That was MY KID who loudly, repeatedly refused to run onto the soccer field tonight for his last night of soccer camp… this, after talking all week about how Ella would go to soccer tonight to watch him… after wearing his soccer t-shirt to school today in anticipation of soccer this evening… after inviting his grandparents and cousin to come watch him… which they did… or, at least, which they tried to do.
That was MY KID announcing to his dad and me within earshot of many other parents that he “HATES soccer,” his reason for not joining his soccer friends on the field for their last night of soccer camp tonight.
That was MY KID who snapped, “No!” when I politely asked him to stand up from the chair he was sitting in to let his grandma who had come to watch him play soccer sit down.
That was MY KID who, when pulled aside to talk calmly about the situation, insisted that he never said that he wanted to play soccer and who sharply noted that I knew that (see Cal Gos tuw Soccer Now).
That was MY KID whose ears caught none of my words about having certain fun once he got on the field and started playing… about sometimes doing things you may not want to just because you made a commitment to do them… about just getting out there one more time if only so his grandparents, cousin and sister could see him play.
That was MY KID, my sharp-tongued kid, who clearly did not respect his parents as we attempted to get him to join his soccer friends for his last night of soccer camp tonight.
That was MY KID screaming that he wanted to play soccer after his dad, his grandparents and I had had enough of his mean words and refusal to play, packed up our stuff and headed back to our cars. He screamed all the way to the car and half way home… “I WANT TO PLAY SOCCER!” he exclaimed over and over again, sobbing and catching his breath between each exclamation.
I am not embarrassed nor am I angry. I am not really even wondering what was at the root of his behavior. Rather, I am sad and completely defeated.
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