Carron Stacey - 12 Jun 18
Dear Son,
I’ve always said being a parent will get easier, I’m sure. There’ll still be trials and tribulations, but not about hard things like potty training or weaning.
Football. Life does revolve around football for us in some way and has done since you were (late starting at) five years old. The trials we used to encounter were you messing around during training, disagreeing with the coach or the referee, or getting cross with your team mates and turning on each other rather than the opposition.
Football trials. What a trial they are! Joking aside, they have been a trial for you, in more ways than one; and for us. What have we learned?
When you were in reception year, your head said that you were certainly going to be a leader not a follower. I’m not so sure there’s not a middle way here – leading when comfortable, stepping back when not. Not as catchy? Lurker? Leader, lurker, follower… We did know that you didn’t usually try your hand at something new that you weren’t sure you weren’t going to fail at though.
Now in year seven, recently you asked us to take you to some local football trials for an advanced league. You were concerned no one else was going, but still wanted to compete. We found out a friend was going, and we all went together. The first stage was a success and a happy occasion even before we knew you’d been successful. You were asked to train for four weeks with the new team, to see how you’d fit in and they’d select some of you to continue next year. When you arrived at the first training session, although you knew a few people, they didn’t know you well. They passed to themselves, as they would, and my heart went out to you, walking around, just dribbling the ball. I felt your aloneness. Your isolation. I wanted to step onto the pitch and do it for you. Just join in, I was shouting inside my own head. But that’s not you. You weren’t in your comfort zone. Yet. A trainer you know from your other sessions walked over to you to speak to you. “Just be yourself and enjoy it” was what we later found out he said. As soon as the matches started, we could see our real son playing. We drove home with a more animated son, admitting how nervous you were. This was new to us, we hadn’t imagined you feeling this nervous. OK, one-off stage fright.
Just after the first local training session, you messaged from school asking us to sign you up for a different south coast academy trials. After over an hour of research, I finally found out how to do this, and completed a tricky online application form. We heard back that you’d secured a place at the academy trials during half-term. When you found out that none of your friends were taking part, you said you didn’t want to do it. You were adamant. More sure of this than of anything. You. Were. Not. Taking. Part. Cue lots of arguments but you stood your ground.
Your dad and I had other ideas. Dad wanted you to continue so that you never regretted not going. I wanted you to go through with it because you’d asked me, I’d spent time and energy signing you up and therefore it was the right thing to do, unless there was a genuine reason not to, other than “None of my friends are going”. In the end, I’m not proud of it, but dad’s bribery of some VBucks (XBox money) made you reconsider.
We did force you, I suppose, thinking back. Or certainly guilted you enough to try. We said you didn’t have to take it any further if they liked you. It was entirely up to you. Reflecting back, the trials being on the last day of the holiday blighted the whole week to some extent. They were there, hiding in the shadows, like an exam or an appointment for a tooth extraction at the dentist.
On the day of the academy trials, travelling with your grandparents and me, you navigated the way, upset that I’d set off early. At every opportunity, you added that we’d be there in five minutes, four minutes, three minutes; always early. The atmosphere in the car was foggy. I kept my cool, refusing to rise to the argument tidbits you baited me with. Waiting in the car was painful. Waiting at the gate to go into the trials after signing in was painful. You stood next to me, not taking your drink from me, but willing me to stay, not to leave you alone. You looked like a young man in your kit, but seemed like the toddler I once knew who wouldn’t join in at a balloon party. When they told us you’d be waiting an extra half an hour, I wondered if you’d bolt. (You did say afterwards that it would have been worse to have left then.) I was tormented by the guilt of knowing I’d done the right thing making you come, but feeling awful at pushing you so out of your comfort zone. Your face frozen with no emotion, I bid you goodbye and off you went into the cage, while we watched from those tortuous sidelines.
Sorted into two teams, you started playing in defence, in your normal position. I can’t remember the details of the match; goals scored by your team weren’t as pleasurable as those scored by your club team, all of whom I know. I think we clapped politely for both teams. You put all you could in to those matches at the time, given your state of mind beforehand. You seemed to enjoy it. I asked your grandma, “What do you imagine his first words are going to be?” “I told you I didn’t want to do it” or “That was awful, how could you have made me do it?” were two ideas.
I wasn’t expecting the actual words. “Actually mum, I quite enjoyed that.”
After much discussion with us, we worked out that you’d been extremely against going as none of your friends were. You were nervous on your own, in case it didn’t pay off. In case of failure. In case you looked stupid. But now, you knew that it wasn’t that bad. The guilt I’d felt paid off when you understood that now having tried it out, the worst thing didn’t happen. It wasn’t nearly as bad as you’d expected. You would be willing to try other things now, to challenge yourself.
It came as no surprise really that we heard the next day that you weren’t successful on this occasion with this academy, given your mind set wasn’t right. But the best outcome for me was that you’d tried. And nothing bad had happened.
Whilst we wait to hear if you’ve been selected for the local team, we know that you’ve learned much more than extra football skills at these two trial events. You’ve found your nerve, courage, determination, grit and resilience. You shook the “No thanks” from the academy off and said that you were concentrating on getting into the local team. If you didn’t, you admitted you’d be really upset, but that you would try again next year. I can’t tell you how proud I was to hear that. Whatever the result, you’ve done your best and learned something about yourself. And life I suppose.
And I’ve learned that I shouldn’t just expect you to be fearless in all situations. I need to remember that you will not be the same in all circumstances. We are here to aid and support you, and I’m learning how to do just that.
Being a parent doesn’t get easier; we still have trials and tribulations – but instead of just being physical (like tying your shoelaces or learning to ride a bike), they’re now mental (helping you find qualities and build character).
Love Mum x
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Carron Stacey, a late-40s mum who works in school to keep her sanity. Enjoys the beach and the humdrum things in life. Mum to a tweenie boy, living on the coast in the UK.
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