Two weekends ago we had back-to-back soccer games at Damon Garcia. On these days I position myself in between both fields and kind of ping-pong pivot back and forth. I generally find myself in “enemy territory” for the Bullsharks, which is Nate’s team. It’s apparently gauche to be cheering for your team while surrounded by the parents of the team your third-grader just scored his third goal on. Touché.
Meanwhile, the Tsunamis were having a rough go against Nate’s teammate Connoly’s brother. The brotherly loyalties are complex out on the Saturday pitch. Fortunately, Jake had a shutout during his fourth quarter as goalie. Following the games, I talked the boys into lunch at SLO Brew The Rock. It was hot and hoppin’. By this point Jacob has already spiraled from his post-game mini-Gatorade. “I’m NOT hungry Mom. I don’t want anything. Don’t get me anything. I’m not eating.”
This is where you always agree. Always. Nod in agreement and answer noncommittally when he asks you if you’re ordering him something, despite his clear orders. Then get him a cold, bubbly drink.
So the boys and I are sitting outside, surrounded by games and umbrellas and people drinking beer. Five sips into his frosty ginger beer and the frosty Jake begins to thaw… “So what’d you get me?”
“Chicken strips and fries. And you’re going to need to eat some of my salad.”
He chuckles and smiles a wry, knowing smile, shaking his head, “Classic Mom. Classic Mom.”
Right back atcha, Classic Jacob. He ate it all, and then some.