Or maybe it’s stropshtuoy.
No matter how it’s spelled, it’s way more stressful than I ever imagined.
I coached for a long time.
Some people would say way too long (by some… I mean all).
As a school administrator, I’ve had to throw my share of over-zealous parents out of games for griping at the referees and coaches.
Or both (and honestly, if you’re about to be tossed out of a gymnasium in front of your peers you might as well yell at everyone).
My assumption was these people were insane.
Who gets so caught up in a child’s game that they have to be removed by a mild-manner kind-hearted person like me?
I was wrong. We are all insane.
At least when it comes to watching our kids.
It’s in our genes (in my first draft I spelled this "jeans" which is actually funnier).
It’s easy to lose perspective when your child loses. Or fails. Or doesn’t get to play.
I’ve known for a long time that The Evil Spawn’s childhood would not go smoothly.
I anticipated visits from the local police. Long chats with the District Attorney.
Neck tattoos. Numerous piercings. Fake IDs. Boyfriends 35 years older than her.
I knew there would be late night car chases. Liquor store robberies. And various other crimes that I hoped would always be misdemeanors.
After all, what kind of father would I be if my only daughter was committing felonies?
What I didn’t count on was the pain and suffering of watching her grow up and being effected by the decisions of other adults (not in law enforcement).
Evil, evil people.
No one told me at the hospital when she was hatched, how challenging this time of her life could be.
I had no idea the pain and suffering one has to go through while sitting in a lawn chair watching her attempt to hit a softball (by the way… there is NO WAY that first pitch was a strike!!!).
Life is bound to get simplier when she is 16. Or 17. Or 18.
It will won’t it?