His cup doth not runneth over.

Last weekend was crazy.

I had to coach a swim meet all morning on both Saturday and Sunday, and on Saturday afternoon I had to teach swim lessons.

Number 3 was also playing in a baseball tournament.

I’m usually around for all of these things, but the swim meet and the baseball games were happening at the same time.

When there is a conflict, I do my best to make sure everything the kids need is ready to go ahead of time. I have them pack up swim bags, fill water bottles, pack snacks, find their uniforms, etc. so they aren’t rushing around at the last minute in a panic, and so my husband doesn’t have to deal with getting that stuff together.

But I didn’t do that this weekend.

So I was a little concerned about Number 3 having everything he needed for his game when I left for the swim meet at 6:45 on Saturday morning.

Around 9:00 I checked my phone.

There was a text from my husband.

Can’t find Number 3’s cup.

Number 3 can never find his cup.

No matter where we put it, it ends up in the hands of either Number 5 or Number 7.

The last time Number 5 had it, I found it in the kitchen.

Like this:

Last week, I found Number 7 playing with it.

Well, not really playing.

She was drinking water out of  it.

I couldn’t remember what I had done with it.

I didn’t recall whether I put it somewhere out of her reach or if, not really giving a shit anymore, I just let her keep drinking.

I texted my husband back.

Ask Number 7 if she knows where it is.

She didn’t.

I sent out a text to a friend and the coach.

Help. We are having a cup emergency.

I also called my mom who was going to watch the game. I asked her if she could buy a cup on her way up.

What size? she asked.

Hmmmm.

I had no idea.

I didn’t even know how they were measured.

She ended up buying one, but by the time she got the game, the coach already had Number 3 (and his package) covered.

So Number 3 never wore the cup she bought, but we kept it. Just in case.

On Sunday there was another baseball game.

We still hadn’t located the original cup, so Number 3 got the one my mother had bought the day before.

I took it out of the plastic, and Number 3 shoved it into his pants.

“MOM! I AM NOT WEARING THIS!” he yelled.

I looked over at him.

He was just pointing at his unit with his mouth hanging wide open.

He wasn’t really exaggerating.

He looked like he had rammed a watermelon into the front of his baseball pants.

The John Holmes of  little league.

“MOM!” Number 3 yelled again.

“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO???”

Luckily, we still had the cup from the coach the day before.

He used that.

Eventually he’ll grow into his Dirk Diggler-sized cup.

Until then, I’ll keep it out of Number 7’s reach.

Or maybe I’ll just let her super-size it.

Number 1! Please keep me there!

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