Living Room World Series--He Bats high---do you hear glass?

My three year old son is obsessed with baseball. He lives, I mean LIVES for baseball. He wears the team shirts and hats, can recite the players of the 2011 Padre team even though he roots for the Dodgers. He's three. The weird part is I don't know how this happened. It was just yesterday that I was trying to learn the train names of Thomas the Train. Now, I have been bombarded with the names of players, teams and made up statistics--like did you know that some teams really like kids name Aidan? And that they wear uniforms to look handsome? You're welcome. That my friends was free information brought to you by a three-year old.

While we have encouraged our son's love of the game {and I mean who wouldn't after a year of Thomas the Train?  Sorry Thomas.} we can only handle so much of the obsession with out our eyes rolling permanently back in our heads. I know we're un-American and I see the "for shame" look in your eyes, but I can deal with that.

The house rule as it is in many homes across the the nation is that you are not allowed to play baseball in the house. Easy. Clear. Concise. Wrong. When obsession takes you over anything can become a bat and any small object that can fly--well, you guessed it becomes your ball. Legos have an amazing airborne quality in case you have a son and were just wondering. A sister makes a great catcher or outfielder when trying to play pickle with mom when she is stopping your impromptu game.

For the most part, my son gets "it" it being the rule that baseball is played outdoors. Unless, there is a game on tv, his hat is tilted just right and his Dodger "jersey" {Target t-shirt} was lucky that day and then, all bets are off. Yesterday, was this kind of day for my lovely blue-eyed baseball obsessed boy. I took the Lego's away, Little People who unwillingly flew high into the air {I'm not sure that princess will ever be the same} and any lid that became a makeshift bat. I didn't think about taking his shoes away. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Well, parenting is a learning curve right? 

He took his roguish Stride Rite boot and swung it around like all the baseball greats before him: The Babe, Micky Mantle, Willie Mays {forgive me that's all I know} and "pitched" that boot with all his little might. He let go. The shoe sailed in our living room. Time stood still. I held my breath without realizing it. All we heard was the sound of glass shattering. He yelled as if in slow motion "I'm jjjusst sorry" hurriedly followed with "don't tell daddy! noooooo."  I was overcome with emotions. Frustration. Worry.

After checking that everyone was okay--after all the outfielder was in position for goodness sakes {and close to the shrapnel}. The glass from the laywers cabinet {fancy bookshelf with glass doors}  was gingerly picked up, baseball cards taken away {I know mean mommy}. The heart to heart talk about certain games are better played outside than inside. The worrisome tears {mostly mine} baseball shaped tears streamed down his little face after taking away his treasured baseball cards and the outfielder worrying about if she was going to get her chance to bat.  All in all the world series of the living room was not the treasured All-American past time that might have held the mystique that one would hope. Certainly it was dramatic. Tension filled. Flooding of relief when the hubby came home.  I was happy since that meant it was five o'clock somewhere and I could have wine- the other All-American past time that doesn't get enough recognition--in my humble opinion. So, game on. Hopefully though the game is on outside.