Kickball Kicked My Butt

If you read the last post, then you know my child just had a birthday. And since this was her "last hoorah," so to speak, before she becomes a high schooler and much too grown for silly things like birthday parties, she decided she wanted to host a kickball game with a bunch of her buddies from school to celebrate her big day.

I thought this was a FABULOUS idea. So we picked the date (Saturday, April 24), a park with a wide open field, and planned the shindig. It was fairly easy - we just ordered a bunch of pizzas and I made cupcakes. The only real challenge was dealing with the wind. It was so windy at times, that entire boxes of pizza were blowing to the ground. Had we not put the cooler on top of the table, even the table might have blown over. But the kids had fun and there were no issues.

Until the next morning.

You see, toward the end of the party, some of the kids got hot and tired and a few of them left. So that left the teams who wanted to continue playing with only two players apiece.

"Mom! You and Tedrick wanna play?" were the words hollered from my child's mouth.

"Sure!" I said. I used to love kickball as a kid. But let me say that sentence again with the proper inflection... I used to love kickball AS A KID. I'm wondering now why no one reminded me that I'm 28 years past being Emily's age, and how playing this "fun" little game might wreak havoc on my old, gravity-stricken body. I'm guessing no one said anything because they thought it would be funny to watch the old people try to keep up.

Oh... My... GOSH! It took all of about 15 minutes for me to be panting heavily (not in a good way) and gasping for breath. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone that I really, REALLY needed a water break. And a chair. Possibly a bed. And a neck brace.

About 30 minutes into it (or maybe it was 5 hours?) I traded places with one of the girls in the field. I sent her young, spry little self into the outfield where I had been chasing balls because no one seemed to be trying to stop them, and I took first base. Only that turned out to be a disaster, too. See, one of the boys was up to "bat" and after kicking the ball, he ran full speed toward me. I stepped backward to get out of his way, thinking he was going to make the turn to second. He didn't make the turn, and instead, ran right into me.

Um... OUCH!!!!

I thought I may have a concussion. But, again, was too embarrassed to express verbally the intensity of my pain and agony. So I just kept playing (or trying to), running at full speed, which when I was younger was really fast, but now? Not so much.

I tried. I tried real hard. I definitely get an 'A' for effort.

But for wisdom? A definite 'F'. I learned just how dumb this little jaunt into childhood really was the next morning when I woke up.

And couldn't move.

My legs felt like they weighed 500 pounds each. My ankle was bruised. My butt and hamstrings were so tight I could hardly walk. And to top it all off, I had a farmer's tan, with the lower part of my arms burned, and my shoulders white as Casper's rear end.

That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday and I'm STILL in pain. And feeling very, very old.

It's times like these when I realize it's okay to sit on the sidelines and watch, and cheer on my child and her friends. And for me... it's also much safer!


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