The Wonder of Trader Joe's Park

There are very few things in the Leatherkids' lives that give them greater pleasure than "Trader Joe's Park" (which I just learned is actually named "Gartner Park").  Early this afternoon when we found ourselves recognizing the beautiful fall day that it is, we collectively concluded that we should be outside.  Having spent the better part of yesterday afternoon outside doing typical things (raking and cleaning up leaves, riding bikes up and down our neighborhood sidewalk, and... let's just call it wrestling), we needed something different.  Ella even asked, "Can we go somewhere FUN, Mommy?"

"How 'bout Trader Joe's Park?" I asked her.  I had barely finished the "k" in park when Ella was running to Cal and excitedly asking him, "Cal, do you want to go to Trader Joe's Park?!"  Of course, he did.

The entirety of Trader Joe's Park

Trader Joe's Park is nothing more than a neighborhood park near the Trader Joe's that we frequent. It's got a couple of playground play sets, one for bigger kids and one for smaller, that are mostly describable as things to climb but also with a handful of fairly simple slides.  It also has a couple of varieties of swings -- even babies can enjoy their time here. There's also a see-saw, not the kind I grew up with where the guy left on the see-saw was screwed when the other guy unexpectedly jumped off, but one that is forgiving of that and safe.  I just noticed the sand pit, and I'll take credit for the fact that my kids don't even notice it -- they've been discouraged from any time in the sand at these parks since before they could walk.  I hate those sand pits.  And around the park area is some attractive landscaping that includes a couple of trees suited for, yes, climbing.  It is pretty nice, but really doesn't have much more than what they get at the park in their own neighborhood.

Leatherkids on the see-saw

I love having this park in my back pocket.  It's my go-to... my slam dunk... my "money" move.  I swear, you'd think it's Disney World the way the Leatherkids react to even the possibility of spending one minute at this park.  I typically use it as an incentive for them to be cooperative and on their best behavior while shopping for groceries at Trader Joe's -- if they're good, they know they can go to Trader Joe's Park; if not, we'll drive right by it with a certain mention of what could have been, "There's the park, Leatherkids!  We could have had sooooooo much fun there.  Oh, well, maybe next time."

The last time I used this tactic it was a cloudy day.  The possibility of rain was high going in to Trader Joe's and a reality when we left it.  The Leatherkids had been on their best behavior that visit.  With one-track minds and an inability to apply any reason and common sense to a scenario such that the conclusion wouldn't be the desired one, they asked if they could still go to the park.  It wasn't pouring rain, but it wasn't drizzling, either.  Not one to renege on my commitments (some might argue otherwise) and not applying common sense or exhibiting signs of a backbone myself, I told them that we had made a deal and that they could go.  After all, rain is just water.  "You have 10 minutes, and I'm going to sit in the car and watch from there," I told them.  And off they went, only to return 8 minutes later, drenched and ready to go home.

Today's park time is also tied to a visit to Trader Joe's, this time after park time.  It being such a beautiful day here, I wanted the Leatherkids to have some long, quality time at the park without worrying that groceries in the car were thawing or going bad.  It's a risk for sure.  As I've been writing this, I've been visited three times by thirsty kids (I forgot to pack water) and twice by a teary-eyed, wronged and supposedly hurt kid (Ella, of course).  Other than that, it's been glorious so far with the Leatherkids darting from one play area to the next with no plan other than to have fun.  They've climbed, they've played "it", and they've see-sawed.  They've also almost run over a couple of smaller kids as they did so, not with malice but with a lack of recognition that anyone else exists.

Leatherkids throwing leaves

As I say that, I see the Leatherkids in a different part of the park, beyond the play area I described.  They're sitting beneath a yellow-leafed tree in a bed of leaves that have already fallen.  Cal is rolling around in them in his on world, and Ella is sitting with two other smaller girls in the sea of leaves surely telling them something. The three girls just stood up and are walking together, dragging their feet and kicking up leaves as they do.  They made their way to another tree with even more leaves beneath it.  Cal followed.  And now they're throwing leaves into the air and at each other.

