Five years ago, on a Saturday morning, I took my three boys to the baseball field to enroll my eldest, then five years old, in spring baseball. As I struggled to select the appropriate size for his hat and tiny baseball pants, a few coaches mingling among the crowd approached me.
“How old is that little guy?” one of them asked, gesturing toward my second son, Oliver. “Is he playing?”
Balancing my newborn, who was peacefully asleep in an Ergo carrier, I replied, “He’s 3.” I paused, slightly baffled. “He doesn’t play… anything.” Well, except for the occasional Star Wars adventure, I mused silently.
“Wow,” one coach responded, nodding enthusiastically. “What high school are you zoned for? I coach football at the local school. Let me know if he’s going to join my team.” Staring at him, I forced a smile and gently guided my kids away from the enthusiastic coaches who seemed desperate to recruit my preschooler for high school football a decade early.
Once Upon a Time in Spain
Once upon a time in Spain, there lived a little bull named Ferdinand.
Now, my eight-year-old Oliver has been requesting the same bedtime story every night: The Story of Ferdinand, by Munro Leaf. As I read it to him and his younger brother—the very baby I once carried in an Ergo—they often finish my sentences for me.
The other young bulls would charge around, but Ferdinand was different.
When Oliver turned four, we decided to enroll him in soccer, thinking it would be a great introductory sport since some of his preschool friends were involved. He was thrilled to wear the team jersey, and his coaches were eager because he towered over the other kids on the field. Yet, every Saturday, he would reluctantly stroll onto the field instead of running. Rather than chasing the ball, he would linger back, scanning the sidelines for me. “Is it snack time yet?” he would ask, his eyes filled with hope. His coaches’ enthusiasm faded as the season progressed, and he never once kicked the ball. However, he did relish the cupcake and trophy he received at the end.
Occasionally, his mother, a concerned cow, would fret over him.
Finding His Passion
At six, we thought we had finally discovered Oliver’s sport. He has a passion for swimming, much like his father, who swam in high school and college. We enrolled the boys in a year-round swim team, attending practices three days a week. Unfortunately, while other kids honed their strokes and raced toward the wall, Oliver preferred to float around, occasionally diving to the bottom like a dolphin. His young coach frequently called out, “Hey Oliver, what are you doing? Oliver? Let’s try freestyle!” But Oliver often didn’t hear him, too busy enjoying the underwater world.
Ferdinand, on the other hand, would shake his head, preferring to sit quietly and smell the flowers.
Eventually, Oliver stopped swimming. He briefly tried karate and flag football, but this year, we found a cartooning class at a local art school that he absolutely loves, along with a weekly group tennis lesson.
Oliver is a tall, sturdy boy, resembling an ideal lineman or a future water polo player. Yet, he longs to spend his afternoons at home, creating intricate drawings of imaginary characters and worlds or playing Minecraft with his brothers and friends. In today’s parenting climate, especially in our community, it takes courage to embrace Oliver as he is, without imposing expectations for him to play a sport. I still feel small waves of anxiety when I hear about his classmates excelling in their sports, wondering if Oliver is missing out or if I should encourage him more.
His mother recognized that he was content, and being a caring cow, she allowed him the freedom to just sit and be happy.
Accepting Oliver for Who He Is
Over time, we’ve come to accept that Oliver is not interested in competitive sports, at least not yet. He is our Ferdinand, preferring to explore his artistic side, crafting elaborate games in the backyard, building unique creations with Legos instead of following instructions, and making funny faces to amuse his baby sister. While I want him to be physically active, I appreciate that he is acquiring skills through social sports like tennis. I understand that despite his physical potential, he is simply not that kid. And that’s perfectly okay. There is certainly a place in the world for those like Ferdinand. Oliver is a gifted artist and storyteller. I adore him just as he is, and more importantly, he is happy being himself. He doesn’t feel the need to be an athlete.
“This is my favorite part,” Oliver says with a grin as I turn to the next page in the dim light of his room.
And for all I know, he could still be there, beneath his favorite cork tree, quietly enjoying the scent of flowers. He is very happy.
Further Reading
For more insightful information on home insemination, check out this helpful post on the at-home insemination kit. If you’re interested in fertility topics, Medical News Today offers excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, for more guidance on related subjects, you can explore the knowledge provided by experts at CoQ10.
Conclusion
In summary, the journey of parenting often involves embracing our children’s unique identities. Just like Ferdinand, we learn that happiness comes from being true to oneself, even if it strays from societal expectations.