Victoria Anderson-Sheer is a first-time mom of one lovely little boy, and three fur babies, living life in rural Eastern Oregon. When she is not freelance writing she spends her days drinking copious amounts of coffee, finding all the things her fiancé has lost, and chasing their toddler.
“Please throw that ball in the living room.”
A phrase no mom usually says, but I have been begging my 15-month-old to do so for about a week now. Weird, right? Well, if it’s in the living room, then most of the time I’m out of harm’s way.
It started when my husband came home from work one day and turned on football. (Our son loves football.) As the game played, they spent the commercials playing pretend football on the floor running, and tossing the ball back and forth to keep Sam interested.
Sammy pancake cannot actually catch the ball. It bounces off his belly. He’s no prodigy yet; he is only one. This gave me much-needed time to catch up on the Eiffel Tower of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. I wasn’t complaining…yet.
I had no idea what kind of monster was being created while this harmless game of catch was playing out.
Shortly after, and a few evening football games later, everything became a ball. Seriously, everything.
It became a regular occurrence for my one-year-old to assault me with random airborne objects. Tonka Trucks, sippy cups, cell phones, blocks, cardboard baby books, and the X-Box controller all became a few of many things I found myself dodging daily.
I felt like I was in 6th grade again playing dodgeball. I just wanted to get pegged in the leg so I could be “out.” Unfortunately, there is no “out” with a one-year-old, and a partially filled bottle of Fiji water is a far cry from a squishy dodge ball. Who knew he could learn how to target his aim so quickly?
In the beginning I thought that it was just a phase. After a week and a scratched cornea, it was a problem. So I started to address the issue. We sat down together and I tried to explain to Sam that you only throw balls in the living room (that my husband so kindly promoted) or outside.
After some lengthy explanation, he later started to walk around his play corner and pick up things to show me.
“Ball!” he would say, as he picked up each thing over his head proudly in ready-to-hurl position.
“No, Pancake, that is not a ball.”
He hobbled around, picked up a few more things, asked if each was a ball, then set most of them down when they were not. He still wasn’t quite getting the point. However, the number of things soaring through the air had been decreased, so I still felt like I was winning the battle – a little.
Last night we were sitting down watching a football game when we were rudely interrupted by a actual leather-skin football smacking my husband in the face with impressive force.
It was a throw that was 100x better than any Peyton Manning has ever made. Maybe I am a little biased because I’m his mom. It was still one of the best throws I have ever seen him make. It wasn’t thrown at my face, and it was an actual ball.
Now, he is a prodigy.