The hard truth: some children are just jerks

mean people suck

Recently, dd came to us nearly in tears over something mean that one of her “friends” from school said to her. My first response (out loud) was something to the tune of, “Well, anyone who’s that mean isn’t worth having as a friend”, but (inside my head) I was thinking “That little piece of…”

Part of the trouble here is that I can’t protect dd from everything–which is every parent’s biggest fear–but part of the trouble is that nothing ever really changes. Kids, not knowing social norms and not having the “filter” that prevents us from simply shouting out all the lovely things we often wish we could say to one another, tend to blurt out mean things simply due to an ignorance of what’s okay to say. Furthermore, kids don’t always have the vocabulary or the emotional strength to know how to express their feelings, so they may channel their own feelings of frustration, hurt, or anger into words that (intentionally or otherwise) frustrate, hurt, or anger others.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving. And boy, do I wish this were one that we could cure with a quick round of penicillin.

I remember what my own childhood was like: I was the veritable ugly duckling. I had a horrific bowl haircut (thanks, 1970’s!), and I was somewhat shy, but I was a generally smart kiddo who managed to get moved up a grade halfway through Kindergarten. When I made it up to 2nd grade, in a “Gifted & Talented” program across county, almost none of the other kids wanted to be friends. They saw a shy, chubby girl and figured that I was easy pickings. (I was.)

Only one girl wanted to be my friend in 2nd grade, and our best friendship would last all the way through our senior year of high school. She was my rock, the one reliable person that I knew I could count on to be nice. The majority of the rest: well, let’s just say that I learned pretty early on how rude kids could be. Jokes about my weight. Jokes about my appearance. Naturally, the very same kids that would tease me relentlessly were also the ones who wanted to copy off my papers; having the only partially formed self-esteem of a young kid, I didn’t yet have the spine to tell them exactly where they could shove their own homework.

As the years passed, I figured out what I was worth–what I deserved and didn’t deserve. It took me YEARS to get to the point where I understood that when people are mean, it often says more about them than it does about the people who they’re being mean to.

I guess the years have passed for the others, as well. There have been various noises from members of my senior class around trying to get everybody together for a 25th year high school reunion. The voices have smoothed out a lot, as time and experience have aged us past the crap we all put each other through lo those many years ago. When I look back at the people who said nice things or who “liked” my post to the reunion page, I see the names of people who were both friends and foes. We’ve all aged out of the awfulness, I hope.

And so I sit, wishing I could speed things up for dd or at least protect her from the awfulness that I know she’ll have to go through over the next few years. She’s many things that I wasn’t at that age. She’s gorgeous. She’s popular. She’s athletic. And she’s so blissfully unaware of how incredibly cool she is.

So I can’t protect her from all that’s out there, but I can still give her hugs and kisses and try to comfort her when the wolves come out to play on her psyche. I guess that’s as much as a mom can do, and it’ll just have to be enough for now.

Confessions of a soccer-mom (not a “soccer mom”)


When I moved to the Boston area in 1997, I almost immediately fell in with a crowd of fellow footy-lovers. I’d gained an appreciation for the sport when a co-worker helped me score tickets for the entire slate of soccer games played at RFK during the 1996 Summer Olympics. Add to that the thrilling DC United victory in the first-ever MLS Cup Final, and I was hooked. Later, I would met dh through soccer, at a pick-up game no less (no, not THAT kind of pick-up), making “the beautiful game” a critical component of my life for the better part of the past twenty years.

For a number of years after I moved up, footy had a dominant role in my life. Game weekends ruled my calendar, and even Sunday morning brunch with my group of game-going friends was somewhere that had a large screen for watching more matches. I was a proud season ticket holder of the New England Revolution, moving along with the rest of the Midnight Riders in The Fort from the metal benches of the former Foxboro Stadium to the plastic static-inducing-seats-with-cupholders of Gillette Stadium. As a die-hard, I traveled for games, I stood in sometimes torrential rain at our home field, and I watched (and took part in the fun) as tailgating was elevated to an art form.

And then life got way more complicated.

Within the span of a twelve-month period, my then-boyfriend and I bought a house, we got engaged, I started (night-time) graduate school, and we got married. Finances and calendar space became tighter pretty much immediately, so our game-going became more sporadic. I can’t count the number of weekends I spent with my laptop on my lap, homework spread out all over a couch, as a game was on in the background.

Then kids happened.

About a year and a half after I earned my Masters degree, dd was born. Finances that were previously tight shrank horribly. Day care expenses dominated our checkbook, costing well over $300 each week. Between money being so tight and having a newborn who demanded all the attention there was, going to games faded into the background.

More time passed, and just under three years after his big sister made her first appearance, ds was born. Money got even tighter. Day care now commanded well over $600 per week from us, enough so that there was a point in time when I sincerely considered just staying home in order to staunch the fiscal bleeding–but I still made enough to make it financially worthwhile to continue working outside the home. It was my preference to continue working anyway, and so we forged on.

And so did the rest of the group, albeit in their own ways. Over the course of time, several people from our group left town–migrating elsewhere in the Northeast or Mid-Atlantic regions–and some faded from view as other matters in their lives took precedence. A group of die-hards still continues to this day, but their number is greatly diminished, with so many of us scattered, focused on different priorities than the game.

