I’m not much of a sports person. I enjoy Husker games and am proud to be from Husker Nation. And baseball.
I don’t religiously follow baseball. But it has a special place in my heart because I grew up with baseball.
My dad is a baseball fan. Whenever we went on vacation to a city with a baseball team, we had to see if they were “in town”. And if they were, we had to go to a game. I don’t remember if I liked this tradition when I was younger. I’m sure I did my share of complaining. But now it’s a memory I cherish. In fact, on a trip to Seattle one summer I found my way to a Mariners game, in the name of the same tradition. It’s funny how little things like that become a part of you.
I remember that the Cubs were one of “our” teams. So were the Royals. And that no matter who they were playing, we always cheered against the Yankees.
I also remember my dad quizzing us on which teams came from which cities, usually while we were driving in the car. I also remember car trips where I hated that he would put on a crackling AM radio station to catch the baseball game instead of letting us listen to music.
But tonight, here I sit in my family room, listening to the familiar sound of the announcers on AM radio as the Cubs take on the Indians in game seven of the World Series, reminiscing about these simple little moments from my childhood that didn’t seem like much at the time they were happening. But now they feel like gifts. Like the kind of life stories that make you who you are without you even realizing it. Stories that become an anchor in my soul to a different kind of simplicity. A kind of simplicity I feel blessed to have access to.
As I sit here thinking about all of these things, I can’t help but wonder what life moments my own children will take and keep and hold on to. What are the things about me that they will remember? What are the memories we will make together? What pieces of their own childhood will stick with them and how will those pieces change them?
It can be easy to get lost in parenthood. Easy to lose myself in motherhood. I left a career to devote myself to raising these babies. And I love it and I’m grateful I have the chance to do so.
But I can feel how easy it would be to let pieces of myself collect dust in the corner in the midst of the chaos of parenting.
Which is unfortunate. Because, in a way, that is cheating my kids.
In order for them to remember a part of me, in order for me to be a part of their childhood memories, they have to see a part of me to remember. My dad’s love of baseball wasn’t special because it was about me. In fact, it’s special because it wasn’t about me at all. It was about him. It was a piece of himself that he shared with us.
Maybe sometimes the greatest gift we can give our kids isn’t about them at all, but rather about the authentic pieces of ourselves that we choose to share. Maybe it’s about us showing up as who we are. As fully real, fully whole human beings. After all, that’s how they will learn to show up as fully real, fully whole human beings.
And I can’t wait to see them show up.