Baseball chronicled

Yes, I am a blogging fool today. I figured since I've basically neglected this space for so many months, I may as well try to pump some life back into it. I plan to post a couple more times today, if the day doesn't get the better of me. We now have a long list of to-dos: work out, take Betty to dog park, go to regular park, lunch, quiet time and then paint.

So below are some photos from Wilder's baseball season. I was his head coach, which was a position I never really felt suited for, but it got more comfortable as the season wore on. And, luckily, I had about five parents who acted as assistant coaches for me.

These photos are taken by my good friend Michele Nakari. She is an amazing shooter. Her son Gavin is Wilder's buddy and Gavin was on the team, too. I'm so psyched to have these memories, so thanks, Michele! Most of the shots are of Wilder, but there are a couple at the end that I just love.

Wilder tags out a runner. This was HUGE.

At bat. He struggled so much at the beginning of the season, but by the end, he was hitting at almost every at bat. I was a proud coach and a prouder mama.

Go buddy!

Headed for first.

High-fiving a coach.

High-fiving another coach (aka "Mom")

Nice baseball duds, eh?

I love this shot so much.

I love this one, too, mostly because I look like a real coach in it. Wilder looks scared, but he wasn't. I was explaining to him that since no one was on second base, he did not have to run unless I told him to. I told him to, he scored, yay!

This is me consoling one of my players, John. He was bummed that he struck out, I think.

When I interviewed for the (volunteer) coach position, the rec coordinator asked me what I hoped to accomplish as a coach. I gave all the usual answers, then told him I hoped the kids would have fun and make lasting friendships. He said no one had ever given him that last bit as an answer before, that he really loved that and that he could tell I was a mom. I think this picture proves that we met that goal. :-) It was, I think, our second to last game.

Brave Wilder

A couple of weeks ago, the boys and I met some friends up at the Broomfield library for a program about space. I can't remember who the speaker was, but a younger scientist guy from Boulder. He was great with the kids and the program was pretty great, too.

At the end of the program, they allowed a limited number of questions from kids in the audience. They chose them all at once and the kids were asked to come line up by the microphone. Wilder's hand immediately shot up. I knew it would. Wilder has a crazy curious mind and asks the best questions. He constantly has me learning new stuff.

So he walks over to the lady with the microphone and somehow ends up first in line (probably because he "cut" — he's delightfully curious, yes, but also completely oblivious to what or who is around him most of the time).

I see him there with that little microphone held up to his face. My heart pounds for him. I am horribly afraid of speaking in front of a huge group of people I don't know.

Anyway, you can see in the video how he did. He told me afterward, "I was scared, but I did it anyway. It took me awhile to get my question out, but I did it."

That boy is not only crazy curious. He is crazy brave. "I was scared, but I did it anyway" ... that is a theme with him right now. I'll tell the roller coaster story another time ...

This morning ...

This picture has nothing to do with this post, but I know most everyone who comes here really comes for photos and not my ramblings, so here are two lovely photos of both my handsome boys. And later today I will be posting more photos from the last few months, including some baseball photos from Wilder's season and more. So come back!

This morning, I had just barely cracked my eyes open and decided to roll out of bed when I heard a voice hollering from our family room downstairs.  "MAMAAAAAAA!?"

I could tell it wasn't an urgent matter, so I ignored it. You see, Wilder has this habit of being EXACTLY LIKE ME and yelling through the house to get someone's attention. A habit I picked up from my own mother. A habit that I abhor in my own self and that I'm trying to break for both Wilder and I. (Jerry, reading this now, is marveling at what he thought was a giant dollop of hypocrisy: "Huh. I didn't realize she knew she does this too.")

Anyway, back to this morning. Wilder continued to put a high-decibel voice to my name. Repeatedly. So I finally gave up and yelled back, willing to have this very loud, multi-level conversation.

"WHAT?"

"(unintelligible YELLING!!!")

"WHAT???"

"IS MY BIRTHDAY IN THREE MONTHS????"

"YES. A LITTLE LESS THAN."

"YES!! AWESOME!!!"

End of conversation. I have no idea what that was about or what prompted it.

So I went on my merry way, doing what I believe 99 percent of the population does upon awakening: I had to pee. Hunter shows up at the door.

"Mama. Who is going to make my coffee milk?"

(Aside: Yes, I let my 4-year-old have a tablespoon of coffee laced with sugar and milk each morning. Go ahead — judge. But I started drinking coffee when I was 4 and look how I turned out. Perfectly fine. Although now that I think about it, this post seems to not be making any point other than that I've let my kids develop my very own bad habits. Oh well, there'll be therapists when they grow up, too.)

So back to H's coffee milk.

Me, in a mood to screw with him now that both boys have made the mistake of actually expecting me to answer questions before my first cup of coffee: "I don't know! Who will make your coffee milk for you???"

Hunter, giving me a look that screams *duh woman you're so dumb*: "You."

Me: "I don't know if I can. I'm not in charge."

You see, Hunter has taken to telling me that I cannot possibly be in charge because PAPA is in charge. He's bigger, you see, and also — presumably — male. There is a definite lean toward sexism in this house lately, with Wilder telling me last week after I declared that one half of two police officers seen talking to each other was a woman. No, women can't be police officers, they insisted. To which I invoked that classic parenting tactic known as giving them a choice: They could either choose to believe their mother that women can indeed be police officers or I would march their butts back there to meet said female police officer and let her know they don't believe she has the chops for her job.

They chose to believe. Good boys.

Anyway, back to coffee (this really is rambling, eh?)

Hunter: "You are in charge. Papa went to work, so now you're in charge."

Me: "But Papa didn't give me permission to make your coffee milk for you, so ..."

Silly me. Thinking I might actually either make a point with Hunter or get him to at least admit that I am, on very often occasion, IN CHARGE DAMMIT. But, alas, this is Hunter I'm dealing with, so ...

"Forget it. I'll make it myself." And off he goes.

Now that right there is a habit of mine I'm proud he's picked up: stubborn independence.