Just when you thought it was safe to turn on NBC, the Olympics are back. Again. I swear, ever since they started alternating the Winter and Summer games, it seems like they’re always on, or almost on, or were just on.
They’re fine. Some of the sports are great. If there’s a real story – Michael Phelps, Jeff Gillooly, pink eye – they are a lot of fun. But otherwise they can be a bit tedious, especially two full weeks of them.
But the tedium I feel watching them must be NOTHING compared to what the parents of Olympic athletes have to endure.
The prospect of my son getting so enamored with speed-skating or sprinting or ballroom dancing that he needs me to shepherd him to practices and training and competitions for fifteen straight years fills me with dread. And so the last time the Games were on, I wrote about the agony of raising your kids to be Olympians (despite all the commercials that celebrate it), and I’ve resurrected that post via the link below.
Thanks but no thanks. This is one case where I’d actually prefer a lazy kid.
Original Post: An Olympic-Sized Commitment