David

No, he did not wander into the wrong huddle.  And, no we didn't read the sign or the paperwork wrong.  This is really Justin's soccer team.  And with that realization, I spent the rest of the practice terrified... just knowing that this wasn't going to end well.

The way the soccer teams are split up, Justin got slotted for the 1st to 3rd grade group; and so we knew right away that it would be a challenge.  It's no secret that he's small for his age.  On just about every trip to the grocery store, I still get asked if he and Jasmine are twins (no ma'am, they're actually two years apart).   We're not sure where he got the short gene from, and we're also not fully convinced that he won't sprout up at some point (though at this rate, I wouldn't hold my breath).  Either way, the end result is the same:  Justin staying on this soccer team looked like a train wreck in the making. I mean, this is the boy that treats a paper cut like a severed limb.  This... can't... be good.

And so I began to negotiate.  I spoke to coach 1.  I spoke to coach 2.  And I spoke to the director.  And bingo. Hey, Justin... guess what?! You get to play soccer with Jasmine's team.  You know, the same team you scrimmaged with last week.  All of your friends will be there.  Isn't that cool?  And I almost turned and walked away, just assuming he'd be following behind me... until I heard, no thanks.  I rather stay with my team.

And so what could I do?  He wanted to hang with the big boys.  And I couldn't blame him.  Maturity-wise, he had no business with the 4 and 5 year olds (and he knew it).  Even Jasmine ( our ultra-competitive child) looks bored with her team at times.  Granted, there's a good chance that Justin wouldn't even be the tallest kid on Jasmine's team... but stature was the least of his concerns.  The camaraderie of the all-boys team, the excitement of implementing strategy and the competitive fuel that was visibly absent from the mob of toddlers that he scrimmaged with the week before appealed to him.  And so... even though I was still utterly baffled by his decision, I let him stay.  And I held my breath for the next 55 minutes.

In the end, he survived.  And beyond that, he absolutely loved it.  Once practice was over, he was clear to tell me and Venesa a dozen times each that he had a blast.  And so, with the first game scheduled for tomorrow (full speed, full contact, kid gloves thrown to the ground) all I can do now is cheer him on from the sidelines, hide my panic... and keep the car running with the GPS device mapped to the nearest emergency room. This is going to be interesting. Go Hawks.