Originally published Oct. 1, 2007, thehive.modbee.com

Three weeks into my career as a soccer mom, I was ready to call it quits. I’d had enough of the constant complaining at practice. The incessant crying during the games had flat worn me out. Forget the fact that we’d already invested $100. I just wanted out.

The problem wasn’t Big Guy. He’s taken to soccer quite well – even ran toward the right goal for most of the game Saturday.

I’m talking about Little Guy, who was crushed to the depths of his little soul because Big Guy could play and he wasn’t allowed.

To make it even worse, there’s a player on Big Guy’s team with the same first name as Little Guy. And for three solid weeks, every time a coach yelled, “hey, Little Guy!” my Little Guy would make a break for the field.

A couple of times, he actually made it. Once, he even got to kick a ball before mean old Mommy hauled his butt back to the sidelines.

Poor critter. It must really stink to be 2.

It’s a time of confusing questions. Such as, if the basketball and the pumpkin both are round and orange, why can I bounce one on the floor and not the other? Why did the lady get mad when she told me to throw something away and I tossed it at her? I did exactly what she asked. If we’re going to eat the pizza anyway, why can’t I just rake the sauce off with my hands before it’s baked? Wouldn’t that save electricity?

I’ll have to admit, I didn’t consider it much with Big Guy. I was too tied up in my own drama – being pregnant with Little Guy, recovering from being pregnant with Little Guy and trying to figure out how to juggle the two.

And I figured most of Big Guy’s problems stemmed from the arrival of That Baby Who Ruined His Life.
Maybe if I’d spent more time looking at things from his perspective, I wouldn’t have wound up with quite as many tooth-shaped bruises on my arms.

Or maybe I would have anyway. Big Guy’s always been the type to shoot first, ask questions later. With Little Guy, there’s a good five minutes of gut check before the tantrum erupts. “Let’s see, is this really worth getting mad over? Well, maybe not, but one more false move and someone’s going to hear about it. All right, so I’ll overlook this one, too. Now, wait a minute. That’s it. I’M GONNA BLOW!”

Most of the time, though, he’d rather be bigger than Big Guy. Tonight was a classic example. Big Guy was complaining about everything – taking his medicine, brushing his teeth – while Little Guy was standing at the sink, calmly saying, “Budder, brush teeth.”

Which is why soccer was so hard for him to handle. It’s the first time he’s found himself in a situation where he simply wasn’t allowed to do what Big Guy was doing. Or at least try.

I think he’s finally adjusted. We take a stash of Thomas toys now, and he’s become a celebrity of sorts among Big Guy’s teammates and his siblings. He’s the kid who always has a train with him.

And when he tires of Thomas for a few minutes, we chase each other and roll down hills. Then he monster stalks toward me and pushes me to the ground repeatedly. Another 2-year-old has joined our game, helping me up and saying exasperatedly, “He got you again!”

It’s become our time. We had so much fun last week that it ticked off Big Guy. “Mommy, why weren’t you watching me play?”

Sheesh. If it’s not one thing, it’s his brother.

Copyright 2007 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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