When I was a kid, I loved television.  I was drawn to the family shows where problems were neatly solved in one half hour, the children were harmonious and rivalry barely existed.  I adored The Brady Bunch and longed for siblings who were also indignant to the travesties of my youth.  When Cindy was relentlessly teased by a bully, Peter learned to box and gave the bully his come-up-ins; my brothers were only insulted if they didn’t initiate the phrase that made me weep. When I got my headgear for my braces, my brother made me stand near the television as he insisted that the reception for Saturday morning Wrestling at the Chase was indeed better due to the antenna’s connection to my braces.  Because of my warped sense of familiar relationships, during these Saturday mornings I was often then lured into practice wrestling sessions.   While these sessions began friendly enough, I undoubtedly ended up in The Figure Four Leg Lock breathlessly gasping for air then swearing revenge in Exorcist like terms (yes, I secretly watched a portion of The Exorcist only because my brothers dared me; I wasn’t the same for weeks, maybe even years).  And The Partridge Family? My goodness.  A family who toured and sang? Even the somewhat oily Reuben Kincaid couldn’t dissuade me from watching and dreaming of traveling with my family in our brown paneled station wagon, singing “I think I Love You” A Capella. In reality, when we traveled, my brothers passed the time by farting in their hands and cupping them over my face until I passed out from holding my breath.   I couldn’t get enough of Eight is Enough.  I mean eight kids? I didn’t even know a family of eight.  Even though their problems were a bit more raucous than the Brady’s or the Partridge family, I was infatuated with the sheer number of children.  Each episode opened with an intimate game of touch football; how I longed to be little Nicholas Bradford, also the baby of the family swathed in his older brother’s arms at the end of the game.  On the offhand chance I were included in an activity, my brothers would call out “Smear the . . . “(it was the 70’s, in the rural Midwest.  And it was many years before I realized the game title was more than a rhyme scheme).  These forays into sibling bonding normally ended up with me wailing in my room “WHY? WHY?”  I should have caught on to the lies in Eight is Enough when Abby married Dick.  What kind of sane single young attractive woman marries a chubby bald man who has eight kids? Nevertheless, I watched endlessly and fantasized of having my own large family complete with siblings who defended one another against the forces of evil, who sang together (well, my brothers did teach me the words to “Now You’re Messin’ with a Son a Bitch”), and who truly played touch football without a bloodletting.

I didn’t get to have eight or six kids, but I did make it to four.  So, when they matured to what I thought were reasonable ages, it dawned on me to take them all to play kickball.  Together.  Just us.  Only one was in diapers and everyone could run; it sounded like a faultless plan.  For weeks the summer heat had been oppressive; the temperature raged in unforgiving waves making outside play impossible.  When the heat broke, a glorious summer day unfolded.  Cornflower blue stretched across the sky and overstuffed white clouds played tag with the sun to safeguard a recurrent freshness in the air.  When I asked the children if they wanted to go to the park to play, they were stunned.  Apparently, they didn’t believe I had any fun in me but nonetheless, they charged to their bikes and we were on our way.  I even cheerily sang “Because four is enough to fill our lives with love. . . “The kids didn’t get it.  I thought about teaching them Nazareth, but exercised what I thought was better judgment.

However, the first seed of doubt was planted as soon as we arrived at the park and the older two wanted to know the rules.  “Oh come on, let’s just kick around and play without rules or teams; it will be fun.”  All four children immediately stopped and looked at me in wide-eyed shock.  Finally, Reagan crossed her arms and condescendingly informed me: “You have to have rules Mom. That is how this works.  No one plays without rules. How else would you know who won?” The other three children began to mutter “yeah, Moooom” as they scuffed dust from the ball-field.  I felt my spirit sinking under this crushing blow; but I called forth my inner Shirley Partridge and I decided to persevere. I mentally strategized. As the leader of the activity, I couldn’t falter again. They would sense my weakness and my vision of family fun would be lost.  So, in my authoritative voice I declared the kicking line-up to be ascending birth order and I would reign as continuous pitcher and umpire.  Furthermore, I noted that the older kids had to make it all the way around the bases on the first try to score while the little ones had two tries.  We had a bit of a stand-off as the older two complained about the breaks of the younger two; well, mostly about the break given to number three, not the baby.  I realize now my dream was dead before it began. Nonetheless, I surged forward.

So, up to bat was first-born Reese. Even with our own people playing and no one in the stands, I silently prayed “come on buddy, you can do it, kick that ball. Show us all you can do it.”  My first pitch bobbed to Reese; he watched it roll by and come to a complete stop.  “That was a terrible pitch. You call that a pitch?  No way I could kick that.”  I grimaced and called “strike one,” but Reese still didn’t move; “Who’s catcher?”  he calls.  “Reese, the ball is six inches from you; grab it and toss it to me.”  “Mom, the batter can’t play catcher too.  You can’t expect me to kick and play catcher.  It is too much.  You get it. Then try to a pitch a decent one.”  In my head I heard the Greek Chorus’ collective voice spell out doom, in reality, it was Reagan chanting loser in most a startling and hexing voice.  Reese and I had a short but intense stare down; I even took off my sunglasses.  He finally sauntered to the ball and gave it a half-ass toss, so it only made it about half way to me.  In the spirit of the game, I got the ball, but I pictured myself heaving it at him as hard as I could, and I wondered if I should be concerned with this pleasingly vivid hallucination.  The next pitch he treated with similar disdain and I felt myself unravelling.  After all, the attention span of team was a bit on the low side.  On my third pitch, he charged to the ball but his foot slipped over the top of it. This sent him spiraling backwards, and he slammed quite hard onto the scorched unforgiving ground.  I held my breath.  I was not sure how he would endure the humiliation.  This could be the end. I shot Reagan a look to stop her chant and finally Reese rose like Lazarus from the dust. Graciously, without fanfare, I rolled another. At long last, he bonked one that eked to the infield. It didn’t matter though; all positions were adeptly played by Reagan. She grabbed the ball and roguishly drilled Reese square in the back.  Because of the force of the blow, Reese stumbled; I really think his teeth came out a bit. His knees and palms for certain hit the dirt and the little boys’ eyes widened in awe and a bit of fear.  “It’s okay little ones” I called, “Sissy won’t throw the ball quite that hard, WILL YOU SISSY?” At this point, Reese nicknamed her “Cato,” a villain in her beloved book The Hunger Games. (Cato’s Olympic like survival skills keep him alive for quite some time). “At least I am not like the old woman who dies early,” she retorted.  Their banter continued until the umpire threatened to bench both (or start crying) and then it was Reagan’s turn to bat.  Her agile kick sent the ball to the outfield and she scored quite handily. As she landed on home plate, she did so with a victory dance that would earn a fine in the NFL. I pretended to not notice.

