I love you so big.
I hope you understand someday just how big that love is.
I love you more than you love eye-black.
I love you more than you love baseball.
I love you more than you love any sport.
Son, can we discuss for just a moment that although I love YOU so big, I however, am struggling at a monumental level with the incessant ball throwing in our home.
Like for reals, my love.
Z-man, for the love...could we maybe make a pact on what gets thrown IN THE HOUSE?
Believe me when I over-dramatically say to you that your mama is not trying to squash your "field of dreams" or "hoop dreams" or whatever kind of spherical tossing famedom you are trying to achieve.
But the thump-thump-thumping.
It's making my hairdresser work far too hard these days.
She's begging you too.
Make the deal, buddy.
You could be told that you may NEVER play ball in the house.
I could do that and pull rank.
But honestly my sweet son,
I don't want to do that.
I want to see you happy.
I like that you have a talent that I am ever-so-in-awe of.
So I will allow you to keep this crazy town throwing of the ball going if you use the soft, plush, quiet basketball.
So please, pretty, pretty, please Z...
The next time you see my pretty decorative reproduction olive basket and I'm letting you use it to shoot your plush quiet basketball into...know that this is an expression of my big love for you.
BIG BIG LOVE.
Because this bouncing and throwing allllll the time is hard for me.
And I'm trying to not be so uptight.
I promise, I'm trying for you.
Because my love is so so big.