“But look what you’re missing!” you can say. And every time you say it, you further embed in their formerly malleable brains the idea that there is no way in hell they’re going to do it.
So I let my son quit the game of T-ball. Right?
Well, no. My son is five years old. Depending on the angle of the sun, the direction of the breeze, and various biorhythms, he is happy, sad, mad, ready to play, ready to fight. Which means it’s not a great time for him to make life decisions.
His mother and I made an executive move. We sat him down and said, in so many words, “Oh, you will play T-ball. Yes, you will play. We Allens finish things we start. It is a rule, just like it’s a rule that we mind our manners at the dinner table. If you can’t follow the rules, we’re very sorry, it hurts us to say it, but you’ll lose privileges. So just finish this season, son, and then you never have to play T-ball again. If that’s what you choose.”
At his next T-ball game, the boy played without a fight. Within seconds of getting on the field, he was running and having fun. One day, I’m sure he’ll thank me—or write unflattering things about me.
