The other day, I agreed to play T-ball with Noah in the backyard. This usually ends up with me in the "outfield," trying to both tag him out and let him score at the same time.
It's a fine balance, my friends.
When it was finally my turn to bat, I decided to give it my best shot because I felt like I had something to prove (let's not dissect that statement, shall we?). Besides, I feel like every once in a while, it is my duty to show him that not every opponent he meets will let him win at T-ball, even if that person did change his diapers and promise to make him cookies whenever he wants.
This is tough love at its finest.
So, I hit the ball but his lightening-speed legs caught up with it in no time. And as I was rounding second, I could feel him right behind me. So, I did what any compassionate, thoughtful aunt would do, I kicked it into high gear and pulled ahead. I made it to third and barely touched home just as he tagged me.
I felt like an Olympian. I was practically giddy with excitment. It's not everyday that I can out-run a six year old.
After we both caught our breath, he looked at me and said, "Wow, Sarah. You're a lot faster than you look."
I am pretty sure that was a compliment.