A Bucket of Balls

On September 28, a tweet from Ethan Anderson went viral. News outlets, People Magazine, ESPN, even the Today Show picked up on it. Here's the tweet itself: 

The note in the tweet was what everyone, including me, found so compelling. It read: 

Free

Hope someone can use some of these baseballs in the batting cages. I found them cleaning out my garage. I pitched them to my son and grandson for countless rounds. My son is now 46, and my grandson is 23 y/o. I am 72, and what I won't give to pitch a couple of buckets to them. They have both moved away. If you are a father, cherish these times. You won't believe how quickly they will be gone. God bless. 

P.S. Give them a hug and tell them you love them every chance you get!

(I needed to pause while typing this post, as I really was starting to cry). 

Perhaps it's because I'm turning 46 this week. Perhaps it's because my own son has started to show a real interest in baseball again. Perhaps it's because I know there are fewer years with my own children in our home left before they go to college. Perhaps it's because this is simply and utterly a beautiful gesture, and we don't see too many of them these days. 

Parenthood is a funny thing - it challenges you and strengthens you. It is exhilarating and full of sorrow in a manner of moments. It can fill you with joy, and it can cause you to feel tremendous guilt. It causes you to look at the mini version of you - hoping to not make the same mistakes you endured as a child, knowing that instead, you will make your own as a parent (and that ultimately your own children will try to parent without repeating those). 

I was writing my dissertation when our children were little, very little. My Wife dutifully every night after dinner, directed me to the basement where I had my computer and my research. For those years, she parented our children during the day, and she parented them at night. She did this selflessly because I made a promise to both Patrick and Brendan, one they never knew or understood at the time. I promised that I would finish my dissertation so that they would never notice. Thanks to My Wife, they never knew I spent my evenings writing. That's because I never wanted to respond to one of their requests for my time with, "I'm sorry, Love, I can't. I have to write my dissertation." 

I've slipped since then. I've made excuses. Work. Pandemic. Cooking Dinner. You name it, I've said it. And I know, I know in my heart, the time is slipping through my fingers. Truth is, it's slipping through all of our fingers. We are less than three months from the end of 2020, and while it seems that this year will never end, I assure you it will. 2021 is right around the corner. 

It's not about the bucket of balls. It's about what the bucket of balls represents. It's about time. Time with My Boys. My Wife calls it "time in." Time in with our children is precious. It can be easily taken for granted. Things can get in the way. Work. Pandemic. Cooking Dinner. You name it. 

So with thanks to Ethan Anderson, I'm recommitting to My Boys and My Family. I'm recommitting to "time in." For Brendan, it's shooting in the driveway, talking statistics (which he has an uncanny way of learning and then dropping in a conversation at just the right time), and learning how to play Xbox. It's time in the fields for Patrick walking our dogs together, chatting in the car (he sits in the front seat now), and throwing in the backyard. 

(I paused to swallow hard again). 

We just need a bucket of balls. 

Photo courtesy of www.todaysparent.com