Anything can and does happen at Trader Joe's Park.  I guess it is really is better than others.  I don't have high expectations for what's about to happen at Trader Joe's, though. Hopefully, I won't have a blog-worthy story to tell about it.

The Pain of Consequences

Her blue eyes were blotchy and wet as she peered into mine.  This was last Sunday.  This image will be burned into my memory for awhile, I’m sure.  What makes it stronger is that I can tie her sad, scratchy Ella voice to it.  “Bye, Cal,” she said, waving to Cal who was already sitting in his seat in the back of the car.  She stood in the middle of the garage.  “Bye, Cal, I can’t go, have fun without me” she said, tears streaming down her face.  It's possible I was being played at the time, but it sure did sound genuine.

I knelt down in front of Ella and looked down at her shoe.  The lace was all knotted up.  Did her pleas for help start out pleasant?  I was kicking myself.  Maybe they didn’t.  But I couldn’t help but think they did.  Had I helped her right away, she’d be in that car, likely getting under Cal's skin, but she’d be in it. As I worked on the knot and tied her shoe for her, I calmly yet firmly explained to her why she wasn’t going with us to the apple orchard, complete with its fun tractor ride and haystacks.

Sad choices… again.

Disrespect of Mommy and Daddy… again.

Mean words… again.

Didn’t listen… again.

As I talked with her about why she wasn’t going, she looked at and listened to me.  Our eyes met and locked in.  She didn’t challenge my words.  She didn’t beg me to let her go.  She knew she was in the wrong.  She knew there was no going back.  She knew she wouldn’t be going, that Cal and I would have an afternoon together at our favorite orchard while she stayed back with Dan.

And as I talked to her, I battled giving in to her and letting her go.  She was so sad.  It hurt me as much as it hurt her not to be able to go with us.  Maybe more.  This is an annual trip that I’ve grown to love and look forward to despite some of the stresses that accompany it.  It’s the place where I take pictures of the kids that land on our Christmas card.  The kids love it, too, valuing their time on and in those simple haystacks beyond what I can even comprehend.  Oh, how I wanted to use her seemingly sincere acknowledgement of her wrongdoings and her clear hurt over not going as a justifiable reason to let her go.

Ordinarily, I might have.  Strike that – I’m sure I would have.  But 24 hours earlier I had demanded of Dan that there be consequences to her yelling at us and treating us with disrespect as we were in the middle of handling a really tough round of it, where we were each handling her differently and not necessarily agreeing on the effectiveness of either approach.  I couldn’t back down so quickly after that; and I used that as my motivation to stay the course on our decision after another tough round of Ella’s attitude on Sunday.

I give her a lot of credit.  I suppose I really don't know how much she really understood why she wasn't going and that the behavior she exhibited is never acceptable, but she handled it with a calmness rarely seen in these circumstances.  I fully expected to have to pry her out of the backseat, furthering our struggle and risking brevity to Cal's day at the orchard that he deserved to enjoy to its fullest.  Yet Ella handled it with grace and acceptance.  She had to have understood at least some of it, else, I'm certain I'd be telling a story of defiance and meanness, righteousness and yelling, utter disrespect.  But I'm not.  Having witnessed this, I know the likelihood of her learning to control herself and treat others with respect is high if I hold my ground on hurtful consequences as much as it might equally hurt me to enforce those consequences.

Oh, that image of Ella peering into my eyes with her wet, blotchy, beautiful blues!  It hurts.  But, oh, how important it is to raise a respectful child!

Socks Leatherman

I can't remember a time since Cal has been dressing himself that he hasn't had a strong preference for socks pulled up to his knees.  Black socks, now that I think about it.

The kid has an abundance of socks in the top drawer of his dresser, reflective of my many attempts to find a style that he actually likes... or tolerates.  His requirements?  I'll describe it in a series of can'ts - can't be ankle high, can't be loose such that they don't hold their position around his calf, and can't be white.  These requirements have never really been spoken; rather, they've been learned through many failed attempts -- sometimes painful -- to satisfy the kid.  You'd think I was asking him to poke his eyes out the way he reacts to my suggesting that he just try to wear the ankle-high socks.

