It's in his blood. That's the only way I can explain the way my son plays football. He's passionate. He's determined. He's only six and he's got that 'play hard or go home' attitude that accompanies so many competitive athletes. Other moms have warned me... told me to prepare for the many years of sideline sitting that I likely have ahead of me. I love it. And hate it. I mean that's my baby out there trying to smash someone else's baby into the turf. I don't think this is something I've taught him. I'm sure my life lessons are more like 'share' and 'take your turn'... but somehow, somewhere, this boy has picked up on the finer points of digging in and shoving on and not stopping until the ball is in the end zone. It's fine. I'll manage. I'll bring my chair and plaid blanket and endure the cold and rain in order to show him that I'm his biggest fan. Even while on the inside I'm secretly thinking how wonderful it would be to fold him into my arms and read him 'Goodnight Moon' just one more time.
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