About five years ago on a sunny Saturday, I took my three boys to the local baseball field to enroll my eldest, Max, who was just five at the time, in spring baseball. While I was trying to figure out which size cap and baseball pants to select for him, a couple of coaches wandered over to me.
“How old is that little guy?” one coach inquired, gesturing towards my second son, Oliver. “Does he play?”
I glanced up, balancing my newborn, asleep in a carrier on my chest. “Uh, he’s 3,” I answered, slightly bewildered. “No, he doesn’t play… anything.” Except for pretend battles in the backyard, I thought to myself.
“Wow,” said one of the coaches, nodding enthusiastically. “Which high school are you zoned for? I coach football at the local school. Let me know when he’s ready to join!” I stood there, slightly stunned, and gently guided my boys away from the enthusiastic coaches who seemed eager to recruit my preschooler for high school football a decade too soon.
Once upon a time in Spain, there was a little bull named Leo.
Now, at eight years old, Oliver has been asking for The Tale of Leo the Bull by Munro Leaf as his bedtime story every night. I read it to him and to Max, the baby who once snuggled in the carrier, and they often finish my sentences for me.
While the other little bulls would run, jump, and butt heads, Leo preferred to sit quietly and enjoy the flowers.
When Oliver turned four, we thought soccer would be the perfect sport for him. It seemed like a great introductory activity, especially since some of his preschool friends were playing. He was thrilled to wear the team jersey and have a group to play with. However, every Saturday, he would slowly walk onto the field instead of running. While his coaches shouted, “Go after the ball! Get to the ball! Run, Oliver!” he would instead wander over to me, asking, “Is it snack time yet?” His coaches’ enthusiasm dwindled as he didn’t kick the ball even once that season. However, he did savor the cupcake and trophy he received at the end.
Sometimes, his mother, who was a cow, fretted about him.
At six, we thought we had found Oliver’s calling—swimming. With a father who swam in high school and college, it seemed natural for him to follow suit. We enrolled the boys in a year-round swim team, attending practices three times a week. Yet while the other kids perfected their strokes and raced toward the wall, Oliver preferred to float, dip, and occasionally dive like a dolphin. His young coach’s voice echoed through the lanes: “Hey Oliver, what are you doing? Oliver? How about freestyle?” But Oliver was often lost in his own world, swimming to a different rhythm—perhaps a slow reggae beat.
But Leo would shake his head, saying, “I enjoy it here, where I can just sit quietly and smell the flowers.”
Eventually, Oliver stopped swimming. He dabbled in karate and tried flag football. This year, we found a cartooning class he absolutely adores at the local art school every Saturday morning, along with a single hour of group tennis each week.
Oliver is tall and broad, resembling a natural athlete—perhaps a future lineman or water polo player. Yet, he longs to spend his afternoons at home, creating imaginative worlds with his drawings, playing in the backyard, or indulging in Minecraft with his brothers. It takes a lot of patience in today’s competitive environment to embrace his unique interests without feeling pressured to conform. I sometimes experience a twinge of anxiety when I hear about his classmates and their travel teams, game-winning goals, and new personal bests. I wonder if Oliver is missing out or if I should encourage him more.
His mother understood that he wasn’t lonely, and being a caring cow, she allowed him to find joy in simply being himself.
What we’ve come to realize is that Oliver isn’t interested in competitive sports, and that’s perfectly okay. He embodies the spirit of Leo the Bull—content to explore his creativity rather than chase a ball. While I wish for him to be active and enjoy sports, I appreciate that he is developing a skill in tennis that will serve him well throughout his life. Despite resembling the athlete that coaches dream of, he is not that kid, and we’ve come to accept that wholeheartedly. There’s a place in the world for the Leo’s, and he is a talented artist and storyteller. He is comfortable in his own skin, and most importantly, he embraces who he is.
“This is my favorite part,” he beams as I turn the page in the soft glow of his bedroom light.
And for all I know, he is still sitting there under his favorite tree, quietly savoring the flowers. He is very happy.
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In summary, navigating the world of parenting can be challenging, especially when children don’t fit into traditional molds. Embracing and celebrating their individuality, as seen through Oliver’s journey, is key to fostering their happiness and creativity.