A food Ball, a big piece of round chocolate, carefully wrapped in golden, glittery paper, fell out of my son’s mouth. Plunk!.. It fell to the ground, lost its pride and shape.

I picked up my son’s attitude, left the shapeless ball of chocolate on the ground to suffer humility. My son was caught in the emotional turbulence there, between a refrigerator and my husband. I couldn’t perform my mommy stunt to save my son. Nay, it doesn’t work that way, I thought in my red, swollen head. Instead, I became a clutch to my son’s soft, naïve pink cheeks. He leaned on me as he suffered a slap from my husband a blink ago.

All he did was ask the man of the house for one more chocolate!

So, the food ball was out of his mouth.

What came into his life? A ball for his feet! My husband kicked a football towards my son. “Kick it,” he commanded.

My son was confused about the definition of love in that micro moment. Was giving the nature of love? Or scooping happiness out of children was love? Was mom’s kiss, along with a “good night”, at night a sign of love? Or was the act of Dad throwing away his favourite chocolate called love?

He didn’t know what to do with the black-and-white ball rolling towards him under the chandelier in the bright new hall, anyway!  Like a dog, he gyrated around the strange new ball in the room. He sniffed his parents’ minds that were wrapped around the ball. We had plans to send him for the football coaching that evening!

 Later, we plugged our ears with cotton balls to block his echoing screams. His screams boomeranged between the walls. This time, we were determined to send him for the football coaching. We packed his studs, combed his hair and walked with our parents’ pride.

He ran next to us, crying, pleading with us that he didn’t want to get hit by a ball, that he had never dreamed of a ball near his feet.

He said, “I hate all kinds of balls!” My husband couldn’t hide his laughter. He busted.

“I won’t run after a petty thing called a ball”, he shouted. We learnt his ego was hurt.

He asked for popcorn, orange juice, waffle on the way to the football center.

We ended up kissing him more and telling him “no more food balls”!

“Just Football!”