Little Athlete: An Excerpt by India Sax

Liam’s eyes filled with tears. He was too tired, he said. Eyes glassy. I didn’t want to push him. He needed a hug. Sun on his face. Softness. I let him get a special snack from the vending machine. No sense in not making it fun.

This poor kid. All the things he could want in the world and the only thing they won’t give him is rest.

He still pees the bed every night. I come in at 2 p.m. every day and change his sheets from the night before. We special-order pull-ups because they’re not usually made in his size.

“He’s such a little athlete,” they say. Teeth bared, full of pride.

It feels cruel in some ways. But I don’t say this. I know I’d get fired if I said this. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is how you achieve greatness. But it strikes me that if it costs that much, maybe it’s not worth it.

We sit in silence in the hall while he eats the fluorescent chips he’s selected. Number 28 on the vending machine. 47 on the back of his shirt.

We slump on the floor like partners in crime. I know my job is at risk when I don’t force the glassy-eyed kid into a cab up to Midtown for 30 minutes of tennis, a cab back, and then one more hour of soccer. I also know that it’s cruel not to listen when a kid says he’s achy. What a strange concept. Forcing a kid to run.

So if I get fired, I get fired. I thank Liam for telling me. I tell him I’m proud of him for telling me when he doesn’t feel good. For trusting himself when he knows he needs rest.

He scrapes the cheese powder off his fingers with newly acquired teeth, then puts in his shin guards. I’ll see you in an hour.

This is the first time my heart’s ached like a mother. Where I wanted to scoop up another little being and hide them till the ash fell and the world was safe and soothing again.

I can’t imagine how hard it is to be a parent. I begin to understand why my parents let us skip things. In theory, I’m tough, but life is hard enough. I can’t imagine pushing someone this hard and at such a young age. For what?

They don’t get it. The tears are tethered to exhaustion.

He’s tired. He needs to be bored and lazy and all the conditions that come with being a kid. He lives on chips and protein waffles, and I’m told to sneak veggies in where I can.

So I boil them until they turn translucent, blend them till they’re small, fold them into this sauce or that sauce that he stares at. Doesn’t eat. He watches YouTube shorts that are fast and addictive. Reads like amphetamines.

I’m worried about him.

What a different way than I grew up. About the complete opposite. We didn’t have activities. Only hot glue guns, sharp scissors, and long summers. No camps.

I don’t want to go.

Okay.

One time I tried to throw myself out of the car. I was 10, a year older than Liam. My parents tried to get me to go to rock band camp, but I was too afraid of, what? Life? I had a pill bottle exit plan hidden by then, under the sink in the pale yellow bathroom.

My mom slowed the car, reaching across to pull the door shut. I wanted anywhere else but here. There. Home.

They didn’t get it either. That the tears were tethered to exhaustion.

I pick up Liam at 6 o’clock sharp. I walk in and his face sinks. I’m not his parent. Hey he says.

We go and sit in the hall again. He tears into fruit leather and pretends to trip another player on his team.

It’s Yom Kippur and it’s mostly parents picking up their kids. I’m the only nanny. I promise him pizza on the way home.

When we get back, his parents are tired and tense, not talking to each other. In fact they haven’t been saying much to each other recently. I heard they’re having marital problems, the nanny upstairs tells me.

God, it sucks being a kid. You can feel these things, but nobody explains them to you.

You just feel the tension like a lightning rod. The choice between amphetamine screens and tuning into tension is clear. Amphetamine screens it is.