Once upon a time, when my daughter had just mastered the “inside leg outside leg” style of walking, I took her out to the lawn. It was a beautiful New England Sunday afternoon. I threw in a soccer ball and proceeded to instruct her in the fine art of soccer.
Not that I myself was a passable soccer player (hey, since when did that stop me? ), but it was a thrill to pass on whatever little I knew about kicking the ball. I explained to her the basic mechanics of the game and before I knew it, I was deep into explaining the “zen of soccer”, babbling on about “drive”, “ambition” and even a healthy dose of life lessons about what she had in store for her.
After five minutes, she gave me a bemused smile and ran to the middle of the lawn and started doing cartwheels (well, the toddler version of it which is sort of a cross between a full cartwheel and a monkey roll). The first one was unintentional (She stumbled as she ran and tumbled head over heels in the grass). But the next three dozen or so were definitely not. I stood there feeling vexed that my fatherly wisdom had been cast aside so casually and her attention was now focused on such a cavalier pursuit. I watcher her roll over and over again in the grass, giggles turning into full belly guffaws with each passing revolution.
After a while, I gave up and joined her. We rolled around in the lawn for quite some time and my neighbors looked at me like I had lost my mind.
It was surprisingly fun.
Sometimes in life, we tend to overthink and overact.
Maybe the answer is simple.
Screw the soccer lesson, let’s all just do cartwheels.