We arrived at the airfield two hours early so that she could check in and find her group. I hugged her goodbye, commanded her siblings to do the same, and, surprisingly, they all did--even fourteen-year-old Houdin, who claims to hate his sister, hugged her and said "goodbye."
I stood by the display of confiscated items--dynamite and hand grenades and pie servers--watching my firstborn go through security. Because of a brief conversation with another choir parent, I didn't see her leave the gate. I turned around and she was gone.
Standing on the observation deck, I began to wonder if I were looking at the wrong plane. What was taking so long? I thought about leaving, not waiting to see this moment, this culmination of hard work, fundraising, nervousness and excitement, both of us earning money by driving the Amish and scrubbing decks and cleaning houses and babysitting. I wanted to finally see the whole big thing get off the ground. But the plane just...sat there. Not moving. Did we miss it, I wondered? Was she on a different plane and we missed seeing it take off? I even called the airlines to check on the departure time. I punched in the flight number and a friendly automated voice came back.
Delayed.
My fifteen-year-old daughter was sitting in an airplane that I could see, right there in front of me. I was watching her without seeing her, and she couldn't possibly see me. And she must have been wondering why she was being delayed from lifting into the air, what unknown event was preventing their takeoff for their trip to China. And I couldn't talk to her about it, couldn't tell her that it was okay, couldn't tell her that it wouldn't be much longer, because I knew the next scheduled departure time. I wanted to run to the terminal. I wanted to board the plane and sit with her.
I just waited.
After an hour of waiting, that big hunk of steel began to move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. It was suddenly all completely out of my hands. If only I could give my worry over like that, like a plane taxiing down the runway, lifting off, getting smaller and smaller, and vanishing from view. Like the shrugging that says, "Well, I guess that's it. I guess we can go now," and the worry would just be gone.
"Do you see it?" Bo was asking six-year-old Sweetheart. "Do you see the plane in the air?"
I could see it. I could see it until it was but a tiny speck in the western sky. It was the moment I'd been waiting for all year long. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
*^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^**^...-o-^_^-o-...^*
Tonight was the first night of my now ten-year-old son Monet's baseball tournaments. He loves to play, and can play well during the practices, but when game time comes, he freezes, locks up. "It's different out there," he says, and isn't ashamed to admit that he's afraid of being hit by a wild pitch. It has happened before. He still has the blood on his glove.
We arrived at the field an hour too early because I didn't read the schedule correctly, so we spent the extra time practicing, pitching and hitting for each other, goofing off and being silly, while my husband, Bo, exhausted from his early-morning race to the airport, slept, snoring, on the sidewalk.
"Is he really asleep?" The boys asked.
"Yep. He really is," I answered, and plopped my bottom on his hip, a wonderful seat. He barely stirred.
The game was scheduled to begin at 8:00, but the first game was a high-scoring one between two sloppy teams, starting at 6:00 and not ending until 8:30, and then only by a mercy rule in the fifth inning. So our game that was scheduled to begin at 8:00 didn't.
Delayed.
Finally, at game time, I waited for Monet to get his turn to bat. Because he's one of the weaker players, he gets a shot or two at the ball and then a couple of innings in either right or left field, and then he warms the bench for the rest of the game. It's hard to show up for every game, on time or early, work in the concession stand when needed, always arrive prepared with Monet's uniform and equipment neat and clean, and spend an hour and a half watching my son sit on the bench while the coaches sons play inning after inning. But I know the truth. They work with their boys, and baseball is just not my strong point.
Monet finally stands in the batter's box. I can see him, right there in front of me, but I can't whisper in his ear that the ball is going to be too high, or that he should swing away, or that he needs to jump back so he won't be hit. But he does let that too-high ball whiff by, and he does swing away, and he does jump back. And then, he hits it. A good play cuts him off and he's out at first, but he got a piece of it. He hit the ball.
And that may have been all of the confidence it took, because I watched him run out into right field and keep an eye peeled for balls coming his way. He backed up first, he played deep when he needed to.
Our boys were playing well, but there were two runners on base and two outs. We were ahead 5 to 3 in our first tournament game of the season, ahead of a team that had only given up two games during the season. One to us.
And then, I hear the crack of the bat. I see that hunk leather move, faster and faster, though to me it seemed like it was in slow motion, and then I held my breath, and there it was, suspended in air, sliding slowly from my sight. That ball's heading for my boy, I thought. He raced forward, glove outstretched, and there it landed.
Right in the glove.
I give no exaggeration when I say that everyone on our side cheered for him, his coach smacked his tush, and his teammates and older siblings high-fived him. And all the mothers and fathers had their eyes on me. Did you see it? their eyes were asking. Yeah, I saw it. That's what my face said. That's what my fervently clapping hands and hoarse voice whooping said. Oh, yeah. I saw it.
This is what I'd been waiting for all season long.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
On the way home, Monet ate cold pizza and discussed his catch in bemused tones. And then he was quiet.
When I looked back to see what he was doing, he was sound asleep with his thumb in his mouth.
Some things just stay with you forever; a last hug, a liftoff, a base hit, a pop fly dropping into your glove, the image of your son sleeping with his head against the car door, thumb in his mouth and baseball cap on his head.
These are the things I never want to miss. When they come flying towards me, I want to be standing in right field with my glove outstretched, and I want to feel the weight of them in my hand for as long as I live.
Ahhhh...there's nothing like a day of digging in poo to make a person feel good.
By E. JOHNSON
