Ya’know…Baseball, Basketball, Football….
….Balls. Boys love them and we parents get to experience the joy of ushering the man children around to all of their ball activities.
Which is where I’ve been these last two plus months. On ball duty. I think I have breathed and bathed in enough dirt and line chalk to make an asthmatic kill themselves. More nights than not, going home seemed pointless and if I didn’t have to wash a
stupid WHITE Baseball uniform Every. Single. Day. I would’ve camped right on the grounds thus beginning the first occupy Ball field.
But we (ball sports involve the entire family and my youngest began to manifest demons at the mere mention of ball, field or game) survived and the team made history in their undefeated win of 4 straight championships and runner-up in the Pony East Zone tournament.
My teenage baller is an animal and managed to break 7 (I stopped counting after the 7th hit to my bank account) bats this season. He had a great year and
almost made it worth the monetary and kronos investment.
Take a look at the consuming, cheesy posed ball life taken by my convenient cell phone. I’m not one of those “good mothers” who not only washes but iron starches her son’s uniform with pure joy, brings home-baked snacks for all of the exhausted boys and parents, has her Nikon ready (complete with telescopic lens to capture each bead of sweat), bounces across the field like Tigger amped on the now regulated cough meds, offers to car pool endlessly, dresses her entire family in coordinated team spirit wear, and screams non-stop without suffering any damage to her vocal cords. Okay, so maybe this exact woman doesn’t exist but I’ve met some that come pretty sickening close.
I hatefully throw the uniform in the machine and pray it comes out partially clean (secretly envisioning the day when it will blaze on my bon fire). Iron? My youngest didn’t even recognize one in the store. I barely bake for my own children and certainly do not plan to torture myself for offspring that are not my own. My cell phone captures the moment with enough grainy haze that if you felt the need to see a drop of sweat then one could certainly be imagined. I have to down coffee laced with regulated cough syrup just to function so field bouncing isn’t in my routine. I can barely get my own DNA to where they need to be and adding others into the mix would be a suicide mission on wheels. Coordinated team spirit wear?! My family considers themselves fortunate to have daily clean wear and matching socks is a huge bonus (the only coordination they know). The last time I tried to scream for my son, I choked on my spit and bronchospasmed.
It was a sadistically fun ride. Now we are getting ready for the start of school and more ball activities ahead.
Boys and their balls. The infatuation never ends.