I played volleyball in high school and a few rounds of city league softball when I was a kid. Sean played no organized sports. We don't watch sports on t.v. or listen to sports on the radio or read about sports in the newspaper. Not for any particular reason other than that we have no desire to. Obviously, we are not typical Americans. We acknowledge that.
Simon played t-ball for half a season when he was three. That was about it for organized sports for him.
This all came to a head a few nights ago as we were out tossing a football back and forth while waiting on Sean to get home from work. Simon surprised the heck out of me by throwing a perfect spiral(is that what it's called when the ball twirls without wobbling?) time after time. Apparently, a kid down the street schooled him on how to properly throw a football a few months back.
He got a little arrogant with my praise, so he backed up a bit. Back and back and back he went.
"I'm gonna go way back, Mom, to the outfield."
Now, I'm no expert on football. I know none of the lingo. I keep my mouth shut when football is being discussed. However...I know it is not called the outfield. Poor, Simon, I couldn't even tell him what it's actually called. Ha!
Might be about time we sign him up for some extra curricular activities. :D
To keep it even, I must post a Felix funny.
He was excited to be beating Joker on a level of the Lego Batman game that Simon has been unable to conquer. In his attempt to appear even cooler to his big brother who was already congratulating him, he started slinging insults at the game.
"Take that Joker! You're about to get a taste of my inner peace!"
And the third, not likely to be a preacher, child...I'm trying to fix his habit of saying the D word by yelling, "Oh man!" encouragingly(while nodding with my eyebrows up, smiling clownishly) every time he gets Hulkish in an attempt to sway his speech patterns.
It didn't work when I turned off the movie he wasn't watching.
It didn't work when his brother took a bite of his eggs.
It didn't work when his truck broke.
It didn't work when he couldn't get on the bed by himself.
Tonight, we had a little heart to heart as I was putting him to bed.
"Titus, do you know what 'bad word' means?"-me
"That's right! That's a bad word. We don't say that." I replied, shocked that he knows exactly what I've been saying all day long.
"Otay, Mommy."-the little turd
shooting me with the hose attachment. An unfair fight as he's wearing the helmet.