Can’t blame anyone who had given up on me. Sorry for the huge gap. It isn’t as if nothing has happened: O-man took a misstep in his spelling bee (spelled howl beautifully, but the word was hobbled), J had his very first orchestra concert (not as cringe-inducing as one might have thought), the boys made dinner one night (fried bologna, scrambled eggs, strawberries, carrots, and pistachios), and the Golden Globes were on (have not watched them yet, so don’t tell me who won). Then there was also the ground-swaying news that you are no longer supposed to put two spaces after a period. I am struggling. Struggling!
The most recent thing to happen in my world was baseball signups. Every year, in the bowels of winter, the OPYB/S association makes us haul our collective asses to a park district building, utility bill and birth certificates in hand, to make sure the Terrors all get a spot on some poor, unsuspecting Coach’s roster.
The older boys had to choose between try out ball, and the “non competitive” league. That always makes me laugh, because if there is one thing all baseball is, it is competitive. The nice thing about the “n-c” league is that when J said he wanted to try catching last year, his coach let him catch. That would almost NEVER happen in the try out league. So, I prefer they play ball for fun. Plus, this will almost guarantee that they’ll be on the same team.
The real surprise this year was the Rookie. I was asking the older Terrors which league they wanted to be in, and he proclaimed that he wasn’t playing tball this year. He was playing soccer. After the older two revived me I had a nice little talk with the Rookie about how it would be the same Coach, and almost all the same kids. I gave him a rousing pep talk and he said he would play this year, but that was it.
How he can share my genetic material and not want to play baseball is beyond me. It is America’s game. It is the hands down best reason for being outside with a beer and a hot dog. And for every time it breaks your heart, it lifts you up again. Soccer…not so much.
The real problem with the Rookie skipping t ball is that I would miss my friends. I look so forward to seeing all the Moms and Dads that it would break my heart to know that they were watching and socializing without me. What if the soccer Moms looked down on bringing sangria to the evening games? What if all of them only cared about watching the game? Who would I talk to? I don’t know squat about soccer, and I worry I am too old to learn a new sport. I simply couldn’t bear to have one of the children know more about something than I do, not yet. No, that must not happen.
I talked him into just the one last year of t ball. I know it was selfish. If you could see me now you would see my head hanging in shame. But in the end he won’t even remember he wanted to play soccer. And it means so much to me. Aren’t I worth it?