One Saturday morning, several years back, I took my three boys to the local baseball field to register my firstborn, who was 5 at the time, for spring baseball. As I wrestled with the sizes for hats and tiny baseball pants, a few of the coaches milling about approached me.
“Hey, how old is that little guy?” one coach asked, pointing to my second son, Jamie. “Is he playing?”
Balancing my newborn on my chest, I looked up, a mix of disbelief and amusement on my face. “Uh, he’s 3,” I replied slowly. “No, he’s not playing… anything.” Well, except for his epic Star Wars battles, I thought to myself.
“Wow,” said one of the coaches, nodding in approval. “What school are you zoned for? I coach the football team at the local high school. Let me know if he’s headed my way.” I just smiled, unsure how to respond, and gently guided my children away from the eager coaches who seemed ready to recruit my preschooler for high school football a decade early.
Once Upon a Time in Spain
Now, Jamie, my 8-year-old, has recently developed a fondness for a particular bedtime story: The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. Each night, I read it to him and his little brother—the same baby I once carried in an Ergo—and they eagerly finish my sentences.
While all the other little bulls would run around, butting heads, Ferdinand preferred peace and quiet.
When Jamie was four, we decided to give soccer a shot. It seemed like a great introductory sport, especially since some of his preschool friends were playing too. Jamie was excited to wear the jersey and join a team, and his coaches were thrilled since he towered over most of the other kids on the field. Yet, every Saturday, Jamie would stroll onto the field, not exactly sprinting. Instead of chasing the ball, he often lingered at the sidelines, making his way over to me. “Is it snack time yet?” he would ask, eyes wide with hope. His coaches’ spirits drooped; he didn’t even kick the ball once that season. But he did enjoy the cupcake and trophy he received at the end.
Sometimes, his mother, a gentle cow, worried about him.
At six, we thought we had finally discovered Jamie’s passion: swimming. With his father’s background as a high school and college swimmer, we signed up the boys for a year-round swim team. We attended practices three times a week, but while the other kids honed their strokes, Jamie preferred to, well, dip and cruise through the water like a dolphin. His youthful coach would call out, “Hey Jamie, what are you doing? How about freestyle?” But Jamie was often lost in his underwater world, following his own rhythm.
Yet Ferdinand would shake his head. “I like it better here where I can just sit quietly and smell the flowers.”
Eventually, Jamie stopped swimming. He dabbled in karate and flag football, but this year, he found his true calling: a cartooning class at the local art school every Saturday morning, along with a single hour of group tennis.
Physically, Jamie is a tall, broad child, fitting the mold of a natural athlete. He could easily become a heavyweight rower or a burly water polo player, yet he prefers spending his afternoons at home, creating intricate drawings of his own characters or exploring Minecraft with friends. As a parent, I sometimes feel the pressure to ensure he’s involved in sports, especially as I hear about his classmates excelling in travel teams and achieving personal bests. I worry he might be missing out or if I should be encouraging him more.
His mother, the understanding cow, realized that he wasn’t lonely, and she allowed him to be happy just as he was.
Over time, we’ve come to accept that Jamie is not interested in competitive sports—he is our Ferdinand. He loves to draw, create imaginative games in the backyard, and build with Lego blocks, often preferring to create his own designs rather than follow instructions. He enjoys making funny faces to make his baby sister giggle, but he has no desire to attend practices or run drills. While I want him to be active and happy, I know that despite his physical appearance, he is not the typical athlete. But that is perfectly okay. There is certainly a place for the Ferdinands in this world. He is a talented artist and storyteller, and he embraces who he is.
“This is my favorite part,” Jamie says with a grin as I turn the page in the soft glow of his room.
And who knows—perhaps he remains nestled under his favorite cork tree, quietly smelling the flowers. He is genuinely happy.
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In summary, the journey of parenting often leads us to embrace our children’s unique paths. Just like Ferdinand, who chose peace over chaos, we must learn to appreciate our children’s individuality and support their passions, no matter how unconventional they may seem.
Keyphrase: Charlie the Bull’s Unique Path
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