I’m standing at the goal, yellow wiffle bat in hand, waiting for the kickball to come my way. We are engaged in a down and dirty game of Frank Ball, think soccer using wiffle bats. It’s a game my oldest made up two years ago, and no his name is not Frank.
It’s a fun game, generally. At least it is when my three boys aren’t playing it. Lately, it seems that we can’t do anything, and I mean, anything without them bickering and fighting, and one of them storming off in tears. Shout out to the middle child.
For the first time, ever, I am ready for them to go back to school. Summer has been a wild ride of baseball and baseball and uh, baseball, but the long days and buggy nights have just gone over my expiration date and like that carton of milk, now I’m sour.
We were good right up till last week, but now there’s a restlessness in the air that settled down like fog on my children. They can’t stop torturing each other. It’s like they feel the change and know summer has come to a close, and there’s nothing left to do but tease each other mercilessly and drive their mother insane.
I never felt a real desire to shove them off. It’s a new experience for me to look forward to the peace that comes with a return to structure, normal bedtimes and a less flexible schedule. They’re changing and growing in amazing and sometimes, annoying ways. And I guess, I’m changing and growing too; learning to let go a little more, and enjoying both the quality time with and without them.
People have asked me how I will spend my days now that I will soon have three children in full time school. It makes me laugh. 8:30am to 3pm is pretty easy to fill. So don’t worry about me, I think I can manage that time to myself without resorting to bonbons and daytime TV.
I smack the ball preventing a goal, but the ball hits the side of the frame resulting in bats being immediately thrown to the ground and my children screaming about whether that constitutes a goal or not.
“Touching counts! It’s a goal!”
“You’re such a cheater!”
It goes on and on, back and forth, until finally I put my own bat down and just walk in the house.
“Mommy!” They scream and run after me. “He cheated!” “Did not!” “He did!” They’re following me, pleading their cases on my wishfully deaf ears. I can’t get away from them.
Only three days, one hours and 23 minutes to go. Not that I’m counting.