I don’t know where the time went, but suddenly it’s baseball season again, and Monkey came back from his trip with his dad just in time to come play. The problem, of course, is that Monkey and Lemur haven’t seen each other for a WHOLE WEEK, which meant that all four boys (Lemur has two brothers, remember) were much more interested in comparing Pokemon and finishing the lyrics to some song they’re making up about death, destruction and farting (really, I tried not to ask) than in actually doing anything remotely baseball-like.
But they ran around the field, and even kind of participated. Although Monkey got crabby over not being instantly perfect at it and even got himself good and wound up at bat and tried to storm off when he couldn’t hit the first few pitches, but in the end we got him settled down and he managed to get a hit. (And, I think, yelled something at the pitcher about “finally throwing a decent pitch” as he headed to first; my son, the trash-talker.) Chickadee even agreed to swap shoes with me (I wore good sneakers, she wore cute shoes) so that she could go up for a turn at bat. (I may or may not have commented to the person next to me that Chickie may have been one of the only “non-challenged” kids there, but you certainly couldn’t tell that from the way she hit the ball and then flounced her way around the bases. Ha.)
I am convinced that there is very little in the world that watching a motley crew of special-needs kids all playing together while no one stares or disapproves or makes stupid comments couldn’t fix. I’m just sayin’.