PenPenWrites

Hello soccer moms and dads out there. Or, rather, soccer grammies and grandpops. If it's spring, here we are again, out at the soccer pitch, only this time we're watching our grandkids swarm the ball, miss a kick, pick daisies, then suddenly, dribble down the field and score a goal. We went through this with our children when they were young and now we get to do it again–with these caveats.

We have been warned [and I use the "'we" both literally and figuratively] not to shout at games, not to coach our grandkids from the sidelines, not to be critical of their play after the game, not to rob them of the joy that participation brings. In short, keep our competitiveness in check and remember who's the parent and how those parents are choosing to handle this rite of passage in their child's life.

Along with those admonitions, though, there is a special bond in passing a sport or art–be it piano, acting, painting or anything else–down to our kids and then on to their kids. We are there to share the excitement and–given our vast past experience–understand the nuances of accomplishments small and large. For those of us who live far away from our grown children, we find that they take time from their busy lives to send us photos of special moments [see above: a grandson executing a move he has been practicing]. It comes with an email detailing the excitement of the parent. After all, who can he share it with? His parents (or more precisely, paterfamilias, his former coach), who have been there when he was just a kid and struggling to learn the finer points of the game. We are there now in spirit and consultation as his son and his daughters go out on the soccer pitch and learn to play as a team.

The transcendence is a wonder.