B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E

I am going to say this once, and then I will never speak of it again: your child probably isn't going to be a professional athlete.

I know, I know, s/he is already in second grade, and that’s a late start for soccer/football/jujitsu mastery, but you feel that, with the two days of private lessons and participation on not one, but two club teams, plus frequent “talks” with your poor child’s beleaguered coach (who is probably not now, nor ever was, a professional athlete him/herself, and is even more likely some accountant who just volunteered for this coaching duty because no one else would) your child has a real shot for the big league. Probably not.

And I am not saying this because I want to crush your dreams, but let’s get one thing really reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally clear: these are YOUR dreams, not the dreams of your seven year old. Do you know what seven year olds are thinking about? Ponies. Possibly candy. Not being the next David Beckham. Your child may say that s/he wants to be a pro athlete when s/he gets older, but your child also thinks that “older” means twelve. Children can no less imagine what it is to be an actual adult with a career than pandas can imagine playing Yahtzee.

And I am certainly not saying that your child is not an awesome athlete. I am sure that s/he is the best one on the team, or at least would be if that fucking coach would just put little Bixby at shortstop, like you’ve been insisting the entire season. You’ve spent time and money nurturing your child’s talent, and I’m certain that you want something, if only the acclaim of the other parents in Pony League, to show for it. But here’s the thing: your kid is seven. There are exactly ZERO seven year olds that are drafted into the majors: that’s a FACT. So somehow, between seven and twenty, your child is going to have concentrate solely on this sport that you have determined is his destiny, s/he cannot get injured, lose interest in the sport, or God forbid, decide that s/he likes interior design more than dribbling a soccer ball for hours a day, and oh, by the way, his or her skills are going to have to get better and better.

“It’s not about becoming a professional athlete, it’s about scholarships,” you say, while your child looks more interested in the planes flying overhead than the tennis racquet in his hands. No. It’s not. It’s about you trying to realize the dreams of a life that seems way more glamorous than the one that you have. It’s about you being able to cast a superior look at the neighbors because your child scored the game-winner. It’s about you honestly thinking that a child’s realization of his or her talents somehow is something entirely of your making. I can tell you this right now: Richard Williams might have pushed his incredibly talented daughters to excel in tennis, but it was their gigantic booties that were on the tennis court, killing that ball, and wanting that ball good and dead. If they didn’t want it themselves, he would just be another crazy parent. And we all know that you can’t make a child want something just because you want it for them.

Last but not least, do me a favor: stop announcing your child’s winning ways on the sports field as if you won. I’m genuinely happy that little McIntosh made the GEU Supersports Team, but you just sound like a bragger who needs some accomplishments of your own. Please stop taking credit for the good things your child does. After all, when you land an account at work, do you think your child tweets, “Hey everyone, my mom landed the Underhill account”? So why would you think it’s okay for you? Geez, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be proud of your kid; your child is amazing. Just realize, that the amazing child that you have is, in fact, a child: not an adult, not a professional, and not likely ever going to be a professional. Your child has a far greater chance of becoming obese than a professional athlete. So lighten up a little, my friends. Childhood is just a brief moment, for you and for your child, and I don’t want you wrecking it.