Lazerus: Connor Bedard’s parents cope with universal — yet unique — emotions

Your daughter is playing soccer. It’s not serious stuff, just the local town-run league; the kind that costs $50 and lasts all of six weeks and is more about prying her away from the television than positioning her for a college scholarship. The jerseys have the logo of a lunch-meat company on the back. Your kid’s 7 years old. She’s not very good. She’s bigger than most of the other kids, sure, but she’s wary of that amoebic mass of little humanity that engulfs the ball and meanders around the splotchy field like a wayward dust devil. It’s crowded in there. Kids are kicking wildly in there. It’s all a bit much. So she stands flat-footed on the perimeter, watching, weighing her options.

Helpless on the sidelines, you’re dying inside. As a parent, you feel a fundamental need for your child to succeed in anything and everything. It’s a biological imperative. Not because you need the validation, but because you want her to feel the validation. You want her to believe in herself. You need her to believe in herself. To feel good about herself. To be happy. It’s the only thing that truly matters. Yes, deep down, you know that failure is the best teacher, but you can’t bear to see her experience it. To feel it. To know it. You have a primal need to shield her from it at all times, in all settings. It’s the parenting paradox.

Ah, but she loses. She never even touches the ball. You’re crushed for her, because you know she must be crushed. How could she not be?

Then she comes off the field, gleefully grabs a Capri Sun and a bag of chips alongside her friends and squeals, “That was fun!” You go home, shaking your head. Smiling. Relieved. She’s happy, so you’re happy.

Parenting’s weird, man. You may have their life in your hands, but more often than not it seems the kid leads and you just follow.

Now imagine you’re Melanie Bedard. All those feelings, those chemical compulsions, exist for Connor Bedard’s mom, too. Only her son has been the most famous teenager in Canada for years now. Her son will be one of the most recognizable people in one of America’s largest cities, young and rich and on his own in the age of social media. Her son will be playing on national television in two countries. Her son, who was a literal child until he turned 18 just last week, will be competing against grown men, many of whom will be trying to smear him along the boards like an advertisement.

And her son will be burdened with expectations so heavy, so preposterous, that he could be the next Patrick Kane — a three-time champion, a one-time MVP, the greatest U.S.-born player ever to live — and not truly live up to them.

How does a parent handle that?

By letting the kid lead, of course. When…