An old fave.
Bugs Bunny – Baseball Bugs – Click here for more blooper videos
We all have to run away from our family sometime or other. My twins turned nine a couple months ago, and I’m seeing signs almost daily that they’re practicing to run away. But today was the first day my nine year-old son officially ran away.
I guess he was really mad at me. I’d caught him sneaking something into his mouth and challenged him about it. When he refused to tell me what it was, I told him to spit it out. He did so, but he spit it where I couldn’t see what it was. Then he calmly walked back into the house, packed his backpack (I later found it packed with a glow-in-the-dark football, sunscreen for the scar on his nose, heel cups for his shoes and a Calvin and Hobbs book) and informed me that he would be running away.
I told him to clean his room first since his grandmother was coming to town in a couple days, and after he’d finished with that, he could run away. His eyes widened with hurt that I could be so callous about losing him forever, but that was the only sign he gave of any of the emotions he was feeling.
I decided to leave him to his running away and go shopping for groceries. We had none in the house, which was why I hadn’t made any dinner yet even though it was dinner-time, and which was why, I guessed, the big dramatics.
It was hard to leave. Part of me wondered if he’d really take the whole running away thing to hell in a handbag. What if he got snatched away? What if I’d really never see him again? Panic set in, but I still went shopping. He needed to run away. I needed to let him run away.
I called my husband for reassurance that I was doing the right thing, but he was at work and didn’t answer.
So, when I got to the market, I called home, hoping that my son would answer.
But my daughter answered the phone, and she told me Aaron had disappeared and she didn’t know where he was.
My insides quaked, but I calmly told her that Aaron had decided to run away.
She said, he had?
I said, yes.
She asked me if I wanted her to go into the field and look for him.
I said no, she should stay put.
She told me that she’d seen him go out through the back gate into the field and he was wearing his backpack.
I told her Aaron wanted to be by himself.
She said, ok.
I told her I’d be home shortly.
A couple minutes later, while leaving the grocery store, I got a phone call. It was Aaron.
He said he’d tell me what he’d had in his mouth if I let him watch the Mariners baseball game.
I told him I’d think about it.
He said he’d had a Hershey’s kiss in his mouth.
I couldn’t help it. I chuckled and asked, why didn’t you just tell me earlier? I’d have let you keep eating it.
He said, Goodbye, in a sulky tone. And hung up.
When I returned from the store, all was normal. My son was home. I was home. I let him watch the Mariners game while I made dinner. It was like nothing had happened.
Only something had happened. He’d run away. I’d run away.
I’ve had a lot more practice running away from my family than he. But he’s growing up. He’s going to be running away sooner than I’m ready for.
But, at least for today, we’ve both come back home.
blah blah blah
My sadness about the Virginia Tech massacre is keeping me up tonight. And today (now yesterday), I couldn’t focus on writing. Every time I sat down at the computer, my mind wandered. I’m grieving about those kids, the teachers, the parents…and the creative writing student who has become the main character of all the newspaper stories. It’s hard for me to focus on my story right now or wrap my mind around the problems of my own main character, with this still fresh in my mind.
As understandable as this creative inertia may be, it’s not insignificant. In the past, grief has taken away my urge to write creatively for years on end. And while today I know that I will find my way back to writing my book in a day or two, at the moment, I am suspended between unfolding stories: the story I never wanted to have to read and the one I have been writing every day for months. I must have told myself a hundred times today to just sit down and write, because I’m a book author now. It’s my job to write.
So, here I am. A sleepless and sad book author. Sitting down and writing.
My son plays Little League baseball. He is already wildly superstitious at age nine. For luck, he wears socks in mismatched colors or a cheap necklace or an unwashed baseball cap. Sometimes, he wears them all at once. Whatever he does, it seems to work well for him. He gets big hits, makes great plays, pitches good games.
Out in the bleachers, I wish I had a lucky charm to help me through the baseball season. Like every parent in the bleachers, all I want is for my son to be successful, but baseball is no picnic in that department. Failure is a much more likely outcome than success, even when you’re one of the best. Batting .300 means getting an out seven out of ten at-bats. By the end of the season, I’m wiped out.
The other day, my son asked me, “Mom, is it possible to bat 1.000?”
I replied in a kindly tone, “No, buddy. That would mean for a whole season you’d never make an out hitting. It would mean you’d have to be perfect.”
He thought about it a moment. Then he nodded and said matter-of-factly, “That sounds hard, but I bet I could do it.”
Man, I need one of those lucky charms really bad.
Friday the 13th. An interesting date for the birth of my blog. I’m not superstitious, but I do believe in the power of ideas. I like the idea of Friday the 13th being the birthday of my blog. Not for its much-fabled unlucky aspects, but rather for its unforeseen potential.
So, Happy Birthday, Blog! Expect the unexpected.
