I’m sitting in my reading chair in the office. I read a bit, but I think I’m done. Quiet and mood are gone. Beneath me, bedroom beneath, my son is on a VR and I can hear him talking and squealing and making noises for something I do not, and have no care to, understand.
Maybe that’s the wrong attitude. Maybe I’m just old and set in my ways, but I have a visceral rejection to whatever that thing is.
He talks about wanting to play and be good at baseball. He does nothing on his own. He plays VR, or on his phone. We had almost all of December and January north f freezing, never once picked up a ball and put it on a tee and made a swing.
We have practiced pitching, but he is so interested in imitating other pitchers’ styles that—just as he he gets into a groove—he destroys all his consistency of mechanics and can’t dial anything back. I want to help him, but when I feel more serious and caring than him, I know I’m wrong. My days are over. My role now is to support—help another who is passionate and wants to work for it; but if they don’t, I don’t want to expend my own care where another doesn’t.
Parenting is hard.
I love him, but I do not understand his mind, priorities, or focus.
It’s hard to help another when you don’t know where or how, or what it is they desire or aim to achieve/be.
I love him, and that’s about all I know that makes sense to give.
It’s his life. My role is to love him through for as long as my life remains a living piece within his own.