I’m taking a break from an intense game of four square in the cult-de-sac to brag.

I began my day outside as the designated pitcher for a baseball match-up between my four year-old Gresham and the ten year-old next door.

Gresham steps up to bat, knowing his opponent, an All Star little league player, is gifted with fielding skills greater than his preschool hitting skills.  So he pulls out the secret weapon, his own gift: his mouth.

“Jordan,” Gresham says with a look of genuine concern on his sweaty face just as I’m releasing the ball, “there’s a wasp behind you!”

Jordan whips his head around frantically shouting, “WHERE??”

Gresham connects with the ball sending it past a flailing Jordan.  Jordan flops to the ground pounding himself brutally as Gresham heads home. 

“WHERE??  IS?? IT??” he wails while Gresham, panting from his victory, takes a seat in the grass and sips cool water from his Dora cup.

“Made you look.  Made you look.  Now you’re in a baby book,” he sings.

There’s a teaching moment somewhere in here I should grab hold of so that Gresham doesn’t grow up to be a politician or a performer but, at the moment, I’m too proud.  But trying hard not to look like it.