I dropped my kid off at baseball camp this week. This is the stuff you have to do when you’re nine-years-old and on your way to the big leagues. The second thing you have to do is remember to wear your cup. I still don’t understand how he has a change up, a fast ball, and a slider, but he can’t straighten the wrinkles out of his bed, but I digress.

pitching 01When I went to camp as a kid, I packed my pillow and blue-plaid sleeping bag, but I’m not saying this is a good thing. These days, you just bring your miscellaneous sport equipment. I don’t understand the word “camp” when there is no camping involved. Pitching camp is only two hours long, so I’m not sure how you can call it a “camp” when there are no beanie-weenies, mosquito repellent, or a canteen to blow your ten bucks at from mowing lawns. Times have changed. The beautiful thing about baseball camp, though, is that there are no girls, so I won’t have to worry about that later on. If you remember, I’m not keen on co-ed competitive sports, but not because of some Bible verse, unless you count common sense as a Biblical virtue. :eek_wp:

Nevertheless, I still get all weird about sending my kid off to do a new thing. He’s off to play with the big dawgs. What if he can’t remember my cell phone number? What if the criticism is too hard for him to handle? (Remember, I lock my kids in the basement since we homeschool.) This is tough on a mom. I don’t leave my babies just anywhere. While I may threaten a lot of things, they know I am just blowing smoke. (Freebie to moms of toddlers: Don’t make threats; you’ll appear weak.)

When I signed him in, I stood there for a few extra minutes. “I’m sure I have a few more questions,” I told the instructor, you know, beyond the ones we’ve already been over. Then I stood there for a couple more awkward seconds while I thought up some fake questions that I couldn’t pull out. “He’ll be fine,” Mr. Major Leaguer assured me. I just stood there some more. I’m not usually this good at awkward silences. I’m the girl you invite to your dinner party to keep things moving along. Yeah, I’m brilliant. Stellar move there, brunette. My kid just got marked, “Make sure this kid doesn’t get hit….”

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Avoiding getting hit by a pitch during a tournament last month.

I’m ridiculous, but tune in Toledo, what’s new. Whenever I leave my children in someone else’s care, I say, “Those are my babies,” so that they get the secret message that I’m not a deadbeat. All moms have their way, and this is mine. More often that not, I’m telling my kids to be tough, but I’m not ruthless. There is no crying in baseball. I should remember that.