Let me just answer this by saying, coaching four- and five-year-old kids is like dumping a bucket of mice on a field and watching them scatter. To my defense, I did not volunteer to be a soccer coach. Ann Marie’s coach was going to be out of town and asked me if I could help. Of course, I can help. I spent the entire week leading up to my debut full of anxiety because: 1, I have never played soccer in my life, and 2, because they are four- and five-year-OLDS! I am a seasoned enough mother to know this is the age of bipolar personalities with the attention span of nonexistent.
This entire event only lasted an hour.
Longest. Hour. Ever.
First, I had to gather all the little ones in a single area to give instructions. This proved to be impossible. I got half the kids together in a circle, then while I was coaxing the rest, the original group disbanded in five different directions for no reason what so ever. After about five minutes, I think I managed to get all the kids together and started explaining the drill we were going to start with, when:
One kid holds his finger up and says, “I got this big owee last night.”
I say: ”Oh.. ouch.”
Then another kid: ”I have an owee on my knee.”
Me: ”Oh.. wow.” Then another kid… and another and another…
Our circle time of instruction ended up feeling like I was at an old folks home listening to the power hour of the latest ailment issues with preschoolers.
(Dear God, Please let this hour feel like a minute…)
I suffered through the first half hour and finally—GAME TIME! We have nine kids on our team, with five players on the field at a time, so we have to sub in and out the other four players.
I had my five starting kids, within 30 seconds I only had three on the field. WHERE did they go? I scanned the sidelines for my crew. One is getting a drink and the other is pulling up grass and throwing it in the air (yeah, I could totally be happy doing that right now too, but DUDE, we have a game to play!). I sub in two different kids. Another 30 seconds goes by and I have three again. Who wants to play the game? All the parents are trying to get their kids out on the field. Whatever, don’t be a hater parents… but my free hour of coaching does not include trying to reason with your bipolar, inattentive ankle biter who would rather stare at rainbows in the sky than play your beloved sport of soccer. Oh… oops, did I say that out loud?
After a full hour of herding large mice, the game was over, snack was dished out, and I walked off the field confident that I will NEVER do this again. Unless, of course, someone asks me to ‘help’ because, of course I can help!
More from parenting