No sock in Cal's abundant collection of socks that has actually landed on one of his feet hasn't been stretched beyond its crew-length limits.  No sock hasn't been stretched so far that its threads scream, "help us!" or so thin that one can see the skin of his calves.

And the fact that they're always black socks, again, pulled at least mid-way up his calf, has elicited many "you look like Grandpa" comments from me.  Maybe that's not so bad as my dad is pretty cool; however, black socks and Crocs make him a fashion conspiracy that no 7-year-old should be comfortable replicating.  But Cal has no problem doing so -- that he looks like Grandpa is a compliment to him.

You'd think as precious as the socks that he actually wears are to him he'd treat them better.  Common sense might say one way to take care of his socks would be to wear shoes outside... or, at least wear shoes when wearing his treasured socks.  Nope.  Even with my threats that I'm "not buying you any more socks because you have a drawer full so you'd better wear shoes if you want those to last!" he bypasses shoes.

That's an empty threat, though -- I oftentimes find myself in the kids' sock section of a store poring through the sock selection and applying what I believe to be the same assessment of them that Cal might -- are they long enough?  Are they tight enough?  Are they durable enough?  Are they black?  If the answer is "no" to any of those questions, I leave, disappointed yet okay because HE STILL HAS PLENTY OF SOCKS IN HIS DRAWER!

Socks Leatherman with his new socks

My latest sock purchase came with great success.  Despite them meeting the aforementioned criteria, I naturally had my doubts that they'd actually be met with... acceptance.  But what I got yesterday morning was better than acceptance.  I was in the shower, the first step in my getting ready for my workday, when Cal burst into the bathroom, the biggest smile plastered on his face.  I looked down and saw the reason for that gigantic smile. I saw two legs covered entirely in black, half by long shorts, and half by his new socks.  Yes, I hit the jackpot -- these new socks stretched beyond where any other of his socks had gone before, reaching and even passing his knees.  Yes, the tops of these socks hit the bottom of his thighs.

We were both very pleased with ourselves, and it made me smile all day (as I'm sure it did him, too).

I don't know if he'll grow out of this, and I don't know how well it'll go over with his classmates that he wears his socks like this.  As things are right now, I wouldn't expect it to end anytime soon; and Cal's personality is likable enough that he might actually get away with it as being quirky and not weird with the kids at school.  I think it's more likely that he'll inspire the nickname "Socks"... "Hey, there's Socks Leatherman on the court!"  "I'm going to have to run this past Socks."  Oh, yes.  I'm going to start working on that nickname now.

And I Walked Away

"I don't want to be by you anymore!"  This followed an exchange that Ella and I had in the pool at my sister-in-law's house this afternoon that ended with me just walking away.  Ella delivered this message to me.  At least I didn't yell back.  I yelled yesterday, made my two Leatherkids cry and then made them listen to me preach about the importance of compromise.  But that's another story.

I made the right choice today by walking away... only, Ella didn't think so.

How did we get to that point?  Well, a few minutes before, the cousins were ganging up on their oldest cousin and trying to tip her off of her innertube and into the water.  Everyone was having fun.  Ella was one of the tippers.  In fact, she was the smallest tipper; and when they finally tipped the tippee, Ella was left crying.

I hopped into the pool when I saw her, concerned that she might actually be hurt (and I really don't like to see my baby cry), and held her in my arms.  I began questioning her.  "What happened, Boo Boo?" I asked.  Ellie... Boo Boo... these are my pet names for my girl.  She tried to tell me what happened, and I failed to understand right from the start. You got kicked in the nose?  No, run over.  Run over by what?  THAT.  By what?  THAT.  Madi?  No, THAT.  The floatie?  Whaaaaaa?  I think the floatie had been sitting on a fly earlier, and the fly survived.

"YES, I TOLD YOU!" she yelled at me in that edgy, frustrated tone that really gets under my skin and generally sets me into my rant about my being her mother and that she needs to show me respect.  But I refrained from ranting and calmly told her that I was trying to understand and help and that she needed to relax and treat me with respect.  She didn't bite and yelled at me again.

So I walked away.  As I did so, I told her that we'd talk later when she was calm and ready to talk.

