We'll Take the Hit

Softball season has come to an end, and guess who showed?  You got it!  DiMaggio, you were heaven sent!  Second to last game of the season, the deciding game to send us to the Tournament of Champions championship, Logan's first at bat, already 2 outs on the board...

"Why is she so early in the batting order?" I hiss to Thomas.

"I don't think she is."

"Then how is she up already?"  I absolutely can not take the pressure, because here's what flashes in my mind:  Her face after the game when she made the last out.  She was barely holding it together when I met her behind the dugout.  "Hey," I soothed.  "You did great!"

"But..." she whispered, nearly choking on it, "I made the last out.  It's all my fault."

I can't take that again.  Can not.  "Dear Lord, pleeeease, just one tiny--"

"Strike!"

"--teeny, tiny, hit."

"Ball!"

"--or walk.  I'd totally take a walk."

"Strike!"

"--Oh, c'mon!  You can do it, Logan.  Just take the good ones!"

"Ball!"

My heart is pounding.  "Please, please--

"Strike!"

Nuts.  I turn to Thomas and wheeze, "This girl is gonna' break my heart."  We couldn't have asked any more of her.  She was the tryingest player on the team.  Always giving it her best effort; always enthusiastic; just happy to be playing the game.  I can't help but want to see that kind of effort pay off for anybody, but especially when it's my heart walking out there outside of my body.  I see her shoulders slump as she walks back to the dugout.  "Hey!  Hold your head up.  You did great, Logan!"  There is little else I can do.  That is the hardest part of all.

Then, guess what?  Her next at bat?  Two outs already on the board.  "Again?" I whine.  "How does this always happen?" Mr. Wicke merely shrugs and shakes his head.  I think his heart is beating just as wildly as mine.  We're one strike and one ball in when it happens.

Crack!  The sound propels me to my feet.  A solid hit toward third.  The runner advances to second and Logan is safe at first.  "She did it!" I yell to no one in particular.  "She did it!  Way to go, Logan!"  The next batter hits her home, and she crosses the plate with a smile from ear to ear!  Mine and hers, a matching set. 

I meet her at the dugout.  "Way to go, babe!  You did awesome!  I'm so proud of you," I discreetly whisper to her as she takes a seat.

"Thank, Mom," she beams at me through the wire fencing.  There will be no close-to-tears tonight.

Except for me.  I have to take a little walk before finding my seat again to take a couple of deep breaths, swallow down that lump in my throat, and talk to God for just a second.  Maybe He'll pass along my regards to DiMaggio.

p.s.  She got one more hit that game and another in the championship game.  A great finish to her season!

How I've Written Myself into a Corner

This blog is somewhat troublesome.  It's a love hate thing.  I love it because it's made me practice writing.  And writing for public consumption, which has been inspiring and terrifying.  And I think I've gotten better over these last four years.  That's also a love thing.  But now I feel pressure to write something good.  And a lot of time I don't have time to write anything good.  I'm too busy with stitches and pukey camp trips--both topics that deserve well written posts that may never happen--to actually do the thinking and the coercing and the writing that good writing requires.  And so I write nothing.  For long periods of time.

And I don't know how to bridge the gap.

So tell me, dear Readers--if you are still there--what is better for this blog.  Daily posts that are somewhat mediocre and sometimes meaningless, or infrequent posts that really say something.  'Cause I don't know the answer.

P.S.  This blog has also revealed to me my tendency toward beginning sentences with conjunctions, which is not really acceptable, except that is how I actually talk in life.  I think.  You can weigh in on that one, too, if you want.  Acceptable or annoying?

Two Ugly Words

Potty training.  Those two words absolutely strike fear into my soul.  I hate potty training.  Yes.  I used the word hate, and I meant it.  So what am I doing potty training my 24 month old?  All I can say is:

He started it. 

He did.  He wants to sit on the potty...well, sometimes.  And then he can make pee...most of the time.  And then I went to Costco yesterday and stared at that $40 box of 200 diapers, and I thought, "I can't buy 200 diapers.  I don't think it makes sense."  And so I didn't.  I bought the $30 box of 70 Pull-Ups.  And just so you know I don't know if that makes sense either.

Potty training, in addition to its obvious horrors, is the land of limbo.  Will it work?  When do I start?  Is he ready?  And how many diapers do I need to buy?  What am I doing?

