Parker had his first T-ball game yesterday. He's been intense about T-ball; seriously excited, treating it with a gravity that he hasn't shown any other activity. I've had my heart in my throat these past several weeks as we've met his coaches, tried on his uniform and cleats and attended his first practices. He just seems to care so very much. I think that, for Parker, there's an expectation about T-ball; that this is what bigger boys do.
"You know, you might not get the jersey number you want, Bub," I tentatively told him as we headed to Opening Day. "This is just your first ever practice, so it's OK if you're not super great at T-ball right away," I said with a smile and a kiss right before he ran off in full uniform to join his team on a windy Wednesday evening. My eyes misted over as I watched him "grab a knee" out on the infield and gaze up attentively at his coach at that first practice. It was one of those "Sunrise Sunset" moments. (Of course, he's still mostly little boy--not even in kindergarten yet--and little-boy-ness is supremely unsuppressable. He gaily skipped back and forth from the infield to the outfield between drills.)
For me, one of the most challenging parts about parenting is tempering my tendency to overprotect. It is so tough to sit on the sidelines and watch your sweet little guy enthusiastically shout, "Parker is the fastest runner!" knowing that he will learn in short shrift that he is not actually the fastest player on the field; or the best thrower or the best catcher or the best batter, for that matter. Not a whole lot tended to challenge Parker's sense of self when he was a homeschooled kid with no siblings living on a tiny island. Now we live in a sprawling metropolis; now he has a baby brother; now he goes to preschool; now he regularly interacts with older children (his cousin, my dad's 10 year old and 6 year old, the boys in our apartment building); now he plays team sports. He's getting the message, out loud and tacitly, that he's just a little guy in a big world with a lot to learn about a lot of things. I think he feels like he's shimmying up the totem pole a bit by donning his T-ball uniform, like he's more in league, so to speak, with the bigger boys.
Parker's first practices went well--nothing untoward happened to quell his fever pitch--and so he suited up for yesterday's game with gusto. Sure enough, though, about halfway through the game, the spring went out of Parker's step. He trudged toward me to say, "Mommy, this game is taking too long. I'm ready to go now." His eyes were red and his chin quivered. I asked him if anything had happened. He was adamant that he was just tired. "The practices are much shorter than this, Mommy." He didn't believe me when I told him that the reverse was true.
What to do, when your child wants to throw in the towel? How hard do you push him to "get back on the horse?" Thoughts bounced around in my brain: he'd slept plenty the night before so he can't be too tired; maybe he didn't eat enough lunch; maybe his uniform is too thin for this insanely cold wind; maybe I took too many photos, thereby putting too much pressure on this first game; maybe I should let him quit for today; if don't make him finish the game, will he learn that it's OK to give up? shouldn't I encourage him to persevere? but will he think that my love is conditional if I force him back out onto the field? aack, he's crying! what do I do? Meanwhile, Parker was sitting dejectedly on the dugout bench, Logan (my newborn) was snotty, tired and screaming on my chest in the Moby wrap, the other parents were covertly taking in the whole scene, and the same thought kept repeating itself, overriding all the others: "Maybe Parker just misses his dad."
Parker ended up playing out the game with aid of a Z-bar and the promise of a hot chocolate. I noticed that the other team's first baseman liked to shout, "You're out! I got you out!" at Parker each time he eventually trotted up to first base after hitting the ball. (I say "eventually" because Parker, like most other T-ballers, seems to have a hard time remembering to actually drop the bat and run to first base--and tag the base!--once he's hit the ball, thereby giving the other team ample time to field the ball. Aren't all Americans born instinctually knowing how to play our national pastime? Apparently not.) There are no outs in T-ball but that doesn't stop some competitively minded kids from keeping track of when they make an out; I'm sure those same kids were counting the runs scored, too. I again asked Parker, after the game, if anything had happened to upset him during the game. He mentioned that first baseman, those taunting words. It's so hard, as a parent, to watch your child's feelings get bruised, even when you know it's all part of the maturing process. That mother hen instinct to swoop your chicks up under your wings and keep them there bundled next to your heart forever is so strong. I told Parker that the only person he really needs to listen to on the T-ball field is his coach. He looked at me, a little deflated, and replied, "Can we go to the park after we get my hot chocolate?"
Carrying his gear to the game.
Listening to the coach, pre-game.
Parker's fan club.
Watching the action from the dugout.
Dec, Papa Bo and Logan.
On deck.
First at bat.
A hit!
Trotting up to first base.
Snotty Logan asks, "Can we go home now?"
On second base.
Playing second base.
