Tuesday, April 19, 2016

When summer sports suck

It’s that time of year when parents get panicky about registration forms and deposits. No, not school — heck, school’s easy to get into. I’m talking about the Seasonal Summer Sessions of Sanity-Sucking Sports.

While the pain of bringing a child into the world does indeed fade — otherwise no one would have more than one — I’m still cringing at the memories of last summer’s T-ball debacle.

Two nights a week, every week, of scarfing down our dinner and jumping into the van to race to the ballfield. Hot, cranky, buggy evenings when the kids wanted to play in the backyard with their friends but I had to herd them over to a dusty diamond. I do not do “outdoors” well at the best of times, but especially not at the end of a long day when I’m sweaty, frazzled (with frizzled hair) and swatting at the bugs.

My husband’s work schedule meant he usually couldn’t make it, and I’d be running back and forth between the playground — trailing after our three-year-old — and the field to catch a glimpse of my lil’ slugger whacking the tee — not connecting with the ball at all.

Although I was happy at the end of each practice, the timing could not have been worse for the kids. They would race over to the splash pad and kick off their sneakers at the exact moment the water is shut off for the evening. Sorry, kids. Now let Mommy crab at you for strewing your socks across the field and jam your sweaty little feet back into your shoes. The minivan will be stiflingly hot, we already drank all of the water and, no, we are not having freezies when we get home because MOMMY REALLY NEEDS TO GET YOU TO BED.

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