Perhaps Medium League is More Apt

             This week marked the official start of the Little League season in our household. As with many other Northeast baseball parents, this means that we get sunburn one day and hypothermia the next. April, and sometimes much of May, are not for the faint of heart for outdoor sports in these parts. It's best to be prepared with your sunscreen, wool socks, portable fan, umbrella, and electric hand warmers to be on the safe side.

            This season is a little bittersweet as it's the last one's last one. (Translation: The last child is in his last year of little league.) Next year I won't have to worry about the chaos of trying to keep the book while simultaneously trying to keep 10 through 12 year old boys from killing each other. It's the last year of mouth fart noises and cliched sayings that I don't understand anymore because I'm old. It's the final year of dugout-momming.

            And I'm not going to lie and pretend that I signed up for this gig in the first place. My husband volun-told me to help out in the last one's first one. (Translation: The last child's first year in little league.) I remember how out of my league (pun intended) that I felt because a book nerd has no place in sports ball. Truth be told, the first week of every season brings that feeling back, though I now get over it a heck of a lot more quickly. So the irony of this final year being such a poignant moment, that I didn't even think I'd want to do, isn't lost on me.

            For any parent who coaches, dugout parents, or even just volunteers, I appreciate you. I don't even know you, I just know that you have the courage and grit to wade through those child infested grasslands and come out the victor. Because, as any parent who has chaperoned a field trip or been a classroom parent can tell you, it's a big job. It's like herding cats in an open cat nip field using only one arm and having both shoes untied.

            Ok, ok, so not ALL the games are like that. Just the ones that are on days ending in "y".

            Not to mention that there's something more feral about a gaggle of kids than a few. Once you multiply them past a handful, they become exactly that: a handful. They also seem to escalate their energy levels three notches past rambunctious. I'm not sure exactly what that level is called, but it does sometimes require an ibuprofen after 2 straight hours of exposure. 

            Even if you end up with a mostly great group of kids, there will always be one or two who will make you need the ibuprofen all on their own, no extra help needed. I'm guessing that these are the kids who are enrolled to "get the wiggles out" or who need to "channel that energy somewhere productive". This is, of course, parent code for "Oh my god, I just need a break. Please go be someone else's problem for 120 minutes."

             Not that I am familiar with this strategy at all. <awkward laugh>

            So if you see me in the next 2 months, just know that I am doing my best to stay sane. And if sometimes that looks like hiding in a quiet closet for 40 minutes to decompress on game nights, well, move over vacuum, I need some prime floor space.

Have some of your own chaperoning stories to share? Send me an email: modernmommayhem@gmail.com.

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