Piano Lessons Plus Pizza Plus Soccer: Why Extracurricular Overload is a Bad Idea

My sons don’t do a lot.

That is, they don’t do a lot of extra-curricular activities, at least not by today’s standards. Both boys play soccer (using the word “play” loosely here; James may end up being more instinctively athletic, but rest assured no one in this house is going to college on a sports scholarship), and they seem to enjoy it. Both take piano lessons, because I like it. Seriously, that’s why. I always wanted to have learned a musical instrument, and never did. So when a second-hand piano became available to us for next to nothing, I grabbed it, ditched my dining room table, and turned that spot into our music room (much grander than it sounds; it was too small for a dining room, anyway). They seem to like it, particularly Daniel, on his second year. Proud mommy moment alert: when my next door neighbor said she so enjoyed hearing the sounds of his playing through our open windows last summer.

And that’s it, activity-wise. Not including religious studies, which I mention only because our participation in the church’s family program takes up one precious afternoon. I’m sure there are mothers who look at a color-coded family calendar that’s packed with activities, with not one afternoon between Monday and Friday left fallow, and feel they’re doing the right thing. Or who feel that even if it’s not ideal — no one has time for a real dinner and everyone’s doing their homework either in the minivan or while waiting for their sister’s hip-hip lesson to end — it’s what they have to do.

I am not one of those mothers. I like my time, and I like their time.

This spring, we have piano — one lesson after the other, at our teacher’s home — on Wednesday. Monday is religion, and even that’s ending in a couple of weeks. Friday is soccer practice for both boys (score one for Mom having both teams’ weekly practice on the same day, albeit on different fields. Score another one for mom because the reason they’re on the same day is that my husband coaches James’ team, so he conveniently scheduled practice when it was best for me. Hey, I see no reason their activities shouldn’t also work for me.) Soccer games are on the weekends, and that’s fine with me — don’t tell my kids, but I enjoy going to the games sometimes more than they do.

Daniel: soccer player and competitive pizza-eater.

James, on the right, at a game last fall.

So yeah, I have this down to a system that works — we generally eat dinner at home, I don’t have to work out military-level carpools, and I’m not spending a fortune, either. Except of course for the times it doesn’t work. Like yesterday. All that happened is that Daniel’s coach moved the regular practice to that evening in advance of the bad weather called for this Friday (a winter storm’s a-coming. On April 1st.) We could do this: Piano is 3:45 to 4:45, and soccer is 5:30-7pm. My intentions were good, trying to get to both: Daniel gets more physical activity out of practice than out of the game itself, and it was actually a nice afternoon. Why not, I thought, grab the little guy off the bus at 3pm, pack up the piano books, homework, water bottles, soccer equipment and a change of clothes, then pick up Daniel at school, go to the piano instructor’s house for piano (and homework), go grab some pizza, then get to the soccer field, and let Daniel drill and scrimmage with his Pirates while James and I kick a ball around on the side.

It started okay; the pizza was a boy-pleasing idea (pizza — or any meal out — on a weekday? Are we on vacation? Can I say how much I love that this scenario is so out of the ordinary for my sons that I can still wield it as a treat? Score three for mom). But — and I should have anticipated this, given how devoted Daniel is to consuming large amounts of pizza — the meal was nowhere near digested by soccer time. Halfway into a scrimmage, he was clutching his stomach. Plus, the previously pleasant afternoon turned abruptly chilly. Rather than watch his brother or play around himself, James wanted to sit in the car for a while, and promptly shut the door on his fingers (major tears, no lasting injury, thanks). Homework got all confused somehow, and by the time we got home the whole pre-bed routine was at sixes and sevens.

In the lives of some modern mothers, many of whom I see weekly basis relating their drop-off and pick-up schedules that defy the space-time continuum (there’s no way to drop off your daughter at dance and be on a lacrosse field three towns away at the same time, even if you have the baddest-ass SUV on the planet) and lamenting how much fast food must be eaten to keep the schedule humming, my wacky Wednesday was nuthin’. Confusion with homework? A non-routine bedtime routine? Pshaw!

But I realized something yesterday: the slightly sick stomach and the bored/cold/injured younger brother weren’t really the problems (these things might have happened even if our usual routine hadn’t been interrupted, after all). The problem was that I didn’t feel comfortable and relaxed with the craziness of the day. I feel better with just one thing per day, and with some days with nothing on the calendar and time to oversee homework and get dinner started, then letting them play by themselves while I get some bits and pieces of work done. Yesterday, I was discombobulated and vaguely annoyed (misplaced my checkbook in there somewhere, too), and that rubbed off on everyone else.

It’s like I always say (apologies to the grammar police): If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”