Textbook

Harry had his first T-Ball practice last night.

When I got home from class to change clothes, Jack met me in the laundry room. "Mom!" he screamed (yes-- we've gone from Mama to Mommy to Mom). "Ball!"

Ben and Harry were just as excited, and we piled in the car and drove to the cutest little park with a cute little jungle gym and a cute little bike path and a totally precious baseball diamond.

I thought it was going to be disastrous because Ben and I were a little cranky from a lack of dinner (I got home too late to eat, and Ben got home early and fed the kids but instead of eating with them, he cleaned up the kitchen, picked up their toys, and got stuff ready for their bath because he is awesome). Harry and Jack were excited, but practice ensured they'd be about 40 minutes behind their bedtime schedule, which is usually a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing. I was particularly worried about Jack because he kept asking "Me? Ball?" and seemed a little perturbed when we told him were just going to watch Harry play. He was somewhat mollified by the jungle gym, and by mollified I mean a total pain in the ass because one of us had to watch him instead of watching practice. We took turns; it was fine.

Better than fine. Completely perfect, actually. A textbook blissful suburban evening. The reason people have kids is for nights like this, watching your kids play with their friends learning skills you learned as a kid, laughing at confused little people trying to figure out the order of the bases, cheering on preschool friends and exchanging smiles, chit-chat, and exclamations of "isn't this the cutest thing you've ever seen?" with their parents.

Harry didn't know his name when the coach called roll and asked for Harrison. He also didn't want to share his super awesome Hot Wheels bat (but he did, grudgingly and under duress). As soon as he was done batting, he started yelling, "Can I go to the park now?"

Jack picked me a bouquet of dandelions and then plopped down on the grass and patted the ground beside him. "Mom," he said. "There. Snuggle." He sat on my lap in the waning sun, and we watched Harry at bat for the first time ever. When he hit the ball, Jack burst into applause and screamed "Harry!"and we watched him run the bases like a drunk, and I wondered how the park could be more joyful than it was at that disgustingly wholesome moment.

Then I turned my head toward the playground and saw a puppy going down the slide. No joke.

Harry and his friends have 8 weeks of spring training (spring training! how freaking cute!) before they start playing other teams, and that's good because they need a little work on catching, throwing, hitting, running-- just a few minor details.

The kids took a practice run of the bases before they worked on fundamentals.

Not sure what they were talking about. Strategy probably.

Harry learned to throw overhand at Little Gym where his teachers told him to listen to the ball. He always pauses by his ear and swears the ball says "throw me."

I was stunned by how well he listened and followed directions

I spent a fair amount of time on Jack duty

He was taking the whole experience extremely seriously.

Throwing? Catching? Not sure.

I'm pretty sure he was fielding his own toss here

He's a teeny little baseball player!

You might think a ball rolled between his legs, but he was actually just resting his head in the dirt.

He looked like a little bobble-head doll in his giant helmet.

We were definitely as excited as Harry -- maybe even MORE excited-- when it was his turn to bat.

The coach showed Harry how to hold his bat, and Harry listened very seriously.

Harry hit the ball on his first try!

Harry took off running toward first base at the coach's insistence, only stopping to admire his hit for a second. He was totally confused when the next batter got to first base with him, but then he realized-- with a little help from Ben and the coaches-- that he needed to go to second. Then in a few minutes, to third.

Running in the general direction of home-ish.

Then they switched sides, and Harry got to do a little fielding. He's throwing it to the catcher.

Yep. He's doing a dirt summersault.

"Dude. My glove is totally ready. Where's the ball?"

Nah, Harry didn't slide into base or dive for a ball. Just some more dirt frolicking in lieu of fielding. Although in lieu of is not totally accurate when no one hits the ball past the coach's foot (except this one girl who struck out a few times and then smacked it into deep center field. Awesome).

Jack running away from the field. Again.

By the time it devolved into total glove-on-the-head screwing around time, practice was over, and we all adjourned to the playground.