She didn't like this, of course, insisting she was ready but still yelling at me.  As I sat in my chair, she added her "I don't want to be by you anymore!" More than anything, this was actually kind of amusing, really.  I mean, if you ask Ella at any time on any day of any week who she wants to be by, she'll more often than not tell you, "Mommy."

Anyway, she said this a few more times in between insisting she was ready to talk, again, in that biting tone; so I knew she wasn't really ready to talk.  And then I thought I'd take a chance when I saw her, quiet and sad, sitting on the edge of the pool.

I walked over and sat near her  and asked her to come sit next to me so we could talk.  This wasn't an unreasonable request; but she wasn't reasonable.  She yelled at me again, I'm sure about the fact I wasn't sitting next to her, perhaps even more.  I explained to her my reasoning -- the concrete is bad for our bathing suits, whereas the pool steps are not.  I figure if I can explain my reasoning so she knows it's based in something sound, one day it'll stick.

She wanted nothing to do with moving, and I certainly wasn't.  I noticed all of her cousins were on the other side of the pool; so I told her that if she continued to be mean like she was, no one would want to be with her.  I then told her that I love her, and I stood up, the first step to walking away.  This garnered this response, "I won't say 'I love you' ANY MORE!"  I told her this hurts my feelings (it really doesn't hurt, not anymore), but walked away, again throwing out the suggestion that we talk when she calms down.

I sat down in my chair across the pool from her, and we exchanged a few more words.  I honestly don't remember what they were; but I'm sure she was mean, and I was childish. Eventually, she stormed off into the house, but not before getting this jab in: "I don't want to live in our house ANY MORE!" (she used this one yesterday), as if this had anything to do with the situation.  She quickly made her way back out without my noticing and sat with the adults on the deck near the pool.  When I saw her, I made my way over to her and gave her a kiss on her head.  She didn't smile.  In fact, she frowned an angry frown. But she said nothing, and I walked inside the house for a few minutes.

As I approached the door to head back out, Ella was walking in.  She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes.  And without a smile, she started to hug me.  I knelt down so we'd be of similar height and hugged her back... for a long time.  We didn't say anything -- no kidding -- we just hugged for a long time.  Once we were finished, we went back outside to continue to enjoy the pool.

Eventually, the pool cleared; and I found myself alone by it.  What an opportunity I was given to be outside and enjoy some silence!  I decided to climb into that same innertube that I believe had run over Ella and made her cry and just floated in the pool.  I did this for maybe five minutes before Ella was standing at the edge of the pool wanting to join me.  I asked her if she wanted to sit in the pink floatie "just like Mommy," and she did.  So I helped her into that one and climbed back into mine; and we floated together, me ensuring we stayed side-by-side by holding her tube with my hand.

I don't know how long we floated together before Ella's cousin came out and joined us.  Fifteen minues, maybe?  Whatever it was, it was nice.  We were pleasant with each other, talked about what we were doing and "worried" about bugs as if nothing had happened earlier.

We were fine.  And we never did talk about what had happened between us earlier.  That ship had sailed.  That moment was gone.  And that was fine... I think.  The last thing she needed was another speech from me.  I don't know if she really understands what respect is, anyway, even when I explain it.  I think just walking away from her when she was completely unreasonable and unpleasant was the right response to, the right consequence of her yelling at and being mean to me.  Because she actually wanted me to stay. And she really does love me.

My July 4th Weekend

I sit on the couch in front of the TV in the family room.  Behind me, I know there are unwashed dishes in the sink and a dishwasher that's not completely functioning properly.  I also know the kitchen island is cluttered... more cluttered than I am comfortable with.  There is a plastic beaded neclace lying on the coffee table in front of me... and Ella's t-shirt and socks... and Cal's White Sox hat... oh, and the Band-aid box.  My running shoes sit along side the table, left there after yesterday's run.  And a plastic frog lay belly-up beneath our newly-acquired rocking chair.

I know there are piles of clothes to fold and messes elsewhere, but it's 10:44pm on July 4th, and I'm done.  I can't, and won't, clean this messy house up.  And I'm almost okay with that.

