At 2 he became serious about orange juice. If the family ate at a restaurant, it had to serve OJ. This insistence greatly reduced our cognitive dissonance in selecting restaurants.

At 3 he was madly in love with Carrie Jo. One day they were at our place, playing house with my son’s Fisher-Price set. Suddenly the little girl, crying, ran out of our place, screaming that she wanted her parents to come get her, NOW! The problem was our son’s insistence on parking the toy cars in the playhouse bedroom. To him this “solution” nullified the distance in getting out of bed and to the car. The little girl, of course, would have nothing to do with cars, including grease and fumes, in the bedroom. You may say, “Now doesn’t that sound just like a man?” Stereotypes aside, I continue to admire my son’s 3-year-old male practicality.

At 4, like his kid sister who later demonstrated the same metamorphosis, he became serious—I should say wild—about chocolate. Grocery shopping became an exercise in meandering through a supermarket without getting close to the stuff, thus to avoid to-him nonsensical but highly vocal debates over long-range consequences (”when you’re 16, girls will want nothing to do with you if you’re fat and have rotten teeth”). But ah, the maturity of 4-year-olds: If it happened, and I could just get 20 yards and 20 seconds beyond the chocolate, it was all forgotten and things were again just hunky-dory—not like adults, who on being denied something by the boss start plotting their ultimate revenge.

And at 5 he became dead-on serious about T-ball. He even admired me for having a baseball autographed by Nolan Ryan, and we took a father-son trip to watch the Astros play in Houston, a little over 300 miles away. Yes, like others in Mike’s blogsite, on the T-ball diamond I witnessed tykes sliding into first base and daydreaming as the ball zoomed their way, but also very focused at the plate and very indifferent as to what color their teammates were. No steroids, no gambling, no chewing tobacco, no swearing (audible or otherwise), no belly-bumping with the ump. The kids displayed a level of acceptance and maturity not necessarily witnessed among the spectator parents. The only downside was that occasionally, during a baseball game on TV, some big-time ballplayer would come on in a commercial, telling my child to get something, such as a product made of chocolate. Since mine was already a chockosaurus (see age 4, above), I learned a more-refined definition of “significant other.” Somehow a luminous figure my child had never met was more significant, and thus more authoritative, than his dad.

Now the pre-adolescent and teenage years have come and gone. I look forward to seeing my grandkids at the plate, focused, ready to hit the T-ball. BATTER-UP!

–DAVID

Thanks Mike.

Mike, “Fans on both sides cheered every player” reminds me of Hebrews 12:1 and being cheered on by the historical community of faith as we run the race of life.

Leland, I’m thinking that I may turn that into a sermon: Y-ball, baseball, I wish I was in Y-ball again.

Jen - That should be a worship video!

I kid. I kid.

It is so very true. Why can’t we just cheer for the players on the other teams? We’re all in the same game. Even if the other team happens to be a charismatic instrumental church.