My son Eli and I were playing catch. Eli had just joined a baseball team, and he was intent on practicing. He'd been throwing and catching with my husband, Paul, for weeks—on the weekend, after dinner, in the park, on the street. Now, I insisted, it was my turn. I didn't want to be the lame mother who bowed out of her children's athletic endeavors. As we started tossing the ball, I was feeling pleased with myself. I'd borrowed Paul's baseball glove, and I'd caught most of the balls that had come my way.
But after several dozen throws back and forth, Eli stopped. "Why are you catching with your hand?" he asked. He pointed to my right hand, the one without the baseball glove on it. It was true: When the ball headed to my right, I'd been catching it with my bare hand. I'd been priding myself on not dropping it, even though Eli was trying to zing the ball. But he was far more exacting. "You catch it like this," he said, crossing his body with his left hand and snapping his glove shut down low and on the right.
Was there a name for this move? I couldn't remember. I'd seen baseball players do it, for sure. But I'd never learned how to do it myself. "OK, OK," I told my frowning and scowling son. He threw a ball low and to my right. I caught it with my bare hand.
"Not like that, Mom!" Eli was now really exasperated. "Catch it with your glove!"
"OK, OK," I said again. I sounded like I was whining. Also cowering. Cowering? Because of my 9-year-old son? I straightened my shoulders. Eli threw another pitch to my right, and I caught this one, across my body, with the glove. It clapped shut over the ball with a satisfyingly loud snap. I remembered the word I was looking for. "Backhanding!" I told Eli. "That's what this is called. Backhanding."
"Yeah, I know that," he said, deadpan.
"I did it!" I called back.
"Yeah, I know," he said again. I tried to stop grinning foolishly. "Now can you throw the ball back?"
How are you supposed to feel as a parent when your child surpasses you? I know the answer: You are not supposed to feel outdone at all. That's even the wrong way to frame it. You're supposed to feel pride and joy. You are supposed to brag and boast, maybe not too obnoxiously. You are not supposed to think for one moment about how you are being left behind. Because what matters is your child's great progress. He is becoming a whiz at something he's working hard to master. You cheer him along.
And yet I have moments, as my children grow a little older, when I feel something else entirely: competitiveness tinged with envy. Surely, this is unnecessary and unworthy. Who cares whether I can catch a baseball backhanded? But part of me does. Maybe because the natural order of things is being upended: Mothers are supposed to teach; children are supposed to learn. Except now suddenly Eli is the master and I am the novice. That reversal of roles is beautiful and discomfiting at the same time.
And I'll confess that sometimes I just don't like to be bested. Even by my own kid, embarrassing as that is. I've had to face up to this with Scrabble, which Eli now beats me at. He's patient about waiting for the right place to put down his high-scoring letters—Zen on a double word score—and he's better than I am about adding letters to make new words out of the ones on the board.
Baseball, Scrabble—what's next? That's the anxiety at the root of this parental envy, I think: Our sense of mortality, fading glory, heights unscaled in a sport or skill or realm of knowledge. By doing something well, our children force us to see that we are doing that thing poorly. And they make us let go of the illusion that we'll ever do it masterfully.
Mythology and fairy tales offer examples of parents who turn pathological when faced with their children's surpassing achievements. For fathers and sons, the best or rather worst example I can think of is Cronus, who overcomes his own father, Uranus, and then actually eats his son, Zeus, after he is told that Zeus' destiny is to overpower him. In this myth, the mother is her son's defender: She fools Cronus into swallowing a stone instead of her baby and then hides Zeus so he can grow up away from his father's wrath. And then, of course, Zeus fulfills his destiny.
Emily Bazelon is a founding editor of Double X, and a writer and editor at Slate.
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Comments
tiffany
By: tiffany77 | Thu, 09/24/2009 - 01:25
tiffany & co Bracelets tiffany & co Bracelets tiffany & co Bracelets tiffany & co key ring tiffany & co key ring tiffany & co key ring tiffany & co charms tiffany & co charms tiffany & co charms tiffany & co sets tiffany & co sets
links of london sweetie bracelet
By: linksoflondon | Tue, 09/22/2009 - 20:59
links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london Rings links of london links of london Rings links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london Pendants links of london links of london Pendants
ZEN
By: MEPC | Mon, 07/13/2009 - 14:46
Just so you know -- Zen is not recognized in the official scrabble dictionary as a word. So you still have a shot at winning that game!
