Thursday, May 12, 2011
Should I stay or should I go?
Should I stay or should I go? It was the question I asked myself at least a hundred times last Thursday as I attempted to choose between my boys and my husband.
It’s true, I knew we’d have conflicting schedules when our kids started going to school and playing ball. But it seems at this stage of the game, the two little boys are not the family members between which I had to choose.
It’s a crazy world we live in when we find that we’re too busy to witness every monumental milestone in the lives of our family members. Maybe we’re the ones who are crazy to think that doing so is even possible. Either way, it sure makes it hard on a mom when one of those big moments slips past us while we’re not watching.
Case in point, the unfolding of the events of the week of April 24. Regional Tournament Week. State Qualifying Week. Pre-season Little League Tournament Week. The names themselves--even to the not-so avid baseball follower--lead the reader to believe that at least one of these events is slightly less important in the overall big picture. That when a woman looks at things somewhat objectively, celebrating the professional achievement of her husband is just as important as watching her sons play in one of at least a hundred (lifetime), fifty-minute, coach pitch games. So, on this occasion, I decided to stay.
Yet, even as I was unloading their ball bags and giving them warnings to use their manners, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something urging me to change my mind. I ignored the feeling and instead kissed them both and told them to play hard and warned them of Mr. Wootton’s metal-studded belt that he keeps hidden under his car seat, should they decide to get crazy while no one was looking.
And off we went, in our separate directions. Me to our second home with the red, metal fence, and the boys to Mangum to try and get their first win of the season.
So there I was, enjoying a beautiful evening of high school baseball with no interruptions. No quelling of disputes; no wiping of bottoms or snotty noses; no doling out snacks during the game’s most crucial inning. I glanced at the time and decided I’d call to check on their progress. I almost choked on a mouthful of seeds at what I heard.
“Did we win?” I texted to Mr. Wootton. His response brought tears to my eyes.
“Barely-Coop hit a homerun.”
BAM. Right in the kisser. That’s the feeling this hyphenated bit of good news brought to the mommy.
“Noooooooo! And I missed it! BAD Mommy. Yea for Coop and team,” I responded.
As I sat, beaming from afar, I couldn’t help feel the disappointment of missing my kid’s moment. I knew Cooper could have cared less if I was there. He was pumped that he got to ride with a friend, and playing baseball is what he lives for. Me being there or here wouldn’t make it any more or less of a thrill for him. But the mom is supposed to see this kind of stuff, and so I was feeling a bit of the “shame on you” finger pointing in my direction.
“You’ll see the next one,” came the comforting words of my most admired mommy-bestie. And while I believed and appreciated her words at the time, I had a feeling in my gut that she might not be altogether correct on that matter. Maybe I should have chosen to go.
I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least I didn’t miss Brisco’s first homer. And the team got their first win, so really it was good news all around…until the date and time of the next game was announced.
And there I was again. Fate had handed me a do-over. Given me a second chance to make the right decision. Would it be High School State Qualifier or loser’s bracket elimination game, coach pitch? Should I stay or should I go?
By late Friday afternoon, I had talked myself into sending the boys over early with a friend, and if all things were right in the universe, I would still be able to make game time. But as the wind blew harder, Dad’s game went longer, and by the time I left town and headed toward Mangum, the little boys had already taken the field. And the text read, “4-0. We’re up”
Are you kidding? Since when do tournament games start early?! But this one had, and as a mother, an aunt, two grandmothers and a great-grandma sped their way west, I was about to feel the sting of missing my oldest son’s in-the-parker just three days earlier magnified ten fold.
And the text read, “R u here? Coop grand slam!”
WHAT?! The baseball gods have turned against me! And as I scrambled for my phone, which I had just thrown to the floorboard in disgust, I found the inner strength to text, “AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! I’m going crazy in the back of my mom’s car! About five miles out.”
The response? “14-4. Better hurry.”
We pulled into the ballpark in the bottom of the third inning, just in time to see my three-foot, seven and one-quarter inch tall pitcher stop a hard grounder and throw it to my outstretched, left-handed first baseman. Oh, the pride.
As it turned out, we were able to see the last inning and a half of the game. I witnessed several textbook grounders and catches, and even a couple mistakes and bad calls. What I didn’t realize until we were on our way home was what I had missed.
My telephone rang as we sat at the Sonic waiting for our late-night supper. It was my surrogate mom for the evening, just making sure my little guy shared with us his news. As it turned out, things could have been worse. I’d missed my little Brisco’s very first homerun.
It was an inside-the-parker, and the details were sketchy, but he’d definitely made it from home to home on a shot down the third base line that the left fielder had to chase to the fence. Way to go, B!
Being proud of our children can do crazy things to us parents. A 1-3 out I’ve seen a million and one times. Legging out a hit that barely clears the dirt in front of the catcher. A missed call by an umpire that has a direct effect on the outcome of the game. All these things seem to have a different effect on a mother when it’s one of her kids who is doing them. And being unable to witness it all first hand is almost unbearable.
