Kick me.

Two years ago, the Boy was about to go into kindergarten and he decided he wanted to play soccer. Okay, we said, great!

Not so great. Kind of a friggin' disaster, actually, filled with fun moments like screaming, pushing, throwing of oneself onto the ground and refusing to move (in the middle of the field in the middle of a game). So forth. So on. Which is fine when you're 2 but not so hot when you're 5.

This was right in the middle of the Difficult Period, so I don't know. It was stressful, but not really surprising, and anyway I'm not so much a Lover of All Teams Athletic (having been the Last Girl Picked on nearly every occasion). Here's the thing: I was such a miserable little kid, and I just keep thinking that if I try hard enough, I can save my kids from being miserable little kids, too. But can I? I mean, isn't it just part of everything? It all gets mixed up.

Long story long, the Boy decided he wants to try soccer again. Which brings up the angst in me, even though he's grown a lot in these past 2 years and is much more in control of himself emotionally. I just don't want the pack to turn on him. Damn, I hate the pack.

But it's his childhood. Not mine. And if he wants to try it again, then I've got to let him. I've got to quit projecting all this shite onto my kids. I mean, hell, we're lucky that this is even an option. It's like, the problems we have now are so small compared to what they were, why am I just waiting for something to go south? That's just a stupid way to live. Why not just believe that things will keep getting better instead of waiting for them to crash and burn?

Anyway, we signed him up for a 1-week camp, and if it is just awful we can drop him out of the fall registration. I can't keep him all safe and isolated. That's just crazy talk.