Years went by, and baseball was not as popular with the next batch of kids as it had been with the first. The older ones had jobs and friends and activities. The grass grew back in thick and lush.
The 9 year old loves ball, and hubs would take the kids to the park to hit a few. I'm not sure why the change in location; we've lived in the same house all along, and the park has always been there. But the 21 year old moved out a year ago to get married, and comes by regularly. He eats, uses the printer, reads the paper and visits with me. And he goes in the back yard to play ball with the 9 year old and anyone else who wants to join in.
I try to spend some time sitting and watching them, soaking it in. These days are slipping by, and the 21 year old will eventually move on in life with career and family and that could include a move. Who knows? So I make sure to enjoy this phase. I know the kids are- especially that 9 year old who adores his oldest brother.
And guess what sprung up again in the yard?
A bare spot. And I am so thankful for it. I wish it would always be there.