Our boys are a different story.
When the opportunity arose for them to attend a camp staffed by British college students studying to be soccer coaches (because evidently that is a thing you can major in outside of the United States where we more or less collectively suck at soccer, at least on a world stage), both jumped at it.
I didn't really know what to expect. I had a couple friends whose children had participated in this camp in the past and had nothing but praise for the organization, but the coaches change every year and, to my mind at least, you'd have no way of knowing whether or not you're going to get stuck with a real stinker of a coach for five straight days, two hours each morning.
Thankfully, no stinkers made their way to Iowa last week. All the hallelujahs.
|Please click to embiggen and see Caedmon (third from the right) joyfully bellowing, "LET'S MAKE IT HAPPEN," their mantra for the week.|
I got to attend their final day of camp, and was so impressed with our boys. I mean, I'm impressed anytime they don't cringe away from a ball flying toward them, or scream unnecessarily when a ball flies toward them, or watch a ball as it pointlessly rolls past them- all things I have been known to do in middle school P.E., in high school P.E., and last night in our backyard. I am nothing if not consistent.
And they looked so happy to be out there. The befuddlement was thick in the air around Daughter and me.
I mean, look- here Caedmon finally managed to get it the ball past the goalie, Coach Mark. He is thrilled.
That's not to say that never had a similar expression on my face before. Holler "CHEESECAKE!" and watch me fly.
Happy to be playing soccer, I mean. Not the cheesecake thing.
Honestly, it was downright bewildering.
The boys also learned some unexpected things, like what the coaches referred to as "party tricks,"
and that they speak English in England. (Atticus to me: "Mom, if Coach Isaac is from England, how can he speak English?" Oh, sweet boy child. How terribly and adorably American of you.)
Every once in a while, though, I'd see a little of myself in the boys.
That extension! That pointed back toe! Why isn't this boy in ballet?
If that gif shows anything, though, it's that there seems to be plenty of drama on the soccer field, or football... pitch? Field? Stage? Anyway, who needs Giselle when you have this
and of course this?
Although I see that last one and think, "Poor guy! He just found out his childhood best friend finally lost his battle with cancer." Because all this emotion can't be for a game, right? (Raise your hand if you're wondering how thirteen years of marriage to Derek the Rabid Minnesota Vikings Fan has taught me nothing.)
One moment while I pull myself out of the whirling vortex of gifs I just allowed myself to be sucked into.
Okay. I'm back.
So: Soccer camp was good, nay, fantastic, our boys learned a lot about soccer and where our language comes from, and I thanked the good Lord above that in this case, Derek's genes prevailed.
All the hallelujahs.
Big, juicy, soccer-y thanks to Derek's parents for gifting the entrance fee to the camp as our boys' birthday presents. It was obviously a success!