foxy british gents

i signed foster up for a little kid soccer team.

i pictured beehives of boys and girls kicking happily.

mini shin guards, suave 20-something british soccer coaches with an encouraging fun approach to wee-one soccer, and smiles from ear to ear.

when we arrived, it was just as i had invisioned....

except i had also invisioned my own child being one of the kids laughing gleefully.

last friday was our first class. we started out cheery and kicking with gusto.

thankfully i snapped a picture in the first 5 min before our first soccer episode occured.

15 min in: snack time arrived and our mood was somber at best. a few more kicks and he was ready to head home.

"i'm tierd mom. did i win yet?"  he said with exasperation.

my little daddy's boy. competitive to the point of exhaustion and we were only 20 min into his class. i assured him he was doing a great job, and i loved watching him play. i emphsized "fun" and the joy of being outside and meeting new friends. i coaxed him to go back out and try again. we lasted another 5 min and i was informed he was ready to "go home and play in the sandbox." so we headed home.

did i mention another little boy that wants nothing more than to be out on the soccer field?? sweet rowie is a year too young to play this season...but it's a little hard to explain that to a soccer ball loving fellow. he was nearly heartbroken seeing all of those kids kicking and not being able to be one of them.

today. week 2.

we entered with excitement. glee, even. but as soon as we walked onto the field, foster was gripped by something. i'm not quite sure what he was struggling with, but it was clear right away he didn't want to be there. i stood with him on the field (while the other 30 parents looked on from the bleachers) as foster clung to my legs and rowan practiced some form of houdini maneuvering as he attempted to scale my kung fu grip. foster played for a split second, and i tried to back away so as to remove myself and my flailing 2 year old from plain sight, but foster burst immediatly into tears. i walked back out onto the field and assured him i was right with him. "we" (me manhandling a flailing rowan...and foster in wimpering tears) kicked the ball together with the 3 dozen little soccertiers.

5 min into the class, foster was still crying and rowan was now adding a large amount of screaming to his flailing tecniques. we calmly walked off the field and down the hill behind the bleachers (and out of the eyesight of the 30 parents and handsome british gents). we sat and talked and ate some raisens.  i tried to discover what the real issue was and why he was so afraid to play. he just kept saying he wanted to go home and "play in the sandbox".

i kept thinking to myself..."what am i supposed to do??!! force him to play? forget about it? throw away the $80 i spent on this stupid soccer team????? if only rowan was old enough...he would LOVE to play!"

then i remembered...foster is 3 years old.

he so rarely spends time with adults/kids he doesn't know.

there are 35 kids on a soccer field and he doesn't know a single one.

i need to cut him a break.

"wanna go home and play in the sandbox and have lunch??" i said.

"yes! i love my sandbox!" he replied. "maybe i can watch rowan play soccer next time."

ahh parenthood. it's a crapshoot.

so we went home.

we had lunch in the sandbox and played in the mud.

it was at this point that my vision was complete...we didn't need foxy british soccer coaches and dozens of cones on a soccer field to break in our new shin guards...all we needed was a little mud and presto....

my little boy was back.