Henry and Svea and I went on a walk/ride the other day and happened upon our very first track meet.
The High School down the street was hosting, so we buddied up to the fence to have a look. There was a relay going on on the track, and the girls were on the high jump. We didn't make it down to the discus pit.
All of the hurdles were piled on the sides of the track to make way for the relay. I watched as parents of runners held stop watches or warm-up pants. I watched as the runners passed the baton and answered Henry's questions about why were they doing that anyway. I watched as Svea stared at the high jumpers, and honestly, didn't seem to care.
Then nostalgia got me.
I tried to tell them that their Pops ran hurdles and did the high jump and YOU KNOW WHAT: Aunt Merpha did too. And so did Mommy.
They were just silent.
I told them about practicing and weekend meets and special shoes.
But I kept watching and wondering if I was ready for them to do sports in school, wondering if I was ready for hours and hours of practice and tournaments, wondering if I was ready to hold the stop watch. After tearing up a few more times, I decided I was ready.
So we packed it up and went home.