One of the most interesting aspects of life is how narratives evolve, how certain decisions lead to certain events which lead to certain outcomes and create certain stories. This story is a little bit like that. If Sam's soccer coach hadn't pushed one of the players on Sam's team, Peter might not have had to write a note apologizing for his own behavior.
Soccer has not turned out the way we thought it would. We signed all three kids up for soccer through Amman Little League, the same league Peter and Sam played baseball on in the spring. Baseball was fun...actually, perhaps I should rephrase that. I had fun watching the boys play baseball. I don't exactly know how much fun they had playing baseball. Now that I actually think about it, I do recall Sam complaining about having to stand in the outfield for interminable periods of time. I think they thought it was boring.
Soccer promised to be less boring. Sam's team, Ajib, short for Arab-Jordan Bank, was a small squad to start, maybe only three or four kids had originally been assigned to the team, coached by two very young men, both alumni of the Amman Little League, still teenagers themselves.
Peter's team, Miqdaddi, named after a fertilizer or some Jordanian agro-chemical company, was coached by a Jordanian jidu in him mid-sixties or seventies, a figure who reminded Elise of my dad.
Then, there was Clementine's team, Hala's Chips, in their bright yellow, banana-themed uniforms, so they looked the part of a swarm of bees, following the soccer ball as it rolled around in the dust.
The coaches for both boys' teams were impassioned. Likely, too much so. After Peter's coach yelled in the faces of all the boys during the halftime of one of Peter's first games, Elise approached the league commissioner and I talked to the coach himself about our goals for Peter in the league. It was a bold move, asserting ourselves in a foreign land this way, but we thought it important enough to do.
From our perspective, this season could make or break soccer for them for the rest of their lives. That may sound dramatic, but all I've ever wanted for my kids when competing team sports is the opportunity to run and feel the wind in their hair. Winning wasn't important. Certainly not to be yelled out because they weren't winning, though neither Elise nor I are against a coach instilling structure and a sense of drive.
Peter's coach responded and Peter has thrived on the team. Once perhaps a timid player, he has stepped up his game. Especially on defense, a position he gets to play perhaps a little more than he would like. Even so, when someone is driving toward his goal, Peter is not afraid to step up and challenge him, something he may not have done last year.
A few weeks ago, Sam wasn't played at all in the second half of his game. Again, neither Elise or I come from a mindset where our kid needs to be played, especially at the expense of other kids getting minutes, but Sam was the only kid who sat out the entire second half. Elise brought this to the coach's attention who basically told her to eff off, "This is my team. If you don't like it get lost."
You can imagine how well that went over.
The league commissioner again intervened, apologizing for the coach and trying to blame the slight on the coach's poor English. But not two weeks later, the other coach pushed one of the player's in a team huddle. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Sam was done. Weren't not quitters and we explained to Sam these were unique circumstances. We wouldn't be making a habit of starting a season we didn't intend to finish, but it was important to show Sam we weren't going to willingly sit by while he was exposed to a toxic and potentially dangerous environment.
Last Friday morning, we had soccer games scheduled as usual, but neither Sam or Clementine went. Clementine had a sore throat, so they both stayed home with me while Elise took Peter to his soccer game.
Miqdaddi won (after starting the season winless for several weeks, they've won their last two games. It is still not all about winning, but Miqdaddi has been making steady improvements over the course of the season), and Peter came home with his after-game snack.
The after-game snack is not a snack, but a full-blown lunch.
In other countries, the after-game snack may be a piece of fruit, bag of popcorn, or a cookie and a juice box, but in Jordan anyway, the after-game snack is shawerma or a turkey sandwich, chips, fruit, a lollipop, and a Capri-sun, an entire meal. I joked with Elise that when it was our turn to bring snack I was going to set up my grill and make hamburgers and hot dogs. Elise went just shy of that with a bento box full of nutritious and delicious goodies.
