I’m not sure if this is possible, but the Kaiser and I slunk of out tball today. Heads hanging in shame, hoping to GOD no one talked to us.

Slunk. Slinked? Slunk.Crawled.

Count Waffles the Terrible (note he’s being called by his full name today) took it upon himself lay out the shortstop of the opposing team on his sprint from 2nd base to 3rd base.

With a shit-eating grin on his face, clearly thinking he was having a blast, he ran directly into said short stop who was doing anything but watching our little Count come near him. On purpose. A mitt went flying, tears were shed. Parents collectively gasped beside us, whispers exchanged…looks our way noted.

Kaiser headed to 3rd to talk to our little angle about his not-so-funny strong arm move and have him say he was sorry to the sobbing shortstop-now draped over his father’s shoulder.

As the Count meekly mouthed an “I’m sorry” the opposing coach yelled “Its ok buddy, it was an accident.”

The Kaiser and I exchanged “accident my ass” glances and silently went forth with watching the final batter.

Game over. Chairs began to fold and mits and bats gathered. We made the loooooooooong walk back to the car, in our heads going over the many possibilities of what to say once in the safety of our minivan.

A discussion was had kids who hurt other kids not being allowed to play tball. Something was said regarding being mean and not nice and it never being ok to knock other kids flat on their butts. Then an awkward minivan silence.

I think, for the most part, it was nothing more than one of those gut wrenching, parental moment where you feel like the biggest failure on earth. YOUR kid was the one everyone was going to talk about YOUR parenting skills (or lack there of) were the ones the mothers were exchanging glances over. How did this happen? What did I do wrong? Was it the lack of discipline that one time he threw that block when he was 2? Was it my hover-mom technique on the playground?

I wanted to drive back to that field and explain to every parent who could hear me “but just last night he wanted to know if snails and slugs and worms had doctors so he could fix the snail shell he ‘accidentally’ crushed earlier,” I wanted to scream “but he’s such a sweeeeeeeeeeeet booooooy”

Instead we kept driving. Another Saturday, another tball life lesson.

Mother’s Day for this Queen will always suck donkey balls. The end.

Sigh.

It’s Mother’s Day at Count Waffle’s little preschool and he’s home on the couch with a 103 degree fever. He’s sad because it was “our” day. I’m sad because it was “my” mother’s day and Princess Peanut is THRILLED because she no longer has said fever and is currently jumping off the living room couch and giggling.

Mother’s Day and I have a really shitty track record. There have been no brunches at fancy hotels or macaroni necklaces. There has been ONE champagne morning with a jewelery filled breakfast, but that was a make-up Sunday designed to balance the first year, which we shall never speak of again.

Then there was the last year where I got over zealous in my reminders of the pending day and forever established the “holiday” as a husband free zone.

So to have my ONE event this year taken from me by fever…makes me want to go beat up God. Or Buddha. Or the deity of your choice.

Fuck Mother’s Day. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Tell me how its really some trumped up Halmark holiday and I shouldn’t care. I’m starting a new trend where we hip Moms think Mother’s Day is some anti-woman, oppressive tradition where it makes females less empowered. Or something.

Ok, I’m going to go repeat that all to myself 300 times until I believe it while I go wipe tears.

I sent my son to preschool today with a lunch. He wanted to stay for lunch, I said sure. Ham sandwhich, juice box, grapes, cookies. Not bad. Brown bag with his name on it. Way to go Mom.

Ok, so the brown bag wasn’t a lunch bag, it was the kind they put your wine in at the liquor store.

Think anyone will notice the 4-year old is carrying his lunch in a liquor bag?