Good Guys Versus The Dream Team

Alexander designed the day. A family competition day – he and Quince versus Bill and me.   On his schedule:  badminton, ping pong, netball, Wii tennis.  With a very, very complicated scoring system.  So many points if you win;  even more if you win by 5; you even can get points if you lose by no more than 3, and so on.

First up, badminton. Games to eleven. Best out of three. Badminton is one of my all-time favorite sports – if I may call it a sport.  I played hours of badminton during the summer as a kid.  All out, competitive, no holds barred badminton. Whoo Hoo --  Bring it on!

Bill and I name ourselves “The Good Guys.”  After much back and forth, Quince and Alexander settle on “The Dream Team.” The Good Guys take game 1.  Cracks start to show in the Dream Team.  Quince whines, Alexander criticizes.  Finally, Quince, scowling, free arm behind her back, stands at the net with racket in the air, but makes no effort to hit the birdie anymore as it sails toward her.   Alexander has had it with her.

We stop play.  Major negotiations ensue.   At first we leave it to Alexander and Quince to see if they can sort it out.   Can they play together or do they want to rearrange the teams?  Now is a good time to tell you that there had been a major shift in their relationship over the 4-week school holiday.  For reasons which are mysterious to me, they crossed a bridge and began to like each other, began to enjoy playing together, and most significantly, saw themselves as aligned.   Against us, their parents.  Now I realize that might sound horrible and wrong, but in fact, for a whole set of complicated reasons I won’t go into here, that is a positive.

It was important to tell you this, because you might think the easy out was just to change the teams around.  But they didn’t want that. They wanted to stay a team.  That wanted to play against us.   Unfortunately, that desire wasn't enough to propel them through the tough work of conflict resolution.  So much easier, and dare I say, more familiar and comfortable, to blame and accuse than to listen and understand.  So, bringing all my conflict management skills into play, I intervened.   You know how it goes.  “So, Alexander, what is Quince saying she needs?  Do you think you could try that?”  “Quince, it sounds like Alexander would like it if you. .“

And we were back on the court.  Quince making a big effort, Alexander praising her.   Game 2 to the Dream Team.    Game 3, all on the line, Bill and I surge ahead.  The score is 9-5.   Now my kids are old enough to handle losing, and I really like winning, especially at badminton, but it suddenly occurs to me that their tender little bud of sibling friendship will not be well served by a loss.   I catch Bill’s eye as he begins to serve and give him a microscopic shake of my head.  After 13 years of co-parenting, he sees it and gets it.  He makes it look good as he flubs the serve.   As do I when it comes back to me.  Final score:   13-11 Dream Team.   

The kids are ecstatic. They high five, they hug, the smiles broad on their faces.  Alexander, well trained, ducks under the net to tell us, the losers, good game.  He comes up to me, hugs me tight around the neck, and whispers in my ear, so only I can hear, “Thank you so much, Mommy.”  I hug him back, astounded.  Okay, maybe also a wee bit dismayed that he saw through what I thought was our so very professional throwing of the game -- I fleetingly wonder if those days of using that valuable parenting tactic of benevolent deception are behind us.  But mostly I am oh so proud of my boy because he got it. Got why we threw the match their way.  Appreciated it.  Knew not to reveal it to his 9 year-old sister.   Wow.

 I don't know how this very mysterious process of emotional maturation happens, but I am so very glad to have the pleasure of watching it happen.