His bat makes contact with the ball unexpectedly and we all pause for a shocked breath before the yelling starts, “Run, Garrett, Run!”
He doesn’t run, he meanders. He checks his shoe. He smiles at his imagined cheering fans. On first base, he kneels and plucks at grass stems while his more competitive teammates watch the ball and learn to make plays, catch and throw. From the side of the baseball field, I smile and fight my inner cringe. He is 6. It’s a game. He’s having fun.
“Do you like baseball?” I ask for the tenth time, my after game ritual. He is never where he is told to be. I fear the thinly veiled annoyance of the coach and the other parents, and even my own exasperation.
Read more on my struggles with baseball on Mamalode this week. (Garrett isn’t struggling at all.)
On Mamapop, I mocked dumb things celebrities said about parenting this week. THANK GOD no one mocks the dumb things I say about parenting. Except Matt. Who dealt with a horrific bloody split lip while I was not drinking wine with my girlfriends last night, but left the gory, murder-scene like bloody-handprint door and blood-smeared floors and sheets for me. Your watch for child emergency bleeding, your watch for clean-up. That’s how it works, Matt. Unless we’re talking dog puke and then it’s ALWAYS Matt’s clean up. I just cover that shit up with a towel so it doesn’t gag me and carry on with my day.
In regular life news, thank you. Seriously, thank you. Your comments and tweets and facebook messages and emails made this whole new baby thing seem more real and even more exciting. I expected (and probably deserved) at least one “are you crazy” or “why are you killing our planet” mixed in with the joy, but you guys are pure joy. xoxo.