When Deb gave her a $25 gift card to Michaels, I don’t think she knew she was giving funds for a business start up.

$25 got her 5/8″ wooden beads, some black cords, a basket full of acrylic paints, a package of brushes, and a can of paint sealer.

When my 9-year-old imagineer designed a Disney masterpiece on a string that we all wanted, I suggested she try managing her own business.

Since she is my yard-sale loving, lemonade-stand entrepreneur, it took about 10 seconds for her to agree and a whole lot longer for me to photograph and set the whole deal up for her that is now Bead It For Disney.

But, as of a few minutes ago, she’s ready to rock and roll with her new business with a lofty goal of selling 10 necklaces.

She way underestimates her craftiness, I think. I just donated 40 vellum envelopes and labels to package these babies up nicely. Who knows. Thinking big…as are her brothers who have applied to run her shipping department for a cut of the profits.

A rule designed to guard against it can only do so much. Despite using her father’s old glove and her name screenprinted on her back like a pro, they got slaughtered. In fact, in this weekend’s tournament, they got slaughtered no less than 3 times. They scored a few runs though between the three games (2 of which Ashlyn batted in, mind you). But, I may be the only one who is remembering those few runs today. They are pretty easy to forget in light of the gazillion the other teams scored.

I’m the mom on the sidelines cheering for every girl in a purple jersey, at times neglecting the 4-year-old climbing fences and the like who people may not know belongs to me (insert nervous laughter). I totally get into the games. They take me back to my own playing days and get all my competitive juices flowing. When I’m sitting there baking in the sun watching these purple girls strike out or drop the ball, I’m one of those moms holding my head in my hands, wishing I could get out there and do it for them to put everyone out of their misery (as if I still could).

But, today is Monday. That tournament is now 24-hours-old history. I can say now, I’m sorta glad they lost.

When a bunch of 9-year-old girls lose a game, the typical antics and giggling are only coming from the other side of the field. They sit still on the bench quietly, and their ears are open to hear their coaches. They have to hear where they went wrong without arguing. While coaches always have license to exhort, the numbers each one of those girls are tracking between innings makes them more willing to accept those words of instruction.

Bend your knees. Use two hands. Level swings. Check where the runners are. Don’t slow down on your way to first base….they need to know all that. But, the best words that can be spoken to the girls on her team right now before their ears close up a little is this—(1) you are a team and (2) trust your coach.

Those jerseys mean nothing if they’re worn alone. What makes otherwise silly knee high socks so snazzy is seeing 15 of them. This isn’t an individual sport; it’s a team sport. What that means is that no one races to get to the ball simply to beat out the girl next to her. You talk to your pitcher and cheer for your batters. You don’t complain because you didn’t see much action in right field. You forget who it was who was that third out right after you pat her on the back and say, “nice try.” You’re a team; play as one.

And, those coaches watching you closely all the time? They aren’t trying to tell you what you are doing wrong; they are trying to help you be better. Those grown men aren’t wearing purple shirts because it’s their favorite color; they are the leaders of your team. When you’re at bat and you hear moms like me yelling out, you listen to your coaches’ voices. They are your coaches, and they know way more than we do anyway. When you get that hit, take your eyes off the ball and you run like the dickens with your eyes on your first-base coach. Trust him. When you are headed to second, you watch your third-base coach and do exactly what he says to do. If he’s waving you on, you go even if you don’t think you’ll make it. If he tells you to stop and your gut tells you you can get another base and maybe another run, don’t move. Trust him. He’s your coach. All that said, those coaches are just dads and don’t know everything; they’ll tell you to go and you’ll get out sometimes. Parents may even call them out on it and say they should’ve sent you home when they kept you at third or they should’ve played #12 at first base and put #4 at short stop. You may even hear me say some things like that when my high school softball days seem less than 20 years ago and I think I know better. But, you stand by your coach regardless because you aren’t simply you; you’re a team player and those coaches lead and guide your team. And, at the end of every game, every practice, every meeting, you smile at them because they aren’t in this for themselves, they’re actually in this for you, for the team and for all that you’re learning every time you win and every time you lose.

States is this weekend. Hope they win. Losing makes everyone teachable and I’m all about teachable moments, but winning is pretty fun.

Just when I was thinking this year was over in a blink of an eye, I saw this picture…

and compared it to the picture I took this morning on their last day of school.

If I look past the fact that Evan is wearing the same exact shirt and pants, I realize that they’ve changed a lot. They are way bigger and look a little less like kiddos and more like big people in little bodies. That blink of an eye really wasn’t just a blink. It’s actually been more like 9 months, 9 months of say 30-31 days each some of which went very s l o w l y now that I think about it. So, yeah, I guess it’s no surprise that they’ve changed as much as they have after all. And, that gives me some hope really because I’ve got 3 months basically now before we enter the new world of middle school which gives me heart palpitations. But, if they all changed this much in 9 months, there’s hope that we may actually see signs of readiness for middle school (if that’s even something possibly attainable) over the next 3 months.

But, that doesn’t mean he won’t be wearing the robot shirt and cargo shorts on the first day.