A little evening pigskin
They roll with the times, these boys. Whatever sport is in season, that's what they want to play. It is these sports that draw them together, and for a few shining moments, their boundless bickering is replaced by a fierce focus on competition. With the surprising side effects of compromise and cooperation and even camaraderie.
I have drawn a firm line in the sand. These boys will not play organized tackle football. Never mind that tackling is a daily occurrence in our home. There's one of us who wouldn't be able to take the pain and one of us who would hyperventilate watching her babies get hit and one of us who is a walking head injury anyway. It just doesn't fit.
And it might be a loss for the sport.
My Trey, who the other day declared that a new feature found on his GPS would "change the course of history", with his quick hands and long-legged speed would make a fabulous wide receiver.
My Aden, who the other day watched me rejoicing over a valuable find from long ago in the basement and declared it to be "a woman's moment", tough as nails and scared of nothing would be a stone wall lineman.
Alas, their pigskin glory is reserved for the freshly mowed hayfield. And for their Mama, criss-cross applesauce on the twenty-five yard line, trying desperately to figure out how to take decent photos of wildly moving objects in sunset light, her loud reminders of "HEY! It's TWO HAND TOUCH!" ringing through the countryside.
Who we are.
I have drawn a firm line in the sand. These boys will not play organized tackle football. Never mind that tackling is a daily occurrence in our home. There's one of us who wouldn't be able to take the pain and one of us who would hyperventilate watching her babies get hit and one of us who is a walking head injury anyway. It just doesn't fit.
And it might be a loss for the sport.
My Trey, who the other day declared that a new feature found on his GPS would "change the course of history", with his quick hands and long-legged speed would make a fabulous wide receiver.
My Aden, who the other day watched me rejoicing over a valuable find from long ago in the basement and declared it to be "a woman's moment", tough as nails and scared of nothing would be a stone wall lineman.
Alas, their pigskin glory is reserved for the freshly mowed hayfield. And for their Mama, criss-cross applesauce on the twenty-five yard line, trying desperately to figure out how to take decent photos of wildly moving objects in sunset light, her loud reminders of "HEY! It's TWO HAND TOUCH!" ringing through the countryside.
Who we are.
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