Peter came home from his game, plopped himself down at the kitchen table where Sam and Clementine were diligently completing their homework and started wolfing down his "snack".
Not to mention, Sam and Clementine were trying to concentrate while Peter was doing his best attempt at imitating the Cookie Monster, smacking and growling, food flying everyone. It was annoying, and I think we all three told him as much. When he unwrapped a giant Ho-Ho cupcake and was about to shove it in his mouth, I told him not to. He hadn't eaten anything nutritious, no fruits or vegetables whatsoever since he woke up, so I told him he had to have some fruit before he ate his cupcake. I told him twice, but he still took a giant bite out of the cupcake which I then promptly snatched from his mouth and threw in the garbage while pulling him out of his chair and spanking him on the butt in the same motion.
He was pissed.
He called me a few choice words ("dumb" being one I distinctly recall), before being sent to his room.
He proceeded to destroy his bed and most of the room. When Elise and I came to talk to him, I told him I wasn't mad at him. He had made a mistake and I had forgiven him.
"Well you're dumb, I know that!"
"Do you really think that?" I asked him.
He didn't say anything. I left.
He sulked in his room for the better part of an hour. At one point, Elise went back, bringing with her a note that said, "You Are Loved".
The following night, after we had returned from the Mini Marine Ball, everyone was wound up from an evening of dancing. While Sam hit the showers, Peter got naked and was writhing around on our clean bed sheets. Basically acting like a hyped-up eight year-old. We were all tired and not much in the mood for his shenanigans. Elise and I hadn't even eaten dinner yet. She asked him to go put his pajamas on, brush his teeth, and go to bed. It was a school night, after all.
That's when he admitted he had torn up the note she gave him the day before, the same one that read, "You Are Loved".
She sent him immediately to bed.
I tucked everyone in, then poured Elise a glass of wine and myself a beer. We sat in the family room, recounting the evening and deciding where we wanted to get dinner from.
I heard a rustle and caught a fleeting, pajama-clad form crawl into the room and scoot back out. I got up. Behind a chair, on the floor in the hall leading to the back bedrooms was a note. I picked it up and gave it to Elise.
Soccer has not turned out the way we thought it would. We signed all three kids up for soccer through Amman Little League, the same league Peter and Sam played baseball on in the spring. Baseball was fun...actually, perhaps I should rephrase that. I had fun watching the boys play baseball. I don't exactly know how much fun they had playing baseball. Now that I actually think about it, I do recall Sam complaining about having to stand in the outfield for interminable periods of time. I think they thought it was boring.
Soccer promised to be less boring. Sam's team, Ajib, short for Arab-Jordan Bank, was a small squad to start, maybe only three or four kids had originally been assigned to the team, coached by two very young men, both alumni of the Amman Little League, still teenagers themselves.
Peter's team, Miqdaddi, named after a fertilizer or some Jordanian agro-chemical company, was coached by a Jordanian jidu in him mid-sixties or seventies, a figure who reminded Elise of my dad.
Then, there was Clementine's team, Hala's Chips, in their bright yellow, banana-themed uniforms, so they looked the part of a swarm of bees, following the soccer ball as it rolled around in the dust.
The coaches for both boys' teams were impassioned. Likely, too much so. After Peter's coach yelled in the faces of all the boys during the halftime of one of Peter's first games, Elise approached the league commissioner and I talked to the coach himself about our goals for Peter in the league. It was a bold move, asserting ourselves in a foreign land this way, but we thought it important enough to do.
From our perspective, this season could make or break soccer for them for the rest of their lives. That may sound dramatic, but all I've ever wanted for my kids when competing team sports is the opportunity to run and feel the wind in their hair. Winning wasn't important. Certainly not to be yelled out because they weren't winning, though neither Elise nor I are against a coach instilling structure and a sense of drive.
