An Open Letter to My Softball Loving Daughter | Softball is for Girls

Dear Softball Loving Daughter;

You love softball, I get that. And I promise that there is nothing I would rather do than watch you play. I love it, too. Even on those days when it so darn hot that I am drenched with boob-sweat that stains my shirt and runs down my butt crack and makes my chair feel like a soggy mess – so much so that I am worried when I get up it will look like I peed my pants. (Gross, I know!).

Even on those days when I am dodging rain drops, and sitting through lightning delays and eating mushy sandwiches out of the bottom of the cooler because your team had one bad game that put them in the losers bracket which means there is no time to run and grab good. And even on those days when you play like you haven’t had years of practice, or whine because Saturday morning is too early, or drain my wallet – I love softball. I love to watch you play softball.

But there are a few things that we need to get straight. Because we have been doing this a while now, and there just has to be some ground rules. Ya know…some rules. So here we go.

First and foremost, from this point forward you MUST NOT, and I mean MUST NOT THROW YOUR BALLED UP STINKING SOCK like things IN THE LAUNDRY WITHOUT TURNING THEM RIGHT SIDE OUT. Heck, I don’t care if you want them washed inside out, as long as they aren’t in some disgusting tight ball of funk that I have to put my hand in or touch with anything more than the little ends of my fingertips, or shake out and get dirt all over my laundry room.
Secondly, I got in my car this morning and nearly passed out from the stench, then spent 15 minutes trying to find the opossum that I was pretty sure had crawled up into the car and died…. I never did find the opossum, but I did find your cleats left in the trunk, which means the stank from your shoes penetrated the entire interior or my car making it nearly non-drive-able without all four windows down, which meant I showed up to work looking like I had just come through a tornado… So from this day forward – you must, (and I mean MUST as in if you don’t do it you may have to sleep with those things on your pillow as punishment) always take your CLEATS out of the car, and leave them somewhere else, anywhere else that is not inside the house or inside the car.
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Raising you has truly tried my patience a time or two – but nothing like the self control I have to show when I am trying to get your belt out of your softball pants. So either they get washed with the pants, and I dry them while YOU are trying to sleep OR you take your own belt out of your pants….or I don’t care – just don’t wear a belt.
Next up…I am not a morning mama. I will get up, I will feed you, and I will drive you anywhere you need to go – but it goes against every morsel of my maternal OCD and planning to be looking for your jersey at 4:47 am before I have even consumed one cup of coffee because you failed to get your shizz together the night before even though I told you 43 times to make sure you had everything together, which you clearly did not do, which is clearly going to have to never happen again because it isn’t good for either of us to start a day of competition off being salty toward one another.
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And last but not least, (at least for right now….) your balls! I assumed since you were a girl we would never have to breach the subject of your balls – but apparently, according to my checkbook which is a little thinner now, after having to have the lawnmower fixed because your dad ran over not one, not two, but THREE softballs in the yard while mowing the lawn at dusk, after work, because we are never home on the weekends to do it and the neighbors are about to call the City on us and issue us a big fine, we need to talk about your balls. Your $6 balls! PICK THE DAMN THINGS UP when you are done practicing in the yard.