Mother Bear in the Outfield

Yesterday was Bub's first baseball practice. Something we have all been looking forward to for a very long time. At first glance, Coach seems enthusiastic, teammates look excited. All is well. For a few seconds, anyway.

Right off the bat (punny punny), things so south. Let me painfully insert here, that these boys are only 6 and 7 year old.

They gather in a circle to introduce themselves. The kids start by introducing themselves with vulgar potty talk. As they run into the outfield, the child who reveals himself as the most vulgar monster, turns around and SPITS in my son's face as he's running. Did I say spit?!? YES.I.SAID.SPIT.

Coach breaks them into groups of three for throwing practice. Oh, joy. My son gets grouped with Mr. Monster. He hurls the ball as far as he can past Chase, so Chase has to run and go get it. While my son is running lackey, Monster starts calling him gross and demeaning names for not being able to catch his amazing throws.

My husband seems to have the ability to put up with a lot, all for the sake of not making a scene. I, however, am Mother Bear. Hear me roar. I have my child's innocence to save.

I get up and head out into the outfield, with hands on hips, lips zipped, sunglasses blazing. Monster seems to shrink back to the normal size of a 6 year old. For a few minutes.

Coach sets up pitching machine. Mother Bear returns to her lair. Husband is mortified. Only other Mom there watching practice, proceeds to tell me that boys will be boys and eventually I need to learn to lighten up and let the boys be boys.

EXCUSE ME?!?

Would you like me stick my head in the sand while I am at it? No thank you!!!!

I was ready to get UP and yank my son OUT. Against my better judgement, I was convinced to stay calm and sit down. Breath, Mom.

The boys are spread in outfield positions, while taking turns at bat. They were given a quick pep talk about being a team and using encouraging words. Those words were lost among the louder vulgar ones. The obscenity is now reaching a new level, pushing the limit one syllable at a time closer to the edge of the cliff. And, to top it all off, the colorful monologues are being joined with grabbing of one's body parts, and graphic thrustings of others.

The coach and assistant coach have smiles on their faces, happy to hear the sing-song bantering of a team out in the field, not wanting to ruin the vibe with something as nasty as reprimand, I can only assume. Not wanting to make waves. Move over then, angry motorboat with HUGE waves coming through and,

I AM READY TO KILL.

I am not a big fan of PC. In my opinion, that is why these kids are the way they are. Right is right. Wrong is wrong. That easy. If other parents want to get their knickers in a bunch because I dared to say anything to their children, then be my guest and YOU TAKE CARE OF IT! If not, then move over, Bacon. Here comes something meatier.

Instead of blowing my cork, I am somehow convinced to keep my cool. So, in my only defense, I start talking about the situation, really, really loud. Aimed in the coaches direction. Real tough, right?

Yeh, not really caring if I am becoming the Cardinal's nightmare team Mom. With the way things went last night, you may not have to worry about having this Mom and her child anywhere near your team. I will either pack up my son and head for the hills (or the city office), or I will kindly extend my services as Babysitter in the Outfield, who will also moonlight as Teacher in the Outfield, Officer in the Outfield, Disciplinarian in the Outfield, and Soap Dispenser in the Outfield.

But, one thing you can bank on me not doing anymore?

KEEPING MY MOUTH SHUT!


I AM MOTHER BEAR!!
HEAR ME ROAR!!