Strike Three.

I wasn't enough.

Went to bed in near state of panic, knowing I wasn't what Fox needed last night, knowing J was angry with me.

Got up feeling badly about last night.

Felt worse when J offered to make me coffee instead of just bringing me some, meaning he was still angry with me, rightfully so, but I couldn't find the words to tell him why I behave like an ass.

Completely freak out when he kisses me goodbye, with a chill in his voice that we'll talk later; so now I've screwed it up with Fox, and J.

Boys: batters on first and second. Grand Slam on the way.

Me: struck out.

Ponder while putting clothing away, my penance for screwing up, as I detest putting clothing away. Discover how big Fox really has gotten.

Fox and I now are wearing the same size socks; he's worn holes in my socks - on one hand quite thrilling, as soon, I'll have all his outgrown flannel lined jeans to choose from, the other hand, scary, as he's outpacing me faster than I anticipated. Scary thought, your child outgrowing his mama. I put away socks. Attempted shoving thoughts about not knowing how to parent an 8 year old, or behave like a grown up, behind some socks whose mates didn't escape the dryer. Ever.

Replayed ugliness of last night in my head, for like the 30th time. Inwardly cringed. Caught finger in edge of dresser drawer.

Swore.

gggggg. Sorry. Picked the gunk off the "g" on the keyboard.

Sigh. Hit replay, again, for 31st viewing.

Feeling helpless led to stupid ugliness. Covered helplessness and fear that Foxy'd hate me for not being able to fix it, for not finding him a Real Dad under generous coating or Righteous Indignation along with the equally potent Misplaced Blame.

Admit, at least to myself, that I don't do vulnerable well; or helpless - but I do Angry really well. Angry's easier. Cleaner. Less invasive.

I'm angry, that people tell Fox he's so talented, he should playing in a different baseball league than he is; or that he's so big, his bike should be a 20", not an 18" - because I hear about it, everyday, from him. Fox doesn't hear could, he hears should. Thus, whatever he IS doing, isn't the right thing. It's not enough. He spent all last summer not riding his bike because a neighbor said he was big enough for the next size up. Big enough doesn't mean your other bike it too small; but it was out there, so naturally, Fox thinks his other bike is too small. Refuses to ride it. Complains that I won't buy him a new one. Incessantly.

Now, it's happening with Little League; I get it that he's very talented athletically; I understand his frustration with the kids who are just starting out - but it's an age rule. He dug in his heels, and after we talked about it calmly, he flipped out about it, and now, here it is, revisited again, on our way to the bus stop this morning. Like I said it would. I remind him that it's an age rule, that I cannot change. That he's in the right place. But some dad told him otherwise. Clearly, they know better than I. His words? Dads know this kind of stuff. Moms don't. You know, like he told me last night.

See firecracker meet match?

I'm annoyed that he doesn't know how to let go of things. How to simply accept them. How that translates into him digging at me, over and over and over and over again; I'm not sure I've the patience. I'm angry with myself, that a, I can't fix it for him, and b, I can't seem to figure out how to deal with him when he's like this. See? I should have the patience to hear, everyday, for the next four months about how he shouldn't be in the league he's in. How he's better than some of those kids. That he could be in kid-pitch, but he misses the birthday cut off by 19 days.

I start off calmly with him, but that incessant gripe gets me every time, til we're at each other, hammer and tongs, and I'm the one left feeling like shit because it's not his fault that someone said something to him that got him worked up; it's not his fault he can't let it go, it's something we're working on. In the end, it's my fault, for not handling it well. How is going to learn how to have patience, when I can't seem to find any??!

I should have more patience.

I should be kinder about it.

Naturally, because I'm an ass, and can't get out of my own way, I use statements like: why do guys do that? Can't guys just not say stuff that get my child in a swivet? Totally irritating J, who points out calmly (damn him for being able to stay calm; now I'm angry because I'm losing it) it's not the guy's fault, that my child takes that statement a certain way. It's not Foxy's fault either. But I'm acting like I'm angry with Fox for feeling the way he does. Fuels feeling of impotence, escalates into me being out of control over something stupid.

Truly, it's not Fox I'm angry at. Or even that guy that told him how talented he is, what a great arm he has - because he does have one. I'm enraged, because J doesn't see it the way I do - or, because he's right; I'm not telling him I'm enraged at me.

Yes, it's great that someone feeds his ego, because he needs that. He needs to know that a guy backs him, thinks what he does is great - his dad spent the whole game yelling at him, off field, how to bat, how to stand, what to catch. B became that parent on the field that everyone asks: Who In Hell Is THAT Guy part. I cringed from a field away from him, sitting with J, squeezing his hand because I know how badly it feels to be in that position.

Feeling like nothing you do is right, or good enough.

I'm angry at the unfairness of being the Mom, when really, there are times I need to be The Dad. Knowing, that the same sex parent, even an absent one, is the more influential parent in a kid's life - he'll spend his whole life trying to gain his dad's approval, for him to be proud of Foxy, to be the Dad he's always imagined. Fox will feel small, and overlooked; not enough. He won't get it, for a long time yet, that it's his dad's issue. Not his.

Fox already knows I'm proud of him; but because I'm not a baseball guru, because I'm not the one that will teach him how to throw a curve ball, or a change up, because I'm not a guy, the dad, I have to sit back and pick up the pieces when they all fall apart.

I dropped the ball.

Fox's pulling his hair in my bathroom, while I'm trying to negotiate another shower in one day, offering him the control to choose which one - his, or mine. Anything, really, to let him gain a measure of control when right now, especially coming off a weekend with B, he's had no control. End up very cross. Get in screaming match over Little League Baseball Rules.

Pissed off J in the process, with gender inclusive all encompassing generalization. He said that I was bent out of shape over something so small - well, of course he doesn't get it - I can't even articulate why I'm so frustrated, in tears - that maybe he'd just leave.

Yikes.

Now I've really gone and screwed it up. Hid in room, to minimize any more damage. Tried not to suffocate on cocktail of fear, panic, and unfairness.

I couldn't admit that this was all about me.

That someone else's opinion, a guys opinion will always hold more weight than mine. Even that I didn't find someone, fall in love and remarry sooner, so Fox would have a Real Dad. Which would keep me from screwing up like this.

Mostly though, what I'm really, honest to goodness angry about?

Fox doesn't believe me.

I'm so angry I can't stand it, because I'm not a dad, I'm not enough.