Baseball Rant

Can I be vulnerable and petty and angry here? 

Isac had to make a tough decision and he is no longer playing baseball with the Madison Bobcat Varsity Team. 

 I know how this looks. What kind of person quits halfway through the season? 

Well, I can tell you that it isn’t the kid who pays for baseball from the time he is 12 by mowing lawns because his parents can’t afford it. It isn’t the kid who creates a baseball league for his little brother and plays for hours in the backyard every day to help him get better. It’s not the kid who shows up to practices and games with a desire to work hard and make things fun for his teammates and coaches. It's not the kid whose entire family comes to every game and cheers their guts out, talking baseball around the dinner table each night. It’s not the kid who made no errors in the outfield and had a competitive batting average the few games he played this season. 

No. That kid doesn’t quit. He loves the sport too much. 

And he’s not afraid of fighting for his position. With parents that have always taken a backseat to interfering with coaching decisions and sports drama, the kid is used to fighting his own battles. 

Now, the kid that has a long conversation with his coach, hoping to be given one reason why he has been pulled off the field after only playing three games, one reason that his coach wants him to stay, and instead is told, “You're doing great but I need to give more experience to the younger players on the team. I’m not going to have you play. If you decide to quit, I support any decision you make;” the kid that talks to the assistant coach who admits, "I better not tell you too much or I might lose my job, but we've got a lot of parents funding the program and yelling at the head coach about their kids' amount of playtime;" that kid’s not quitting the team, he’s being let go of the team while others are playing for the wrong reasons. 

Really, I’m the one that needs to let go of my pride about how others will see my son when they learn that he’s done playing (see, I can’t even say the word, “quit!”). 

I’m pretty sure what I’m experiencing is what psychologists would call “expectation grief.” I expected that Isac would be given a fighting chance to play his senior year. I was wrong.

Announcements

My pregnancy was much like the others. For the first trimester, I slept as I made dinner, taught career exploration classes, cleaned the house, talked to my kids, attended a teacher improvement course at BYU-Idaho, and prepared simple dinners. Sometimes, I slept laying down while Ellie napped. Mostly, I slept standing up. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was eating, trying to stay ahead of nausea one cracker or pickle or peanut at a time. They say exercise cures first-trimester exhaustion and nausea. I believe it. But the craving for a cracker and a nap was strong and I preferred that remedy. 

 

It was hard to keep a secret from my older kids, who would quickly question why their mom seemed to be one of the walking dead. On a drive home from the Dollar Store, I was chatting with Sophie and I said, “guess what?” “You’re pregnant!” she teased. I was only going to tell her what we were eating for dinner, so her response caught me off guard. Later that night, I pulled her into my room to tell her the news. She was thrilled, jumping up and down with excitement. Isac and Haddy were told individually few days later. “Cool! I’ve always wanted a big family!” was Isac’s response. Haddy’s response was surprising: “What? We need a bigger house” was her concern. Spencer couldn’t have been happier. “I need a little brother!” he exclaimed.

 

Just when I was ready to announce my pregnancy to the world, the world made its own announcement: Covid 19 had spread across the globe and was now considered a pandemic. Schools and churches and businesses were closing. The slogan, “Save lives. Stay home” started circulating the internet. At first, I didn’t take it very seriously. But on March 12, the church announced that all gatherings were suspended--including college classes--and I realized that this was going to affect my life personally. That night, I gathered with 10 other book club members in Ashley Yost’s living room and the pandemic was the only topic we discussed.  “Did you hear that the Idaho Falls Symphonic Concert is cancelled?” “The BYU-Idaho production of The Cherry Orchard is going to be recorded!” “Classes are going to be held remotely!” “The grocery store has no canned goods.” “I’ve heard that you can’t buy toilet paper at Walmart!” “Kids are going to finish the school year at home.” We parted ways that night, shaking our heads and speculating about when we’d meet again. 

 

Every month, I looked forward to meeting my friend and Eliza’s doctor, Marie Horne, to measure the baby and listen to her racing heartbeat through the monitor. Eliza Jane was growing and developing splendidly. Because they couldn’t attend the ultrasound with me, I facetimed with Trevor and Spencer and we oohed and ahhed at her perfectly shaped head and tiny fingers and toes. The ultrasound tech kept the gender a secret and Trevor and I were able to open an envelope that contained pictures from the ultrasound and the words “It’s a girl!” printed in white letters against the black photos. I quickly bought a pink balloon and stuffed it in a gift bag filled with pink treats to announce the gender to the kids. They opened the bag eagerly, and the helium-filled balloon slowly emerged, dashing Spencer’s hopes for a brother and confirming Sophie’s suspicions. Later that day, I invited Spencer on a drive and we talked about all the reasons why having two little sisters would be exciting. He resolved to make the most of it.

Meant to Be

Eliza Jane was always meant to be part of my life. That much is certain. But the details about how and when she’d arrive couldn’t have been fuzzier. And I know about fuzzy details.

Some of the details are clearer in hindsight. One year before Eliza was born, I was passing along her older sister Ellie’s outgrown baby items within 24 hours. The doodads, boppers, high-chairs, low-chairs and everything-in-between-chairs had cluttered the living rooms long enough; baby girl clothes went to young mothers in the Iona 7th Ward under the direction of my mom, the Relief Society President, as soon as Ellie stretched them out. It wasn’t as though I was eager to be done with all things baby. But Ellie was a miracle, and I knew I wouldn’t get another. She’d be raised as an only child and I’d be happy about it.

Having four kids and a baby wasn’t how I’d planned things. Oh, I knew I’d be a mom; it was a career, a destination for which I’d study and plan as a kid. Maybe, just maybe, I’d marry and have six babies so that they could sit at the dinner table like my family. 

 

In the first eight years, everything was following the blueprint: I’d married the man of my dreams and four beautiful babies had come. But it wasn’t looking good for numbers five and six. We still didn’t have full-time work, but our hands were full. 

 

Four years passed and Trevor turned to me during general conference and declared, “we need to have another baby.” It was a clear prompting and we started planning. Perhaps, in nine or ten months, a fifth child would complete our family. 

 

Number five, Ellie Mariann, took her sweet time. Three years passed and seven-year-old Spencer Barr would be dethroned as the king and baby-of-the-family in 2018. We now relished every milestone Ellie achieved as though it would be our last chance to enjoy a first giggle or clap or step; we passed along anything she outgrew before we let ourselves think of the finality of this stage of parenthood.  And then I started feeling queasy. 

 

One January afternoon, a pregnancy test was purchased on a whim. I went numb when I saw the indicators reveal a positive result. That morning, the challenges of raising teenagers had been weighing heavily and all I wanted to do is sleep. In an instant I knew why I was so exhausted, but how could this be? It had seemed impossible to get Ellie here a little over one year ago. Was it possible that another baby would follow in spite of everything? 

 

Almost immediately after the questions began, a feeing of peace followed that was inexplicable. It would be okay. No, more than okay. It would be just right. Ellie wouldn’t have to be raised an only child. I would get to experience another round of firsts with another beautiful baby. Although I’d forgotten about my nine-year-old wish for six children, it seems I’d been given that hope for a reason. Number six, Eliza Jane, was always meant to be a part of my life. I’d simply forgotten.

Passionate Toast

I am passionate about cinnamon toast on a Sunday night in the calloused fingers of my guitar-playing husband or the small, dirty fingers of four sandbox-construction-working children.

I am not passionate about anything that takes me out of that moment around the kitchen table. I don't like thinking about the amount of calories in the cinnamon toast, the films I should be studying in preparation for another semester of teaching, the piano pieces I need to learn before Haddy's book 2 recital, the floors that will need mopped in the morning, the journal entries I need to catch up on, or the new budget we need to review. And yet, these details cannot be neglected.

Success follows passion, or so I've been told. So if I can become passionate about the day-to-day details of mothering, seeing them as necessary brush strokes in the portrait, perhaps there will be some measure of success.

But how can I measure success as a mother, when so much of the outcome is out of my hands? I feed my children a carrot, pinch pennies, take them to practices, clean up after them, read to them, pray with them, tuck them in, nag at them, hold them, teach them, and then, they go on and do things their own way. I can only hope that cinnamon toast on a Sunday night does something good for those passionate little people...

Sound Effects

Spencer and I went on a walk tonight. We saw a mmmmvvvvvvvvvrrrrmmmmm and a tweet tweet. Did you know that tweets fly away fast when you chase them? We were tempted to pick a aaaappp off the tree. Did you know they grow on trees? We said, "hi," to every vrrrmmmm that drove by. Sometimes, the people inside waved back. We stopped to pet a mee mee that was so soft we had to giggle about it. We saw a big ruff and almost lost a shoosh. We were excited to run home to tell Dadda about it. It was all so exciting, we may not be able to sleep tonight.

Why Not?

Why not write in a blog you haven't peeked at in four years? You have things to say. You have people to brag about, ideas to share, pictures to post. People may be wondering where you are living, what you are doing. Your family, spread out across the United States and now in Germany, may want updates.

So...what's the hold up?

Just start where you are. Don't try to go back to the day you abandoned the blogging world. No need to mention details about Isac's first swimming lessons or Haddy's debut as a tightrope walker in her kindergarten play. You couldn't possibly recap every moment; Sophia learning how to skip or Spencer's crazy dances in oversized rainboots are only one in one hundred memories worth mentioning.

Begin this way: Today, we ate pancakes and eggs for dinner. Seth Hochstrasser and Katie Klingler joined our dinner breakfast party after helping my kids distribute dominoes, race tracks, Barbies, swimsuits, towels, dress-up shoes, Polly Pockets, baseballs, and mitts throughout the house. If it weren't for the fact that much of the day was spent preparing to audition for a play, taking the kids to eat lunch at Porter Park and play baseball at Smith Park, I might have the energy to enforce a clean up. I guess there's always tomorrow...

Who knows? Maybe the next time you write, you'll know how to begin. And maybe you'll know how to explain why your children now look like this:

Here's to You

Here's to Foster family reunions at Island Park,

picking and eating fresh blackberries, strawberries, peaches, and pears,

driving to the top of Mount Ashland,

camping in a yurt at Valley of the Rogue State Park,

playing on rocks, and in rivers and mudholes,

eating picnics, running through sprinklers, dancing in swimsuits,

reading Little House on the Prairie and Farmer Boy and pretending to be Pa, Ma, Laura, Carrie and Almanzo day after day after day,

and to those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer.