When I picked up my children after work Monday, I was greeted with the news that one of them had ball practice that night and there was only an hour and 15 minutes to get us there on time.

Needless to say, I was not pleased. It almost rivaled the moment I found out their father had signed all of them — count them, all three — up to play ball. One for softball and the other two for t-ball.

So, after the news was delivered from the father on Monday and, in a scheduling feat worthy of Martha Stewart, I whipped us home, changed clothes and grabbed up jackets.

By then, I knew there wasn’t enough time for me to cook and us eat and make it to the ballpark. So, I called a local restaurant, gave them our order and said we’d be there in 15 minutes.

T-minus 45 until practice started and we made it to the restaurant with three minutes to spare.

At this point those of you who have children, you know what a production it is to eat dinner. When one factors in a deadline, it makes it all the more difficult to get from the table to one’s desired destination without being late. That night, I have to hand it to them — they did well. So well, in fact, we pulled into the Little League park with two minutes to spare, according to clock on my cell phone.

And we were late.

Apparently practice started at 5:30 p.m., not 6:30 p.m. Lining up our chairs at the back of the fence to wait out the remainder of practice gave me ample time to think about this foray into the world of sports.

It was then I realized a fatal flaw with this Little League project. I wasn’t in charge, and I didn’t like that.

During the last couple of years, I’ve come to recognize a certain characteristic within myself — I’m bossy, opinionated and really like to be in charge.

Thankfully at the end of practice we were given our schedules for both practice and games. And let me tell you, I’m not one to take the Lord’s name in vain, but “OMG” was all I could think of when I got the chance to study it.

It was like code. And I’m not Ben Gates and I didn’t have a decoder ring.

It took me a while but when I put it on a spreadsheet, it all became clear.

I’m in trouble. Big trouble. Trouble that is going to have to be at the ball park every single day of the week — with the exception of the weekend — for a solid month beginning in March.

Did I mention, that I’m not pleased?

But I understand now why soccer moms have road rage. I bet they’ve been at that park every day for the last three weeks and just feel like running those kids’ daddies over for signing all them up.