Coach Mom

Some daughters turn into stage mothers, but not mine. No, Clare is destined to be Coach Mom. She already has her 4-1/2 year old son in winter soccer, playing with and against kids as much as two years older. Last night, Leo scored a goal left-footed. No doubt, Coach Mom was happy. Heaven knows what she’ll do when my grandson hits his first homerun in t-ball. Then we have the eighteen-month old sprite known as Maeve. Lately, she insists that the two of us go on the back porch so she can play with wiffle balls and the same plastic bat her big brother uses. Granted, she uses the bat and ball as if she were playing lacrosse or field hockey, but, still, she’s putting bat to ball. Grandpa’s impressed. Wait, there’s more. Last night, said sprite tried to get in on the soccer action by running onto the court (they play in a gym because outside is one, big, muddy, March mess); Dad had to go catch her before she could join big brother. Coach Mom had twice the reason to like what she saw.