Marcie practically begged us to sign her up for soccer. So we did. She was adamant that Jason coach. So he does. She insisted on being on a team with one of her friends. So she is.
So why, why, why did she beat me up when it was time to put on the soccer gear?
First, she insisted that she should not have to wear the yellow team shirt. Then, once we got it on her, she refused to put on shin guards and cleats. After 20 minutes of screaming and crying (her, not me), Jason and Casey left the house without her for the game. And I left her alone.
Sort of. She followed me around the house. And whenever she’d scream at me about how she was missing the game, I’d calmly tell her I knew, and that she could join her team as soon as she put on her soccer gear. After she threw a book at me, I banished her to her bedroom. Then things escalated. So I took away her books. Her music player. Her reading lamp.
I couldn’t keep her in her room, so I tried a baby gate. That took all of about 6 seconds for her to kick down.
Eventually she relented. She agreed to the shin guards and the cleats. She finally let me put her hair up in a pony tail.
We arrived about 5 minutes before the end of the first half and she went straight onto the field to play goalie. Her eyes were puffy and swollen from tears. Her throat was raw from screaming. My lower back was flaming pink from the back-slaps I endured.
I went to the viewing gallery to watch. I waved and smiled. I shouted encouraging things.Just another day with an almost-five-year old, spicy girl.