All dads make mistakes (featuring @hanshotfirst as author)

Some Mistakes are just funnier than others.

Several of the pieces I have written recently tell of my triumphs as a parent. They relay the high notes in my parenting career. I am just a beginner when it comes to writing, so I thought it made sense that I should start with the highlights. Hopefully, this did not create the impression that I think I'm a flawless parent. Because I am far from flawless. Like every parent, I have to learn on the job. There is no instruction book to follow when it comes to anyone's particular child.

There are some good guidelines to adhere to (like love and support them) but on a day to day basis, it's a crap shoot. No two kids are exactly alike. In fact my own kids can seem completely different based on the day, amount of sleep, time spent in a car, or the amount they have been spoiled by their grandma recently. I have a basic idea of what I'm trying to accomplish. I know where to find inspiration for big life lessons... but what about the small daily occurances that you can't plan for? For those, you do your best and just hope you don't screw up so badly that your kids rack up quadruple digit therapy bills later in life.

Learning on the job always equates to making mistakes...many, many mistakes. In April of 2011, I made a pretty big one. My son Timmy was on spring break from kindergarten. My wife and I had recently signed him up for Tee-Ball. We bought him a bat, mitt, and cute little baseball pants. I tried practicing with him, but he just wasn't having it.

My son likes to compartmentalize his life. Practicing sports is like a job for him. He doesn't really enjoy practice. He endures it so he can be part of a team. Just like there is a time and place for adults' jobs (we don't want work to spill over into "fun time") my son really doesn't like to practice unless he is with his actual coach and team. Therefore, when I saw an email stating he would have his first practice on the Wednesday of Spring break, I was thrilled. He's a good boy, so I knew he'd listen to his coach and practice for as long as the coach required. Awesome... because my son really needed the practice.

When Timmy and I arrived at the field, we noticed several other parents and kids milling about the field. But there was no coach. I began talking to another dad as the 5 year olds chased each other, fell down, laughed, got up, and chased each other some more. It was like watching a litter of ten puppies play in a box made for five . Several of the parents must have thought one of us was the coach, so they left. Fifteen minutes had passed since the practice was scheduled to begin, and still no sign of the coach. We had to do something organized ASAP. We were living on borrowed time with this 5 year old free -for-all.

The other dad and I happened to have a tee and some bases (first time dads tend to go overboard when buying sports equipment... that their sons will never use). He had also brought his eight year old son wo was willing to help. If you've never seen an eight year old next to a five year old, the difference is stunning. One looks like a regular kid and the other looks more like a toddler on tiny stilts. Neither one of us knew what the heck we were doing so we improvised. We had each kid take a turn at the tee and at every position. Pretty simple. Approximately one hour later, we had succeeded. Every kid had made it through our rotation. No one was crying. Kids were smiling. It was perfect.

Unfortunately, if you've read my last post, you know that perfect isn't enough for me. No way. I had to try and make perfect even better. I had an idea. I said, "Hey buddy, your eight year old helped so much. Let's give him a turn to hit". The other dad shrugged it off at first, but I was persistent. When Mikey heard what I had proposed, he was sold. Of course he wanted to hit. Who wouldn't? I sent the little guys back to their positions. My son Timmy took his place back in center field.

Eight year olds are significantly larger the the five year olds... and I'm not an idiot, so naturally, I had all the kids back way up. Just as Mikey was about to take his first swing, I shouted, "Hold up! Wait!". For some reason the tiny third baseman had started to move closer to the batter. I mean REALLY close to the batter. Luckily I stopped the swing before anyone was hurt. I guided the third baseman back to his position and explained to him that he was in charge of "the hot corner" and a ball could come this way very fast. He liked being in charge of "the hot corner" and took his place a significant distance behind the base. He was safe.

I told Mikey to "swing away". Just as the last sound left my lips, I noticed something terrible. For some inexplicable reason, my son Timmy had decided to move in from center field. He had wandered into the infield, past the pitchers mound, and was standing approximately 25 feet away from the gigantic, hulk-like batter. I started to shout. It was too late. Mikey was swinging. And connecting.

He hit a rocket that bounced once... and then struck my son directly in his mouth. He bled. He cried. He cried and he bled. I ran to him and he said (with all of his teeth still in his tiny head, Thank goodness!) "I am never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever ,ever, ever playing baseball again." I apologize for all of the "ever"s... but it's a direct quote. He took the time to say them. The least I could do is take the time to write them.

I assessed the situation. His teeth were in tact. His jaw was not broken. His nose was untouched. Miraculously, probably because the ball was softer than a regular ball, he was fine. Scared, but fine. However, that was from my adult perspective. In Timmy's mind, he had just suffered the most horrific injury imaginable. After all, there was real blood. Real blood! That only happens in movies he's not allowed to watch. Or perhaps books he's not allowed to read. It was all baseball's fault. Oh yeah. And his dad's. It was baseball and dad's fault!

I had done it. This was my son's first experience with organized sports... and now, because of my stupidity, it would surely be his last. I envisioned what the award for "Worst Father of the Year" would look like. Perhaps a trophy with a drunk dad mouthing off at an umpire? Maybe it would be a dad balancing a beer can on top of his son's head? Or perhaps just a medal with a frowny face on it with the caption "Too bad I'm your dad." I stopped imagining. I figured I'd know soon enough.

My mind raced. How could I take his mind off of this? How could I distract him so he might forget baseball (and I) had done this to him? How could I get him to not tell his mom? This solution is certainly no mystery. I went to the well that every parent has gone to dozens of times. He continued crying until I said, "Ice Cream". I'm sure I said an entire sentence, but I'm just as sure he only heard those two words. His crying slowed a bit. He sniffled and asked, "Blue Moon?" "You bet!", I replied. "Two Scoops?", he asked. "We'll make it three", I bribed. I think he knew he had me on the ropes, so he went for the knockout, "And a book from the bookstore?" Smart kid. I quickly ran through the scenario. Do I spoil him, or spoil his possible love of sports?

I nodded. I'm not sure if he really reached out his hand and said, "Very well then. It appears we have a deal", but that is how I remember it. His tears immediately stopped. His hustle had worked. (At least I tell myself it was all a hustle... so I won't feel bad).

But that is not where the story ends. If it ended there it wouldn't really be anything that hasn't been told before. If you recall, this all happened during spring break.

When Timmy returned to school, the teacher used spring break as an inspiration for her students be be creative and practice their writing skills. She instructed the students to draw a picture of their favorite part of spring break and to write a sentence explaining it.

Here is what Timmy drew:

"I liked it when I got hit in the face. I wish I had 2000
practices so I could get hit in the face 2000 times.
I loved getting books and ice cream."

Not only had I bought my way out of the doghouse and protected Timmy's potential love of sports... I had created one of my son's fondest memories. (By the way, that's me putting my hands to my face in horror.)

Weird kid huh?

But I love him.

Oh bribery, is there anything you can't do?

@gavvet features authors to promote new authors and a diversity of content. All STEEM Dollars for this post go to the featured author. You can find me on steemit chat but my queue is very long and I do take a while to respond at the moment