The Favorite Child

May 12, 2010

Last night, against my will, James had a t-ball game. Please note: I have absolutely nothing against the fine sport of t-ball. But on a school night? That's when I go from happy, happy mom to bitter, tortured fan. (how's that for unnecessarily dramatic?)

You see, weeknights are absolutely insane around this house. Jared usually doesn't roll into the garage until 7 o'clockish, and by that point, I'm already sitting in my car, engine on, waiting for the obligatory thumbs up so I can screech over to my 7 o'clock meeting by 7:03. Honestly, this happens at least twice a week.

As we're switching spots in the driveway, we like to scream compliments at each other. Jared'll be like, "Good luck at your meeting, love! Your boobs look great in the shirt!"And I'm all, "The kids already ate dinner, babe! Great job buying me these new shoes this afternoon!"

Family Home Evening is even more impressive right now. I'll start the lesson by saying something like, "Tonight, I want to tell you that Jesus..." And that's the moment my husband flies in the door from his commute and jumps in with, "...loves you a lot." And before he gets to the "Amen" I'm halfway to town hall.

That's my extremely long and drawn out way of letting you know that our weeknights are straight-up hectic right now. There's no way I'd sign James up for any activities that happen during the week--but you know, when it pours on Saturday morning, t-ball happens on Tuesday nights. Whatchagonnado?

We pulled up to the field, right in the nick of time, and Jared ushered James over the bench while I took Maggie out of her car seat. It was a beautiful night, and honest-to-goodness I was thrilled to watch James do the robot instead of playing second base. It's the getting there that stresses me out.

Once we were all settled in, the game was a riot. Kids were running in the wrong direction, taking off their shoes pooping in the pants--I love t-ball. Then, just as I was cheering for James while he was taking his fifth swing up at bat, a little girl weaved toward me like a miniature drunk sailor, and crashed into my legs.

She was blond, she was shy, and she was holding onto a pair of very thick, very broken glasses. The poor thing couldn't see past the end of her nose.

I squatted down to her eye level and said, "Aw, your glasses are broken. Do you need help finding your Mom?"

She replied with, "Yeah, I need help. My mom's the one wearing sunglasses."

I did a quick scan of the field and determined that there were at least forty-two moms wearing sunglasses. No problem.

"Okay," I said, "there are lots of moms wearing sunglasses tonight. Can you tell me anything else about your mom?"

She hesitated for a minute, hemmed, hawed, and as we walked across the field she finally said, "She's a little bit plumpy. That means a little bit fat." Then she stopped walking, looked me bang in the eye and said, "But we really can't tell her that."

I was bummed out when we found her mother--I really wanted to keep her.