I wish I could describe and recount the many fun and exciting things that have happened here in the last two months, but really what we’ve mostly done is watched/played/practiced baseball. Hours and hours and hours of our lives this Spring have been spent at baseball fields. I feel I should probably get used to this phenomenon, as it is highly unlikely to change in the coming years. Not as long as I live with these three. And their father.
On the bright side, there is almost nothing my boys love as much as they love baseball. So despite the fact that we eat bagged lunches just about every single Saturday and Sunday, despite the fact that I have an impressive and unwanted t-shirt-and-sunglasses tan already, despite the fact that there is a fine layer of red-baseball-field-dust covering my car and house, despite the fact that my kitchen sink is occupied at least two nights a week by white baseball pants that have to soak in hot water and stain remover in order to remain white, I am enjoying it. Come hell or high water, I will enjoy it.
I’m soaking in their excitement. I’m embracing the sunflower seeds they constantly spit all over the ground, the bazooka gum they are chomping whenever their mouths are not occupied by the aforementioned seeds, and the numerous hot dogs we’ve purchased when the healthy snacks I pack for every game are eaten before the second inning ends.
Although all three boys are playing baseball, B is playing soccer. So I get to watch her play an hour a weekend, then I get to sit and chat with her for the seven-plus-hours we sit together watching baseball. She can’t escape me, sitting there on the sidelines of the ball field, and so we chat. We laugh at the boys. We discuss Harry Potter. We contemplate the best kind of rainbow loom bracelets. We debate the appropriate age to have your first cell phone. It’s important stuff, I tell you.
Don’t get me wrong, I complain. I cringe at how many times I’ve had to fill my gas tank this month after driving across two counties to watch ball games every weekend. I am completely OVER packing lunches. I regularly curse the coach who chose white pants for the uniforms. It’s not all sunshine and roses.
But these little boys are getting big fast, and my girl, closing in on double digits, won’t be willing to sit and chat with me all day for very much longer. I’m doing my best, though I fail regularly enough, to enjoy these crazy, hectic days. I know they’ll be over in a metaphorical blink of an eye and I’ll look back and miss them.
So I cheer, I encourage, I watch with bated breath as my 7-year old pitches against kids three years older and two feet taller than him. I discuss the merits of neon rainbow loom bands versus sparkly rainbow loom bands. I pack peanut butter and jelly and apples and string cheese and homemade granola bars. And I do my best, every day, to not take for granted all these hours at the godforsaken baseball field.