Bad Dad

Oh, the shit's gonna hit the fan tomorrow.

I just finished sending e-mails, in reverse order, to my son, my wife, and my son's orchestra teacher.

First I informed the teacher that her last available bass player was no longer available for a Thursday night performance because the eighth grade baseball team was scrimmaging the freshmen at the same time.

Zach has always been passionate about baseball. While we've always encouraged his participation in orchestra, he has never been passionate about it. He's a good enough student, and a great enough kid, that I support his desire to give top priority to that which gives him the most joy. I assure you that if the roles were reversed, and music were his passion, he would have my full support in that direction.

Then I informed the wife of my act, acknowledging that I should have kept her in the loop, but convinced I had done the right thing.

Then I informed my son that I granted his wish, so sweetly discussed following baseball practice (for him) and a baseball meeting (for me).

My meeting ran later than his practice, so he hung around to watch the varsity game. Fortunately, he had completed his homework prior to practice. We exchanged the usual small talk on the ride home:

Me: How was practice?

Him: Good.

Me: What did you work on?

Him: Hitting.

Me: How did you hit?

Him: Good.

It's not until after we arrive home that he confronts me with his dilemma: play in Thursday's scrimmage and hurt his orchestra grade or play the bass in Thursday's orchestra concert and miss the scrimmage that may chart his high school baseball future.

"Why did you come to me instead of your mom?" I asked rhetorically.

So hit me with your best shot, readers. You might as well jump on the bandwagon too.