During my fantastic bike ride this afternoon, I thought about my weekend.  Whereas I typically think and beat myself up about the things I didn't do, I, switched gears (in my head, not on my bike) and thought about that I actually had done.  Too often, I highlight my shortcomings, which negatively affects my mood; this time, I decided to celebrate all that I had done over the course of this July 4th weekend, in brain-dump style.

I...

Got home from work on Friday and watched half of "Despicable Me," (the Leatherman Family Fun Friday movie of choice) after having rushed to catch the 5:22 only to be delayed 20-ish minutes due to "locomotive" problems... cuddled with Ella and actually fell asleep with her for an hour or so before waking up to try to catch Bill Maher, but fell asleep with him, too... woke up Saturday at 4:30am, unable to sleep more, and moved to the couch where I did sleep for a couple more hours... woke up and worked a couple of hours, knocking some things off that I had wanted to get done on Friday but hadn't... took the kids, all three of us on our bikes, to the ball field at the kids' school where we played baseball, however they wanted to do so... at Ella's request, painted mine and Ella's finger and toe nails a mix of blue and red... fixed the Leatherkids lunch, creative stye as we didn't have a bunch of supplies (e.g. bread) here... went for a 3-mile run and actually didn't struggle (my runs have been brutal the past few weeks)... showered and got myself ready to head to Ribfest for unlimited drinks, ribs and some good music (Sister Hazel and Sheryl Crow would be playing -- yea!)... met some friends at that fest, drank IPAs and ate ribs... danced and sang along... dropped my phone in the toilet, reached in immediately and grabbed it (yuck), dried it off and found it to be working... slept well that night and got up Sunday at around 9am (whaaaaaa?)... hunted down my dad's wallet (he lost it while out with the kids on babysitting duty on Saturday)... washed clothes and sorted them... went to and tolerated the crowds and expense of Ribfest with the family... encouraged, coaxed and sometimes begged the kids to go on rides... ate more ribs... saw an aligator and a snake and pleaded with the kids to touch them, this was their chance, but they didn't (who can blame them?)... returned home to find that my phone wouldn't charge... felt sad, really, really sad... went for a 3-mile, music-less run... walked, unplanned, with Ella after my run... went to the grocery store with Ella, after declaring it "Mommy-and-Ella time"... listened to my dad read to the kids at bedtime and then saw him off... tried to watch a movie recommended by a work friend (movie was "Mother of Mine," work friend was Chandra), but couldn't stay awake for it (I'll try again sometime this week)... slept in again on Monday... battled the sadness of not having a functioning phone... "soaked" my phone in dry rice to try to draw out any water that may be in it... worked some more on Monday morning, but outside where I could watch Ella swing (at her request)... did more laundry and sorted it... walked to Walgreens with Ella to buy a couple of things... played wiffleball in the backyard with Cal and tried to include Ella but succeeded only so much before just walking away, frustrated, from it... colored my hair... made my gaspacho salsa and some cherry bombs for the Reinkes' July 4th party... went for a 13-mile bike ride by myself... showered and went to the Reinkes' for said party... drank pineapple vodkas and sangria and ate some food... watched the Leatherkids enjoy themselves in the pool with just the two of them and then later with some college kids (is it wrong?)... went to the Reinkes' friends' house to eat desserts, have one more drink, a cosmo, and watch fireworks... actually watched the fireworks... drove the family home... put the kids to bed... and here I sit amongst the signs of the busy weekend I had.

I wish my house were picked up and clean, but ain' nobody got time for that during or at the end of a busy of July 4th weekend.  Perhaps the mess will stick around all week and serve to be a nice reminder of the weekend we did have... except for that darn phone -- I'll remedy that today.

Ella's Natural Inclination

Dan and I took the Leatherkids to last Saturday's White Sox-Blue Jays game.  Cal's a big Josh Donaldson fan (for the MLB uninformed, he's the Blue Jays' third baseman and last year's AL MVP) and an even bigger White Sox fan.  Throw in that the giveaway for that game was a White Sox beach towel, we couldn't not go.  That it was sunny and 90 degrees was a bonus... well, the sunny part of that equation was. 90 degrees is a little too hot for mine and, I learned through her whining, Ella's likings.  And that the White Sox hit 7 home runs and still lost made for an interesting game.

