Tucker comes to me with a ball and glove. "Mommy, let's just try this one more time."
"Tuck, I cannot catch."
"But maybe you just need more practice. I think I could coach you."
I'm quite certain he could. But my eyes will still get confused, I won't be able to see the ball coming, and it won't end well. That's how it goes.
I, for one, feel like this family has had enough baseball-to-the-teeth situations.
"I'm so sorry to tell you this, Tuck, but I will never, ever, ever be able to catch, no matter how hard I try."
He can't comprehend such a conclusion, how anyone could just accept this as truth without committing to counseling at least.
He pats me on the back, rubbing small circles between my shoulder blades. "Mommy, that's a very horrible thing to say about yourself."
As if I've just said that nobody loves me and I will die alone.