Every year, I write a post about baseball season. Not because I love baseball, or because I am the truest of all fans, but because I am the wife of a baseball coach.
On February 15th each year, baseball season officially begins. Tryouts started yesterday. And I won’t see my husband for more than approximately 47 minutes each day until late May/early June.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love that my husband coaches. He loves it and I support him doing what he loves. Just like he supports me writing this blog and continuously napping on the weekends.
But I do admit that each year that he coaches, it gets a little bit harder for me.
Let’s take a little trip down memory lane, shall we? Cue the tiny violins!!
My husband was named head coach of the Owensboro High School baseball team at the ripe old age of 29.
During his first season as head coach, I was SUPER PREGNANT. As in, I had one dress I could wear that actually fit me for about a month. And I was very uncomfortable. I remember sitting on the bleachers and my stomach was so big that I couldn’t put my feet up on the bleacher in front of me. I really only went to eat the $1 hot dogs. Go sports!
His second season coaching, I had an almost one year old, and he entertained everyone in the stands with how adorable he was. I passed him from person to person and enjoyed the fact that I actually got some time in to rest. I did not know this would be the easiest season yet and I look back at it with fond memories of an immobile child.
His third season coaching, I had an almost two year old. He was crazy hard to keep up with and I spent the majority of my time trying to find him while also attempting to watch the game. That was the year he realized there was a tiny space under the fence that he could almost squeeze through next to the dugout. Luckily, he got stuck and didn’t actually make it on the field. I pulled him out by his legs as he cried and screamed for his Dada. He made it look like I was kidnapping him. Thanks kid.
His fourth season coaching, I had an almost three-year old with a bad attitude and I was VERY pregnant with our second child. I thought that this was the worst season yet. I remember attempting to run after Henry as he climbed onto a large tractor. I grabbed him off the tractor right before he had the chance to roll that bad boy through the outfield fence. Someone also gave him a tiny Louisville Slugger bat that I had to hide because he attempted to hit anything and everything within a five foot radius.
His fifth season coaching, I had an almost four year old and a baby. I would run after Henry, the oldest, while attempting to keep a bottle in the mouth of Simon, the youngest. Poor Simon would be passed around to people I honestly didn’t even know very well because they were willing to hold him and I think they felt sorry for me. This was so I could keep Henry from ransacking the concession stand for suckers and popcorn while the people working stared at him wondering who on earth this tiny tornado was and why he thought he had so much authority. They were on a first name basis by the end of the season.
But now, as we enter the sixth season, I realized something absolutely terrifying.
I NOW HAVE TWO MOBILE CHILDREN.
My anxiety will double. My calories burned chasing them around the field will double. The amount of times I yell their names to not eat that Ring Pop from under the bleachers will double. And my hot dog and Faster Water – aka Gatorade – budget will double.
It will be twice as hard to wrestle them into their car seats when it’s time to leave the field at night and even harder to scrub the visible dirt off their faces as they kick and scream in the tub as they come down from their sugar high.
This is where I am supposed to also say that the size of my heart will double with the love I have for my boys. I wish I was that nice of a mom. Most likely, I will do what I like to call a “Reverse Grinch”. My heart will shrink three times smaller and I will yell more, cuss more, and apologize to random people I don’t know more because I accidentally said shit in front of their kid.
But all in all, I have to admit, I do love baseball season. Fresh air. The kids get to run and be wild and play in dirt piles and chase foul balls and eat hotdogs and stay up past their bedtimes. It might be stressful for a bit, but baseball season is always a bright spot in the year for us.
I mean, the worst that could happen is that my four year old could finally run a tractor through the outfield fence, right? Keep your fingers crossed for me peeps, it’s going to be a crazy year.
Until Next Time,