They have chosen to put The Precious in a pre-school soccer.  Listen once again dear ones…a soccer league for 3 year olds.  Now The Precious knows that a soccer ball is for kicking.  He kicks it until it slams into something and then he raises his chubby little arms and shouts, “score!” like he’s Pele.  Does he have any business in a league?  I don’t think so.

Here’s the thing…The Precious is not a day-walker.  He does not appreciate the sun, nor does he want to be out in it.  He was really excited the other day because, “the nasty sun is gone!”  He wears his mother’s huge sunglasses in the morning to go to daycare and he wilts like a hot house flower if the sun has the gall to shine on his face in his car seat. His favorite room in our house is the one without windows.   Precious….definitely….soccer tot….???????????

He’s had soccer practice three times.  The first one was spent primarily on the sidelines drinking Gatorade.  When I told him he had practice a second time he said, “I already had soccer practice.”  Well, they took him back again.  I didn’t speak to his Dad after that practice, but I got a call today after practice.  Apparently Ferdinand just wanted to shield his face from the sun while sitting on his ball, and pull some flowers along the way.  At one point the coach accidentally tapped him with a soccer ball and The Precious told him that he had indeed been hit.  This coach of toddlers (3 and 4 year olds mind you) told him, “Well, if you had been in the right place it wouldn’t have been a problem.”  Apparently all coaches, even those of toddlers, are asses. (My apology to coach Tony Dungee, who is the exception to the previous rule.)  The coaching incident was told by his father, who apparently no longer lies to his mother. 

I have to say, first and foremost, I have not attended a soccer practice.  However, and here you must imagine a violin playing a low and somber tune, the image of The Precious sitting on his soccer ball with his head in his hands so that the vicious August sun doesn’t blind him with pain, is just too much for me to bear.  I asked his father to let me talk to my non-vag daughter.  The conversation went something like this…”You have to take him out of soccer. He’s just too little.”  “He’s fine.”  “He hates the sun, and he’s just too little.” “He’s the same age as all the other kids.” “They don’t want to play either.  Their parents are forcing them to play too.  They are all too small.” ”Yeah, whatever.”  “Well when some brutal brat smacks him in the face and breaks his nose and he’s never as cute as he is right now don’t come crying to me.” “Okay.” ”My future (I’m guessing) daughter in law would never put my potential grandchildren in toddler soccer.”  “She’s a pussy.”  “Well I’m not a meddling mother.  I’ve said my piece and I’ve counted to three.”  “Fine.”  “Get my son on the phone.”  (I can hear The Precious laughing in the background…I tear up a little thinking about the tiny little crutches he’s probably going to be walking on soon.”  My son: “Hello.”  “She says he’s fine.” “Yeah, she’s mean.”  “I told her I don’t like it.”  “So did I.  What do you want me to do?”  “Well, he’s your son too.  Nut up or shut up.”  “But I’m afraid of her.”  “You take him to practice…just don’t take him.”  “The coach has her number not mine.”  “Lie.  You’ve lied to me your whole life.  It’s never bothered you before.  Lie…this is what marriage is about.  Lie your ass off.”  “I’m too afraid.  She controls all the bank accounts and pulls down more a year than me.”  “Well…I’ve said my piece…I’ve counted to three.”

It’s lucky for them that I am not a meddling, buttinski, Mother-in-law who tells them how to raise their child.  They are fortunate that I only gently guide, and quietly give my opinion only when asked.  I would never over step my bounds, but someone should tell them that 3 year olds are too little to play soccer.  For God’s sake, the uniform is even too large.  It’s soccer!  It’s not even a real sport!  Hell, they should know he’s gonna play football…for the Colts.  It’s just a given.  Now, I’ve said my piece…and I’ve counted to three…

 

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