We were driving home from soccer practice. My eight-year-old was in the back seat, helmet of his hair smashed to one side, picking at a hole in his sock.
He said Dad. I don’t think I’m a good soccer player.
I did not have a script for this. I will tell you what I almost did and what I actually did.
What I almost did. Of course you are! You’re great! You scored a goal last week! That sentence is a lie that closes the conversation. He knows the goal was deflected off another kid’s leg. If I tell him he’s great, he stops trusting my read on him.
What I almost did. What makes you say that? That sentence sounds therapeutic. He is eight. He does not want a therapist. He wants his dad. What makes you say that turns the car into an interview.
What I actually did, after a longer pause than felt comfortable. Yeah. There are a few things you’re still working on. I think you’re getting better at them. You want to talk about which ones you’re working on?
He said yeah I think my left foot is bad.
We talked about his left foot for three minutes. He felt better. I felt better. The conversation ended on him saying he wanted me to play him left foot only at practice next week.
The thing my wife said when I told her later was the thing I wish I had figured out sooner. He didn’t need you to disagree. He needed you to take him seriously.
— Dan