We foolishly signed Hanna up for “kids tennis” when she was four, the same age Ellie is now.

Hanna arrived at kids tennis where she was the only four year old in a group of ten or eleven twelve year olds. Can anyone say “special project?”

We knew we had a problem on our hands when our four year old was slower, less interested and with an attention span shorter than the tennis ball. She was becoming increasingly discouraged, the other kids were annoyed at the attention she was robbing from them but, apparently Schlotzhauers aren’t quitters so we arrived week after week, throwing her to the wolves.

Skip ahead three years and we have  a taller, stronger, faster Hanna and an eager, younger, less co-ordinated, happy to be awarded a participant badge, four year old sidekick sister.

Hanna throws her racket in frustration if her technique isn’t perfect. She shouts things like, “Oh my Jesus goodness!” before glancing at me and saying, “Oh my goodness Jesus?” Close enough, she’s angry.

Ellie clumsily skips along and accepts her role as ball collector with a grin and a wave to her new fans.

Hanna masters getting the ball over the net but refuses to crack a smile.

Ellie giggles when her running shoes fall off during the run-around warm-up.

Hanna complains the strings on her racket have been tampered with and have negatively affected the tension.

Ellie trips over her racket while asked to observe from a distance, proof that giving her an apparatus of any kind simply complicates things but luckily she’s engrossed in her new trick, making a grid on her face by pressing with all her might into the strings.

Hanna is relieved tennis lessons are over for another year.

Ellie asks if she’ll have to wait an entire year to be able to play air guitar on her tennis racket again while shouting, “Mommy, look, my tongue has squares on it!”