I signed the biggest kid up for football today. Granted it's only flag football, but we've told him he has to play flag football before he can play tackle football.
I know, you're thinking, since when did she get a teenager? Because where I grew up, the first time boys put on pads and helmets was freshman year in high school. But this, my friends, is Texas.
We start our boys in helmets and pads just as soon as they can hold their heads up with them on. Which is apparently about seven. And in Texas, people look at my youngest child with envy. You see, he's a solidly built little boy who doesn't seem to be slimming down, no matter how many apples I feed him. And they all comment that he should play football. Which I'm sure he will, as he seems to be as drawn to football as he is to pushing buttons. Mostly my buttons, but that's a subject for another day.
The oldest. Wants to play football. He says flag football is for wimps, that he wants to tackle, but we say learn the rules and learn how to control your stinkin' temper and then we'll see about tackle football. In the fall. Which makes me want to cry. Because he's only nine. And wow.
I guess even though I've been in Texas for more than ten years, I'm still not a Texan. I just can't wrap my brain around this. But apparently I've spawned two little Texans and somehow it's in their blood. Fortunately for me and my grey hair situation, my daughter does not yet want to be a cheerleader and she doesn't yet use product in her hair. Unless you count boogers.