, that when you get right down to it, are solely about us.
I grew up in a military family. My father was a fighter jet and helicopter pilot in the Air Force. Kind of a ballsy job, no? I would imagine that he'd have loved to have had a son to do all those rough and tumble boy things that fathers and sons do, but God saw fit to bless him instead with three daughters.
My father didn't miss a beat. He taught us to play golf. He taught us to play poker. He taught us to roll with the punches and defend ourselves. And he taught us to love football. To be honest, I'm not so sure my sisters love football as much as I do, but that's ok, because I really, really love it and maybe one football loving daughter is enough.
As I was growing up, I never had the desire to actually play football. Thank God, I know you're thinking, based on the size I've ended up, but I definitely loved to watch. In junior high and on into high school, I made the cheerleading squad and attended every single game, yelling and cheering our teams onto victory. Later, in college, although I wasn't cheerleading, I had friends who played for U of A and it was great to watch when you actually knew someone playing.
Over the years, I've had a boyfriend, or maybe two, that played football. And I dreamt of the day that I would have a son because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was going to play and love it as much as I did.
In fourth grade, Little J played flag football in a YMCA league with some friends of his. He seemed to enjoy it and I was as happy as a pig in mud. The next year he played Pop Warner and I volunteered to be the business manager for the team. A job, little to my knowledge, that would take about 15 hours a week of my already crazy time. But I was good with it, because after all, it was football.
Little J had a good year that year. The coach was excellent and he learned a lot about the game and the positions and plays. He played defensive end that year, and a little offense and Brian Urlacher became his idol.
The next year was not so good. The coach was disorganized and a yeller. He was given the task of blending his team from the previous year with some "new kids" from other teams, of which Little J was one. The new kids never really got a chance. I didn't volunteer to be business manager and both of us, Little J and I, left each game and practice more frustrated than the one before.
Did I mention I went to every single practice? Yep, every single one.
The third year, I had to do a little coercing to get him to play. Please, I asked him, it'll be better this year, I promise. I'll be business manager, I can talk to the coach, they won't pass off the new kids this year. Please play.
And you know, he did. For me. But his heart wasn't in it. Each practice and each game, I could see him getting more and more dejected - and yet I didn't want to see it. I wanted him to love it as much as I did. If knew that if he could just be open to it, he'd see how great the sport was. Even if you're sitting on the sidelines - just being a part of it is awesome.
But Little J didn't see it that way. He's different. He's cerebral, a thinker. he has other interests. He's also sensitive. Not that there aren't a lot of sensitive players out there, but he also started to become afraid. And the boys were starting to grow, and he didn't like the hitting. He didn't like to be hit. The season was frustrating for him, and even more so for me.
Season four came around and he decided he didn't want to play. At first, I acted ok with it. But then, I'd work football into many of the conversations we had. Your friends are playing, don't you want to play with them? Don't you just want to try it? Could you do it for me? These conversations always ended in an argument, often with tears on both sides, each of us walking away angry and feeling like the other just didn't understand.
About a month ago, we'd gone to breakfast - the four of us, and in the car I mentioned something about how he used to love football and didn't he miss it and was he going to play next year and playing in high school is so much fun... I guess I'd finally pushed him far enough, because he let loose on me.
Now rarely do I allow my children to scream at the top of their lungs, and never ever do I allow them to do it at me, but the words and the emotion behind them brought me to my knees.
I don't want to play, mom! I did it, I tried it, I did it for you all those years, but I don't like it the way you do. It's not fun for me! I want to ride my motorcycle, I want to play guitar. I like to watch it on tv, but I don't want to play it. I did it for you, I don't want you to be mad at me.
And suddenly I was so ashamed! I'd placed an expectation on him - an expectation that, knowing my son like I do, he could never fulfill. If I'd thought about him for one second, about what makes him special and unique, I might have realized this, but I didn't think about it. I didn't think about him. I didn't want to think about it. I was only thinking about what I wanted. The NFL-playing football player fantasy I'd created in my mind.
I look around and I see this happening all over. Parents whose children are in every sport, every activity under the sun, parents who are living vicariously through their children, hoping to have a do-over of sorts through their children's lives. I find it sad, and I can find it sad, because I've been there. But even sadder is the fact that many of these children would do anything, anything at all, to please their parents and so they just never speak up.
I'm glad Little J did. I'm just sorry it took so long for me to finally hear him.
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