"Let's have our kids three years apart."
I don't remember which one of us said this back in the day when we were free and childless, but Kevin and I agreed. Three years. Perfect. By the time Child Two comes along, Child One will be potty-trained (worked in theory, but not so much in practice), and Number One will be in school by the time Number Three comes along. Others we know chose to have all their kids close together so they get through all the havoc of small children in one big whirlwind. We thought they were nuts.
Then we had three boys. What are the chances? They all love baseball. What are the chances? Enter Little Leage.
I signed each of them up one by one (call me insane)--different teams, of course, because they're spaced three years apart. Each week I do the math: Five practices plus six games equals one harried chauffeur, twenty hours, and sixteen gallons of gas. Can't one of them love football? Or basketball? Or competitive chess?
So, the three year plan? Not so great after all. Still, I console myself with the thought that the other seasons are sports-free. That, and the notion that one day, in my old age, they will be shuttling me