I was trying to think of a tune to write a song appropriate to the end of my kids’ baseball season, but all I could think of was “Ding dong the witch is dead” and I can’t make it rhyme, so forget it.

Cheetah Boy’s team made it into tournament play, which meant that we got to drive up to Simi Valley Saturday where it was practically chilly at 104 degrees to watch him and his entire team wilt in the heat and play their worst game ever. They got slaughtered, to the point it was actually painful to watch.

I’d never been to Simi Valley, it’s actually kind of pretty up there in a “roast in hell” kind of way. I even saw a dark-skinned person, which I understand is roughly the fabled equivalent to finding a dinosaur egg or the Loch Ness monster. Supposedly a lot of cops live up there but they didn’t have signs on their foreheads so I couldn’t tell. I was trying to spot cops, like I tried to spot polygamists in St. George, Utah, but the polygamists were easier to find, wearing the odd clothes and all.

Anyway, baseball season is now officially over for both Cheetah Boy and Curly Girl. So we have to figure out what to do with our lives again four days a week. It’s a strange feeling to have both Saturdays and Sundays available for discretionary use again. And to think about eating something besides snack shack hamburgers.

Last year, the first that I put the kids into baseball and softball, the transition was hard for me. I resented the reality that kid baseball takes over your life and makes it impossible to do anything else, with two games a week and two practices PER KID. It’s kind of like joining a religious cult.

Now, a year later, I’m just brainwashed and I accept it without question. The hours of sitting at the park, scorching hot or freezing cold wrapped in a blanket. The bad food. The endless begging from siblings for candy from the snack shack or “just one more churro.” The snack shack duty. The hurried trips to the store to bring the team snacks you forgot–again–only to find out your kid hit a home run while you were gone.

Sometimes I was just inclined to pitch a tent and live there all season.

Now, it’s been five months and I know no other life. What on earth will we do with our time?

For the first time this year, I’m putting them into soccer this fall. They are resisting me but I think they’ll like it. I don’t know how we’ll make it until then.

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Hey, why not read more Frumpy Middleaged Mom? It’s 42% better than real life:

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Posted in: Frumpy Middleaged Mom - Marla Jo Fisher • baseball • Little League • soccer • sports |

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