The Tables Astonishingly, Disturbingly, Sweetly Turned

Yesterday, Alexander begged me to play this game that he and his mate, Tutty, invented over the weekend. You stand on opposite sides of the trampoline and throw a tennis ball at one another. The object is to make a throw that bounces at least once on the trampoline and is hard enough or tricky enough so that the other player cannot catch it and it goes behind him/her.

I’m not a very good thrower. I blame my father.  As far as I’m concerned that fell directly in his column of parental responsibilities.  But being a mature grown-up, I took matters into my own hands, and have tried to learn as an adult. I’ve studied others as they throw. I’ve asked friends for tips.  I even hired my basketball coach once to teach me how to throw a baseball.   None of it seemed to make a difference and so I still have that classic, awkward, completely ineffectual throw. I think you probably know exactly what I am talking about.

But I can catch. I have good eye-hand coordination.  I'm proud of my ability to snag a ball out of the air.

So I’m playing, apologizing for my lame throws that miss the trampoline entirely, but I’m confident in my defense.   I catch some and some go past me.   Once I get the hang of it, I can pay more attention, and do you know what I see?   Alexander is taking some heat off his throws!  He is putting only about 50% zing on the ball!   

I play on, but inside I am thinking WHEN IN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN!!

I, the mother, the parent, the adult, am supposed to be taking something off my throws so my little boy won’t get discouraged, won’t give up, will keep playing and get better.   When did this natural order of things get reversed???   Inwardly, I am mad, and want to yell at him “Give me what you got, I can handle it!” But the truth is I probably can’t. Already, I am only stopping about half of his half-zing balls.   Alexander, wisely, doesn’t give me what he’s got because he knows, in fact, I can’t handle it. And if he did, then what?  I will get discouraged, I will give up and I won’t play anymore.   (Okay, I know this doesn't speak well of my character, but what's new?)

Alexander's patience with my ineptitude is remarkable.  But let’s be clear - Alexander has some definite self-interest at heart here.  He really loves this game and he wants someone to play with when his mates aren’t around.   It behooves him to be mindful of my fragile ego, to take care that I don’t get discouraged, to build me up ever so carefully so I will always want to play.  (Just like I tried to do with him with tennis. Except my patience with Alexander in that regard was less than remarkable.  My punishment for opposite-of-remarkable patience?   He hates the game.  But that is another blog.)

But whatever Alexander's motivation, I find this reversal of roles astonishing and disturbing and disconcerting.  It brings the future too frighteningly close.   What’s next – him cutting my meat into little pieces so I don’t choke?

I am not ready.  I cannot have it.  I am in a full on search for someone who can (in secret) teach me to throw  my own zingers, and pride evaporated, to catch.