Nothing was surpassed!
By: ph012 | Sat, 07/11/2009 - 03:08
Emily has admitted that she has no talent for throwing in the first place, so there is *nothing* to be surpassed, and so all the examples of sons outdoing their fathers is besides the point. The better question is: why does Emily refuse to play Scrabble strategically and what does this say about her ability to analyze and understand real world issues?
Competing with your kids
By: mtdoy | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 15:30
I liked the article, especially the honesty. Just to contrast the viewpoint of a parent who enjoys instructing my kids in sporting skills, I am extremely proud when my kids "catch on" and pick up the skills I am trying to teach them. When their skill level surpasses mine, I am even more proud. It is evidence they can apply themselves and become accomplished at something. Being forty-eight years old, I long ago gave up dreams of playing professional sports, so my kids accomplishments don't threaten me. But I also take satisfaction in helping my kids along in skill development because I had a hand in turning over my secrets for success in sporting endeavors.
As Emily appears not to have been coaching her nine year old in his baseball development, she may feel less connection to his accomplishments. More importantly, her willingness to admit consciously that being surpassed by her kid bothers her is probably going to help her get over it sooner and come around to focus mainly on pride in Eli's development.
I also think that we all have skill areas that we are not as accomplished at as we would like to be, and when our kids confront us with competency in that area before we are ready to deal with it, the unconscious envy monster is a common response. For me, one of these areas is chess. I am okay at it, but not very comfortable. When my ten year daughter knocked me off for the first time, I congratulated her and bragged to her mom about the accomplishment. I then proceeded to try to crush her as best I could in the next couple rematches. Eventually I realized how worked up I had become and then eventually realized it was okay to try my best and let the results happen. If I gave her a competitive match and she still beat me, it was evidence of how quickly she was developing. If she lost, but still wanted to play again, it was evidence of how dedicated she was. The sooner we can realize when our ego is getting in the way, the better our situation will be.
Competition with your kids
By: The_Dad | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 14:13
I can understand your feelings of competitiveness with your child. This isn't uncommon and is, from my experience, the reason for many poisoned relationships between parents and their children. I have to admit to having had these feelings very early on when my son was still extremely young. Fortunately, my wife set my head straight and we haven't had these issues since.
Our son is multi-talented and sharper in every way than we were at his age. We honestly let him know this and remind him of it on a regular basis. At the same time, he agrees that we currently know more simply because we've been around a lot longer. According to his calculations, we'll see these roles reversed by the time he's fifteen... possibly sixteen. ;)
We smile and accept his statements. Kids tend to be self-correcting. And the truth of the matter is that ultimately he will be both more knowledgeable and smarter than either of us. But isn't that what we as parents should be working towards anyway?
Like a girl
By: Amanda Patchin | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 13:38
It was a mild joke.
Lighten up.
Throw like a girl?
By: Lisa96 | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 11:15
Why are you repeating this sexist line? If you tell someone that they throw like a girl you mean that they throw badly but you also mean that girls throw badly.
It's a sexist statement and a stereotype.
It's the kind of b.s. I expect from my middle school students and which inevitably draws a lecture from me.
You should know better.
Obviously
By: Amanda Patchin | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 10:38
But of course you throw like a girl. You are one. It would only be exceptional if you didn't throw like a girl...
Not totally fair
By: grocer | Fri, 07/10/2009 - 10:04
To be fair, having not been athletic when I was kid, and still not being terribly so, baseball and softball are deceptively easy...sure, it looks like anybody should be able to do that...but, no, not really. All of my daughters played softball, one of them pitched, and we both coached. I can tell you a lot about mechanics and hand out pointers and coach a girl to be a better pitcher but forgot me throwing a ball. Having had that experience, I would say baseball is probably not the best example in the mother beating son department...I would think Scrabble would have smarted more considering Emily is a writer.