That’s not to say that dh & I don’t watch matches; we do. It’s just that making an appearance at the games has always been something that’s had a profoundly different effect on me than just watching the game at home. Even when the atmosphere was awful, with The Fort being the only noise in the whole damn cavernous hulking beast that is Gillette Stadium, the tailgate and seeing my friends always made it an experience. I distinctly remember a point when the Revolution was nowhere near the top of the standings, and our attempt to tailgate through the entire game was stymied by the security team “kicking us into” the stadium.

And yet, I don’t regret anything.

I still have yet to see a World Cup match in person, either on foreign or domestic soil (I missed my chance to get World Cup ’94 tickets with my co-workers, because I started that job right as the World Cup began). I haven’t traveled to a Rev match (or any other sporting event outside New England) in years. I’ve seen two Revolution games in person this season, and that’s more than I’ve seen in the last several years combined.

Major League Soccer is trying to manage the needs of two somewhat competing elements. On the one hand, they want to cater to the “soccer moms”–the ones who have inroads with youth teams that can “put fannies in the seats” (as former Revolution General Manager and WGBH host Brian O’Donovan used to say)–but on the other hand, they want to cultivate the more grown-up European atmosphere on display in cities like Seattle and Portland. It’s difficult to organize a “family-friendly” experience and also have the supporters chanting “YOU SUCK!!!” at the opposing goalkeeper each time he kicks the ball. Then again, it’s also hard to fill the seats with the younger set when many games don’t start until 7:00 or 7:30pm, guaranteeing that younglings will be going to bed late.

This was a lot of what kept us away in the past couple of years (along with the crippling, now-gone day care costs), and we knew the epic meltdowns of keeping our kids up late weren’t worth it. As parents, you sense what’s worth the fight and what’s not, and that just wasn’t. With ds nearing the age of six, we’re within striking distance of this being okay, so we’ve dipped our toes in the water of coming back to the stadium–first with an afternoon game, then with a night game. In both cases, the kids loved it. The other night, ds proudly held my scarf high above his head as the team came out onto the field. He and his sister both sported matching Revolution shirts and hats that they proudly showed off before, during, and after the game.

And the tailgate. Oh the tailgate. They loved the tailgate. We hung out with our die-hard friends before the game, and afterwards we treated friends both old and new to S’mores. We didn’t get home until after 11pm, and the kids were tired but happy. When asked if they wanted to go back, the answer was an unequivocal “Yes!”

So I sit with my laptop open, pondering a mini-plan or some other method of getting a small slate of tickets for us, not yet ready for The Fort with the kiddos until I can be sure any language they learn to repeat can as easily be attributed to us as to their friends at school. (I’m figuring five years.) I’d like to get us back on a trajectory of being a part of that world again, because it was so instrumental in me finding something beautiful.

I regret not one moment that I spent at home instead of at a game, because my children and my family matter more to me than any team. I chose them as my priority, and I’m sure I made the right decision. And now, with my kids bitten by the footy bug as I was at a much later age, I’m glad I can be there to see the looks on their faces each time it’s new.

DD asked when we can get tickets for The Fort, and she also (separately) asked if she can become a season ticket holder. I’d like to say, “My work here is done!” and just pat myself on the back, but I know it’s only the beginning of their journey. And it’s going to be one hell of a great ride.

Parenting Pet Peeve #3: Will you just EAT already?!

There’s no nice way of saying it: kids are picky eaters, and it’s just a pain in the ass.

There. I’ve said it.

Don’t get me wrong; my kids DO eat food. They even eat healthy food. Unlike how I was at the same age, these kiddos will gladly eat a variety of fruits and vegetables (especially when raw/uncooked). Their lunches often include sliced peppers and cherry tomatoes. The real issue crops up at dinnertime (or whenever an entree is in order).

DS really only ever wants to eat a sandwich (peanut butter w/jelly and/or honey, or Nutella) or macaroni and cheese.

DD really only ever wants a Nutella sandwich, a McDonalds cheeseburger, or chicken nuggets (preferably from McDonalds).

It makes eating out, whether in-town or out-of-town, anywhere from tricky to frustrating. When we have a meal that gets gobbled up, we feel like we won the lottery. When we’re making a meal at home, if it’s something that dh and I really want (such as the pork tenderloin, beets, and risotto he made the other night), the odds are excellent that the kids will threaten to throw up the miniscule “no thank you” bites they’ve been required to eat and they’ll end up sullenly munching on mini-bagels instead.

Of course, the easy answer is to make multiple meals, what my mother termed “running a restaurant”, but our work schedules make that nearly impossible except on the weekends. And, frankly, my stubborn streak wants them to just deal with the fact that they have to try new foods – even if they decide they don’t like them – just to give us the benefit of the doubt that we’re not trying to poison them by feeding them asparagus. Or mashed potatoes. Or poached sockeye salmon.

It’s just not possible that we’re the only parents out there that deal with this, and I take morbid comfort from each time that I hear another parent fussing at their recalcitrant, non-eating child at a restaurant. I want to give my counterpart a discreet nod, an acknowledgement that we’re all in the same foxhole. But usually I just let it go, because I know they just want to eat their meal in peace.

There needs to be some kind of secret sign, like a hand signal or a special blinking pattern, so we can silently, carefully give each other a show of support.

In the meantime, we’ll just continue to soldier on. As I’ve reminded the kids (fairly recently, in fact), if they want to restrict themselves to only a small handful of food choices, their ability and opportunity to eat out will be curtailed. And we’ll continue to try to offer them food we think they may, eventually, one day, far in the future, hopefully soon, get into eating on a regular basis.

We can only hope.

It’s all I’ve got.

{nods silently and moves along}