I bolt out of the office, keenly aware that being the last car out of the parking lot could cost me precious minutes. It’s a 15-minute drive to day care, and I mentally check off our logistics. Uniform for my 5-year-old tee ball enthusiast: check. Diaper bag for my baby: check. Snacks for everyone: check. Caffeine for me: check. All set.
I rush into the day care center, holding little cleats that are stubborn and tricky to put on. After a flurry of pulling and adjusting, both of us end up slightly sweaty and a bit frazzled. Honestly, since becoming a mom to these two boys, I’ve spent most of my days in a state of mild chaos.
We gather the baby, who insists on sticking his fingers in my mouth while gleefully repeating “mout.” Snacks and sippy cups are distributed, the gas pedal is pressed, and off we go. Our conversation jumps from gym class to boogers, while I half-listen and half-daydream about my DVR and couch. It’s already been quite a day.
Suddenly, two ambulances race past us, sirens blaring. A chill runs down my spine until my son breaks the tension: “Mom, let’s pray for whoever is hurt.”
What a sweet boy.
Time seems to stand still as we pray for the injured. With a final “Oh yeah, please keep an eye on my little brother,” the moment passes, and our chat shifts back to the more mundane stories from school.
As we pull into the baseball complex, gravel crunches under our tires, and we’re off again. I plant the baby in the stroller, haul out the bat bag, diaper bag, and water, and make our way to the fields. My little athlete skips ahead, tossing his water bottle like it’s a toy, catching the sunlight and creating a rainbow that dances on his face—just for a moment, his beauty takes my breath away.
But in the blink of an eye, he’s off, running to join his friends—growing up too fast.
Carrying all our gear, I head to the stands to watch the spectacle that is tee ball. It may only be 5:45 p.m., but it feels like an eternity and a Herculean effort to reach this field five miles from home. I can’t help but long for my couch and some quiet time.
I sneak a piece of candy from my purse while the baby gazes at his brother, babbling away. The players engage in their spirited antics, while parents and coaches shout last-minute advice. The game unfolds like a movie scene—there are injuries (a ball to the face) and heartbreaks (a strikeout). For one hour, these little warriors battle it out on their sacred red dirt.
But as soon as the game wraps up, the kids turn into chaotic little bees, buzzing around the field. The adults gather the little ones and usher them back to their cars.
Onward to home we go.
Next comes the whirlwind of dinner, baths, (attempted) homework, and finally bedtime. The baby sleeps peacefully on my lap, his tiny chest rising and falling. My older son, with damp hair sticking to his forehead, cuddles up in his pajamas as I read a bedtime story. The boy who appeared so heroic on the field now looks adorable and small.
He drifts off before I can finish the book. I sit there, gazing at their peaceful faces, feeling my heart swell with love. The stress and fatigue fade away as I hold their little hands. They seem to be growing right before my eyes, limbs stretching and faces changing in real time. Tears spill down my cheeks as I contemplate the future rushing toward us.
Just then, my husband walks in after a long 12-hour shift. He glances at my tear-streaked face, eyebrows raised. “Hey, honey. Are you OK? Did something happen?”
All I can muster is this: “I’m fine. I just can’t believe today is already over.”
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Summary:
In the midst of the chaotic demands of parenting two young boys, the mother reflects on the fleeting nature of time and the bittersweet moments of everyday life. From the hustle of tee ball practice to the tranquility of bedtime stories, she experiences a whirlwind of emotions, highlighting the beauty and challenges of motherhood.