Pool, please.

Last week was apparently the week of trying all the new things.

Besides our first trip to the Georgia Aquarium (FISHIES!) and our first adventure at Build-A-Bear, we also went to our first soccer practice and had our first library trip.

Seriously? You know
you want to see this on
a soccer field. 

Soccer... well, soccer went about just as well as we expected. The prep for it was even a hassle. My super-Southern husband rolled his eyes at every mention of "the Yankee sport that might as well be lacrosse." I am not sure exactly what that means, but I am fairly confident it is the worst cutdown a South Carolinian can give. He also repeatedly asked for the dates we could sign her up for "real" things like tball (2018?) and football (uh, never).

Once past the daddy hurdle, came a whole new obstacle: clothing. Apparently, until I signed up her for soccer, it never occurred to me that B didn't own a single pair of tennis shoes. Or play shorts. Or athletic tshirts. I asked RB (and maybe several friends hoping for a different answer) if she could wear a smocked soccer dress. I promised to buy tennies to go with it. Still, denied. So, we started on the quest for appropriate play clothes. I realize this should be an easy task, but to someone who insisted on wearing a skirt over her soccer uniform in the 3rd grade, it was slightly daunting. Luckily, Macy's had a selection (and free shipping!) and we were now officially ready to start soccer.

The morning we first went was actually the second week of practice. We had missed the first week to be out of town for Easter. I noticed immediately the lack of moms there. I naively assumed this meant they had older kids the moms were hanging out with during the practice. Or the moms were taking a break. Or soccer is the go to activity for divorced dads of North Georgia. It didn't take long for me to realize why the moms were nowhere to be seen.

B and her dad went on the field confidently. She was curious. She was happy. She was ready to play. Then, she happened to glance behind her and realize that we were separated by a mesh fence. Easy enough to overcome, but for a 21 month old it might as well have been the Great Wall of China. Instantly three fields of mini soccer players were serenaded by the high pitch squealing of "MOMMY. MY MOMMY. MY MOMMY." Ohhhhh. So that's why the other moms aren't here...

RB's face was insta-panic and he was frantically beckoning me as it seemed like everyone. on. the. planet. was scanning the bleachers to see where this horrible, not-hanging-out-with-her-kid momma was. I laid down our stuff, abandoned my goal of documenting every millisecond of soccer glory, and joined B on the field.

We thought that would be the instant fix. Instead, we endured 45 minutes of:

 "If that ball touches me, I will burn this
place to. the. ground."

1) Me carrying B, kicking the ball for her in flip flops and a new pedi, totally unprepared because this was supposed to be a daddy daughter activity.
2) B making the coaches believe the only word she knows is "nope."
3) Witnessing 18 month old prodigies run up and down the field, dribbling the ball, scoring a goal at each end. Who are these kids?
4) B making friends with another girl in the class by both seeing who could shriek louder when a ball or coach came near them. She may hate soccer, but that child is definitely competitive. Their audible struggle was finally ended when the other girl finally just clinched onto her dad's leg and refused to let go until he agreed to go to the car. I consider that a win for B.
5) RB totally abandoning me "because she wants to hang out with her mom" and playing 2048 cheering us on from the stands.

Finally, we came to the second to last activity of the day: the bubble stomp. This is basically where the coaches walk around in a circle, blowing bubbles, being followed by 10 - 12 toddlers manically stomping the bubbles/ tripping over one another. If this was all there was to soccer, B would be the next Lionel Messi (and yes, I did have to google "famous soccer players besides Beckham"). The minute she saw that first bubble, she leaped out of my arms for the first time all morning and began to actually participate. She was in heaven. There was stomping. There was music. There were bubbles and bubbles and more bubbles.

I thought this would be the trick to getting her to love soccer; this would be the activity that warmed her up to the whole thing. Negative. The minute the last bubble was popped and a soccer ball peaked its plastic self out of hiding, she was back into my arms playing a never ending game of lava with the soccer field.

We finally wrapped up the exercise in futility practice, and headed home. Everyone was exhausted. RB and I emotionally; B mainly just worn out from throwing herself on the ground and with a sore throat from screaming. We pepped ourselves up, though, and convinced ourselves that next week would be better. She would be more accustomed to it and all would be happiness and sunshine and butterflies.

"You are trying to make me wear a bow and go to soccer?
Clearly, y'all have lost your minds up in here."

This week... we put her in her uniform, threw on those tennis shoes, and immediately heard, "Nope. Pool, please."