I miss coach pitch...

Among many activities this fall, Bailey has been in the throws of fall baseball.  We've encouraged baseball because, well, at almost 9, he's just a hair over 4 feet tall and 49 pounds, so football is pretty much out of the question.  Truth is, he loves it - walks around swinging in the air constantly, memorized all the baseball players names and positions on the Mississippi State team, and begs his daddy to throw a ball every chance he gets, but for a mama it's been tough to watch.  Now, I have no athletic ability and know nothing about sports - couldn't care less, but kid pitch is a different game.  For a few seasons of coach pitch, I've been nervously excited as he got up to bat hoping he'd get a hit, but this game is more about calling the balls and strikes and knowing when not to swing.  There was one game with a girl pitcher on the opposing team that could eat Bailey's lunch and struck out the entire team, pitching a no hitter - girl's got a real future.  All the boys in the dugout were scared of the chic, and so was I.  But, Bailey was the first and one of the few to get on base because of his rather short strike zone. He was pretty proud to be short.
But, most of the season, including last night, he's been used at target practice.  Getting hit by a ball, gets you on base, though, and he knows the drill.  As soon as the ball hits him, he tosses the bat and goes to first, like that's how you play the game.  It's made him a bit gun shy - can't blame the kid, but he keeps playing.  He got hit twice last night - once on the cleat and the last time on the arm.  I watched it and then saw him run to first with his arm hanging limp, paralyzed by the sting, the first base coach, his daddy, trying to get him to shake it off.  I knew it wasn't happening and I met him at the dugout to inspect the hit.  It's really just a bruise - I know it hurt, but he was tough.  I got him the hot chocolate a little early and he went back out there.
And, then it hit me.  I miss coach pitch.  The predictable pitches where my kids know how to line themselves up and hit the ball.  It's not the game, it's the growing up.  As a parent, you hope you arm your kids with the ability to make the right choices, remember who they are, use their manners, be good friends, stick with it when it's important, and bail out when the outcome will reflect negatively on their future.   Don't get me wrong, I am so grateful to be here to run to my car for the dollar for the hot chocolate in the middle of the game, and talk through tough choices that mean keeping their commitments, punish for being disrespectful, praise them for accepting differences of others, and for walking away or not chiming in when friends are being mean to others.  But, wow, what a job!
But with the growing up, also comes with more opportunities to be proud of them.  Bailey begged to go to work with me on fall break one day to see one of my therapy buddies who he has befriended.  They are a little different physically, but have a lot in common and have a great time together.  I was so proud of him and told him later that he made his day, and he said to me, "well, he made my day too."  And, last Sunday, when I was teaching my 5 and 6 year old Sunday school class about how God keeps his promises, I asked the question, "tell me a time when you know that God helped you or someone else with something."  I got lots of answers like "my hamster died" and "when I was scared, " but my little girl sitting right next to me raised her hand and said, "my mommy was sick and her back hurt so she couldn't walk, and God took care of her."  I had to stop that lesson and say the prayer.
So this Thanksgiving season, I'll start with being thankful for the little signs that God gives you that you've done something right with your kids - like when you son has a panic attack when his sister gets out of his sight, or when your daughter chooses to paint her brother's name on a pumpkin for him before she chooses one for herself.  As I clean out closets and realize that Bailey's shirts no longer fit on the toddler hangers and my little turkey hands that will hang in my kitchen this month are steadily getting bigger, it just means that their arms are longer too so when they hug me, I get to feel them wrap completely around me.  And, it gives me hope that they can stand at the plate, and be prepared for big girls with wild pitches, even if the strike zone is a little small.