I know I talk a lot about my oldest son, Cam. I can’t seem to help but always think about him and all the changes with him growing up. These changes just seem way more prominent to me than they do with my other two boys. It might be because he’s our oldest, and we are all experiencing the change into his manhood for the first time. It may be because he grew so tall and big so fast, I don’t know. Or it may be because sometimes I have this feeling I can’t seem to shake, this unnerving feeling, that somehow Cam’s childhood flew by a lot quicker than our other two boys. My husband has always pretty been hard on Cam. His expectations of Cam in school and with sports and just with life in general, have always been above and beyond what they are for the younger two. Mostly because he has always seen something special in Cam. He sees so much potential I don't even think Cam always sees in himself. And he just wants to see Cam succeed. 

Last month marked one year since I quit my full-time job as a school nurse to pursue a new career in writing. I have always wanted to write children's books.  Even at a really young age.  When I was 8 or 9, I would steal the small white notepads my dad would bring home from his work and turn them into tiny little stories. Simple stories, like “Johny Gets a Haircut” or “Sally Goes to the Dentist.” I even illustrated them myself, with stick figures and basic shapes. Some of them got saved. Placed in a shoe box of childhood memories. Forgotten about. However, the dream of being an actual writer was never fully stored away. It was always in the back of my mind. I just didn’t know how to become one. So instead, I became a teacher. Then a mom. Then a nurse.  And just like everything I do, I dove headfirst into each of those careers (yes, being a mom is a full-time career). I have always had a desire to help others learn and grow. I know that about myself. Yet I always wondered, hoped, and wished I could also help others through writing.

Play Ball!

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I could write an entire book on the struggle I face with two things: first, teaching my kids to stay organized and responsible for their belongings, and second, figuring out a back-up plan when the first thing doesn’t work. 

I keep this old picture of my boys and I in a little basket of essentials right next to my bathroom sink.  I look at it every day.  It was taken the night before a local 5K I was planning to run when we lived in Wisconsin.  I was picking up my race packet and someone snapped my picture.  I just look so crazy tired in this picture. 

It’s true…. our kids play a lot of baseball.  I mean a lot.  As summer is coming to an end, and I think about how little we were home the past 3 months due to baseball tournaments that took our children all over the country, it makes me laugh that we haven’t actually had a vacation away from baseball in years.  And I mean years.  We spend thousands of dollars a year on club baseball.  Club fees, tournament fees, traveling expenses, (hotels, airfare, rental cars, food), private lessons, showcases, new bats, new cleats, gloves, more new bats, camps, batting gloves, another pair of new cleats, uniforms, helmets, more new bats, and so forth.   It’s never-ending. And it’s been going on for nearly a decade. 

I don’t deal well with change.  I never have. Yet I know it’s inevitable in our lives. Nothing stays. Nothing continues exactly as it is forever. And that’s because we as human beings don’t stay the same forever. We get older and our children get older, and we must adapt to it. 

People ask my husband and I all the time “So, do your boys pitch?” or “Is your son a pitcher?” Our answer is always the same for all three of our boys: “Not really.”  Honestly, I’ve never thought of any of my boys as “Sunday” pitchers (meaning, they get put on the mound to pitch for a semifinal or championship game).  Our oldest throws really hard but has his moments of being a “wild thing.” Our middle boy is the type of kid who throws strikes (for the most part), is consistent, but doesn’t really throw that hard.  Same can be said about our youngest.

My three children are growing up so fast, especially my fifteen-year-old. Everything he is experiencing with being a student-athlete has taken me back to my own days of high school.  Even though our separate experiences are very different, including our sport, gender and timelines, his current age has allowed me to reflect on all of my own memories.  All the feelings, insecurities, and aspirations.  In doing so, I decided to write myself this letter.

Recently I was sitting at a youth baseball game (imagine that), this time for my youngest boy. I began to think about all the crazy, bizarre terminology that everyone gets caught up in while attending these club games.  I decided to just sit through the last couple innings completely silent, and just take it all in. Just listen. And it really is true.  Baseball parents are nuts. And honestly, it’s not just the parents who are nuts, yelling or speaking in tongues that a normal, non-sport or non-baseball person would not understand…it was everyone. Everyone in attendance. Teammates talking to other teammates, coaches talking to players, coaches talking to umps, umps talking to players and coaches, parents shouting to players.

Do you have a kid who plays ball that you go and watch? A grandkid? A friend’s kid? Maybe a Niece or Nephew? Try this…look back at your photos of them on the ball field, at the plate or on the bases.  Who else do you see in the picture? Who else is always in the shot? Who is brushing off the dirt-filled plate, talking to the catcher, answering questions from coaches who are sometimes heated? Who is standing there the entire game in whatever weather God chose for the day while all the parents sit in chairs under a canopy? That’s right. It’s the umpire.  AKA “ump.” AKA “Blue.”  Love ‘em or hate ‘em, we need them. We wouldn’t get to experience youth baseball (or any baseball games for that matter) without them. 

This picture popped up in my “winter photos” on my phone from 5 years ago.  Five years.  It is a picture of my oldest and his super tight teammates during their 11U season of baseball.  It just seems a little unreal, because those kids in that picture have all grown up and changed so much.  And it really does feel like yesterday they were all little squirts, running around the field, playing the game they all loved.  But the reality of how fast time goes is harsh.  It’s unnerving.  Especially when it comes to our kids, because they change so darn fast. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the logistics of youth sports. Particularly youth baseball.  It’s so much more than people realize. So many behind-the-scenes actions must happen for teams to not only function, but to also prosper. Basically, I have come to realize (and appreciate) that to have a well-run team…a GREAT team that flows, you don’t just need great players…you need great families. Helpful families. KIND families.  Families who are always willing to pitch in.  Otherwise, we’d literally fall apart.  It doesn’t matter if you have multiple kids in a sport, one kiddo in a sport, or maybe grandchild, niece, or nephew in a sport that you are heavily involved with…it literally takes a village.

I’ve been wanting to write about the “all-powerful home run” for a while now. Then yesterday, my oldest hit the fourth home run of his high school career.  He’s 15, and a sophomore.  I took it as a sign to get some thoughts out about all the emotions that go along with such a sacred event.  And not just for the batter, but for every person present when that ball flies over the fence.