SuperKate, not Supermom

In my continuing efforts to undermine my Super identity, today I bring you stories of how I'm ruining my seven year old's life. 

Exhibit A: Pinewood Derby, Part 2

Those of you who've been with me for a while may remember the story of J's first Pinewood Derby.  Basically, though I rooted fiercely (and silently) against his car, he came in third and qualified for the District level of Pinewood Derby.  Because I'm a lousy mother committed athlete, I waited for the date of District to be announced and promptly went looking for an alternate activity. Unfortunately, I had checked the date and not the time, so I got home about ten minutes before Jeff and J had to leave. I was just meant to be there.

Now, to me it was pretty clear that my little boy's third place car was unlikely to take top honors against all those other first and second place cars, but try telling that to a seven year old. No amount of "Well, there are going to be a lot of other fast cars, too," or "The fun part is getting to see all the other cool cars," or "You're really lucky to get to go to districts, most of your other friend's are home today with their lucky, lucky parents," could dampen his conviction that he was going to win.

Of course, he didn't. In four heats, his car finished second, third, fourth, and third...a perfectly respectable (and predictable) finish...and a much better day than the little boy whose car repeatedly failed to go across the finish line (not sure how he managed to get to "this level of competition"). After finishing last in his third heat, I thought he was getting the picture. Disappointed, he bypassed his spot on the bleachers, walked to where we were sitting, and climbed into his 16 year old brother's lap. Soon, N had him smiling.

Big brother pep talks are the best

Happy again, he went back to his friends, but we weren't out of the woods yet.  After four heats each for 50+ increasingly restless little boys, they were finally ready to tabulate the results and announce the winners.  J sat with us while he waited.  I mentioned the birthday party we were heading to next, and he told me, "I still need to get my trophy."

Uh, oh.  The trophies were only for the top five finishers.  I tried to soften the coming blow: "Um, honey...I don't think you're going to get a trophy.  They're only for the top 5."

J: "So what you're saying is you don't believe in me."

UGH.  The boy is 7 years old and already a Jedi master of guilt.  Believe it or not, we actually got out of the event with no tears, although it was a close call (for me).


Exhibit B: Soccer

Sports are a big part of our life.  My husband is a rabid sports fan, my 16 year old plays volleyball year round, I try to stay active, and my 7 year old plays soccer.

I think this was his first season.

PLAYED soccer.  Past tense, because somehow his mother, who is the one who takes care of these things, totally missed the sign-up.  He plays through our Y, where I go fairly regularly.  We live next door to a school where many of the soccer teams practice.  The Y always sends home a flyer about soccer sign-ups.  And yet I never once saw any of these signs (and I'd tell you if I had...it would be so like me to just put it off til later.  But really.  Never.)  When we called the Y (the day before the first game) to see if he could get on a team, they said no.  But he didn't really say anything about soccer, which made me feel cautiously OK, until....


Exhibit C: Little Tigers football

It's not just the high school boys who get to have all the fun in our town; there's a football league for little kids, too.  It comes complete with pads, tackling, and fundraisers, and a huge time commitment, not to mention the $140 start-up cost.  He's 7.  As far as I'm concerned, it's not worth the investment at this point.  The older boys didn't get to play tackle football until they were in middle school, and I'm comfortable with keeping it that way for J.  


He disagrees.


"K. [a girl in his class] won't have any reason to like me if I don't do Little Tigers. You have to have a sport.  If I don't play soccer or Little Tigers, I won't have any sport!"

So, basically, I suck as a mother.  

I suggested that running could be his sport, but I was quickly shot down on that one.  He actually compared his distaste for running to my feelings about cleaning.  lol.  Luckily, I happened to mention later that, although I was disappointed that he wasn't playing soccer, at least we'd have more weekends free for camping.  He immediately brightened: "Camping can be my sport!"  

Camping in Michigan

Thankfully, that's settled.  And now you all know my dirty secret:

That's not trail mud...it's feet of clay.