Parenting can sometimes take unexpected turns, and for me, it all revolved around football last spring. My nearly ten-year-old son, Leo, expressed a newfound interest in playing flag football after a year of avoiding team sports since quitting baseball. Given his previous lack of enthusiasm, we eagerly embraced this opportunity. Leo had engaged in casual football with neighborhood friends and during recess, but this would be his first formal experience. Unfortunately, my husband, Jake, had a busy schedule, which meant I was responsible for taking Leo to every practice.
I must admit that my knowledge of football is limited, so I wasn’t sure if I was seeing things clearly. However, it quickly became apparent that the coach was not effectively instructing the team. He barked plays at the players he deemed worthy of offense and relegated those he didn’t recognize to defense, leaving them standing idly by during practice. I watched as Leo’s initial excitement faded, replaced by boredom and frustration. I wondered if the coach might alternate focus between offense and defense in different practices, but as the minutes dragged on, it became clear that wasn’t happening. After an hour, Leo remained untouched and unacknowledged, a mere spectator at his own practice.
At the end of the session, the coach gathered the kids and proclaimed, “We played like a team today!” I felt a surge of frustration; how could he say that when half the team had barely participated? I kept my feelings to myself for Leo’s sake.
On the ride home, Leo expressed doubts about the coach’s interest in the new players. He felt the coach didn’t like him, which concerned me. I reassured Leo that the next practice would be better, knowing that if he perceived a negative atmosphere, he might try to avoid it altogether.
Navigating parenting with a child who has anxiety is a delicate balance. We aim to avoid making a big deal out of things that could heighten his anxiety, yet we must also acknowledge his worries. It’s a challenging dance that we sometimes execute well, but other times, we stumble badly.
The following practice was the last one before the first game. I hoped the coach would finally focus on defense, but instead, he called over a team of older kids for a scrimmage, forcing several of our players to sit on the sidelines. As I watched Leo’s confidence wane, my agitation grew. How could the coach not recognize the importance of involving all the kids?
Then, in a moment of desperation, the coach finally called Leo by pointing at him, having never spoken to him previously. He barked a play at Leo, who had no idea what to do. Leo awkwardly ran down the field and dropped the ball when thrown to him. The coach yelled, demanding to know what play Leo knew, only to be met with confusion.
At that moment, I faced a tough decision. Should I intervene and protect my son from this humiliation, or let him navigate this challenge alone? My own childhood experiences with a fiercely protective mother flooded back to me. She always stood up for her children, often to the point of embarrassment. Although I appreciated her fierce love, I sometimes wished she had let me handle things myself.
As I watched Leo crumble, tears streaming down his face, I knew he wanted to disappear. Crying, especially for boys, can feel like a mark of weakness, and I understood the weight of that stigma. As the coach continued barking orders, I felt a surge of protectiveness. Without thinking, I approached the coach and exclaimed, “Could you please give him a moment to compose himself? Teach him the plays instead of humiliating him! DO YOUR JOB!”
The world slowed down as I spoke, and I caught sight of the shocked expressions around me. The coach sputtered a response, claiming he was teaching. I fired back, questioning when that had happened, and after a heated exchange, I decided that Leo and I were done there.
“Why did you do that?” Leo shouted, worried about the repercussions. I felt transported back to my own childhood, now the “embarrassing parent” instead of the child.
That evening, after calming Leo down, I reflected on my actions. I never intended to be the mom who fought her child’s battles, but in that moment, I felt it was necessary. I wanted to protect Leo until he was ready to face challenges on his own.
The next day, Jake and I decided to move Leo to another team within the same league. We didn’t want him to think he could quit when things got tough, but we also didn’t want him to suffer through a negative experience.
At his second game with the new team, coached by encouraging high school players, Leo thrived. He made multiple plays, celebrated with enthusiasm, and for that hour, I witnessed a transformation.
In summary, this experience taught me valuable lessons about the complexities of parenting, especially when it comes to supporting a child with anxiety. It’s essential to stand up for them while also allowing them to learn to advocate for themselves.
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