It is often said, by people who have endured the pain of making decisions on behalf of their offspring, that children don’t come with a manual. In my case, this wasn’t strictly true—my dear brother gave me a rather amusing “owner’s manual” for babies which read much like a Chilton’s for diaper changing when my son, Kevin, was born nearly 11 years ago. But the sentiment remains true. You never really know if you’re doing the right thing for your child.
You agonize over the simplest things, like wondering if he’s drinking too much juice or not enough juice. You watch with bated breath as he goes to preschool for the first time, hoping he’ll make friends. You wonder if he’ll be picked on for something as simple as his name, a lifelong curse that you put on him from birth. And then you watch as he finally puts himself in a situation where real failure is a possibility, like trying out for one of the top six soccer clubs in the state, and you wonder if you had just spent one more day helping him with his foot skills instead of taking that press trip to California, if that would have made the difference.
Luckily for me, my son made the team, and this past weekend they had their first tournament.