So, I have been trying to figure out how to get to Honduras this year.
The airlines are messing with me. And now Baseball is messing with me.
I discovered recently that The Littlest Angel’s very first ever T Ball game (so first ever game in an organized sport) is the Saturday I was supposed to leave for my fishing vacation. That also means that my Oldest’s first ever pitch ball game will no doubt be the same weekend.
My first thought was “Damn. I really wanted to go to Honduras this year!” We would be staying in the most beautiful house ever: giant deck sweeping out over your private island towards the sea. I had a really good shot at multiple bone fish and maybe even a permit this year.
Am I crazy? (Debbie – not because I like to fish on my vacation)
I just can’t see myself lounging on the deck of that beautiful house while my baby is taking his first official swings in a Mariner’s uniform. I would be miserable. I might forever regret missing The Littlest Angel’s first trip across home plate, or my Oldest’s first official hit. Maybe their first official something grand. I just don’t think I can do it.
I missed Jack’s first home run. We dropped him off and came back to the game later. During my absence he hit his first long ball. I still hate that I didn’t see it.
There will be a thousand firsts in the boys’ lives that I will miss. I won’t be around when they ask a girl out on a date for the first time. I won’t be at their first kegger. If I’m lucky, they will bother to tell me about them; but I assume that I will forever be in the dark about the majority of their firsts. For some, that’s exactly how I want it to be.
But I can be a part of these little firsts. They want me to be a part of them.
Everyone I told about the scheduling conflict immediately assumed that I would go anyway. Any sane person wouldn’t give up 4 days in the tropics to sit through a T Ball game. Any sane person would watch the video when they got home and tell the boys about how proud they are of them. Or they would reschedule the fishing trip (oh, if only that were possible!).
But I am not a sane person. A mixture of maternal guilt, a deep abiding love of baseball, and an even deeper, more abiding love for my boys will most likely keep me Stateside.
Yes. I am crazy.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.