Most of you know that my oldest son plays baseball. I wanted him to play the piano, but he likes baseball and not the piano. He plays Little League in the spring and fall. In the summer and winter, he plays in a competitive league. That’s a lot of baseball, but that’s also a lot of peace and quiet for the mom in the house.

I missed a tournament the other weekend due to having the baby. However, Greg called me with status reports to keep me informed. It’s so cool that he can talk in man shorthand (2 up, 2 down, man on 1st, bottom of the 2nd) and I know exactly what he means. I think he finds this attractive.

So, my favorite player, Number 38, hits the only homerun of the game. Greg gives me a ring, and I can still hear the cheering in the stands. While Greg gives me the RBI’s and other stats, we wait for Number 38 to round the bases and make it back to the dugout. He hands the phone to the homerun hero, who tied the game up with that hit. My boy talks to his mommy in the dugout because he is not worried about coolness.

“Congratulations, Honey.”

Always pretty low-key, “For what?”

“For your homerun!”

“It was a triple with an error, Mom.”

Rats. But still. It was a homerun for folks not in-the-know. He made it all the way around with a line drive to the fence. I’m rooting for you, baby.

So the other day, I offer to play catch with my son. He wants to know if I’m for real. Of course I’m for real. I’m a good mom wanting to do a little bonding time with my kid. My baseball player still says, “I don’t think it’s such a great idea.” Go ahead, throw me one.

He gingerly tosses a ball to me—underhand. (This is how they do things in T-ball. I know when I’m being patronized.) I fumble a little, straighten my glove. There. Now I’m ready. I toss it back. A little high, but I’m just warming up. OK, now we’re doing some catching.

“Go ahead and throw me a real one,” I say.

“I’ll get in trouble, Mom. I don’t think I should,” he replies.

“Nah. I’m ready for it. Put it right here,” and I punch my glove like the big boys do.

He put it right there. I missed and fell on the ground in pain. I got bruised and my pinky is crooked.

Whenever I’m inclined to think I know everything, something, or anything, it’s always good to be put in your place by someone who knows better than you do. Even if he’s only nine.