We Won 11-7

"Mommy, we won 11-7," Cal told me as I walked toward him to give him knucks last Wednesday night, just minutes after he had finished playing his first official baseball game of what we hope will be many to come.

"I know!" I responded.  I really didn't know.  I figured we had won -- it just seemed like we had more baserunners over the course of our 4-inning game.  I certainly didn't know the score.  "I am SO PROUD of you, Cal!"

"I scored the winning run!" he added.

"You scored the 8th run?" I asked.  I couldn't help myself.  I knew what he meant.

"No, I scored the LAST run," he corrected me.

And then I took us down the path of explaining what a winning run really is and trying to make him understand that the last run isn't necessarily the winning run.  Goodness.  Just let it go, Mommy.  He's six.

I was proud of him.  Those weren't just empty words said just because I'm his mom and supposed to say that.  I was proud of him for so many reasons.

He first came to the plate after three others had batted and gotten on base.  Our righty

Cal Batting

who naturally bats lefty, he swung and either missed or fouled off the seven pitches that Dan threw to him, the last of which was a swing and a miss.  He struck out, or really just ran out of pitches.  The kids get 7 to hit one fair.  I cringed when it happened, only because I was afraid of his reaction.  Cal doesn't like it when things don't go how he wants or expects them to.  He doesn't like to fail.

His reaction was exactly what it should have been, one that a seasoned veteran would do knowing that even the best players actually fail 7 times out of 10, not that I'm suggesting Cal actually knew that.  He set his bat down, took his helmet off, grabbed his cap and then walked to the end of the line of his teammates who were standing on the sideline in their batting order.  And from there, he watched teammate after teammate get on base.

No tears. No loss of interest in what was going on in the game.  No apparent jealousy of the successes of his teammates.  And once we were done batting, he grabbed his glove and ran out to his 2nd-inning position -- shortstop -- to play some defense.

I was proud of Cal for handling his strikeout like a pro.

Father-Son, Coach-Player Pre-Game Selfie

I watched him, dressed head to toe in baseball gear.  Cap.  Green, Dry-Fit jersey.  White baseball pants with a green belt.  Green socks.  Cleats.  He looked like a ballplayer.  I wondered what he was thinking when he got dressed for his first game.  Was he nervous? Was he excited?  Was he proud?  Or was it an opportunity for him to play with his friends? I'll never know.  Even if I asked, I don't think he's yet capable of accurately recognizing and describing what he's feeling, what he's thinking.

I was that kid once.  And my parents were me.  All those years I played and they watched, I knew they were proud.  They told me.  I thought it was because I was a decent player, that I had some good games.  I realized Wednesday night it wasn't really that at all. All it took was me stepping on the field, taking a chance, trying, listening, interacting, just being me.

I was proud of him for just being on that field and participating.

When it came time for his second at-bat, I worried.  Just hit it fair, Cal.  He did -- just fair -- and reached base successfully.  I saw his smile from the other side of the field. He then stood at first, crouched and ready to run.  He wasn't standing upright.  He wasn't looking at the other game being played on the field behind him.  And as soon as the next batter hit the ball fair, Cal then then tentatively, awkwardly advanced to second safely, getting a little direction from the coach in the field. He's got so much to learn, and I'll get to witness the wonder of that.

I was proud of him for getting on base, flashing his beautiful smile and then running the bases how he thought he should.

I watched him throw on the catcher's gear with a little help from one of the "assistant" coaches.  There are a bunch of them, diminishing any role I could have with the team. I'll let others step up.  There are many who want to.  And that's fine with me.  Work's pretty crazy right now, anyway.  And, really, I just want to watch my kid play and my husband coach.  I just want to be a proud mom.  I'm on Ella duty anyway, which is a whole other story.  But I digress...

