When I was in labor for the first time I experienced the magic of an epidural. Let me tell you, it was amazing. I was able watch the monitor and I see the little line rise up to indicate I was having a contraction but I couldn’t feel a thing. I was blissfully numb. It wasn’t a bad way to labor. Until it was time to push. I had zero sensation, but the doctor said it was time, so I put my chin down and pretended to know what I was doing. I felt like an actress playing the part of a woman in labor. I asked the nurse, very quietly, if I was doing it right. She assured me I was and a few minutes later my beautiful, squealing baby girl arrived on the scene.
Fast forward 11 years. Summertime. Baseball season. All three (THREE) of my kids are playing summer ball. My husband is in hog heaven. He is a natural athlete, very competitive, and loves the thrill of the game. Me? Meh.
I watch the other parents at the games. They are PUMPED. They cheer and yell and get thouroughly, genuinely excited watching their kiddos. Me? I’m internally searching the crevices of my brain for appropriate encouraging words. I say things like: “Swing if it’s there. Get ready. Way to watch. Swing at strikes. Watch the ball.” It feels like I’m on a game show called “Let’s State The Obvious!!!”
I’ve become fluent in baseball vocabulary mostly by mimicking my husband but also from faint memories from my childhood of my dad listening to baseball games on the radio on our way home from church.
I mutter to my husband, “Am I doing it right?” I feel like an actress playing a mom watching her kids play ball. I don’t get it. But they love it and I love them so I’ll just keep playing the part.