By Leigh Sain
“Waiting rooms and baseball dug-outs are a lot alike.” My oldest makes this observation glibly as we race into yet another doctor’s office, late.
“How do you figure, that?” I question, wrangling the five-year-old, who has somehow entered the waiting room without his shoes, and with a whistle?
“Well, in both places people have trouble sitting still,” he nods towards his brothers already blowing that whistle and chasing each other around the room.
The waiting rooms and the dug-outs of life are a lot alike. They are hard places to be when you’re wired to move.
“And no one ever really wants to be in either place, plus you never know how long you’re going to have to stay!” he concludes. I confiscate the whistle, grab one running boy by the elbow, and agree with this profound analogy. The little one escapes my grip, though, and heads for the glass bird cage that decorates this particular waiting room. He begins pounding on the glass. Panicked
chirping suddenly breaks the silence of the room, and that’s when I notice a huge sign on the outside of the cage: DO NOT TAP ON THE GLASS. Oops. I try to redirect my glass tapper. But he’s determined to entertain these frenzied feathered friends and an all-out meltdown ensues, agitating the birds even more. Apparently pitching fits in front of the glass cage should also be prohibited.
This circus is interrupted by my middle son who asks loudly: “Hey Mom, how old do I have to be before I can shoot a gun?” He holds up a magazine picture of a hunter and points to said gun, “I want to shoot deer like that guy, that would be awesome!” Seriously? I let go of the crying five-year-old and shush the loud mouth. The quiet glares of the patiently waiting people intensify. One poor lady with an enormous leg cast even lunges forward, gently trying to keep my little guy from continuing his harassment of the crazed birds, who are now flying head-on into the glass, screeching like mad.
“I think the dugout might be quieter though,” the older one muses. Thankfully, the nurse calls our name just before the middle one asks if you could shoot people or just deer with this particular gun. I have no words to answer that question.
The past six months have been full of waiting room debacles like this one, due largely to a plague of injuries that’s besieged our oldest boy. A freak sledding accident last winter broke five bones in his foot, a bad pass in a basketball game broke his finger, and a barefoot kick to a metal stake cracked his toe. Add these to the normal ailments of three kids, throw in two sets of braces and, yes, we have spread our chaos into many a doctor’s office waiting room lately.
And these injuries, they have happened in the middle of two consecutive baseball seasons for my 11-year-old sports fanatic. So, much of his waiting has been done on the lonely, dusty bench of a baseball dug-out. It has seemed endless. This waiting. This healing. And his observation is right on: The waiting rooms and the dug-outs of life are a lot alike. They are hard places to be when you’re wired to move. Read More