...this pretty much sums it up:
My kids love you, so I won't say a word against you, but I do find your need to occupy four months of my year a bit excessive. That, and your desire to have me spend six evenings a week at your side is starting to make me feel a bit stifled.
Not to mention the fact that you require no fewer than eight separate articles of clothing, per child (twelve, for the one who has graduated to "athletic support" and batting gloves). That's about seven more things than seven-year-olds and their busy moms are capable of keeping track of.
Oh yes, and your constant last-minute cancellations of our dates, and last-minute re-schedulings (that I almost always find out about third-hand). Don't you think you're just a bit wishy-washy?
I think, perhaps, you're suffering from an overinflated sense of your own importance. Perhaps you're trying to affirm your status as "America's favorite pastime." Well, I have news for you: the rest of the world prefers the big black-and-white ball. I think that if you want to carve your place in our hearts and minds, you should take a few lessons from soccer: the season is six weeks long, there's one practice and one game a week, at least one game gets rained out (and NOT rescheduled) and by the end of the season it's too dark to practice. Oh, and the games are over in an hour. No one has time to get bored and throw dirt on the pitcher's mound. And I don't have to sit there long enough to get hypothermia ('cause let's face it: Maine's way too cold for either sport).
It's not that I want to break up with you forever, but I definitely need a break from your parasite-like presence. Let's take the summer (and the fall and winter) off and you can think about maybe lightening up a bit, not taking yourself so seriously perhaps? It will do us both good.
The Mom on the Bleachers