Where's My Popsicle?

(Tuesday morning at Crema on Hermitage Ave near downtown, gazing out at the giant Peabody Plaza project across the street)

Sunday afternoon, I took J.P. to a soccer game in Bellevue.  It was ghastly hot for the end of September.  95 degrees.  Three degrees off the record of 98 in 1953.  Ridiculous.

Because it was so hot, we stopped at Las Paletas in 12South and I bought 20 popsicles for his teammates and siblings.  Roughly 80 dollars worth of popsicles in the end, which I packed in ice in a cooler.

As luck would have it, J.P.'s game against a TSC (Tennessee Soccer Club) team was moved to field 20, which is the farthest field from the parking lot.  As a result, my friend, Giles, and I had to lug the tent I brought for the team and the cooler through the grass, across several soccer fields, to field 20.  Giles and I set the tent up for the players and I carried the cooler to a shady area across the field, where the parents were sitting to watch the game.

After watching five minutes of the game and seeing how well the TSC team passed the ball - J.P.'s team does not pass the ball well, not at all - I knew exactly how the game would go.  J.P.'s team would keep it tight in the first half and TSC would wear them down and pull away in the second half and beat them soundly.  Sure enough, the score at the end of the first half was 0 - 0.  The final score was 5 - 0, in favor of TSC.

It was a frustrating game for the boys to play and for the parents to watch.  The boys were hot and tired.  Worn out, really, and down.  Perfect, I thought, I'll cheer them up with Las Paletas' popsicles.  What could be better, right?

I retrieved the cooler and walked across the soccer field.  I handed a freezer bag to Giles and I grabbed one and we preceded to hand out the popsicles to the boys.  And this is where, for me, things took a turn.

Not a single boy thanked me (or Giles, that I could see) for the popsicles.  Coach Gordon did.  The siblings' parents I gave popsicles to were demonstratively appreciative, as were the parents to whom I gave the popsicles I had left.  But not the boys, J.P.'s teammates.

And that really chapped my ass.

One of my greatest fears, as a father, is that my boys are growing up with a sense of entitlement.  They sit on the glass at 16 of the Predators' games.  They sit on the third row, almost dead center court, at Belmont University basketball games.  They sit in the club section at Titans' games.  They play on multiple sports teams although, with the exception of J.P.'s soccer team, we've avoided travel sports for the most part.  They have all the sports equipment they possibly could want.

Last but certainly not least, J.P., Joe and all of J.P.'s teammates attend one of the two most prestigious, academically challenging private schools in town, University School Nashville.  It's not cheap and it gets more expensive every year.  For Jude and me, paying for private school is not easy, and I know that's the case for some of J.P.'s teammates' parents, too.

What I don't think I see enough - from my boys and from the other boys, too - is a sense of gratitude and appreciation for what we do, as parents, and for how hard we work to provide them with the life they have.

Whose fault is that?  Ours?  Maybe.  Maybe we, as parents, give them too much.  Maybe we don't make things hard enough for them.  Maybe there's no struggle.  No failure.  No adversity.  Nothing to prepare them for how hard and callous life can and will be at times, when they're adults.

The thought of my boys being soft and unprepared for the rigors and struggles of life terrifies me.

How do we, as parents, get the message across to these boys?  That they have to work hard, always, and that nothing in life is free or comes without a cost.

And how do we teach them to appreciate what they have, what their parents are providing for them?  How do we teach them that not everyone has what they have?

I struggle with that every single day.

Sunday night, I remarked to Jude, perhaps unfairly, that all of our boys' - all of these private schools boys' - approaches to life could be summed up in one phrase.

Where's my popsicle?