I discovered today that I really do like yellow. Each time my boys ask me what my favorite color is, I say, “Yellow, because it makes me happy.” And today was punctuated with a huge ol’ happy when I discovered this shower curtain on a mad dash excursion to spruce up our master bathroom. It is striped in citron, and I am over the moon in love with it.
Which brings me to some news. We are moving. Our five-year-plan whittled down to an 18-month one, which was pared further to “sometime soon” and then shot in ludicrous speed straight to “we’re listing our home in 10 days,” which was done six days ago. And where shall we go? Right here in this town that we adore, just in a different spot of it.
But more on that later.
This evening’s post holds something else that we adore, which is our boy.
He is in a new league this year, one that uses machine pitch and keeps score. Hallelujah.
Every now and again I see a jock swagger out of him. My belly does that funny lurching thing as I imagine him at 16 but then quickly revert back to six.
I like six.
Six means that you can still bob your head from shoulder to shoulder when you run, for the simple reason of it just feels funny.
Six is smacking the crap out of the ball and running like a maniac, just praying to get to first base without being hit by the ball.
But six does not yet mean that you can steal first.
There are still the occasional acrobatic leaps and such.
I will always love them.
Six is not very far away from four and five, during which seasons held lots of sand digging. There’s still a pretty hefty fascination with the stuff, but now in the form of kicking up dust clouds.
Fielding is more successful at six.
And the helmets fit better. Six means you look a little less like Darth Vader and a little more like a baseball player.
And everyone still says a happy, “Good game.”
Hank happily reminded me that around age 12 I’ll probably be writing about the wrestling matches that happen when they say, “You suck” instead.