I signed Jack (our oldest child) up for baseball when he was about six years old, because that’s what I thought you’re “supposed” to do. Just getting to the first practice was daunting and eye opening. At this point, Jack was the oldest of four kids, so you can imagine waking kids up from naps, packing peanut and butter and jelly sandwiches (because, of course, practice was right at dinnertime), and trying to bring something to keep the three younger kids occupied during the practice. It was chaos. My husband came straight from work and met us at the baseball fields. For an hour or so, we wrangled the kids, helping them eat “dinner,” while keeping them from falling off the metal bleachers, chasing them around to keep them within eyesight, and helping them to the bathroom when needed. I’m sure I was potty training one kid and nursing another. You get the idea. While Jack did a great job that baseball season and showed potential, everything in my heart was saying, “NO WAY.” So, we ...