One Saturday morning about five years ago, I took my three boys to the local baseball field to enroll my then-5-year-old firstborn in the spring baseball program. While I pondered which size cap and tiny baseball pants to select to complete the registration forms, a couple of coaches ambled over from the sidelines.
“Hey, how old is that little guy?” one coach asked, gesturing toward my second son, Leo. “Is he playing?”
I glanced up, cradling my newborn asleep in an Ergo carrier, and replied slowly, “Uh, he’s 3.” I raised an eyebrow, thinking, “No, he doesn’t play… anything.” Except for superheroes and video games, of course.
“Wow,” the coach responded, nodding. “Which high school are you zoned for? I coach at the local school, so let me know if he’s heading my way.” I smiled awkwardly, not quite knowing how to react, and guided my children toward another area of the field, away from the enthusiastic coaches who seemed eager to recruit my preschooler for high school football a decade early.
Once upon a time in Spain, there was a little bull named Ferdinand.
Now, at 8 years old, Leo has been requesting the same bedtime story each night: The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. As I read it aloud, his younger brother — once that baby in the carrier — joins in, completing my sentences.
All the other young bulls would run, jump, and butt heads, but not Ferdinand.
When Leo was four, we thought we had found his sport: soccer. It appeared to be an excellent introductory choice, especially since some of his preschool friends were playing too. He was thrilled to wear the jersey and join a team, and his coaches were equally excited since he towered over many kids on the field. But every Saturday, as we arrived at the soccer fields, Leo would shuffle onto the pitch — not run — with a reluctance that was hard to miss. Instead of chasing the ball, he’d scan the sidelines for me and jog over, asking, “Is it snack time yet?” with hopeful eyes. His coaches looked deflated. He didn’t even kick the ball once that season, but he did enjoy the cupcake and trophy awarded on the last day.
Sometimes, his mother, who happened to be a cow, would worry about him.
At six, we believed we had finally discovered Leo’s passion. He loves swimming, just like his father did in high school and college. We enrolled him in a year-round swim team and attended practices three times a week. However, while other kids honed their strokes with precision, Leo preferred to… well, float. And dive to the bottom occasionally like a dolphin. His young coach frequently called out, “Hey Leo, what are you doing? How about freestyle?” But Leo often remained blissfully unaware, submerged beneath the surface, swimming to the rhythm of his own (perhaps reggae?) beat.
But Ferdinand would shake his head. “I prefer to stay here and quietly smell the flowers.”
Eventually, Leo decided he was done with swimming. He tried karate for a while and then flag football. This year, we shifted gears to enroll him in a cartooning class at a local art school, which he absolutely adores, along with an hour of group tennis each week.
Leo is a tall, athletic-looking boy, resembling a natural-born lineman or maybe even a future water polo player. He could potentially excel as a heavyweight rower like his uncle. But right now, he prefers spending his afternoons at home, crafting intricate drawings of imaginary characters and worlds, playing in the backyard, or diving into Minecraft adventures with his brothers and friends. In our parenting journey, especially in our community, it takes a conscious effort to trust our choice to let Leo be himself without imposing sports expectations. Occasionally, I feel a flutter of anxiety when I hear about classmates joining travel teams, making game-winning plays, or achieving new personal bests. I sometimes wonder if Leo is missing out, lagging behind, or if I should encourage him more.
His mother recognized that Leo was not lonely, and because she was an understanding cow, she let him be content.
Over time, we’ve come to accept that Leo is simply not — at least not yet — interested in competitive sports. He embodies our Ferdinand. He prefers drawing, creating elaborate imaginary games in the yard, and playing with Lego rather than following set instructions. He delights in making silly faces for his baby sister, eliciting giggles and squeals. However, he has no desire to attend practices or engage in drills. I want him to remain active, and I’m glad he’s now developing a skill in a social sport like tennis — one he can enjoy for life. Still, I know that regardless of his physical build, my son is not that kid. And we’ve decided that’s perfectly okay. The world needs more Ferdinands. He’s quite the artist and storyteller. I appreciate him for who he is, and more importantly, he’s happy being himself. He doesn’t feel the need to be an athlete.
“This is my favorite part,” Leo says with a smile as I turn the page in the soft light of his room.
And for all I know, he’s still there beneath his beloved cork tree, quietly taking in the scent of flowers. He is very happy.
This article was initially published on Oct. 20, 2013. If you’re interested in exploring more about parenting journeys, check out this insightful post here. For those considering at-home insemination options, you can find trusted kits at CryoBaby. Additionally, the UCSF Center is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination information.
Summary
This blog reflects on the journey of a mother navigating her son Leo’s aversion to traditional sports and activities, embracing his unique interests instead. Through gentle storytelling, it emphasizes acceptance and understanding of children’s individual paths, celebrating creativity over conformity.
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