Poor Sport

I was a poor sport when I was a little kid. I was the kind of kid that would pitch a big fit if I didn’t win a board game. My family had a choice: either let me win, don’t let me win and deal with the noisy consequences, or don’t play games with me at all. So they let me win. I think they did, for the most part. And I turned out okay—a bit competitive but I don’t necessarily see that as a bad thing. Competition is healthy and fuels progress. Or something.

The problem is, I’m still competitive as a parent. If my kid is the best behaved kid, then I win, right? And if I don’t make a big deal of it, if I just demurely smile and accept the kudos, then I am a good sport and I’ve played the game fairly. So you can imagine my absolute horror in discovering that my son is a poor sport. Publicly. Like, as in, in front of everyone.

We went to Oliver Woods park for a soccer class today. Before class we played on the awesome playground and we were having a great time. Marcus made a little friend and I knew the mommy from StrongStart so her and I chatted a bit, and it was nice. When it was time for class I called Marcus and he came right away, because he was excited for soccer. The other mommy commented on what a good listener he was (Me: 1, Her: 0), and I told her, “Well, he’s just excited for soccer.” See: demure. That should get me bonus points. Her guy was having a fit about going inside, but I’ve seen so many of those fits that I didn’t think anything of it. She seemed stressed, managing with her baby and her angry little man, so I sidled up to her and told her that my four-year-old could be a terror. I told her about the stuffie down the toilet. And I told her about the testosterone thing. A dad there joined in and commented on what a terror HIS four-year-old girl could be. The mommy didn’t seem to be feeling much better, but at least she knew she wasn’t alone.

The kids were having a great time with the soccer lesson. But I sensed something coming. I’m kind of like one of those animals that senses the tornado approaching. I wanted to gather in my children and hunker down, but that’s not really protocol for soccer lessons. The teacher announced that we were going to play a game and I could see Marcus’s anxiety rising. He looked up at me, lower lip out just a trace, and said, “Mommy, I don’t want to play the game.” I told him to just watch the game for a minute, and if he wanted to join in, then he could. Hmm, not sure about it, but willing to comply. So the teacher explains that all the children will have a pinny on their belts, and the goal is to pull out each other’s pinnies. If your pinny gets pulled, you just pick it up and put it back in. Easy peasy. Marcus gives me the thumbs up, which temporarily lulls me into a false sense of security. Because sure enough, the moment his pinny gets pulled, he’s crying full throttle, “I WANT TO GO HOOOOOOOME!!!” Uhm. “Marcus, son, I see that you’re really—“ “I WANT TO GO HOOOOOOOME!!!” I got him over to the bench and explained that we would not be going home and I talked about winning not being important and being a good sport, etc. And then I let him sit there sobbing while I helped Skyler play the game. Of course I was horribly embarrassed that my son was the poor sport (Me: 0, Them: more than 0). Sigh. I would take comfort in the fact that at least the other mommy got to see that it was true, other four-year-olds were equally rotten, but then I would have had to acknowledge that she won. Which meant I lost. Double sigh. I wonder where this poor-sportsmanship could possibly have come from?

The fits continued outside the building (“I WANT TO PLAY ON THE PLAYGROUND!”), in the van (“I WANT A SNACK!), and when we got home (“I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A NAP!!!”). All of my children are asleep now. My ears hurt. And my throat, a little, from yelling. I’m not sure who wins this one, but I’m pretty sure it’s not me.