Me. I’m talking about me. The basket case over here. I’m going to have to learn how to take a chill pill while my son plays sports. I mumble in my head the entire time. I get worked up about everything. I want to advocate for my child. To yell out to everyone that this is the first year he’s played and it’s nearly everyone else’s third year. I want to yell out to the four coaches standing out there (yes, I know they are parent volunteers) 🙂 that if you tell my child to go play in right field, you actually need to go show him where to stand so he’s not standing three feet directly behind first base because that is the right side of the field and he takes things very literally and to the extreme. I want to tell everyone that if you put my kid way out in the outfield in little league every single inning, he’s not going to get one single ball the entire game. For two games. And what fun is that to a six year old (or his nut job mom who’s watching)? He’s not going to learn if he’s not given the direction or the chance to try out some things. I want to go up there when he’s at bat and remind him to stop thinking about things so much and just pretend like he’s hitting in the front yard with his dad when he can hit it all the way to the street. Instead, he’s thinking about twenty things at one time, and he literally barely swings the bat because he’s trying to remember load, explode, weight on back foot, ooooh, i have to stand behind this line that they drew for me, elbow up, don’t watch the ball after i hit it, just run and if i don’t hit the first six balls, they are going to bring the T out for me to hit off of.  I want him to be successful, of course. But more than anything, even if he messes up twenty-five times, I want him to actually get the chance to be in the middle of the action. So far, I feel like he’s been an outsider. And that makes me sad. He’s like an extension of my heart. . . as his mom, I want the best opportunities for him.  What’s even more sad, the kids on his team all seem to know each other from last year–only a couple kids on the team know Brayden’s name. At two different times he went up to bat last night, they started chanting his name–except both times, they were chanting the wrong name. Two different names. david, david, david, david.  And then brian, brian, brian, brian. Oy.  I’m going to going even more gray than I already am.

Someone, tame the wild woman. It’s only going to get worse from here.  We’ve only just begun.