Oh poor Thing Two...he so wants to learn how to play baseball. And he gives it his all. He listens to his coaches. He practices with his dad the drills he's learned at practice. And then, suddenly he decided he didn't want to go. Initially I thought he was just too happy playing with his brother and the neighbor boy and didn't want to leave the comforts of home (we admit that's a genetic trait both boys have inherited from their home body parents). Then I remembered what had happened at the LAST practice. Well...first I'll show you
Poor fella! Last Wednesday they were working on catching using empty milk jugs when he misjudged the ball and took a direct hit to the lower lip. The bloody nose was a secondary injury...or at least that was what my assessment was. I wasn't there...having left early to start dinner. Hubby and another dad provided the initial first aide and then came home for Nurse Mommy to check it out.
So, yesterday morning we had the big post-trauma meltdown. How he wants to play baseball. How he loves baseball but he's just afraid. And somehow once he acknowledged his fear of being hit, his anxiety subsided and he was ready to go. Last night's practice was a success: he had fun with his friends, he caught a few grounders, hit a couple pitches (and yet, in classic kindie little league fashion, just stood there after making contact, completely forgetting to run to first base!) and most importantly: didn't take any hits to the face. On the way home he said "well, MOM, that's because I used my glove not a milk jug!!"
YOu just got to love the logic of the six year old mind and admire the courage that they have to get out there and try again....