T.R. and I played last night. We have given up on evening swimming until the spring equinox. He’s looking for something to do instead and since I treasure this while that he’s willing to do things with me, I’m game.
I was not a particularly athletic kid. I was spared the humiliation of being selected last for teams, but I was not first-string material either. That said, I learned to swim and ski, dabbled in tennis, played a couple of years of softball, danced, and played on the volleyball and basketball teams in middle school. My dad has always been a jock, so I never lacked for someone to show me how to do whatever sport was at hand if I wanted. (Yes, actually, I DO know how to throw a spiral with a football. I still throw a baseball like a girl, though.)
T.R. is less athletic than I am. He doesn’t understand the basics of hand-eye coordination. His body does not have an autopilot for hitting things. There were plenty of whiffs yesterday. I feel guilty about this, although God knows I tried to convince him to play Little League. I talked him into one season of soccer, but he didn’t buy in. I think I’m the only mom on the planet who wishes she got to go to games on Saturdays. I blame my lack of ability to convince him to try for his lack of coordination.
T.R. is, however, younger and faster than I am, so I am doomed once he gets the hang of actually connecting with the ball. In the meantime, we did a lot of giggling and chasing balls. Then again, that’s pretty much the point of sports, isn’t it?