Tucker comes to me with a ball and glove.  “Mommy, let’s just try this one more time.”

“Tuck, I cannot catch.”A baseball player pitching (focus on the ball)

“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.

 

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