My husband is busily imparting his love of golf to our boys. Their sister is interested, too, but the boys are especially enthralled–and B in particular. Last week the foam toy “hole” proved unable to replicate the magical effect they’ve seen on TV; they wanted the ball to fall into the hole rather than just rolling in like any old kids’ toy. Mama would have said, “Tough–deal with it.” Daddy dug a hole in the backyard.

So now we have a one-hole golf course in our yard, and the boys putt back and forth across the driveway. All three of the boys.

They are very solemn and focused. Toy balls are also no longer acceptable–and neither are the plastic practice balls. Regulation only, thank you, Mom.

Of all our kids, I think C looks most like his Daddy–most notably when he’s concentrating. They compress their lips in the exact same way. See it?

Gazing down the fairway. Note B sporting one of his Daddy’s baseball caps: the boys have each laid claim to one of his red caps and they will no longer share with him.

Watching the ball. Doesn’t B look like a miniature caddy?

B’s turn. He demonstrates correct form to me several times a day, apropos of nothing. “Mama, THIS is how they hit the ball on TV.” And he mimes a violent swing. Then he confides earnestly and a touch regretfully, “THIS is how WE hit the ball,” as he exhibits a modest tap. Clearly Daddy has been training them with the aim of preventing smashed windows and dented heads.

‘Atta boy.

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