Cal Catching

A couple of weeks ago, Dan threw the catcher's gear on Cal who then "caught" while Ella batted and Dan pitched to her.  He hated every second of it and let us know it.  At that time, I really wasn't sure we'd ever see him in catcher's gear again.  That it happened so soon after the initial debacle with it, i.e. meltdown, surprised me.  I don't even remember how he did behind the plate -- I just remember he didn't complain.

I was proud of him for giving the catcher's gear another shot.

Cal ended up getting on base another time, which was in the inning where he scored the "winning" (11th) run.  He had a stint in the outfield, too, playing right-center field as well as anyone could (no balls came his way).  And between all of that, he cheered for and enjoyed the company of his teammates, fellow kindergarteners, all early and already at varying levels of abilities in their baseball careers.  I watched him run on and off the field between innings.  I watched him try to find his cap amongst a sea of caps without getting upset or frustrated.  I watched him then put his found cap in his glove and set it on the sideline so he'd know where to find it when he was done batting.  I watched him have fun playing the sport that both his father and I love so much.

I was one proud mom.  I'm smiling just thinking back and remembering it.

On Thursday morning, Cal drew this picture.  At the risk of being dramatic, I think it's very telling.  That he drew it tells me he's excited about playing baseball.  That he wrote all of the names of his teammates tells me he's a team player.  That he knew the score tells me he's proud of their win.

Cal's post-win drawing

79-0

It was my turn to take Cal to his swimming lesson last night and, on the flip side, Dan's turn to watch Ella and put her to bed all by himself.  This is the most ideal scenario -- while Ella and I both do enjoy our Mommy-and-Ella time, we're just a bad combination at bedtime.  I'm not sure why (probably because I've exposed some weakness to her that she's picked up on), but I am the person (victim?) she chooses to beat down at bedtime with incessant "I love yous," innumerable "I have something to tell yous" and just general dragging out of bedtime with just... one... more... request (demand?)... to make.  And this has happened enough that my tolerance for it is low and my reaction to it is generally overblown.

So when it's my turn to take Cal to swimming, there's an extra skip in my step.

Cal's swimming lesson went... well... swimmingly.  He's really made some good progress with the breast stroke, at least being able to execute the arms stroke and legs stroke (separately) correctly.  He worked hard during his lesson and was just a general joy to be around both before and after it.  This was a continuation of the day I was told that he had had -- his before-and-after-school teacher informed me when I picked him up that he had been a good listener and had repeatedly used good manners.  Needless to say, I was pleased; so I wanted to treat him to something different, just out of the blue.  The treat was a Culver's concrete mixer.

So we stopped at Culver's on our way home from swimming and ordered three concrete mixers -- one for Cal, one for Dan and one for me -- and then continued our way home. Worried about what might be in store for me early in that commute, I turned to Cal and said, "I sure hope Ella is in bed and asleep when we get home."

Cal's response was priceless.  Without skipping a beat, he replied, full of sarcasm, "And I hope the Canadiens are winning 79-0."

Yes, Cal, my hope did seem really unrealistic.

Turns out, it actually wasn't.

And the Canadiens lost.

The Meaning of 8:30

I got my run in this morning.  I had a window of slightly more than enough time to run my 3 miles before I knew Dan had to leave for a meeting at 8:30am, and I jumped on the opportunity. As I ran the second half of the last mile, I wondered if Dan was starting to get antsy that I wasn't home yet, which then led me to coming up with Dan's and my definitions of "leave at 8:30am."  Here's what I came up with:

Dan: Feel antsy that we're not ready to leave at 8:20am.  Start heading toward the door at 8:23am, with whatever and whomever is ready to go.  Wait (im)patiently for everyone else to catch up and wonder why it is everyone can't just leave on time.

Me: Work on any little thing that needs to get done in the house or for the trip until 8:30am.  Scramble to gather everything needed for wherever we're going, incent (which might involve some yelling) the kids to do the same and then make a mad dash for the car, 5... 10 minutes late.  There might be a chance we can still get to wherever we're going on time.

