Balin has played tee ball for the last two years. He enjoys it immensely, mostly because when we get home, he gets to eat a popcicle. In fact, I'm pretty sure if we cut him off, declaring that there would never again be popcicles after tee ball, he would choose not to play tee ball.
This year, upon signing him up, in a strange fit of delierium, I thought about how much fun it would be to coach.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" Robinson asks.
He's right, because I always seem to bite off more than I can chew. It's as if a great snake somewhere had unhinged its jaws and forced a whole cow down its throat. Fortunately everything on my to-do list seems to get done. Eventually. Kind of like the cow being digested.
"I'm only going to be the assistant coach," I protest, as if that's going to make everything better.
I find out that the mother of one of Balin's classmate's is going to be coaching with me. The two of us have never coached before. I doubt that between the two of us we've ever played a sport.
Over the phone, she seems a very nice person, and I'm glad we were paired together. The thought crosses my mind that we were paired up because we are girls. Which we probably were.
Somehow that idea makes me a little sad - as if women coaching tee ball is a joke, anyway. But maybe it's practical: maybe everyone knew that we sort of knew each other through school.
I've decided to take on a whole who cares attitude about it. The whole purpose of tee ball is popcicles, right?
Blessed be.
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