Scribbling Dame

Preposterous Pondering.

Performance Management July 3, 2013

I had a realization. Some parents really care A LOT about how their kids perform.

I know this isn’t a grand revelation–I’ve heard of Tiger Moms and Helicopter Parents and Stage Moms, etc., but I’ve been going along in my own little world just trying to keep the kids alive, have a self identity and a good marriage so I haven’t really had the opportunity to see it in action.

Until last week. At the rec center tennis camp. I put my kid in summer rec center camps because I was scared to be alone with her all day all summer. Plus add in the crazy little one and I’m outnumbered. No way.

So she did tiny-tot beginner tennis camp last week. This was a thirty-minute-a-day “camp” for four total days. Hardly what I’d call professional tennis training.

I’d watch Sofia try and tap into her hand eye coordination, realizing that, like her parents, it’s highly likely that she’ll get academic scholarships over athletic ones. Sometimes she’d connect the racket with the ball, and the other 50% of the time she’d miss, and pirouette with her racket like the point of the move was actually to twirl and the ball was a footnote in her actions. She was a clown and I liked her flair, and most importantly to me she seemed to be having fun.

Three of the four kids in the class were similar in skill to Sofia and one little guy was pretty good. Yet I realized at the end of the class, I was the only one who didn’t care that Sofia wasn’t good at tennis. The other parents seemed genuinely distressed and distraught, which is a puzzle to me: what did they expect would happen in 30 minutes over four days for $24?

This is probably not going to be Sofia.

This is probably not going to be Sofia.

Don’t get me wrong–if my kid was the best in her class I’d make sure everyone knew she was my future tennis star, but the fact that she is probably a regular old goofy five year-old makes me just as happy. The last thing I want is for my kid to be incapable of having fun, because she is worried too much about being the best. The same goes for me.

How my kid performs does not directly reflect my worth as a parent. How my kid handles how she performs does.

Chillax people. It’s just tiny tots tennis camp. Your kid will not be a crack whore or car salesman if they have to retake the same level next week. Promise.

 

Get Your Freak On November 20, 2011

Filed under: Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 9:49 pm
Tags: , , , ,

I knew today was going to be stressful when last night I woke up because one of my nipples was itchy. Yes, the mysteries of pregnancy keep on giving. Definitely the sign of something off.

Every pregnancy has its freak out moments, and by this I mean not things that should freak a person out like health issues or the  vast weight of being responsible for another human life. I am talking about fearing, on apocalyptic levels, completely ridiculous shit. With Sofia, I was convinced, despite an entire closet and dresser full of clothing, that she would inevitably be forced to be naked. I don’t know if I thought she was going to spit up, or I’d never be able to do laundry (I wish!)–the cause is of no relevance. I impulsively kept buying clothing. She never went forcibly naked, in case you were concerned.

So today I had to sooth myself and talk myself down from a ledge of panic over, not unfortunate nakedness, but money. Now, this is not a totally irrational fear, especially given the temperature of the economic environment, but my privileged white ass was stressed because I thought I probably bought too much for Sofia for Christmas and her birthday, and somewhere I convinced myself that we’d be bankrupt next month. I started looking around my house at items that haven’t been used or only used once and  caught myself thinking of how I bought that stupid bath salt set and now we’re all going to starve.

Yay hormones!

I should also point out that I started off the morning in tears while watching a CBS news story of all the people in America who are worried about where their next meal will come from, and I cried because I am so grateful with everything I am blessed to have, especially considering my (at times) very poor upbringing. I am no where near poor, or even broke. Real poor people have no time or energy to contemplate if they are poor or not.

And what are my coping mechanisms for stress? Beer or vodka, which is out. Shopping, which is why I am stressed in the first place. Sex, but my back is killing me and sounds like too much work. So I took a bath, had a cup of tea, and reminded myself to be normal. It mostly worked.

These are my Thanksgiving Plans!

 

 
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