Baseball Boo Boos

When the kids were a couple of years younger, we were lucky enough to have them on the same "little guy" baseball team. It was fabulous...only one schedule for practices and games, and all of that time to sit back and reflect on how clever we were to have them both in the same program.

As most parents do, we got sucked in to the parent-as-coach world and ended up running the team. My husband, Ryan, coached, and because I couldn't throw a baseball as far as my then 6-year-old son, I was the team mom (read: book keeper, band-aid carrier, bag girl). As coaching gigs go, it wasn't too shabby. A group of 6 and 7 year old boys (and one 8-year-old girl) can test the fortitude of a single mom, but not the armor of the united Dad and Mom army. We were invincible. Snotty noses, lost mitts, and boo boos were no match for this pair.

As we were just finishing up the season, Ryan was coaching from behind the batter (rookie move) when, as luck would have it, a foul ball bounced right into his face...

We were scheduled to leave for Kauaii three days later.

To make matters worse, our son Matt got hit in the face with a baseball on the very same night...

Seriously, what are the chances of that?

But they made quite a pair, united in misery...

They had battle scars, war wounds, proof that, while the rest of us were taking life easy, they were out there, taking one for the team. Literally.

So a couple of fat lips and a few chilly afternoon games, and the season was over as quickly as it had started. We said good bye to the munchkins and moved on. Now, two years later, and many miles away, I'm missing those little dudes who filled those cloudy spring afternoons with sunshine...

Luckily, one of the little dudes (and the little princess on Daddy's shoulder) is upstairs asleep in his bed.