My husband was like something out of an Archie comic in high school. The quintessential American boy from the midwest.
You know the guy….captain of the football team, captain of the basketball team, student body president and even (you knew it was coming) homecoming king. I think his high school girlfriend was even blonde.
I was the kind of kid that smoked under the bleachers and wrote very bad poetry.
Doesn’t God have a sense of humour? 
There are some perils of being married to a former jock. One of them is that he can’t watch any type of sporting display – soccer, football, basketball, baseball, even curling – without saying “I could do that….and probably do it better.”
Yes, dear. Of course you could.
Which brings me to my current peril….and I voice this on behalf of my daughter and son. Remember that I’m a mean mum that only allows one tub of toys in the house? I realised a few weeks ago that that tub is almost completely full of child-and-adult-size sporting equipment.
There was the soccer ball.
The football.
The basketball.
The tiny football.
The tiny basketball.
The tiny hockey stick.
The, oh, three hundred or so nerf-y looking balls.
The tennis balls.
Then came the golf set with a driver, a pitching wedge and a putter.
When he walked in the door with the lacrosse sticks, I put my foot down.
I’ve slowly been weeding the sporting goods out, reminding him that the kids are, you know, just two years old and two months old. So might be a little early for the authentic, genuine ESPN Gameday football.
I’ve had to promise him though that as soon as Anne turns three, she has to be signed up for either Timbits Hockey or soccer. And that he gets to coach.
