I had been in practice about 3 years, and was taking care of some great patients. One of those patients had children who played baseball/softball, and she spoke with lots of enthusiasm about all the time they spent at the ballfield, and hauling coolers and bags and chairs to and from the fields. She loved spending time watching her kids play the sport, and seemed to not mind the effort and work put into it.
At the time, I thought she was crazy. That was fun? Spending time going to and from this place, 2-3 nights a week, every weekend, no free time, always having to be doing something, having practice all the time…I wanted no part of that.
So fast forward 17 years…yep, you guessed it. Monkey and Caboose love baseball, live baseball, Caboose sleeps with his stinking glove. Monkey is in his fourth year of it, and this is Caboose’s rookie season. Caboose looked at me 2 days ago and said, with an ear-splitting grin on his face, “Mommy, I play basheball today, and I am so happy!” (Caboose has a slight speech issue so it makes his comment that much cuter).
I’m glad he’s happy. Really. Because one of us should be. See, I am not a baseball mom. I am a “me” mom. I do not like anything that takes away from my time. I do not like anything that takes away from my “home” time, the time I get to spend at home with the boys, doing nothing or something, and having time to cook and do laundry. Not that I really like laundry or cooking, but I like being home to do that more than I like being at a baseball field. Yes, I said it. I went there.
Hubs, on the other hand, loves this time. He and I were “discussing” (not arguing) the time constraints associated with this season, and when I said, “we will have no family time the next 2 months”, he said, “that’s what this is, is family time, being at the ball field together.” Ummm, maybe to some people.
Caboose asks every morning, “Do I play basheball today?” I got to sleep in Tuesday morning because of spring break, and I heard Caboose ask this question. He called his dad Thursday morning after spending the night with grands, at 7 AM, and asked, “Dada, do I play basheball today?”
Tonight, I worked till 6, made it to Monkey’s game by 6:30, and it started pouring rain by 6:45. I am not that mom. I ran to my car as soon as it started sprinkling, griping the whole way, and then realized…
IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, TINA!!!!
It’s not about me. And boy, is that hard to swallow. I see all these moms and dads who love this lifestyle, and really encourage their children and support them 100%, and I feel sorry for my kids. I am not that mom. Monkey plays at 9 AM tomorrow morning and again at either 12 or 1:30, and I am trying to justify staying at home to get everything done I need to get done for the weekend and make it to the afternoon game.
I am not that mom. My poor kids. So when I told Hubs my dilemma, about staying home or going to the game, he said, “Well, just stay home and come after lunch.” He doesn’t care. And that’s the cool thing, Hubs really doesn’t. He loves the boys’ love for sports, and he does whatever he has to, to make sure they can do what they want, as far as playing ball goes.
But…I think about Monkey. I haven’t seen him play because I am always at Caboose’s practice. Monkey will say it doesn’t matter that I am there tomorrow morning. But I know better. I know that if I am not there, he will question his importance in my life. And so will I, truth be known.
So, I am going to “get a grip”, as I tell my boys when they start to whine about something, and I am going to be at every game Monkey plays tomorrow, even if it means I have sticky floors, undone paperwork and mounds of laundry. I will probably gripe about it to their dad, Hubs, and he will listen without judgment, which is why I love him so very much. And I will be present for my middle son, who needs his mama, whether he wants to admit it or not. I believe that kids shouldn’t think they are the center of the universe, but they deserve to think that their Mom believes they are the Center of Her Universe, no matter how much she has to get a grip.