Peter's coach responded and Peter has thrived on the team. Once perhaps a timid player, he has stepped up his game. Especially on defense, a position he gets to play perhaps a little more than he would like. Even so, when someone is driving toward his goal, Peter is not afraid to step up and challenge him, something he may not have done last year.
A few weeks ago, Sam wasn't played at all in the second half of his game. Again, neither Elise or I come from a mindset where our kid needs to be played, especially at the expense of other kids getting minutes, but Sam was the only kid who sat out the entire second half. Elise brought this to the coach's attention who basically told her to eff off, "This is my team. If you don't like it get lost."
You can imagine how well that went over.
The league commissioner again intervened, apologizing for the coach and trying to blame the slight on the coach's poor English. But not two weeks later, the other coach pushed one of the player's in a team huddle. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Sam was done. Weren't not quitters and we explained to Sam these were unique circumstances. We wouldn't be making a habit of starting a season we didn't intend to finish, but it was important to show Sam we weren't going to willingly sit by while he was exposed to a toxic and potentially dangerous environment.
Last Friday morning, we had soccer games scheduled as usual, but neither Sam or Clementine went. Clementine had a sore throat, so they both stayed home with me while Elise took Peter to his soccer game.
Miqdaddi won (after starting the season winless for several weeks, they've won their last two games. It is still not all about winning, but Miqdaddi has been making steady improvements over the course of the season), and Peter came home with his after-game snack.
The after-game snack is not a snack, but a full-blown lunch.
In other countries, the after-game snack may be a piece of fruit, bag of popcorn, or a cookie and a juice box, but in Jordan anyway, the after-game snack is shawerma or a turkey sandwich, chips, fruit, a lollipop, and a Capri-sun, an entire meal. I joked with Elise that when it was our turn to bring snack I was going to set up my grill and make hamburgers and hot dogs. Elise went just shy of that with a bento box full of nutritious and delicious goodies.
Peter came home from his game, plopped himself down at the kitchen table where Sam and Clementine were diligently completing their homework and started wolfing down his "snack".
Not to mention, Sam and Clementine were trying to concentrate while Peter was doing his best attempt at imitating the Cookie Monster, smacking and growling, food flying everyone. It was annoying, and I think we all three told him as much. When he unwrapped a giant Ho-Ho cupcake and was about to shove it in his mouth, I told him not to. He hadn't eaten anything nutritious, no fruits or vegetables whatsoever since he woke up, so I told him he had to have some fruit before he ate his cupcake. I told him twice, but he still took a giant bite out of the cupcake which I then promptly snatched from his mouth and threw in the garbage while pulling him out of his chair and spanking him on the butt in the same motion.
He was pissed.
He called me a few choice words ("dumb" being one I distinctly recall), before being sent to his room.
He proceeded to destroy his bed and most of the room. When Elise and I came to talk to him, I told him I wasn't mad at him. He had made a mistake and I had forgiven him.
"Well you're dumb, I know that!"
"Do you really think that?" I asked him.
He didn't say anything. I left.
He sulked in his room for the better part of an hour. At one point, Elise went back, bringing with her a note that said, "You Are Loved".
The following night, after we had returned from the Mini Marine Ball, everyone was wound up from an evening of dancing. While Sam hit the showers, Peter got naked and was writhing around on our clean bed sheets. Basically acting like a hyped-up eight year-old. We were all tired and not much in the mood for his shenanigans. Elise and I hadn't even eaten dinner yet. She asked him to go put his pajamas on, brush his teeth, and go to bed. It was a school night, after all.
That's when he admitted he had torn up the note she gave him the day before, the same one that read, "You Are Loved".
She sent him immediately to bed.
I tucked everyone in, then poured Elise a glass of wine and myself a beer. We sat in the family room, recounting the evening and deciding where we wanted to get dinner from.
I heard a rustle and caught a fleeting, pajama-clad form crawl into the room and scoot back out. I got up. Behind a chair, on the floor in the hall leading to the back bedrooms was a note. I picked it up and gave it to Elise.
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