And that, is how my Saturday morning started. RJ played in his first soccer game. I was worried he would be intimidated. I was worried he would get hurt (and he did--a scraped knee--he toughed it out). He surprised me.
On the way to the game, he fell on the sidewalk and skinned his knee. So, we entered the soccer "fields" as a pair--his arms around my neck--a big boy all grown up and being carried by his mommy. It made my heart smile a little bit. The soccer "fields" were the grassy area of a city park roped off with orange cones and chalk. It's Oklahoma, and the wind was sweeping down the plains at about 40 miles an hour.
RJ didn't mind. He promptly picked out a pink ball (he's my son after all), and away he went to practice.
Game time, the whistle blew, and 10 three year olds endeavored to hit the right goal. RJ's coach is smart--he hangs a giraffe (whose name is GiGi) in the goal. My son promptly found a ball on the sidelines and drove it toward GiGi. Right goal. Wrong ball.
At one point his coach told him to "run for GiGi!" He ran straight to his baby sister.
But, at the end of the game, we discovered we have a soccer star. Compliments abounded: "He sure is fast. He aimed for the right goal and everything!" The standards for three-year old soccer are exactly as they should be: ground scrapingly low.
My baby is a soccer player (and he asks to be called the soccer player on many occasions):
Someday I may convert this to black and white. Or not. He really did love the pink ball.
GiGi watched from the sidelines. I will have to have a discussion with her about putting her dress over her head one of these days.
This is not the best picture of the game. But it captures the best moment of the game. He was joyful. Pure and simple joy of a child that is unmatched.
And when we got home, my big boy reminded me that he's my baby. He melted. And wanted to be rocked. He ate chicken nuggets wrapped in a quilt on the sofa. We snuggled. Pure and simple joy of a parent that is unmatched.
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