Last week one child came home from middle school with a list. She’d joined soccer, cross-country, strings, band, and choir. Need I mention this child is signed up for soccer, Guides and volunteers outside school? Need I mention this child is also an avid reader, lover of free play and all things video games (thank you, husband)? Need I mention my mama’s heart was a jumble of emotions?
Shock.
Pride.
Glee.
Joy.
Anticipation.
Relief.
Laughter. Lots of laughter, she is her mother’s daughter.
Could we do this? Would we do this? Should we do this?
Yes, I was that mum, grilling the band director at her school during the welcome barbecue.
Practice commitment = 100 minutes a week total for both instruments. Pish, 100? In my day, it was 210 painful practice minutes.
Oh, did I fail to mention she wants to play two instruments? Violin in strings, and we’ll find out in band. Her 1st choice is flute, 2nd clarinet and 3rd trombone. Apparently she couldn’t make band easier by lugging my dear old tenor sax back and forth.
Nothing conflicts.
What’s a parent to do?
My husband and I had many a discussion: should we let her try her proposed schedule? Should we nip it in the butt? Should we? Could we? Would we?
We looped her into our fears about burn out. We got her to map out her proposed schedule. We gave her the tools, then questioned if we should save her from herself and take the tools away. She is only eleven. Eleven. What are other eleven year olds doing around the world? Don’t answer that. She’s got a good life. Freedom. Love. Support.
The thing is, as most of you know, we have three children. Miss Q, Miss S and Miss C. A week before school started I thought I was so organized: Miss Q had the aforementioned outside of school list, Guides and soccer, Miss S had Guides and soccer and Miss C had Brownies and soccer. My calendar was a glowing orb of mostly blank squares.
Then we foolishly sent our girls back to school. Miss Q came home with her list. Miss S came home buzzing about choir and the potential for cross-country. Miss C came home with home reading.
Stay six forever, Miss C.
We knew this day would come. We knew one day our calendars would be full, and we’d be tugged in three directions. It was always a vague thought, something we absent-mindedly acknowledged with every turn of the clock, but foolishly ignored.
Middle school, like a rogue wave, blindsided us with opportunity.
We had no idea how full one child could make herself.
However, on Friday, a dove dropped an olive branch at my feet.
“I think I’m not going to do cross-country,” Miss Q told me after school.
“Really?” I replied. “Why?”
“It’s my least favourite of everything right now.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I knew eleven-year-olds could make wise choices.
“And basketball starts pretty soon.” She grinned.
Two weeks before my calendar exploded.
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