Feed Me Peeled Grapes

Sophie cried the other day when we had all the snow and she found out her soccer game was cancelled again. Literally, tears and everything. “I haven’t played in almost two weeks!” she sobbed.

I sat on her bed, with my bum leg bent as much as it would go (which isn’t much) and fixed her with the devil stare I have perfected in the ten years since I became a parent. How I managed to hold in what I was thinking (something along the lines of ‘Are you joking?! Shut the f-- up! ‘), I have no idea; as it was, I believe I said “Soph, babe—enough. No crying. How do you think I feel?”

Although she stopped crying and hugged me, it was not my proudest parenting moment. She is allowed to have her own suffering and I don’t get to one-up her suffering with mine (which, by the way, is clearly worse.) And I totally get where she was coming from. All I wanted to do was sob along with her, and then possibly knock the stuff clear off her dresser for dramatic effect, and then look up at the sky and scream “Why?” like in the bridge of the Cee Lo song with the unprintable title. Then perhaps, minions would come out of nowhere, with deep, deep sympathy in their eyes, and rub my feet gently, brush my hair, and feed me peeled grapes, all the while murmuring in hushed tones about how much I was suffering since I haven't played soccer in six months.

But nothing happened.

Instead, I hugged Sophie back and limped downstairs and watched Glee. It was not almost as good as playing soccer. Nothing is.