That's the question I ask myself most, and there is no easy answer.  Most of the time I'm just figuring it out as I go.  Except with potty training there is clean up duty.  I hate that.

True (Red White &) Blue

Mr. Wicke and I are both big 4th of July Fans.  Big.  We love the holiday, and it isn't because we love the BBQ's and the fireworks (although they are nice); it's because we really love the USA.  We think it is the grandest experiment in human government to ever live on the face of the earth.  We believe it deserves celebration.

I'm totally with John Adams who said: "The second day of July 1776 (the actual day congress took the vote for independence) will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America.  I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival.  It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty.  It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more."

It really should be a big deal.  And around here we're already getting prepared.  Last year we began a new tradition of watching this

before July 4th. (You can get a copy at Amazon.)  Even my children, six and eight at the time, were fascinated through all 4 disks.  (In fact, we liked it so much that we gave it to some other families at Christmas.)  When I suggested we break it out again this year, they were totally excited and Logan, especially, doesn't want to quit watching.  Yesterday she initiated a long discussion about Benedict Arnold and his moral dilemma.  How much did I love that?

This year we're taking it up a notch.  We are all doing a little research on an important person to the revolution and we'll each do a presentation on July 4th.  Kind of nerdy, I know, but that's the way we roll around here.  Logan's working on Benedict Arnold; Griffin took John Paul Jones; Mr. Wicke is on Edmond Burke; and I'm leaning toward Abigail Adams.  Don't worry.  We have some friends joining us so we'll get to Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin, too.

The thing is, my heart resonates with Abagail Adams who said, "Posterity who are to reap the blessings will scarcely be able to conceive of the hardships and sufferings of their ancestors."  There is no doubt she is right.  No matter how much I know, I cannot feel the heart's cost of all they gave.  However, in our house I am determined that we will at least recognize their great sacrifices, their service, and their heroism and live with a deeper sense of gratitude for all they did.

So bring on the red, white and blue, I say!

Sometimes, Angels Walk on Asphalt (part 2)

..."What?! Are you serious?!" I said out loud to no one in particular. "They are out of cream?! Are you kidding?!" This could not be happening.

"My husband just went to check," a kindly, older woman responded.

She must have seemed sympathetic because I found myself continuing. "I can't go to another store today. Not with my kids." I wasn't really talking to her. Not really. I think I was really talking to Jesus, as in, "Dear Lord, I am having a really hard time being the mom you want me to be. And, as a side note? Your birthday is really wearing me out..."

"Looks like you're headed for a melt down," she said as she took in my screaming baby.

"Huh? Oh, we're already there. (Sigh.) Well, thanks." I couldn't wait for her husband's return. Besides I had no faith that he would come back with any good news. What? They were stockpiling cream in the back? Highly doubtful.

"Good luck," she called as I walked back to my kids.

"Alright, guys. Let's get out of here. Stay with me." They sensed my short fuse and obeyed as I moved as fast as I could while trying to distract and quiet a baby who was past naptime.

The checkout line wasn't much better. What I needed was another couple of arms. The baby was still fussing, the others, while trying to help, mostly managed to trip over one another and end up in my way more than anything else. Just then my bishop from church walked by.

"Wow! Just in time. I'm in need of some service!" I was only half kidding.

"Oh, really?  How can I help?"

Although I thought the answer was obvious, I said,  "I'll let you have my baby today."  I was still only half kidding, but he declined the offer by saying he had five of his own or some such nonsense.

Left on my own, I was gearing up for the trip out to the car and trying to figure how I was going to rearrange the entire afternoon schedule to nap the baby ASAP and somehow still get the cream to make the dessert that needed overnight refrigeration.  Not to mention the thousand other details of Christmas which I refused to think of just then.  Sometimes being a mother is akin to planning the details of a Navy Seals mission with the happy addition of doing it while someone continually screams in your ear.

I could feel my blood pressure rising and the beginnings of a headache coming on, and that's when I saw the stupid firewood.  The stupid firewood that I needed to buy for the stupid firepit I had bought for Thomas for this stupid holiday.  It had been on the list for days.  The list that was still in need of completion. But I just couldn't go back in there.  Bone weary, it was all I could do to get the baby to the car.  I was desperate.

