Eight-year-old reflecting on his morning at baseball camp, "Mom, there were like only two or three of us in the 3rd and 4th grade camp that weren't messing around during drill time. Can you believe that?" No, honey, I find it crazy to think that all 20 eight-and-nine-year-old boys weren't doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing when the coach walked away.
Ten-year-old fussing about the nasty case of road rash on his shoulder, "I can barely move my shoulder, except when I throw a baseball it is somehow fine." Funny that. Baseballs must have magic restorative powers.
Both buddies after fussing that they didn't want to pick-up the movies, Wii games, and various Narnia costumes spread all over their playroom, or clean-up their own snack bowls, "Mom, will you have our baseball pants washed and ready for the morning?" You will be able to locate your pants, most likely still unwashed, on the floor of your playroom right next to the sticky pudding bowl, since that is where items of highest importance tend to congregate.
Eight-year-old dreaming aloud about his impending mini-vaca to PNC Park in Pittsburgh, "Mom, I think I'm a Pirates fan now. I mean, I still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ." Honey, if only you knew how many people "still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ."
No comments:
Post a Comment