CindyLou, believe it or not, is now 7 (going on 13) and Bean just turned 4 (!). In the days of old, when Mr. Whoo and I were uninitiated to hard-core parenthood and naive to the social rigors that exist in the suburbs, we concocted a wonderful fantasy that each of our children would select 2 different activities completely of their own accord, without pressure from either of us, and while we would always encourage them to finish out a season, we would never be "those parents" who pushed them to be "better, stronger, and faster." Ha. Ha. Ha.
Enter these last few months, where CindyLou chose cheerleading and tumbling (With or without a nudge from her mother? A former cheerleader, who always regretted a lack of formal tumbling training? Ok, probably a little nudge.) Bean chose soccer (pretty much of his own accord, well, that, and the fact that it is pretty much the only organized sport available for boys at age 3). We started out with the best intentions, and really, watching 3 year olds playing soccer is a bit like watching cats being herded on the field. Except, then Bean really started to *get* it, and then he got *really good* (for a three year old). Each game he would score at least a couple of goals, setting his own goal for each game for *at least* five goals per game. Then he achieved that goal, and all of the sudden, Mr. Whoo (assistant coach) felt like he had to take his own son out so other kids had a chance to score. The other parents would ask where or how often we practiced with him (exactly twice, right before the first game and then again right before play-offs), like they were somehow implying that we were driving him to his successes (we were not). It made me uneasy to have that feeling of competitiveness creep anywhere near my sweet 3 year old baby, who was just there to have fun.
Things were no better with CindyLou, sitting behind the glass with the other "gym moms." I did my best to fade into my chair while the other mothers, obviously veterans, systemically analyzed and subsequently ripped apart each girl in the gym, including their own daughters. Despite my best intentions, however, it completely stoked my competitive fire, and made me want to take CindyLou home and drill motions and practice flexibility for hours on end. How dare they judge my babies like that, and, indirectly, how dare they judge *me*? It is a strange new world, the world of competitive extra-curricular activities, where the parents are just as cruel and mean as the kids can be.
Growing up, for me, it wasn't this way. Parents did not hang around at our practices and activities and compare notes. I did tap at 5, piano at 8, softball and cheer in 4th and 5th grade, band (clarinet) in middle school, and cheerleading through middle and high school. Parents were only there for recitals/games. Maybe that made it easier to not be so fiercely competitive. I think this can apply to the academic setting as well, although, to this point, we have had no "real" report cards with As or Bs, just Ms for "meeting criteria." So tell me MiMs, how do you stifle your competitive streak and just keep your cool around other "tiger-like" mothers and fathers? How do we teach our children to be *their* best, without making them feel like they have to be *the* best?