But that's not what this post is about.

Dan and Cal had somehow gotten far ahead of us as we walked from our parked car to the ballpark on Saturday.  I think it's funny I say somehow as I know exactly how.  They were on a mission to just get to the ballpark.  Ella and I, not so much.  We ran into the peanut guy and had to buy a bag.  And Ella's got little legs and doesn't cover a lot of ground giving the same effort to walking that the rest of us do.  In other words, we were just slow.  I don't really know how Dan felt about this, but I know I didn't care.  It gave us an opportunity to talk.

So, as we walked, we were given unsolicited directions for actually getting to the park. Instead of parking in one of the formal Comiskey Park lots, we parked in a nearby church lot; and the path to the park wasn't exactly clear.  I mean, it was virtually on top of us; but the getting there required a jaunt down an alleyway next to a building and around some small trees.  Figurouttable, yes; but we accepted the directions nonetheless with a polite, "thank you."

Our thank you had barely reached the gentleman's ears, and he was pulling out an id that identified him as belonging to a homeless shelter.  I couldn't tell that by looking at the id and only know this because he explained it as he pulled it out of his pocket.  Once that introduction was complete, he asked if we could help him out.

Nuts.  I lived in the City for a good 15+ years; and over the course of those years, I hardened a bit.  I knew what he meant by "help out," and I politely told him as I shook my head slightly from side to side, "I'm sorry" and continued walking with Ella.  Right or wrong response, I don't know and really do struggle with; but that was my answer.

We had only walked a few steps from this man when Ella started asking questions.  "Who is he?"  "What did he want?"  I explained to her that he was a homeless man who wanted to know if we could help him out and then proceeded to explain what it meant to be homeless.

"He can live with us," Ella responded once I was done.

"That's nice, Ellie.  Where would he stay?" I asked.

"We have a room in our basement," she told me.  We do.  It's where our guests sleep when we have them.

"We do, don't we?" I replied.

I don't remember exactly how the conversation went from there, but Ella basically verbalized all the thoughts going on in her head around letting this guy live in our basement... with his friends... for a long time.  So sweet.

We eventually made it to the ballpark where we found Dan and Cal waiting for us near the gate.  We entered, each grabbed our giveaway and slowly made our way up the ramp to the level where our seats were.

After the game, as we retraced our steps back to the car, I was, again, walking with Ella. Being in the same spot where we had talked about the homeless man staying with us, I was naturally reminded of the conversation we had had before the game.  And then I thought about how wonderful it is that her natural inclination was to help this man -- this complete stranger -- out. Still so young, she is not tainted by negative experiences or horrible news stories or even judgmental commentary in everyday conversations with people to have any reaction other than the one she had.  Her mind is so pure, so naive and so innocent and her heart so warm, probably not too unlike many other kids her age.

Having recognized that, I thought about the influence that I, her mother, can have on her. I know it's unrealistic and probably little dangerous to strive for her to maintain that same level of considerate, kind-heartedness as she gets older; but I do like the inclination and will do whatever I can to encourage that with an appropriate level of skepticism to keep her safe.

And then I wondered (not for long as I found this very uncomfortable and disturbing), what if she were Donald Trump's daughter with that same inclination at the same age? She'd certainly be taken on a different, incredibly selfish and judgmental path where her reactions would not be so kind-hearted.  And it wouldn't necessarily be her own doing, really.

I don't know.  At that moment, walking down the path where we had encountered a homeless man hours before, it just struck me as powerful and a bit scary the influence that we have as parents to mold our kids into people who naturally think the way we want them to think.  Ella can probably go any number of directions right now, and I'm going to do what I can to keep her where she naturally finds herself right now.

I Watched You...

I watched you on Wednesday evening.  I watched you and really took you in.  I took all of you in.  You are so wonderful, Cal.

