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Thursday, May 10, 2018

You're the Real MVP, Mom.


Yesterday I had some errands to run because as moms of all school aged children know, May tries to kill us every year. There's a rush of "end-of" madness - everything and everybody is in a full-sprint to finish strong. We fly through the days of May, checking off lists, making balanced breakfasts for those annoying standardized test days, buying teachers and coaches gifts, volunteering for end of the school year parties, searching for the dress shoes for the Spring Concert and then promptly realizing we have to find new ones because that darn kid's feet keep growing. For baseball moms, the month is particularly insane as we are smack dab in the heart of the season and inching our way toward the all important play-offs and weekend travel tournaments.

To be honest, though, as my kids are aging out of a lot of the activities attributed to May Madness, I'm finding that 2018's May is a kinder, gentler month in comparison to year's past. Of my three baseball boys, only one remains a player. It's astonishing really. One is in college now and one is a full time basketball player, so this season it's only the youngest who ties up his cleats and flings his bat bag into the car. As I started out on my errands yesterday, I realized that I wasn't as rushed or harried and my list was manageable. It was rather serene and calm, until . . .

Roll . . .thwack . . . roll . . . thwack . . . roll . . . thwack.

As I took my first turn, a baseball rolled across the trunk of my SUV. Over and over again as I turned my steering wheel that darn baseball rolled and smacked into the side of the car. It was driving me insane at first and you would have thought that I'd just calmly pull over and launch that thing into a ditch some where. But as I drove on throughout my day, every time I heard it, I laughed and my heart filled with an enormous amount of gratitude for that annoying sphere of leather covered cork and yarn. With every roll . . .thwack, a different memory popped up of a different little ball player - hands stained rust-red with baseball dirt, mouth stained blue with Gatorade, and cleats swinging to and fro, unable to touch the floorboard beneath them.

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