‘Tis the season again. It’s time for spring sports. I’ve got only two playing sports this spring. That’s a relief. One year I remember having four sons playing and every one was in a different league. The oldest was playing in a league where they traveled out of town, so games were in nearby communities. The next youngest played games at a couple different locations and he decided not far into the season that he didn’t really want to play and from then on it wasn’t fun for any of us. The next one was pretty into it. He was a catcher and it was at the age where things start getting competitive. And the next youngest was in T-ball, which is just so fun to watch. It was just a lot to keep up with and an exhausting three months.
Last year my oldest had aged out of the league and none of the younger ones were interested in playing. I decided not to push it. It was a much more relaxed spring, but I really did miss sitting in the bleachers watching the games.
This year, I’ve got just my youngest playing baseball. His older brother has since taken up soccer, so with that added into the mix, it is a rare day when there is not either a practice or a game for one of them. Some days things are so hectic I want to pull my hair out, but most days, I’m just really savoring and cherishing it. I know it won’t last long. Nothing does. And kids grow so fast. I know I’ll miss it when no one is playing little league anymore.
So, this is for the other moms who are in my shoes, but wouldn’t have it any other way:
You know you’re a baseball mom when:
Folding chairs become permanent fixtures in your car.
You’re constantly wiping scuff marks off the floor from cleats being worn in the house (even though you tell them over and over NOT to wear them in the house.)
You realize you should have bought stock in Gatorade.
You hear the “hey, batter, batter…” chants in your head even when you’re not at the ball field.
Your washing machine is constantly running to keep uniforms clean for the next game.
You keep your purse stocked with Band-aids, sunblock and hand sanitizer.
In a week’s time you can be both wrapped in a blanket on the sidelines seeing your own breath AND getting sunburned around your flip flop marks under a scorching sun.
You get an overwhelming sense of panic during the second inning wondering if it’s your day to be snack mom and you forgot to bring the Angry Birds graham crackers and Capri Sun.
You’d rather take in a Pee Wee game than a major league game.
Your young son hopes to get hit in the crotch to put his cup to good use.
Dinner time means one of three things: Eating dinner by 4:00 so you can get to the field on time, eating dinner at 8:45 after you roll in the door after a game or your most common meal becomes a container of nachos or a giant pretzel at the concession stand.