As Reed, or just “#3,” approached the kicker’s box, the game lost focus.  I couldn’t even distinguish a voice; they all blended together in drone like hymns.  Is it time to go yet? Can we quit? It is hot now.  My feet hurt.  I’m too sweaty.  Did you bring us a snack? A drink? A book? A moist towelette? My hands are dirty. Anything? Mom? Mom? MOM? Reed stamped his feet in the dirt and hollered to have someone, anyone pitch him the ball; the umpire needed to sit down a bit.  “Well, could the guy sitting on the park bench pitch the ball?”  I scanned the field for the other kids as they were nowhere to be found; I finally spotted Reese lying under a shade tree while Reagan pelted him with the dandelion heads Roark gathered for her.  For some time, Reed had been building his middle child syndrome case.  And what happened seemed to sum up his plight perfectly.  He rolled the ball to himself, kicked a zinger and scored untouched.  Granted, we weren’t paying attention, but he scored nonetheless.

We finally regrouped when precious baby Roark was ready to bat; we all “ohhh” and “ahhh” that we haven’t seen anything cuter, ever, ever.  How wonderful it would be, going through life only hearing how adorable, love-able, kissable, and snug-able you are. Roark half waddled, half toddled to the ball.  His little arms pumped and face strained with concentration.  I think the earth stopped spinning as I gazed upon this tiny exquisite person, my last miracle.  Sparkling dust from the ball-field hovered over his blond curls as if they too wanted to take their time soaring above him before finally settling between the folds of his still pudgy creases.  When his little foot grazed the ball, we all erupted in cheers, perhaps for a brief moment forgetting the established winner take all rules. Tears sprang to my eyes. As he rounded the bases, he squealed in delight, but Reagan didn’t let him score.  However, instead of lambasting him she lobbed one gently at his arm, scooped him up to carry him around the bases, and sneaked in a kiss when she thought I wasn’t looking.

After a seemingly never-ending thirty minutes, I concluded that the game was tied. I called for a sudden death style play (I was hungry, tired, and in desperate need of some sort of strong drink. I thought wistfully of Carol Brady. I bet she never drank). As predicated, Reagan sent a missile of a ball to the center field and began to round the bases. For some unknown fleeting reason, Reese ran – like he really could run; not in his normal new-born calf like lope.  Seeing Reese running from such an incomprehensible distance made Reagan laugh and do the “slow mo” to home plate when, yes, the unthinkable happened. Reese launched the ball with previously untapped strength and before Reagan could dive to the plate, it grazed her leg. Swiftly, the air grew thick.  Dark clouds furiously covered the sun; an eerie chill descended over the field.  It became so quiet that each shallow breath sounded like a roaring oceanic wave.  We stood locked in distress; even Reese seemed to want to turn back time.   And then eight eyes turned to me; I know I have to make the call. I don’t want to, but I barely whisper, “you’re out.”

What ensued was nothing less than utter pandemonium.  All I saw was a mess of bodies in that clothes staining clay orange dirt.  Rolling, piling, pulling, poking, arms, hands, legs, all became a cyclone of body parts.  I heard Reese laughing, Reagan screaming, Reed wailing.  Roark, however, animatedly clapped his hands and called “Go Sissy! Play! Play!” Before he could dive into the foray, I scooped him into my arms and I transitioned to dictator mode by screaming (not proudly) “Get in the GD car NOW.” The boys dragged themselves to the van in a zombie like crawl and we left Reagan convulsing in the dirt- we stared in disbelief at this alien like creature.  After some time, she too crawled to the car and for the second time that day, an unnerving silence descended over us.  When we pulled into the driveway, my children uncharacteristically realized this might be it, I actually might snap, and decided to leave me alone for a bit.  Finally, we reconvened in the kitchen over pizza; I chattered nervously and incessantly about anything but the previous events when, unexpectedly, Ray arrived home from work.  He looked at me, my glassy eyes and noticed my claw like grip on a beer.  He looked at the kids, their faces smeared with dirt and hair on end with sweat and said “OK, what happened?”

“We played kickball today. Just us.”

“Really. So, who won? Because remember, it isn’t about who wins or loses, it is only about who wins.”

I paused for a moment.  I looked at my husband, and our children looked at me.  I think they expected that I would somehow impart words of wisdom and make sense of the turn of events that occurred today.  I thought very hard for a moment; I really wanted to make this teachable moment worthwhile.

Hey kids, I said.  Let’s learn a song.  Let’s learn one your uncles taught me. As my hands drummed the table, I began the melodic chorus of. . .

“And now you’re messin’ with. . . a”

And this, my friends, is why I cannot live in a sitcom.