When I found out that I was having a boy, I began to have dreams of playing with my little one in the backyard, teaching him how to plant flowers and watching him walk around with his little bubble mower. I imagined sweet afternoons of reading books together and making little popsicle stick crafts. I dreamed about us, at the kitchen table together, while we make cookies and cupcakes.
Then Wes went out and bought my dream baby an Astros shirt.
I could hear the screeching record as it hit me that I was about to have a boy…a boy who might like playing sports…and watching sports…and talking about sports…and breathing sports…I’m pretty sure I panicked and cried. Considering that I cried because Wes brought home butter pecan ice cream instead of pecan praline ice cream, me crying over the idea of a sports loving boy isn’t that strange, but I truly worried that I would have no idea what to do with a little baseball hat wearing baby.
Josiah was born, and I swear that in the hospital, he looked up me in his little bassinet and tried to kick the box of baby wipes at me like a soccer ball. He has grown into a great little athlete, with a deep love for soccer especially. But my lack of sportiness has caused problems at times. It’s not like I don’t try, but yall, I didn’t grow up in a sport home. I mean, yes I did, if shopping is a sport. But I never knew what the Super Bowl was until I was married. Not kidding. I didn’t know sports had seasons. I thought they just played all year round. But Brandy, you ask, didn’t you notice your high school football team didn’t play all year? Why yes, blog friend, I probably would have noticed that if I ever attended a game. Which I didn’t. Well, that’s not completely true. I “attended” one game my junior year which equated me being asked to go with a boy who shall not be named (not because he’s Voldemort. Because some of my high school friends might read this) and me agreeing to go because he was cute and talented and not Voldemort. And then about ten minutes into the game, I realized that he wanted to watch the game. I mean, really? It’s not like the team was doing something new! They just run up the field and stop. Then run again and stop. Then run and fall down. Then get back up and run around some more. Then sometimes they kicked through the big slingshot thingy. So I told him I wanted to walk around which he roughly translated that I wanted to go make out in his car. Which we did a little, and it was about as interesting and attention holding as the football game.
I really have tried over the years to become more informed about sports and even tried playing volleyball. Once. For two minutes. But y’all, when the ball comes at you and you do that fist thing and hit it…um…it hurts. I just…I mean, I am going to stand here and hurt my hands and probably fall on the hard floor so I can maybe win a game that doesn’t have a prize or anything? This is fun?? No. It is not. I have a dream version where the ball is made of cotton candy and you don’t hit it, you gently hand it over to your teams and there’s not teams, everyone’s just friends and there’s no net, there’s hammocks and you all just lie in your hammocks with your cotton candy that your friend shared with you and the last person to take a nap wins. This is my version of volleyball and I think we can all agree that it is superior.
Part of this may be that I am the least competitive person on the planet. I like board games, but I find myself wanting to help others with answers because isn’t it just more fun if we all learn something? And I hate it when two teams are playing and one is winning by a lot of points. It seems so…inconsiderate. I mean, it’s fine if you want to win, but it would be nice if one of those basketball boys stopped and said “guys, let’s stop. You are losing because you keep shooting the ball wrong. Here, let me show you how to fix that.” I’d play with that guy. And trash talk…oh my word. Can’t even understand. If I was a coach and I heard my players trashy talking, I’d stop and say “that is unacceptable. You don’t even know his mom. You will call his mom right now and apologize.” Then I would put them both in a room until they could learn to play nicely together.
A few weeks ago, Malachi was getting ready to play soccer and I noticed he needed help. I called him over, and he impatiently bounced over to me and asked what I wanted. I said “come here, let me fix your soccer costume.”
Even the five-year old stared at me as though discovering a new kind of creature, rolled his beautiful little Ethiopian eyes, and ran back onto the field.
It’s fine. They have their dad. And someday, I am confident we will play cotton candy ball in heaven.
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