boys mean...sports.

Boys mean blue socks and automobile layette. Boys mean trains, dinosaurs, and throwing rocks. Boys mean rough and tumble, with an occasional kiss. Boys mean being much too busy for a bite of lunch. Boys mean backyard explorations and creepy crawly friends. I swear to Michael, the minute we found out with each and every single pregnancy that we were expecting a boy, a boy meant sports. And jumping out of your chair in excitement that the baby did in fact have something dangling there between his legs, all why claiming to really have no preference at all. Boys meant competition. Boys means, basketballs, lacrosse sticks and shin guards.

At the ripe old age of three you can actually enroll in team sports. When Mason was a baby it seemed like three was so old, so big, so mature, and so ready for some sports. When September rolled around and soccer registration began, we jumped at the chance to get him started in a fun extracurricular that would hopefully fill his free time with exercise, friendships and laughter.The afternoon of his first game his socks and cleats were laid out. His shin guards were ready and his blue jersey was washed and cleaned and admittedly three sizes too big for any preschooler. He was #10 and he was thrilled to wear his new outfit. Fully dressed he was swimming and lost in the get up. His shorts and socks met and you could barely see any skin of his small knees. All the sudden three wasn't seeming so big and so ready for sports. But the smile he flashed before we headed to the fields was enough to reassure me that he was indeed ready.

The game started with a blow of a whistle. The minute the kids all started playing Mason had some hesitation. Mason is a timid little boy by nature, always wanting to perfect things before even attempting them. Mason is also one of the most energetic kids I've ever seen, so I was shocked that the thought of running around, laughing and screaming and chasing a ball didn't appeal to him.


He switched from my lap to Michael's, tugged at his hair, and refused to go in the game. A whole hour pasted. We bribed him, pleaded with him, even stood with him to get him to play. He wasn't having it. The only thing he enjoyed were the stickers, stamps and fruit snacks after the game. I was frustrated and bummed. I wanted my kid to be the shining star of the team. I wanted my baby to score the first goal and kick the ball furthest and hardest. I wanted the natural. I figured Michael's heart was slowly crushing as he watched Mason refuse to enter the game. It was a humbling experience.



Tomorrow is Mason's final soccer game this season. It took another two or three games just like the one I described before he would play. Now he itches for his turn to go in. He chases the ball and laughs and puts on a show for the crowd, just like I knew he would. It seems silly thinking back to September when I was so frustrated and humbled. I'm not sure what bothered me so much. Why did I even care? Then I realized that three isn't so big, so old, so mature, so ready. Boys don't have to mean sports. And Michael's heart never crushed, and dreams of years of sports for Mason never crossed his mind - but his happiness on the field did.



Tomorrow I'm expecting him to flash us the same smile he did the night of his first practice. A smile that says maybe I'm ready, maybe I am growing up, but it isn't too fast. A smile that reminds us I'm confident and energetic, and sometimes a little timid. A smile that elates I'm happy. And that's all that matters. We'll smile back. An exchange of affirmation and pride in our little man. We will revel in his playfulness that defines his being. So, boys might mean sports to some. But to us, they just mean happiness.