Baseball Mitt (and losing my mind as a parent)

It was a recent Friday night, and I got rid of the kid.  The Taz’ friend in Windsor asked if he could spend the night after school.  Actually, it was more like his friend’s MOM asked. I always think that’s way cool because it means that my kid has made a good impression on another parent – which is never a bad thing when the nickname for your kid is short for Tasmanian Devil.  Of course, I’m friends with this woman, so I had to make sure she knew what she was doing.  But she insisted, and then became the heir to the vast fortune of pens I’ve stolen inherited from work, just because I love her that much.  If I’d thought things through a little harder I would have also asked if she were interested in a couple teenagers so that Mr. W and I could skip town.  But instead, Mr. W and I spent a riveting night with the teens catching up on our shows.  Of course, if they weren’t there, we’d probably be camped out on the couch doing the same.  Naked.  Alright, we’d be sporting sweats.  But they’d be damn sexy.

The Taz had baseball Saturday morning, which meant I had to be super organized to coordinate everything.  Organization is not my forte.  Since moving to Petaluma a month ago, I still have numerous boxes piles up in the garage titled “Miscellaneous Crap”.  And that’s exactly what they are.  There are things in those boxes that I’m actually missing.  But rather than go through them I’d prefer to complain about my missing items loudly to anyone not smart enough to change rooms once they see me rummaging around in the same place they’re NOT over and over.

“Seriously guys, why can’t I find my cheese collection from the old house?  And what the hell is that smell?!?”

No, the organization thing is not my best suit.  But I was way ahead of myself this time in my excitement that another parent liked my Taz enough to ask him over.  I washed and folded the Taz’ uniform and put it in a neat pile with his shoes, hat, and belt.  I made sure to remind him several times to pack his toothbrush, pajamas, and a clean pair of boxers.  And when I sent him off, I was pleased that everything was in order.  I mean, even his teacher looks at me funny when I mention I write a parenting column, and before she asks why the Taz doesn’t have his homework.  Again.  But this time?  I was ready for anything.

My organization skills were solid the next morning when I left the house at the exact time I needed to leave to pick him up.  DQ and I made it to Windsor in perfect time, had a couple minutes to chat at the house, and were on our way.  From the looks of things, we would even be 10 minutes early.  We were almost there when the Taz piped up in the back seat.

“Did you bring my glove?”

You know that moment when the whole world stops and you can see little bits of air particles moving slowly around you in slow motion before the impact happens?  Yeah.  It was that. 

I cannot repeat here the exact words that left my mouth at that point, though I admit it was not my proudest of moments.  And as I mimicked pirates, I also became acutely aware of my dwindling gas tank as we neared the field in Santa Rosa and I knew I’d end up driving all the way to Petaluma and back to retrieve the stupid glove.  Rather than make him late, I dropped him off at the field with his sister, booked it to the gas station, raced back home, and made it back to the field just in time to miss my son do some of his best pitching in the first two innings (using a borrowed glove), and a ball he hit to the fence in a double.  And, as the Ump further relayed to me, I also missed his play of the game when he ran off the pitcher’s mound and covered home to get a guy out.

“Way to go, Mom of the Year,” the Ump teased, and I played my mini violin as I described my martyrdom that had made me late.  But seriously, a Mom of the Year wouldn’t have dropped everything to perform an hour of drive-time to get the glove that was her 10 year old son’s responsibility to get.  Instead, she would have let her son risk sitting out the entire game, thus ensuring his glove wouldn’t be forgotten again (in theory, of course, as lessons in our house tend to take several tries – like video game priveleges….)

But let’s face it, I’ll probably end up doing it again next time it happens.

Want more?  Check out my blog at Wine Country Mom.

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