Piglet's first day of T-Ball was Saturday. He's four. We're lucky if he can walk from the bathroom to the sofa without a monty pythonesque montage of pratfalls.
It was 45 degrees and windy, but none of the kids complained. The parents however, we cried like newborns, huddled in the dugout over a small fire of trash we foraged out of the bleachers.
I personally had envisioned two quiet hours lounging in the truck reading. Piglet had different ideas. My attention was required every 2.8 seconds. "Mom, did you see me run? Mom, did you see me hit? Mom, watch this, watch this, watch this." After 20 minutes of muttering "who is that kid, why's he calling me mom?" I gave in and left the relative shelter of the dugout to stand in the tornadic winds and shout encouragement. This consisted of "wrong direction, run the other way, don't hit people with the bat, put your mitt on your hand not your head, and get that ball out of your pants".
After an hour of watching eight four year olds run amok, we called it a practice, congratulated ourselves on being the best parents ever, and passed around the Hennessy. Good times.
