Because I am the best goddamn Aunt on the Planet – I got up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to drive an hour and a half to see my five year old nephew play T-ball. Which is like, my most favorite fake-sport ever, T-ball is. There are no strikes or outs or innings or anything – it is just a chance for the kids to learn a few fundamentals while they run to the wrong bases and try to steal left field and all sorts of things while the Aunt Fans get a big chuckle out of it all.
And I am not trying to get all kitten with a ball of string here, but it is cute.
Especially since regulation states that even the little ‘uns need to follow the same uniform guidelines as the actual little leaguers who actually play ball.
So you can imagine my surprise when my sister in law set out the nephew’s little t-ball uniform for him to put on and I picked up the little t-shirt to take a look at how cute and small it was – and underneath the t-shirt, in the pile of uniform clothes, was a the protective cup.
A protective cup, y’all - the smallest thing you ever did see.
And yes, you are right, it took a good five minutes for me to stop laughing.
So, yeah, I guess it’s regulation or something for any players on any level to be umm, protected – but the best part about the T-ball crew sporting the protective cups is that your general five year old boy is a mixture of unabashed curiosity and unbridled attention deficit disorder. And so when there is a lull in the action - and in t-ball there is always a lull in the action – inevitably you’re gonna catch one of ‘em trying to pass the time in right field by hitting his junk with his fist.
Is it surprise all of the women to which I’ve told that story laugh, while the men – not so much?
I forget you fellas take your junk very seriously at any age.
Hey – you say calamity, I say hilarity, whatever
Then again, I am not exactly Role Model material when it comes to anything considering my first word after setting foot anywhere near a little league diamond in years on Saturday was a very loud “SHIT!” right in front of like, 30 or so warming-up t-ballers.
Well, for fuck’s sake, there was a foul ball from the little league game heading straight for my face and I didn’t see it coming. And no I haven’t quite mastered the no swearing when there are little people on the radar thing yet. Yet another reason why I am an Aunt and not a mother.
Just point me in the general direction of the Swear Jar, I’ve got quarters to burn.
‘Cause you know I’d totally be the mom with the cigarette dangling from her lips while she’s all buttoning up the kid’s uniform shirt on the field. “Don’t let ‘em give you any shit, sweetie.”
As if it’s not bad enough I am also destined to be one of those moms whose kids are off eating chocolate cake and coco puffs with coca-cola for breakfast in the mornings while I am sleeping away until one of ‘em comes in to ask for lunch money and I will be all, “baby – go get mama her purse. I’ve got some winning lottery scratchers in there that are worth a few bucks each. You go ahead and bring those to the Amaco up the block there on your way to school and cash those in. Get yourself a nice ham and cheese Hot Pocket for lunch and there should be a little left over to buy momma a pack of her Pall Malls. You run those over to me before soccer practice, okay?”
Or you know, maybe not.
I mean, I could maybe have quit smoking by then.
Anyway, Dismemberment Plan tomorrow night, anyone?