Last week we were having a typical day at home. In between snacks/meals, diaper changes, moderating fights, cleaning messes, reading books, singing songs and responding to the normal barrage of cries for help, I was parked at my laptop doing what I could to keep up with my tasks. In an attempt to glean a half an hour of quiet, I sent the kids into the backyard on their own.
Once they were outside (and had my help navigating past the pool closing supplies Big Guy had left in their path), I turned to go inside. “Are you going inside, Mama?” Bug asked. I nodded, ignoring the first twinges of guilt. He stood watching as I walked back into the house.
I opened a window so they could easily call for help and sat down to work. But just before I could dive in, Bug caught my eye. He was standing in the yard with the bat in one hand and the ball in the other as if waiting for some imaginary playmate to come and play. Twinge, twinge.
I tried to focus on my project, but all I could see was my little guy trying in vain to play baseball on his own. To his credit, he was doing a decent job throwing the ball in the air and trying to hit it, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Finally, he stood for a minute staring off into the distance, bat and ball hanging in his hands by his sides. He dropped them distractedly and ran off to play with something else, but the damage was done.
With one last glance at the few words I had managed to put up on my screen, I went back outside. Both kids looked at me with surprise. “Are you coming out to play, Mama?” Bug asked as I picked up the ball.
“Yep. Would you like to play catch with me?”
The joy on his face as he ran to get his bat made my heart melt. And then I heard another little voice calling, “Mama, come push me.”