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Kat Spitzer The Happy Hypochondriac www.happyhypochondriac.com
Yesterday I shelled out a small fortune for a crazy, huge and scary looking contraption. A lacrosse helmet for the head of my sweet, innocent, perfect five-year-old son. To me it looks like it came straight out of a horror movie. He loves it because he thinks it makes him look like an extreme dirt biker. Fantastic. I am so in for it. When I think of him playing lacrosse, all I can think of are crushed bones, a broken neck, maybe a severed spinal chord, among numerous cuts and bruises. But around here, it is a major regional sport. I would feel guilty if I didn't at least let him try it. Of course when we were at the store to purchase this fine piece of protective equipment, my two-year-old daughter spotted the pink sticks and has now vowed to play lacrosse as well "probably when I am older." More great news for a mom who considers herself the proud owner of a weak heart (the doctors swear my heart is fine).
So, I will suck it up, cheer my children on with all of their endeavors (no matter how terrifying) and probably mostly watch through a web of fingers. Like in a horror movie. A movie my son can now star in.
