Tonight, we drove on over to God’s country (aka Illinois) to see the Effingham Hearts play baseball at Sectionals, since Matt’s dad is the assistant coach. Unfortunately, they lost, but it was fun to watch a high school game again. And holy flashbacks, Batman, I can’t believe how many years it’s been since I was the teenage girl sitting on the bleachers cheering for
a boyfriend my team! I felt SO old. Truly one of the first times in my life that it’s hit me like that. I realized that in like 8 years, if Luke kept playing baseball, I could be the MOTHER of a player. Sheesh.
That’s not what this story is about, but I needed to unload that.
My boys brought their gloves and a couple of tennis balls to the park tonight for something to do, because little boys can only be expected to sit and watch a game for so long. At one point in the evening, Luke gently tossed a ball to Jack Henry, and it hit him down there. His reaction?
“Hey! That hit me in the n*ts!”
My reaction: pick jaw up off the ground. Try to keep eyes from bugging out of head. Say “what did you say?” to clarify that I’d heard correctly. Nudge Matt. Glare at a giggling Luke, who openly admitted to teaching him that word (I’ve never even heard him refer to them as that). Scold children for saying something that they shouldn’t, and then bury my head in Matt’s shoulder, trying to stifle my own giggles. Pray that no one else heard him, though he practically yelled it.
It’s so wrong, but when your 2-year-old says nuts and knows what he’s talking about, it’s pretty darn funny.
And that, my friends, is the difference between a firstborn and a third-born. Sadly, someday he’ll be the one corrupting firstborns.