The winner takes all

When my youngest child was about three months old, I was ambushed and subsequently interviewed for a local TV parenting show. Several questions were posed, the most memorable of which was "Do you think that parents today are competitve when it comes to their kids". I think at the time since I was incredibly sleep deprived I probably flubbed the question and chattered on incoherently, but my answer was essentially "yes".

Through the years I've been amazed by how parents choose to compete with one another. During the baby stages, competition appears to exist mainly between the mothers. Sometimes it begins as early as the day after the birth of their precious one -- "Well, I had natural childbirth despite the fact that I had the most excruciatingly painful back labour the entire time. It's too bad you caved in and had the epidural".

And it doesn't stop there; it goes on to encompass feeding, sleeping and pooping schedules. "My little guy goes down for five hours straight and he's only six weeks old. You must be doing something wrong if your four month old still isn't settling down for long stretches of time".

The other divisions of competition includes when the babies uttered their first words, who cut their first tooth, who started eating solids first, who crawled first, who rolled over first, who started walking first, who smiled first ...

Enter the toilet training years ... "My sweet darling is soooo smart ... she potty trained herself by the time she was eighteen months old. We only had two accidents and since then we've never looked back". "Your son sits down to pee? My guy always stands up like a big boy".

There are endless tasks at which one's child could be the best. Is your child an early reader? Did he or she learn to write his or her name by the time he or she was two? What about the alphabet song? Did they express an interest in the arts from the time they could talk and walk? Does he or she have a great sense of humour? Play the piano or violin? No? Well, you better get on that one. They say it's never too early to start. It helps boost their math skills. And on that topic, can your little one count to thirty yet?

I spent this past weekend at a squash tournament for my eldest son. He is and has always been fairly athletic and has a keen interest in sports of any kind. I guess at a certain age it's not enough to just play squash now and again; one wants to see how one ranks against the masses. So at his request and upon the direction of the raquets pro, I registered him for a junior silver tournament.

It was a marathon event, running from Friday until Sunday evening, and fortunately, it dovetailed quite nicely with our hockey schedule. J. was pumped for the whole event. He had been practising since September and he felt that his game had improved dramatically since last year.

I was a bit nervous about the whole thing because I knew that he would be playing against some of the province's top-ranked kids and I didn't want him to lose his love for the game if he got crushed early on. Fortunately, he held his own fairly well and although he didn't win, he did get the satisfaction of knowing that he was just as good as most of the kids there.

What fascinated me however, throughout the tourney was the dynamic between dads and lads. The squash courts were designed in such a way that the back wall was almost competely bulit of glass. This permitted a second floor viewing gallery where most parents opted to sit. As the tournament progressed however, parents began sitting downstairs so that they could pop open the court door at any given time and yell out instructins to their child.

I noticed that each boy would either look up towards the gallery or directly past the door at his dad when he missed a shot. The dads would often be making grimaces, wildly gesticulating while mouthing instructions "Go deep. Don't get sloppy with your backhand. Use your head".

Most of the moms on the other hand, simply smiled encouragingly and waved. Not that we women aren't sports fans ourselves, or don't engage in the game of squash. I had a number of tips I could have given my son had he asked, but I wasn't about to start screaming them out between games. It's interesting that while women appear to be competitive when our kids are babies, we often don't exhibit that streak of cmopetitiveness in the arena of sports. I guess it's because the dads step in with their pride of their sons in this regard. During the tournament, I heard so many fathers trying to one-up the other "My son is only eight and he's already got a killer serve." "Oh yeah? Well both my boys have been told that they could be number one in Ontario by next year".

Of course, I would have been delighted if my son had won, or at least made it into the finals. I wanted this not because I harbour a deep seated hope that he will be a squash champion, but because I wanted him to be rewarded for his hard work and I wanted to see him happy. One of the toughest moments of the tournaments was watching him lose his fifth and final game of an amazing, crowd-drawing match. He came off the court in tears, upset at the ref for missing an important shot, angry at the other player for being dishonest and just generally frustrated with himself for failing to return balls he felt he should have easily gotten. Inconsolable, he refused the hugs offered by the entire family and sobbed in a corner. Albeit seemingly unwillingly, he listened to me tell him that sports, and life itself, was all about focussing on the positive moments, that he just had to acknowledge any of the mistakes he made and just move on, without the negative feelings colouring any future games. He stared bleakly past me as I told him that the whole point of the tournament wasn't simply to waltz in and win, but to get some valuable feedback about oneself and to learn how to play against others in a respectful and sportsmanlike manner. In the end, I concluded, despite his loss, it was a postive event; he had learned that he could stand up against some of the best players and give them a worthy match.

What people forget when they try to establish that their children, and themselves by extension, are the best of blah-blah-blah is that these titles are meaningless. The glory of being Numero Uno is a worthless one really. The journey to get there however, regardless of whether one achieves the actual goal, is what counts. My son may never be among the top ranked squash players in Ontario, he may never make it to the finals in a tournament and he may never improve his strokes, but I hope that he will grow up with a great deal of character and that he will learn that it's important to always keep trying. Along the way, I hope he also remembers to conduct himself with respect.

For myself, I hope that I won't consider my children's victories to be my own and that I won't ever steal their thunder. I hope that I won't ever hope to bolster my own ego by looking to my children's accomplishments.