Despite the fact that the fields were a mud pit worthy of trapping a wooly mammoth, my five-year-old's soccer team had a game this morning. Last week it was too muddy and we received a phone call from the organization's director claiming she cared about the welfare of our children. This week, one day and night away from a tornado touchdown across town, we are a go. It was picture day.
I had a feeling this was not going to go well. My son doesn't like mess. Or mud. Or "wetness." He's also not terribly competitive so the point of the game is pretty much lost on him. My husband and I know that the boy will end up with an ADD diagnosis down the line, but until it interferes with his happiness, success, and self-esteem we're quietly (nervously) watching from the sidelines. As I suspected, he was pretty uninterested in the game and more concerned about how squishy and wet his socks were getting on the field. I watched as the teams in green and grey t-shirts swished past him to the right, then the left while he stood dead center in the field, arms extended as if to say, "Who's the wisenheimer responsible for this mess?" Shortly thereafter he walked over to me and his dad complaining that he wanted to go home but before I could discuss the matter with him, he was following his older sister (who was wearing a purple tutu because nothing says soccer game like a tutu) and his best friend's sister to romp over the hills beyond the field. I looked over to his coach and caught her eyes. She mouthed to me, "Does he still want to play?" I mouthed back, "I don't know," but I knew. He was done.