Then I wondered which one of us each of our kids would be like and concluded Cal will be like Dan and Ella like me.  Cal, having had his backpack on for 20 minutes already, insists he's going to be late for school if we leave for his before-school program at 7:55am (his bus leaves at 8:45am).  And Ella is the grandest of a dilly-dalliers, thinking of one thing after another that she wants to bring with her to wherever we're going.  She's usually behind me in getting out the door.

Somehow, we make it work.  It's not stress free, but it works.

I Got Blood

I wiped out on the prairie path this past Sunday afternoon.  I, of course, blame the kids - they were being entirely too quiet in the Burley I was pulling behind behind me on my bike.  I was curious with a hint of worry.  Why were they being so quiet?  Leading theories were a) that they were both reading their books, b) that one or both had fallen asleep or c) that one had quietly strangled the other with the loose harness strap that I can't use because, together, they're just too big for the Burley.  So I had to check.

Hindsight told me that there was a better time to look back.  We were mid-way through an incline (the up kind), and I just didn't have the speed to hold my front wheel straight and maintain my balance should it turn even slightly.  I looked back, saw Ella sleeping, her head resting on an awake Cal's shoulder.  Awww... so sweet.  Strangulation... whatever!

And then I turned back to continue looking forward to finish my climb.  My tire was turned right at the time, so I tried to correct it and turned it back too far left.  At this point, a turtle may have been moving faster than I was; but I still had a chance to save myself from falling, so I turned it back right again... then left... then right... then WIPEOUT!

I first looked back to find the kids, eyes wide open, safe in the unturned Burley.  I then looked back beyond them to see if the people I had passed on the bridge a couple of minutes before had seen me fall -- they were just coming around a bend, so I figured they hadn't.  Whew.  I then looked down at my left leg, which was the one that had taken the brunt of the fall.  It was pretty scraped up.  Blood trickled down from my knee to my ankle.  This was a familiar "injury" to me given all of my years playing softball where one of my favorite plays was the pop-up slide into second and third.

Cal was the first to talk.  "Are you okay, Mommy?"

I quickly told him I was.

Ella chimed in, "Mommy, you made me bump my head and woke me up."  She was whiny.

Thanks for the sympathy, Ella.

Cal saw my bloodied knee and said, "If you bleed enough you'll die."  I amazes me how flippantly these kids throw around the notion or possibility of death.

"I'm not gonna die," I told him.  At least, not because of this injury.

"Mommy, you made me bump my head and woke me up," Ella said again.  She had absolutely no sympathy or concern for my well being.

By now my bike was upright and ready for me to get back on it... or so I thought.  So I did. And the first downward pedal zipped so fast I almost fell off again.  My chain had fallen off of the sprocket.

I turned down the help offered by a fellow bike rider who had reached us on the path.  Getting the chain back on its sprocket was an easy fix.

My bloodied knee (post-rinse)

We finished our ride by stopping at the park in our neighborhood.  It was empty.  The kids love it, and I just wanted to sit and be.  By now, my knee looked pretty excellent, bloody and dusty.  I poured water from my Thomas the Train water bottle on it, and it didn't do much to clean it. The blood that had trickled down to my ankle had hardened by now and needed to be scrubbed off.

When I got them out of the Burley, I told Ella, "Look, Ellie, I've got blood."  This is Ella's way of saying she or someone is bleeding... I have blood.

"Okay, as soon as someone comes to the park, we'll have to leave," I announced.

"Why?" the kids wondered.

"Because I don't want them to see my bloody knee," I told them.  Something about a kids' park being exposed to my bloody knee for any amount of time didn't seem right.  This set off a chain of more questions that I tried to answer without using the term "disease".  I don't want them to be afraid of blood, just careful around it.  I ended with, "blood has germs, so just don't touch anyone else's blood except for yours."

And then they both ran off into the play area where they proceeded to climb and run and slide and scale and laugh for the next 20 or so minutes while my bloodied knee and I rested on a nearby bench.