I almost spit my Dr. Pepper on myself and collapsed out of my fold-up chair due to the shock.
Dazed and confused, I looked around to see what the commotion was that spring day at my son James’ baseball practice. I had been startled by a wild animal perhaps, a crazed beast on the attack mode.
And then it happened again.
“Hustle, son,” the woman beside me screamed, as her veins popped out of her neck. “Round the bases! Pick up the pace. Get it in gear!”
I tried to hide the look of concern and bafflement on my face as I wiped my soda off my shirt. I didn’t want to make eye contact with the lady who continued to stomp her feet and wave her arms around. I even tried to inch my chair a few feet away.
Yes, it’s ball season again. And it is the place where children’s dreams are made on the field. And mothers began to see the different types of parental figures who congregate around the fence line.
A few feet to my left was the peaceful, serene mother with her book and glistening lemonade. Taking a few sips and folding her page down, she casually looked up to see her son hit a ball or throw to first base.
I haven’t read a book that wasn’t about Spongebob Squarepants or My Little Pony in years. I did try to read a self-help parental book once, but it’s used as a drink coaster now.
And here this mother was…reading. How does she do it? How can she focus? I am still racking my brain to make sure I dropped my other kid off at the right practice field.
Next to her was the woman I can’t help but envy. In perfectly pressed pants and a beautiful silk shirt, her hair was neatly in place with a Michael Kors scarf around her neck. She has it all put together as she delicately waves to her son who has still managed not to get dirt on him.
And there I was with sweatpants and a Dr. Pepper-stained T-shirt. My hair thrown up in a hat. My socks didn’t match, and I think I still had make-up on from the day before.
The other mother near me was surrounded by other women, filling each other in on who was on vacation, who was recently hired as a teacher and who took their seat at church. Their social lives belong on a television show. And they use ball practice as a social gathering, mingling and catching up with what is going on around town.
I haven’t finished many complete sentences with other adults in a while. In between words, I am correcting children or I simply space out because I am operating on three hours of sleep.
Then I began to think about how I might appear to the outside observer. There I was with my baggy sweatpants, stained shirt, knotty hair with faded makeup. My chair is caving in on one side, and its arm was held together my Duct Tape. I had no knowledge of baseball, sometimes clapping when I shouldn’t be. And yes, the alarm on my truck sounded off at one point.
But one thing is for sure…and like all the walks of life out there…we are proud. That is one quality we all shared. We were proud our sons as they gave their little hearts out on that field.
From the shouting fan to the content bookworm to the fashion model to the social butterfly and even me…whatever I am. We are all proud mothers, and we cheer our players on with love.
And that is one label we all wear with pride.
