Lord knows I could use it after the week I’ve had. Work has been weighing me down, long hours in the office poring over legal briefs and research, bringing folders of case information home to work on after Cooper goes to bed, and preparing for an important mediation meeting in a couple of weeks.
On top of those responsibilities, Cooper started football practice and has talked non-stop about it ever since. He’s only had two practices, so I’m dreading, just a tiny bit, how much more football this boy can verbally throw at me.
“Footwork looks good, honey,” I tell him, not really knowing if that’s true or not but wanting to support his interest and hard work. He does it again, forward and then backward, from the kitchen to the front door and back.
“Light and quick like a ballerina,” Cooper says, surprising me.
“A ballerina?” I question.
He nods wisely, his eyes wide as he obviously recites, “How do you think ballerinas can move so fast?” He swishes his arms on top of each other, switching them in an imitation of a ballerina’s feet. “They gotta be light on their feet so they can be quick. If not, they’d miss every play before they could get to the ball. Light and quick.” Changing from his recitation, he asks, “Hey, Mom, did you know ballerinas dance until their feet bleed?”
My brows pull together. “Uh, yeah? Why so much talk about ballet all of a sudden?” The possibilities are already swirling around in my mind—do I make him finish the season since he made the commitment? Do I let him move on to what’s apparently a new interest? What made him so interested?
Cooper shrugs his little shoulder. “Coach B was telling us about them being so fast, and Trey said he wanted to be a tough football player, not a prissy dancer. Coach Mike cringed like this—” He pulls his face, mimicking an unhappy Coach Mike. “But Coach B said ballerinas are some of the toughest athletes and showed us a video of their mangled up feets after a show.”
He crumples his fingers into claws, showing me what their feet were like. “Like bloody claws with toes on ’em.”
“Okay . . . first off, eww. Secondly, it’s feet, not feets. Feet is the plural of the singular foot, honey. So, you don’t want to do ballet?” I’m trying really hard to keep up with this kid’s mental gymnastics, so I take a good long pull of coffee to corral the few brain cells that are awake and alert and encourage a few more to join the party.
It’s Cooper’s turn to pull his eyebrows together in confusion. “What? No, I love football. Coach B was just talking about ballet because of the footwork.” He does his little tap-dancing routine across the room and back.
I shake my head, feeling like I just went on a trip that wasn’t even needed. But I’m doing my best to do anything I can for Cooper and to do it all right. That’s what single moms do, be everything in one. And I do it gratefully . . . for him.
“Well, now that’s settled, how about some breakfast before we leave for practice? What do you want this morning?” I open the fridge, peering inside like inspiration will strike me.
“Eggs and bacon, and biscuits and gravy if you got any,” my tiny, barely eats anything kid answers.
I lean back to catch his eye, one brow quirked and my lips tilted up. “That’s a mighty big breakfast. Think you can handle all that?”
He nods so fast I think his head might fall off. “Coach Mike says growing athletes need fuel. Food is fuel, and occasionally fun. Like cake and donuts. But everyday stuff should be protein, fat, and complex carbs. One gram of protein per two pounds of body weight!”
I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. This kid is eight years old and schooling me on nutritional facts like he’s an expert. “Is that so?” I pull out the eggs, checking the date, and then dig around. I don’t have any bacon, but I’ve got frozen sausage patties and a popping roll of biscuits. “And just how big is a gram? Tell you what . . . how about a biscuit, egg, and sausage sandwich?”
He seems to think about it and then decides it’ll do. “Can you put jelly on it? I know that’s sugary, but a little’s probably okay, right?”
I set the jar of grape jelly on the table. “You can do it yourself . . . carefully.”
While I make us breakfast sandwiches, Cooper tells me all about his two whole football practices. I think it takes him longer to tell me about them than it did for him to actually go. But I love listening to him ramble happily about his coaches, his teammates, what he’s learned. He sounds good, happy, and carefree, which is all I ever wanted for him.