The Waterworks

My daughter bugs me.

Have I mentioned this before? Oh, what. Just about a thousand times? That sounds about right.

I mean, I love the kid. I really do. She has some wonderful qualities, not one of which is the ability to stop bugging the hell out of her mother.

Lately, I have been making a very concerted effort to be extremely positive with her. I thought coaching her softball team might ruin our relationship forever, but it actually seemed to help quite a bit.

She just gets into situations that...well...no other mothers seem to have to deal with this crap. These situations always end in tears.

I probably seem like a heartless bitch to every other mother out there, but I know my kid. Coddling her through her tears is the last thing she needs. The slightest showing of sympathy only degenerates the situation further.

The kid needs some stones.

Yesterday was the first day of soccer camp. Even though I think she belongs with the nine-year-olds (she'll be nine in a couple of weeks and has been playing soccer for five years, plus I wanted her to make friends who will be in her level at the start of soccer season) they put her in the "beginner" group with the 7-8 year-olds. Which is cool.

I had to pick my son up from camp at noon so I spied on her while I was waiting. She was doing pretty well.

I came back a little early for pick-up so I could watch her play. As I parked the car I just happened to catch her tie-dye socks out of the corner of my eye. It's a good thing I did because she was playing on the far other side of the complex as I had expected. It looked like she was playing with 9-10 year-olds.

You know I had a moment of ooooh, maybe they moved her up because she did so well pride.

It was to be short lived.

Of course she didn't leave the field and head toward the parents like every other kid when they were dismissed. I had to walk up and retrieve her. Which is when she told me that she had gotten lost after lunch.

She spent the majority of the afternoon wandering around because she couldn't remember her coach's name. Or apparently, what side of the fields she had been playing on all morning or what any of her new friends and teammates looked like or how freaking old she was.

Apparently, she finally asked a coach who just told her to go join in with some team.

And that's how she wasted her afternoon at soccer camp.

You know, that's fine. Whatever. She made a mistake. A totally ditsy mistake that took the joy out of the whole experience, but whatever. But I knew that they made a big deal out of checking each kid out at the end of the day with the right coach.

Her original group was gathered on the bleachers and I told her to run and join them. That's when the tears started.

I was so put out. By her. By the camp. What coach loses a kid halfway through the day and doesn't bother to tell anyone or look for her?

She could have left campus for all they knew.

I was so disappointed. I had been so excited to pick her up and hear about her day. She loves soccer. She desperately needs new friends. And it all degenerated into another tear fest.

I swear. Nothing is ever easy with her. Nothing.

It's funny, because my husband feels the same way about my son.