"Is it really appropriate for the President of the United States to spend untold hours playing baseball with 11-year-olds?" Congresswoman Nyeland is taking the opportunity granted her by the producers of Capitol Beat to rant and rave about my coaching Jonah and Isaac's Little League team.
CJ and I are watching the Sunday morning talk show in her office. The boys are upstairs putting the finishing touches on Operation Goldfish.
"It's five hours a week and why shouldn't President Lyman do what millions of parents across America do every year and coach his sons?" Charlie's got his hackles up on this one. Mostly because he got drafted into helping again this year and the team is really, really good for once.
"Because he should be taking care of the business of state, not teaching little boys how to bunt."
"Congresswoman, there's no law that says business must be conduct inside a stuffy office. The President is an outdoorsman," he almost chokes on that one, "who feels it's good for the soul to get out and play once in a while. What he's doing is an example of his commitment to family values and to being a role model for Jonah, Isaac and Jacob."
Nice zinger on the family values line there, Charles.
The program moderator bites back a smirk and interrupts Ms. Nyeland's rebuttal. "We're going to have to end it there. Thank you very much, Congresswoman Peggy Nyeland and White House Deputy Chief of Staff, Charles Young."
"I hate that woman," CJ growls, snapping the TV off and following me into the Oval Office.
The sun's heat doesn't actually penetrate the bullet-proof windows, but I bask in its rays regardless. Glancing outside, I can't help but smile. Spring thundered into town at the beginning of April, bringing drenching rains to wash away the gray of winter and radiant sunshine to brighten the world.
The economy is on the upswing, the Fed Chairman is forecasting actual economic growth for this quarter. Jacob's cast came off last week and he's anxiously awaiting the end of the school year and the two weekend trips to Connecticut we have planned in June. Jonah and Isaac have turned the South Lawn into their own, personal ballpark where the Mets (I swear I had nothing to do with naming the team) practice every day after school for a couple of hours, generally just playing sandlot ball with limited supervision.
Fifteen boys, ages 11 and 12, have been together since tee-ball and have gelled into a pretty decent ball team this spring. We have a decent chance to take the league championship if nobody gets hurt or moves out of town.
"Mr. President?" Margaret sticks her head in the office. "They're ready."
I grab my jacket and head out the door at her words.
CJ scowls at me as we walk down the portico. "Who's ready?"
"Why are you so damn grumpy?" I stop at the door to the Residence, holding my hand up to keep the Secret Service agent from opening it until I'm ready.
"It's just that time of the month," she attempts to mollify me.
"Okay, CJ, whatever." I let her excuse slide for the moment and motion for the agent to open the door. "Ladies, first."
She looks at me curiously, but enters the Residence.
"SURPRISE!" Three over-excited little boys scream as they throw themselves at CJ.
There's a 10-foot banner screaming 'Happy Mother's Day' in neon pink letters hung across the far wall and the room is filled with multi-colored balloons.
"You thought we forgot," I murmur in her ear when the boys finally release her.
"I was starting to think so, yes," she admits.
"Happy Mother's Day." I brush her cheek with my lips and fleetingly wish it was Donna I was kissing again.
"Who baked?" CJ dabs at her eyes while inspecting the round, chocolate-covered cake prominently displayed under the banner.
"We did!" Jonah and Isaac chorus.
"I got to paint it!" Jacob pipes up.
"You got to frost it," I correct him.
He frowns at me and turns back to CJ. "I put the chocolate on it."
"You did an excellent job," CJ smiles down at him.
"Mom, open your present!" Isaac tugs on her hand, trying to give her an oddly-shaped, silver-wrapped package.
CJ follows him over, admonishing all of us along the way. "You guys didn't have to get me anything, you know that."
"We didn't get you anything," I emphasize the get.
She pauses with her fingernail under the tape, obviously searching for something snarky to come back with.
Isaac's about to jump out of his skin. "Open it, Mom!"
"It isn't a potato lamp or anything is it?"
"Nope, but the boys did make it themselves," I assure her.
Her eyes widen once she gets the paper off the mason jar Jacob painted. "Bath salts? You boys are so sweet. Thank you!"
"They're armotherapy bath salts," Jonah enunciates carefully. "They're supposed to relax you. If we did it right."
"Will you use 'em, Aunt CJ?"
"Of course I will, Jacob. I'll try them out tonight."
Long after the cake is eaten and the boys are outside playing, I knock on CJ's door and stick my head in her room.
"I'm going."
"Don't stay long, Josh. It's going to be dark in a couple of hours and it still gets cold."
Derrick and two other agents slip out the back door with me for the short drive to our destination. We all get out, but only I walk towards the giant oak tree.
"Hey, sweetheart," I whisper quietly, sitting on the ground. It's still damp from yesterday's downpour. "Bet you thought I forgot, didn't you? You wouldn't be the first today. We got CJ going pretty good this afternoon. I'm sorry I haven't visited as much as I used to. I'm coaching baseball again this year. You should be impressed, only five months and the economy's picking up, unemployment's down…"
Picking at a blade of grass, I realize I'm rambling and struggle to put my feelings into complete sentences.
"You'd be so proud of them both. Jonah wants to be an astronaut now and Jacob is getting so big. God, I miss you, Donnatella. I don't know why this happened to us and I pray every day the boys will never expect me to give them a real answer, because I don't have one. I try, Donna, I really do. I try to be the man you'd want me to be, the father Jonah and Jacob deserve. If I'm never meant to understand why, then I guess I can accept it.
"I know we have this conversation every year, but…" I trail off and climb to my feet, pulling a envelope out of my breast pocket. I tuck the card into the taller grass at the base of the gravestone. Touching my fingers to my lips, I press them to the cold marble stone. "I love you, Donna. Happy Mother's Day."