A couple weeks ago — through circumstances unforeseeable by an average adult couple attempting to leave the house of a morning with all of his and/or her belongings, children and electronics intact, packed and secured — a carseat was left behind.
My 5-year-old son Trassie attends preschool, after which he spends the afternoon at his aunt’s house. So does his little partner in crime, Josh. The two of them have been best buddies since they were babies. How many people can say they forged their most long-term friendships over teethers and drool bibs?
And so they still are together as they being the journey of Education. On alternate weeks, Josh’s mother picks the two of them up and deposits them at my sister-in-law’s house while we do the honors the other weeks.
This particular day, it was our week, and the seat Josh occupies sat alone and shivering in our garage. This fact became clear to Tras and I as we pulled in the pickup line, moseyed to the trunk of the Prius and found it substantially lacking in spare car seat.
After some discussion of logistics — should we take the two sequentially? — I was booted out to wait with the two urchins while Tras went home to get the second seat. That left me and two wiggly boys sitting on the curb for an exciting 20 minutes or so.
They sat like this a while, but then presently the sitting got to be too much for them and the running about commenced.
Unfortunately I didn’t get any more pictures taken; I was too busy trying to capture on video the two of them singing one of the more incomprehensible songs in the oeuvre of Phineas and Ferb. I never did get a good version.
This shot of the two of them sitting there wiggling, though, is too priceless not to share.
You know when you’re pregnant and imagining the life your as-yet-unborn little darling will have, invariably you picture cliched, storybook images.
Cooing baby wriggling in crib, vastly entertained by mobile.
Absorbed toddler builds with blocks on the floor.
Darling preschooler colors within the lines.
Diligent student brings home A’s.
Successful graduate lands dream job.
You know how it goes. Along the way, you expect that a kid’s personality will emerge and he or she will start doing whatever it is that interests them. And, if you’re lucky, some of those interests will mirror your own. But I never imagined I’d spawn a chef.
It started about like you’d expect: a hungry impatient kid whining around about dinner. “When are we going to eeeeeeeeeeeeat?”
“Well, if you’d like to help out, I’m sure dinner will be ready a lot quicker!” you respond brightly, hoping your enthusiastic tone conveys every ounce of joy that may be discovered in the culinary arts.
After a few years of eye-rolling, apparently a little bit started rubbing off on him and look, I’ve got a helper in the kitchen. Nightly, he chops tomatoes or eggplant, he shred lettuce for salads. He’s currently begging to “mince something.” Meat to be browned? He’s right there poking it apart in the skillet.
And last Sunday he petitioned to be allowed to make pumpkin bread, a project cut short by the fact that there was no pumpkin in the house. Undeterred, he consulted the cookbook and discovered that muffins were doable, and that is what he made. Blueberry muffins that turned into mixed-berry muffins when he found that’s what the suggested bag of blueberries in the freezer actually was.
So now I have a helper in the food-preparation business, along with a dishwasher-unloader and table-setter in the person of Claire, who performs these duties spectacularly each weeknight.
Ahhh. Shared time in the kitchen and actual, real, unadulterated assistance. Dinners taste so much better nowadays.
Ok, well not really. But in terms of getting your kid to actually PLAY soccer, now that he’s signed up for soccer, bought the uniform, got the T-shirt, well, yesterday was a V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!
You remember two weeks ago.
No.Way.
Well, all I’ve got to say is, never underestimate the power of bribery when it comes to effective parenting.
Saturday’s game was scheduled for 9:30 am and though I don’t live in an enormous city, it does take a good 20 minutes of driving to get from Home, point A, to kiddle soccer field, point B. And since Saturday is Major Sleep-in Day around our house, Little Mr. Sunshine had to be awakened. He immediately wondered what was the hubbub, bub?
“You’ve got a soccer game today!”
This, performed in an excited, hopeful and slightly hysterical chorus by both parents. It was greeted with just the enthusiasm you’d expect: explosive denial.
“I HATE soccer. I don’t WANT to play soccer. I AM NOT GOING TO PLAY SOCCER.”
Well. I’ve never seen a challenge I couldn’t meet. Overcome? Well, maybe not, but I’ll meet that sucker. So to work I went, stuffing reluctant boy into uniform amid unceasing complaints, packing up the snacks for the team (for indeed, this was our week to provide them). Loading Grumpy McGrumperpants into the car and finally, me and the mister making the trek to the frozen tundra, AKA, the kiddle soccer field.
Earlier that morning when I’d stepped outside to check the temperature, it was sunny and promised to be a warm, sunny and gorgeous day. Conditions were somewhat same upon arrival at our destination, except for the gale-force winds (OK, OK, a strong breeze) and SHADE. So, it was pretty polar.
If you’ve never been to a soccer “game” for this age group, it’s really a lot of fun. The actual game is somewhat secondary to the looking around, aimless joyous jumping and rushing pell-mell down the field and scoring a goal in the opponent’s team’s net. They’re mighty precious and everyone has a good time. The three guys who serve as coaches are all Daddies, and it’s evident: they’re in it to give the little ones a taste of the game. Nobody cares what the score is.
So everyone was encouraging, no one was pressuring, but Trassie was most definitely parked in his little fold-up chair, when the game began, cocooned in a blanket and determined to sit this one out. For our part, we sat, too: gritting our teeth, torn between the desire to bodily toss him into the game and the forbearance that tells you that even if you did, he’d come flying back in your face faster than a boomerang. Then, inspiration struck Tras. Neither of us can believe it took us this long to use The Parent’s Secret Weapon.
“If you go out there and play, I’ll buy you a toy,”
Truly, before the word “toy” was fully out of Tras’s mouth, young Trassie leaped; nay, did a completely convincing imitation of being launched into the air, throwing the now-bothersome blanket from his body with a giant sweep of his arm and in a voice audible to every one of his coaches saying, “I’m ready to play!”
He hit the field. (See those bundled-up people back there? I TOLD you it was polar.)
He saw action.
He completed the required amount of standing around and not looking toward the ball.
Would you please LOOK AT THAT SMILE?
And finally, he did what he was born to do, which is run, run, run down the field like the demons of hell were following him, but in all actuality, he hadn’t even put it into fourth gear yet.
And then, the most wonderful words an aspiring soccer mom could hear: “Mom, I LOVE this game! YOU WERE RIGHT!”
Ah, sweet victory.
Of course we knew he would enjoy it. He loves to run, he loves to kick balls, which all adds up to a future of loving to run up and down a field, kicking a ball.We made good on our promise; a trip to Toys R Us was accomplished and a trophy selected: a darling stuffed Pikachu, who makes cute noises when you squeeze his (her?) ear.
So it’s all settled then; we love soccer around here and it’s smooth sailing from this point forward. No more worries; it’s all fixed.
That is, until T-ball starts in the spring,I guess.
NouveauSoileau 