I’m not looking to get into any kind of debate here. We all have our beliefs, and we all have our doubts and we probably all hate ourselves a little bit for having those doubts, but some things in life, and in death, are a little hard to believe. I guess that’s why it’s called faith. My faith, at best, is a little shaky.

One of my beliefs has always been that if a loved one leaves this world, especially earlier than the norm, that said loved one will always look down on and out for those he/she left behind. And maybe they do. None of us really knows what happens when we die. We just have our beliefs (word of the day apparently) and we have our hopes.

I had HOPED Ash would, at the very least, look out for our boys. And I can’t say whether he has or he hasn’t. Maybe much worse things could be happening. However, knowing him, if he is able and willing to look out, he is doing his best, but is also wholly distracted by every little butterfly that flitter flutters by, to the detriment of our first born son. (Yes, it’s me, again, with the dramatics.)

Jack joined a new travel ball team this fall. He’s been having a hard time finding his footing (ha – the irony – you’ll see), he’s playing positions he doesn’t normally play, it’s a whole new group of teammates that he’s not totally bonding with and a whole new group of coaches that he’s trying to get to know and show them what he can do. He had a game yesterday. It wasn’t pretty. To be honest, none of them have been pretty. But I guess that’s why you play the game, to see what you can do, and to, hopefully, improve.

Anywho, it’s the final inning, we’re down by 106 (that’s an exaggeration), there are 2 outs and Jack is up to bat. He hits a ground ball between first and second, the first baseman snags it and dives back to the bag to make the tag, get Jack out and end the shit show. Jack is running as fast as he can, trying to beat the tag (which he did in everyone’s opinion except the umpire, but that’s not the point). He sees the first baseman diving back, doesn’t want to collide into him or stomp his hand so slightly changes course, foot in metal-clad cleat comes down funny on the bag, ankle gives out and Jack hits the deck. He’s called out. The other team starts running off the field, celebrating their victory yet my son has still not gotten up. I’m assuming he’s being slightly dramatic (have NO idea where on Earth he could have gotten that from) and stay parked in my chair. Until he still doesn’t get up. Someone may have said something to me, I don’t know, it’s all a little fuzzy. I did not know the above details at the time, so I took off at a sprint, thinking my boy is knocked out on the ball field. He didn’t appear to be moving. In my subconscious, I could hear him moaning but it did not register that the noises were emanating from his body and he was, in fact, among the living.

So, again, I take off sprinting for my not moving but very clearly moaning so obviously still conscious child. I’ve not moved so fast in I couldn’t tell you how long, adrenaline completely taking over, wobbly bits just wobbling all over the damn place, until either my feet couldn’t keep up with my body or my body couldn’t keep with my feet (or the weight of my front, ahem, side let gravity do it’s thing) and topple, tumble, roll ass over feet to the ground, just down I go, sunglasses fly off my head, brand new white kicks covered in clay colored mud, jeans having the same fate as my shoes. But I pop right back up, give one quick glance at my fallen glasses and continue my Olympicesque 50 yard dash to my also fallen son. (Like son, like sunglasses – man, I crack myself up.) Why I thought running so fast was so necessary, I’m not really sure. If he was unconscious, what the fluff was I going to do? If he was not unconscious, what the fluff was I going to do? No idea. I have no medical training. I was just a mom, reacting, and needing to get to her boy as fast as her short, stubby legs would take her, which was actually impressively fast according to some, until I was ass up falling all over myself.

I get there, his coaches are crouched next to him, he is conscious, he is moaning and the first words out of my mouth were (I shit you not, this is verbatim) “Hey Jack, I fell, too”. Mother of the Year, yet again, for the umpteenth time this year. Sorry, other moms, I’m just crushing motherhood. Try to keep up, if you can. His first words to me “my ankle is broken” to which I reply, so loving and nurturing, “ok, Dr. Jones.”

Anyway, he’s carried off the field, laid on the bench in the dugout, one of the mom’s from our team is a registered nurse, so she gets his cleat and sweaty, smelly ass sock off and there, on the side of my son’s ankle, is another ankle, maybe an ankle and a half. Not pretty. He gets wheeled off in a wagon, we get him to the car (just a quick 4.6 miles from the field – maybe exaggerating) and I take him to the emergency room, my mom and his bestie in tow. We’re there for 106 hours (another exaggeration). We get good news, at first. A nurse practitioner looked at his x-rays and doesn’t see a break, just a bad sprain, but the radiologist hasn’t read it yet so we have to wait to get the official report. We’re half celebrating, dreaming of the cheeseburgers and French fries that we cannot wait to get to once we get the hell out of the ER. But, ha, wait, just kidding, the ankle is fractured, needs to be splinted, then follow up with ortho in the next couple of days.

And I know, everything is fine. Jack is fine. But how much mother fluffing bull fluff can one fluffing kid go through in the short time he has gotten to experience fluffing life? When can he catch a fluffing break? He’s in 8th grade. Basketball tryouts are coming up. Not for him. We had a vacation planned for the first week in November at Universal Studios. Not anymore. His first big travel ball tournament is next weekend. Nope, not for him. Again, in the grand scheme of things, it’s all fine. But, Ash, I’m talking to you here, WHERE IN THE ACTUAL FLUFF ARE YOU? GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ANGELIC ASS AND COME PROTECT YOUR BABIES. JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH. The boy has been through enough for a while. His spirits are, naturally, a little bit broken. My spirits are, naturally, a little bit broken.

Don’t get me wrong, life is, well, it’s ok. We’re fortunate is a lot of ways and we’re grateful for all the good. But for fluff’s sake, can we catch a fluffing break? FLUFF.