What I Learned From A Bad Ass Three-Year-Old
He's wearing a striped polo shirt with camouflage shorts and a ball cap. As if he's ready to go to war for a country club.
His mom is pitching. Major league style.
Overhand. Fast.
The bat is taller and heavier than he is.
He swings.
Hits it.
And keeps twisting.
And falls down backwards.
She chases the ball.
He gets up. Runs the imaginary bases with his arms up.
Home run.
Celebration.
How can I not fall in love with this kid?
He's fired up now.
Ready to hit again.
She pitches.
He misses.
Hard.
Falls down.
Gets up.
She pitches.
Strike.
Throws his bat in protest.
Strike.
Throws his bat.
Stomps his little camo legs.
Grabs his head and stares at the ground.
Strike.
"Mooooooom. You're throwing it wrong."
Throws the bat. Stomps.
Lays down on the ground with his legs in the air.
Hit.
Mom catches it.
He gathers up his anger.
He's now in silent hatred-of-baseball mode.
Strike.
He's beside himself.
He throws the bat.
He throws his hat off.
He stomping in circles.
He's mad at his mom.
He's mad at baseball.
He's mad at everything.
This is the best part.
He yells at the sky:
"Aaaahhhhh - I used to be GOOD at this!"
It's super cute when a three-year-old acts like this.
Not so adorable at 38.
This is when it hit me.
We all do this.
We swing - we hit - we run our imaginary bases.
We miss.
We fall down.
We miss.
We get mad.
We miss.
We blame.
We miss a few times and make it mean
That we used to be good.
As if now we're broken.
All washed up.
Might as well quit.
Give up the game.
We tell ourselves that it's too hard.
That it must be easier for others.
We tell ourselves that we can't stand back up.
And can't bear to miss again.
That bad-ass three-year-old stood back up.
He hit the ball.
He ran his bases.
He celebrated his win.
Sometimes we miss.
Sometimes we miss a bunch of times in a row.
But, sooner or later.
If we don't give up.
And we don't blame.
And we don't wallow.
We stand up.
Hit that ball.
And watch it fly.