DUCK!!

I was outside with the kids the other day working on their baseball skills. Myles's baseball season is about to start and Savannah's class has been playing baseball in gym class. So, they wanted to show me how awesome they are. Myles is in the 6th grade now and is probably stronger than me. And, athletically speaking, I'm not so talented. We have a very strict wiffle ball policy at our house to hopefully eliminate the need to constantly replace windows on our house as well as the neighbors' houses. And since I have been operating under the delusion that wiffle balls will not break our windows and playing with the kids would not result in my death or disfiguration.

A few years ago, I had gone up to the baseball fields with Myles to pitch to him and give him a chance to practice his batting. That's when I learned that pitching is not my forte. I hit him with more pitches than he hit. So, when pitching to him in the front yard, I was fully prepared to suck at pitching again. However, when standing closer to Myles and throwing a wiffle ball, my accuracy was greatly improved. However, he has studied all of his major league heroes swings and tries to hit the ball 4 blocks down the road each time. I am completely convinced that I have an 11 year old Barry Bonds on my hands.

I pitched the very first pitch to him and he hit it. A mere nano second passed before I heard the whistle of the ball flying centimeters from my ear.

"MYLES!" I hollered at him. "Do not try to kill me!"

He just laughed and got ready for the next pitch. I threw the ball, and WHAP! The ball came flying directly back at me and smacked into my chest. HARD! I'm pretty sure there is still a wiffle ball imprint there. And let me tell you those suckers hurt. And I'd be lying if I told you that this particular wiffle ball line drive didn't bring tears to my eyes. But, I choked them back, ignored his laughter and suppressed my desire to hit him with the next pitch.


Savannah stepped up offering to pitch to him, but I was afraid she might end up decapitated.


"DO NOT HIT HER PITCHES AS HARD AS YOU CAN!" I warned him. Then I walked over to the front porch to sit down and try to regain a normal heart rhythm.


Savannah pitched the ball and, having learned from watching me, immediately hit the deck.

We continued on in this manner for a while. Pitch. Hit the deck. And repeat. I think it was an excellent method since Savannah never got hit.

Then, Savannah decided it was her turn to hit. This was going to be more my speed, I figured. I was wrong again. Once again I threw the ball and once again the ball came flying at the speed of light back at me, this time hitting me on the side of the head smashing my glasses into my nose.

"SAVANNAH!" I hollered again. "Are you guys trying to kill me?" Both of the kids were giggling again.

"I'll pitch to her, Mom," Myles said, regaining his composure.

I went over to the front porch to sit down and tend to my new concussion. I'm heading out to Scheels tomorrow to buy my self some protective gear. I'm thinking the full catcher's pads and helmet should do the trick. Otherwise, this will be my new look: