A Homerun of the Heart

A Story of Love, Support, Celebration…and Dandelions

Several months ago, I participated in a writing challenge where one of the prompts was to write about a “snow globe” time in our lives. A cherished memory, one we'd relive again and again if we could simply shake the snow globe and return to that moment. Well, I’ve had several of these moments with my son, but as I thought about this assignment, the memory that came to me was one I’d forgotten about. Reliving it brought tears to my eyes.

So, wanna hear a cool story? Good! You may want to grab a tissue, although you won’t need it for a few paragraphs.

Parenting is hard. Fun and rewarding, but hard. Imagine that! Now imagine your child has special needs, or different abilities. They require more time, more patience, more emotions, and more overthinking on every decision you make for them. Am I whining? Absolutely not! Because of the whole fun and rewarding part…that and as I mentioned, parenting can be hard for any parent.

Regardless of any extra needs, parents often question the decisions they make for their children. Did I do the right thing? Should we have done something different? Have I screwed things up for my kid? Did I screw up my kid? Am I a screw up?

As a parent of a child with different abilities, these questions consume my thoughts most days. But the more I reflect on it, the more I realize my parents faced many of the same challenges. For instance, when I was about five or six, my eye doctor found a tumor on my left eye. It needed to be removed immediately. Doing so would more than likely leave me blind in that eye. The difficult decision they were faced with, keep my eye in its socket or remove it. They opted to keep it. “Leonore my lazy eye” may wander now and then, but she still resides in my skull. Before he passed away, my dad shared with me that this was the hardest decision they faced as parents. I can only imagine.

The story I'm about to share, had a lasting impact on me as a parent. I’m going back to when my son was four years old. The difficult decision I made was not as dramatic, but it did have to do with a ball, only a T not an eye. My big question…had I done the right thing to insist on signing my son up for T-ball? Sure, it’s what the other four-year-olds were doing, but he wasn’t just any other four-year-old and the choice I made…to sign him up for a typical team instead of an adaptive team, weighed heavily on my mind.

He looked so cute in his peewee Mariners shirt and ball cap, sporting his big, beautiful, toothless grin. And with each practice and game, I could tell he enjoyed being around the other kids. At four years old, these children were still young enough to see the little boy and not the extra chromosome. Regardless, there was a part of me that felt apprehensive when we showed up, worried about what the adults thought of us. Particularly during the second (or was it the third) game.

The morning was perfect. The sun was out and the stands were full of proud parents, moms and dads supporting and cheering for their little one out in the field. Little was an understatement. Many of these cuties were barely taller than the T.

I sat alone, feeling nervous and insecure. My mind had conjured up this notion that everyone was staring at me, saying things like “what was she thinking signing him up for this?” These assumptions made my cheeks burn...or was that the morning sun? I began to doubt my decision and wished we were home on our couch watching cartoons, where we were safe from judgment.

I looked out to the field to check on my boy. AAAAA Why is he doing that? I thought, as I watched my son give more attention to picking all the bright yellow dandelions, than watching for the ball that never made it to him anyway. Sure, outfield is boring, especially for four-year-old's, but still. Embarrassed and uncomfortable I muttered under my breath, “Stand up Matt! The groundskeeper will take care of those ugly weeds.”   

The crowd screamed. Exactly what I needed to distract me from my frustrations. Another run into home bringing the opposing teams score up. My son didn’t notice. His bouquet was getting bigger and so was his smile. At least he was enjoying himself.

The game continued and a few minutes later I heard the umpire yell, “Strike 3!” The field became a mirage of color when little legs began to run as the team’s switched places. I hollered for my son to follow his coach and come in. He did slowly, mitt in one hand bouquet in the other.

Our first player went up to bat and the crowd cheered as he hit the ball toward left field. He made it to first base while little hands fumbled to get the ball.

“Matt H, you’re up!” coach hollered out. My sweet boy jumped up excitedly from the bench and ran to pick up the bat. Uh oh. This is it. This is our do or die moment. My palms began to sweat, and my legs wobbled like Jell-O as I followed my little guy. Per the agreement I made with the coach, I took my place just behind the Homeplate. The plan was that I would run with my son, should he by some miracle, get a hit.

I didn’t dare look at the crowd. In fact, I did everything I could to avoid seeing the stares from the strangers in the stands who were judging us.

The Pitcher threw the ball. Matt swung. “Strike 1.” the umpire yelled. Matt smiled, not understanding that a strike wasn’t a good thing.

Once more, the pitcher threw out the ball. My son swung again. “Strike 2.”  The umpire yelled again. I could feel the pressure rising.

Feeling hopeless, I turned, prepared to head back to the bench when my son got our team their first out. The Pitcher threw again and then I heard it, the beautiful sound of the bat hitting the ball. Not only did my boy get it hit, but he hit it farther than I could have dreamed, for T-ball that is. He stood there, looking at me, with a smile from ear to ear, proud of himself. Then it registered. “RUN!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, and so did his coach. Together, his short and my wobbly legs ran to first base. Once we were safe, I evaluated the situation. The other team tried to get to the ball lost somewhere in the luscious green grass. Let’s Run! I hollered again. And we continued to second base; Matt’s sweet giggle made me smile the whole way. He touched the base, as I looked around. They still had not recovered the ball, I glanced toward the coach, who motioned for us to continue to third. Wow! I was so proud of my sweet boy. Then I heard it. Wild screams. I looked up and realized they were coming from the stands. I scanned the field, the other team, so young and new at this, were still chasing down the ball. The coach began to yell for my son, “Run Matthew run!” Was this really happening? Had my son hit a homerun. He took off toward his coach who jumped up and down, motioning for him to come toward him. I listened to the sound of my little boy’s giggles, and my eyes began to sting from the tears that I fought to hold back, tears caused by this unbelievable moment and the loud cheers from the crowd. My boy hit home plate, me right behind him. Overcome with emotion I fell to my knees. Matt turned and saw me and jumped into my arms. My heart had relocated to my throat, and I could no longer fight back those tears. I began to sob. As I hugged my sweet boy I looked toward the stands, overwhelmed by the love and support I felt. I glanced toward the sky and whispered, “Thank you.” This was an opportunity I never imagined would happen.

The crowd began to chant his name, “Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!” celebrating with us. I stood and we headed toward the dugout where my son happily received high fives from his coach and others in his path.

Then as if that weren’t joyous enough, I heard my son’s small voice, “Here’s you flowers, Mom.” As his little hands gave me the best, brightest, yellowest bouquet of weeds I have ever received!

That day on that field my son was able to show everyone that with support and encouragement, any child of any ability can shine if others believe in them. My son’s extra chromosome did not exclude us from having an incredible experience. In fact, at that moment everyone experienced a homerun of the heart.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. It was not I who was being judged, in fact it was just the opposite. It was I who had misjudged all of them. But more than that, I learned that there are people who see the value and want to celebrate every memorable moment with us.

That experience was a home run of love and support. The moment, the emotions, the joy, are some that I wish I could bottle up and put in a snow globe to shake again and again.

For now, my memory…and my fingers that have captured this story, will have to do.