I watched you from foul territory along the third-base line.  I was sitting with the other parents and grandparents.  It's finally happening.  I was sitting where Grandma and Grandpa had sat for so many years while I stood in your position.  It's my turn to be them, to watch my child play a team sport, to cheer for him and his teammates... to hurt, to press, to enjoy and to celebrate as he does.

I watched you while you waited for your turn to bat.  You were so put together.  Your shirt was tucked into your baseball pants so neatly.  You wore your green belt which matched your jersey.  That green belt is not functional, but it sure does contribute to your looking like a real baseball player.  Your white pants were already stained on the knees, which I learned from Grandma had happened during a play at the plate the inning before I had arrived.  Your green socks were, of course, tight against your calves, as every sock you wear is.  I wondered if you liked your new, low-top cleats. They're different.  You don't like change when it comes to shoes.  If you don't like them, I couldn't tell -- you strutted that sideline in them as if you'd been wearing that style for years.

I watched you lead cheers and chants for your teammates as they batted.  I didn't notice any other kid leading cheers.  You did.  "Let's go, Garrett, let's go!  Let's go, Garrett, let's go!"  Your teammates joined in immediately to make the cheer louder.  It didn't matter the skill level of the batter, either.  You supported every batter equally when you had the chance.

Prompted by your yelling to me, excitedly, "Mama, watch, I'm up next!", I watched you take your aggressive practice swings from the on-deck circle.  As if I needed a reminder.  I love that you're a righty who bats lefty, just like Robin Ventura.  I've always thought left-handed batters' swings were so much prettier than their counterparts'.  Your swing is already pretty.  I've seen it many times in our backyard; and I love that I am finally seeing it in action during a game.  I know you'll get 8 pitches to hit it fair, but my heart hurts a bit with every swing and miss.  It's not that I doubt you'll hit it fair; I just want it to happen for you and happen early in your at-bat, just in case you worry it won't happen as your at-bat progresses.  Not that you do worry.

I watched you playfully interact with your teammates, all of whom you only met within the last few weeks.  The way you talked and laughed with each other, it was like you'd known each other for months, possibly years, and not the few weeks that it really has been.  You don't hide from anyone.  You seem to draw people to you.  You're so likable, Cal.  Seeing this prompted me to tell Grandma about your friendship with Aria.  I told her how Aria's mom told her that she could invite one friend to her big brother's tenth birthday party a month ago, and she picked you!  As your mom, I couldn't have been prouder of you for being a likable kid -- friend -- to so many.

I watched you take your position at shortstop during one of the later innings.  I've already forgotten what you told me when I asked you what your favorite position was because it seems that you were meant to play the left side of the infield.  I watched the first three batters get on base, a common start to every inning for this league.  I watched the next batter hit a soft line drive toward you.  I watched you set yourself up to catch it.  You told me later that you were nervous as you waited for the ball to reach you.  If that was true, I didn't notice it; I knew you were going to catch that ball, and you did.  Of course the runners were running -- very few know not to at this age.  An unassisted triple play was actually possible!  I watched you try to figure out what to do next.  Go after what runner?  Tag him?  Tag the base?  It is confusing.  There were unsure runners everwhere.  It was made worse by everyone giving you directions.  You eventually made your way to third base before the runner did, so he was out; but the kid who had been on second somehow made it back before you tagged him.  No worries -- you got him with the next batter who hit a ground ball to you -- you fielded it cleanly and proceeded to tag the runner as he ran in front of you.  This was the second game where I saw you make all three outs in the inning!  You smiled so shyly after doing so, and I thought, "Smile big, kid!  Smile and show everyone how much you loved doing that!"  Oh, I was proud -- you should have been, too!

I watched you, Cal D.  I watched you be wonderful.  I watched you be the kid that I know you are.  Happy.  Thoughtful.  Skilled.  Handsome.  Proud.  Forgotten as I did so were the fights and tensions we've had to correct some bad choices you've made... hitting your sister, lying about sneaking snacks, not cooperating when we ask you to do something. These are such insignificant things in the grand scheme of being you.  They were easily forgotten as I watched you.  What I saw on Wednesday night when I watched you througout your game epitomized the grand scheme of being YOU.  I'll revel in that forever.

I love you.