Should I have stayed? Should I have gone? Both really moot points at this stage of the game. But if I had it to do over again? I might reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It’s true, I knew we’d have conflicting schedules when our kids started going to school and playing ball. But it seems at this stage of the game, the two little boys are not the family members between which I had to choose.
It’s a crazy world we live in when we find that we’re too busy to witness every monumental milestone in the lives of our family members. Maybe we’re the ones who are crazy to think that doing so is even possible. Either way, it sure makes it hard on a mom when one of those big moments slips past us while we’re not watching.
Case in point, the unfolding of the events of the week of April 24. Regional Tournament Week. State Qualifying Week. Pre-season Little League Tournament Week. The names themselves--even to the not-so avid baseball follower--lead the reader to believe that at least one of these events is slightly less important in the overall big picture. That when a woman looks at things somewhat objectively, celebrating the professional achievement of her husband is just as important as watching her sons play in one of at least a hundred (lifetime), fifty-minute, coach pitch games. So, on this occasion, I decided to stay.
Yet, even as I was unloading their ball bags and giving them warnings to use their manners, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something urging me to change my mind. I ignored the feeling and instead kissed them both and told them to play hard and warned them of Mr. Wootton’s metal-studded belt that he keeps hidden under his car seat, should they decide to get crazy while no one was looking.
And off we went, in our separate directions. Me to our second home with the red, metal fence, and the boys to Mangum to try and get their first win of the season.
So there I was, enjoying a beautiful evening of high school baseball with no interruptions. No quelling of disputes; no wiping of bottoms or snotty noses; no doling out snacks during the game’s most crucial inning. I glanced at the time and decided I’d call to check on their progress. I almost choked on a mouthful of seeds at what I heard.
“Did we win?” I texted to Mr. Wootton. His response brought tears to my eyes.
“Barely-Coop hit a homerun.”
BAM. Right in the kisser. That’s the feeling this hyphenated bit of good news brought to the mommy.
“Noooooooo! And I missed it! BAD Mommy. Yea for Coop and team,” I responded.
As I sat, beaming from afar, I couldn’t help feel the disappointment of missing my kid’s moment. I knew Cooper could have cared less if I was there. He was pumped that he got to ride with a friend, and playing baseball is what he lives for. Me being there or here wouldn’t make it any more or less of a thrill for him. But the mom is supposed to see this kind of stuff, and so I was feeling a bit of the “shame on you” finger pointing in my direction.
“You’ll see the next one,” came the comforting words of my most admired mommy-bestie. And while I believed and appreciated her words at the time, I had a feeling in my gut that she might not be altogether correct on that matter. Maybe I should have chosen to go.
I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least I didn’t miss Brisco’s first homer. And the team got their first win, so really it was good news all around…until the date and time of the next game was announced.
And there I was again. Fate had handed me a do-over. Given me a second chance to make the right decision. Would it be High School State Qualifier or loser’s bracket elimination game, coach pitch? Should I stay or should I go?
By late Friday afternoon, I had talked myself into sending the boys over early with a friend, and if all things were right in the universe, I would still be able to make game time. But as the wind blew harder, Dad’s game went longer, and by the time I left town and headed toward Mangum, the little boys had already taken the field. And the text read, “4-0. We’re up”
Are you kidding? Since when do tournament games start early?! But this one had, and as a mother, an aunt, two grandmothers and a great-grandma sped their way west, I was about to feel the sting of missing my oldest son’s in-the-parker just three days earlier magnified ten fold.
And the text read, “R u here? Coop grand slam!”
WHAT?! The baseball gods have turned against me! And as I scrambled for my phone, which I had just thrown to the floorboard in disgust, I found the inner strength to text, “AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! I’m going crazy in the back of my mom’s car! About five miles out.”
The response? “14-4. Better hurry.”
We pulled into the ballpark in the bottom of the third inning, just in time to see my three-foot, seven and one-quarter inch tall pitcher stop a hard grounder and throw it to my outstretched, left-handed first baseman. Oh, the pride.
As it turned out, we were able to see the last inning and a half of the game. I witnessed several textbook grounders and catches, and even a couple mistakes and bad calls. What I didn’t realize until we were on our way home was what I had missed.
My telephone rang as we sat at the Sonic waiting for our late-night supper. It was my surrogate mom for the evening, just making sure my little guy shared with us his news. As it turned out, things could have been worse. I’d missed my little Brisco’s very first homerun.
It was an inside-the-parker, and the details were sketchy, but he’d definitely made it from home to home on a shot down the third base line that the left fielder had to chase to the fence. Way to go, B!
Being proud of our children can do crazy things to us parents. A 1-3 out I’ve seen a million and one times. Legging out a hit that barely clears the dirt in front of the catcher. A missed call by an umpire that has a direct effect on the outcome of the game. All these things seem to have a different effect on a mother when it’s one of her kids who is doing them. And being unable to witness it all first hand is almost unbearable.
Should I have stayed? Should I have gone? Both really moot points at this stage of the game. But if I had it to do over again? I might reconsider.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)