I played soccer with The Kid this evening, and learned much from a 3 year old.
Well, first, we played some freaky version of golf/soccer/hockey which seemed to involve me hitting the golf ball into the cup, as directed by The Kid, as sabotaged by The Kid kicking the ball at random intervals, and The Kid the caddy choosing as my club a hockey stick. The Kid loves any sport involving "da ball," as do most men, and doesn't much care which "da ball" it is.
When I had succeeded against all odds in actually putting the balls into the cup (yay me), I suggested to The Kid that we make more of a soccer field than a golf course, as I was not particularly enamored of this golf course design. He said, "okay," and proceeded to run the Fisher Price popcorn popper on a stick and wheels (you know, every kid in the history of ever has one of these things, what the hell are they?) across the floor and let me do the work of cleaning up the floor and make some sort of goal.
"Are you mowing the lawn for the soccer field, Kid?"
He looked at me with utter pity and put his hand tenderly on my leg.
"No," he said, very seriously, and with great concern. "I'm just pushing this. The grass is outside. This is my playroom."
Glad you live in reality, Kid. I don't. Hope you like it there...
Little piker scored four goals on me and wore me out, too.