You know, people pay an obscene amount of money for entertainment in this country. They go to expensive Broadway shows, attend prime sporting events, and do other crazy things such as jump out of perfectly good airplanes and leap off of bridges with nothing standing between them and certain death than an overused over sized rubber band. This makes them feel alive. It gives them a rush. It amuses them.
We put our five year old in soccer.
Oh my lord.
Let me set the stage. We're driving down tenth street, in a hurry as usual, because we all know that I cannot STAND being late and of course, we're cutting it close. We really don't know what to expect - it's our first foray into organized children's sports and although we've been told it's a soccer town, nothing really prepares us for what we see when the fields come into view.
Big nylon flags displaying soccer balls flap in the steady breeze all up and down the fields. Our Grand Prix looks slightly out of place among it's minivan, SUV, and station wagon counterparts while we try to find a spot. It's an absolutely beautiful late summer day. There's not a cloud in the sky, which is the perfect shade of endless blue and the grass is lush and green and just long enough that you feel like your bum is damp when you stand up after sitting on it, even though you know it's not. Everywhere you look, kids are running, parents are clapping and yelling and coaches are waving and well, coaching. There's enough shin guards present to fill a football stadium.
Bree is nervous. I can tell. She had a "tummy ache" this morning, despite wolfing down a huge breakfast. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other while focusing on what her coach is telling them - to try to chase down the ball to score a goal, and to keep the other team from scoring, and to NOT USE YOUR HANDS. She's got it. Takes a swig from her water bottle (which is roughly the size of her arm), checks her shin guards (which I hope aren't cutting off circulation in her legs), and runs out to the field for the first round of five year old three-on-three soccer.
Let's put it this way. Forget spending twenty bucks at the movie theater. Just go watch a five year old's soccer game. It's high comedy. They played their little hearts out. They scored, we scored. We scored on the wrong side. They picked up the ball and ran instead of throwing it in. Bree was more interested in waving every time she ran by rather than playing. These little girly girls played like a bunch of mini-linebackers and not one of them cried or wanted to quit - they just owned the field. In twenty four minutes (six, four minute quarters) it was all over.
It rocked. I'm so proud of my little athlete.
Tomorrow it's back to kindergarten for Bree, and then to dance lessons for Kendall. Stay tuned for the next chapter, "I Want to be Ginger When I Grow Up" and I'll report back once we've got our first tap session under our collective belt.
Not too much else to report. Two birthday parties this weekend, and some vegging out. Tonight was the first night we left an event early ever "because tomorrow is a school day." That was weird.
Life is good. And soccer? Soccer is great.