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June, thus far, has looked something like this:

Last Wednesday: City Finals, Game 1 - the boy's little league team
Last Thursday: City Finals, Game 2
Last Friday: Fourth Grade Band Concert (I suspect this is the last for a long while - the boy kind of hated band and is vaguely resentful that I made him live up to his word and finish out the year)
Last Saturday: Birthday party
Last Sunday: The beau's birthday (technically was Saturday, but we did fun stuff for him on Sunday)
Monday: City Finals, Game 3
Tonight: City Finals, Game 4 - if they had won this, we'd have had another game on Saturday
Friday: Fourth Grade field trip to Sacramento - must be at the airport at 4:30 in the a.m., great googly moogly.
Saturday: Birthday party, possible pizza party for the boy's team; pass out and die of tired (I am now having to schedule time for this)
Sunday: Disney reunion
Next Monday: Collapse on desk, possibly get fired for sleeping on the job

So, Little League is now officially over for the season. The boy's team came in third overall in the City Finals, which - as he reminded me - is way better than his team last season did. And he scored the last run of the game by stealing home. If his league had an award for stealing bases, he'd be a contender for it - his hitting could use some serious work, and fortunately for him most of the kids in his league just don't have the skill level yet to pitch to a left-handed batter so he gets walked a lot, but once he gets on base, he almost always manages to score. Anyway, he had a good season and I really liked his coach, and none of the other parents were crazy psychos about WIN!WIN!WIN! Next year he'll move up to Triple A, which will be a lot more challenging. But hopefully still fun.

Truly, I don't know how people do this with more than one kid in sports. I'm exhausted.

One thing I have to share, though, because it makes me all teary-eyed with pride: a couple of weekends ago, the boy was having something of a crisis of faith about his baseball skills. So I asked him if he wanted me to play catch with him, and we lit out for the playground at school with ball, glove, bat and dog in tow. We played catch for a long while when he asked me to throw over-handed instead of under-handed. I tried, and the ball went off in the completely wrong direction, and when he gave me a little "what-happened-there" look, I said, "No one ever taught me how to throw over-handed."

Now, I've been watching baseball since I was his age; I knew the rules, and for a while I even knew Nolan Ryan's stats, but I never got the hang of actually playing. Every time I tried, all the boys around made fun of me for - say it with me, now - throwing "like a girl"...a phrase that still pisses me off to this day. (I throw like a girl? Ohhhh...that must be why I have BOOBS. Hrmph. Genius.)

But my son - my 10-year-old son - did not tell me I threw like a girl. No, he said this:

"I'll teach you how, Mom."

Wow. And to his credit, he has been. He's got his work cut out for him with me, but he's still trying.

And now to bed, before I ruin this precious family moment by faceplanting into the keyboard.
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