Today was an absolutely beautiful day and so we spent most of it outside. Our first outing was to the park. Big I wanted to play on the playground. My husband had a different idea. Considering Big I will soon be five and she's as tall as the average 7-year old, my husband is convinced that she will be a stellar basketball player and that it is his mission in life to help her get there. That's all fine and good, but I keep telling him he needs to face the fact that Big I may have inherited my basketball genes, and that is simply not good. My husband also insists that with the proper training, at 5'9" I "should be" good at basketball too. Although I hit that height in about the 9th grade, field hockey was always my sport and basketball and I just never meshed. Honestly, I never understood a sport that has such ridiculously high scores. I mean, seriously, at least hockey players appreciate every goal they score because they may have worked 20 minutes or more for it. How exciting is it when there's a point every two seconds? But anyway, back to the park. . .
While I set up camp on the bench with the sleeping Lil C, Mr. B coaxed Big I out onto the court as she longingly looked at the playground equipment. Picture this, Daddy wearing sweatshirt, gym shorts, baseball hat and sneakers bounding off to the basketball court with energy. In direct contrast, Big I is wearing flowered capri pants, light-up magic wand sneakers, a pink princess shirt, and her prized Disney Princess sun hat, dragging those light up shoes along the grass like she was a dead man walking. Despite this, it started out well enough, with my husband lifting Big I up to shoot baskets. But then my husband decided it was time to practice passing. "Let's pass the ball," he said excitedly as he tossed the ball in her direction. Let's just say that what happened next can only be described as Big I trying to catch the ball with her nose. It wasn't pretty. Crying erupted, tears rolled their way down her face, and I seriously thought all was lost. We made our way to the playground as we wiped tears and this time it was Daddy dragging his feet.
The playground proved to be quite fun though. My husband and I decided that we should all play a spirted game of tag. Mr. B and I decided to play all out and chased each other around the playground until we were out of breath (about two minutes). Big I didn't quite get it. She was "it" and ran towards me to tag me. I stopped and faced her, squatting slightly so I could easily get away in either direction. She took it as an attack stance and ran the opposite direction screaming. We tried to explain that she was "it," so there was no reason for her to run from us, but it just didn't sink in. She continued to play on the playground while Mr. B and I toyed with the idea of starting an adult tag league. We finally gave up on the playground since Mr. B convinced Big I that it was time for Part II of basketball training.
We made our way over to the court, with Lil C still sleeping soundly in her stroller. It was soon obvious that Big I had absolutely no interest. I thought I would try to encourage her and asked Mr. B if he'd like to play HORSE. Big I could be my helper, which consisted of us cheating by stealing the ball from Daddy whenever possible. There was lots of whining from Big I, and I wasn't too happy either as I quickly became a "HO." Soon after my husband found it hysterically funny that I was now a "HOR." As he laughed, the inevitable happened. . . the basketball hit the backboard and beaned Big I right in the side of the head. This time the crying was about twice as loud and we knew our time at the park was over. We drove away from the park with Daddy trying to convince Big I that no one is good when they first start playing. I tried to convince Mr. B to come to grips with the fact that I very well may have given birth to someone who would just rather sing princess ballads than play sports. Sigh. . .
Basketball Daddy? Did Cinderella play basketball? I think NOT! And in case you were wondering, YES, those are socks on my hands! I prefer to call them "gloves."