I turned to my children.  "Do you guys think you could buy that wood right there?  Take it into the register and pay for it?"  They looked at each other unsure.  "C'mon.  You can do it!  Here.  Here's some money," I said adjusting the baby on my hip with one arm and digging through my purse with the other while using one foot to keep the cart from rolling away.  "It'll be fine...Where is my wallet?  Okay, here!  Just stay together." They began to walk away.  "And watch for cars!" I called after them.

I worried and watched for them while buckling the baby in the car and distracting him with snacks for a moment while I loaded the grocery sacks in the trunk.  Relieved, I finally spotted them tugging the bundle of wood between them.  "Good job, you guys!" I called across the parking lot.  Right behind them I noticed the sympathetic woman from the dairy case.  I silently hoped she wasn't judging. 

Instead, as they drew nearer she called, "Did you get your cream?"

I couldn't believe it. "No!  Did they really have some?" I questioned as I moved to the children and relieved them of their burden.

"They did.  In the back."

"Well, wouldn't you know it.  Just my luck today," I complained, finishing with the bags and closing the trunk.

"Here.  You can have mine," she offered holding a large bottle of whipping cream up high a couple of cars over.

"Oh, that is so nice of you!  But no, that's okay," I gushed as I pushed the empty cart to the corral. 

When I turned around she was coming toward me, cream still in hand.  "No, really.  Here take it," she offered again.

My arms shot out reflexively, my hands waving her off.  "No, no.  That's yours! I can't take your whipping cream!  What will you do then?" I asked as she neared me.

"I can get some more.  I don't have any kids with me.  All of mine are grown now," the kindness in her eyes disarmed me now that I really saw her.

"But I--"

"Take it.  It's yours," she insisted and thrust it into my hands.  "Merry Christmas," she said, really meaning it.

I found myself hugging the cream to my chest.  A lump had suddenly sprung into my throat, and I had to swallow hard to get my thanks past it.  She just smiled, and I stood there, overwhelmed, watching her walk back to her car.  Unexpected human kindness is a beautiful thing, and on this day, for me, nearly miraculous.

My kids even felt it.  When I got into the car we all sat there for a minute until Logan said simply, "That was really nice."

"Yes, it really was," I wholeheartedly agreed, blinking back a couple of tears.  "That was a very Christlike thing to do."  I started the ignition and slowly backed up.

"She doesn't even know us," Griffin joined in.

"Nope, and we'll never be able to repay her...I guess the only thing we can do is to help somebody else like she helped us." 

And as we pulled away, I remembered that I really liked Christmas after all.

Sometimes, Angels Walk on Asphalt

"I hate Christmas."  It wasn't necessarily true, but the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.  Maybe it was the surrounding chaos or maybe it was something akin to understanding in the eyes of the other mother trying to contain a baby that inspired the confession in the middle of aisle 8 at Fry's Grocery Store.

She gave a tired laugh.  "I know.  And I have to go to Costco after this."

"Ugh.  I just came from there.  It's a madhouse."  Our conversation was cut short when my toddler threw a fit again, this time as my nine year old attempted to keep him from overturning a number of canned goods from their shelf.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the store reminded me of fighting traffic on the 405 in Southern California.  The same miserable traffic that I do not miss, and yet there I was bumping cart to cart in a very similar version.  If I hadn't needed a large bottle of whipping cream I would have taken one look at the parking lot and forgotten shopping altogether, but I was in charge of dessert for Christmas Eve dinner, and that required whipping cream.  Lots of whipping cream, as only the very best kind of desserts do.  Having only too late realized that Costco doesn't sell whipping cream, there I was with one fraying temperament in store number two with three kids in tow.  It was enough to make me hate Christmas, and as evidenced all around me, I wasn't the only one.

Everyone in the store seemed slightly short tempered as we impatiently maneuvered around one another through the too-tight aisles, our plans too often at odds with one another.  "Excuse me.  Sorry.  Can I just get around you.  I'll just be a second.  Sorry.  Didn't see you there..."  The bare minimum etiquette didn't quite make it to the eyes of most shoppers.  There, one could see the stress, the impatience, and the frustration.  More of which I would have noticed had I not been chasing my 20 month old who refused to sit in the fancy toy car/shopping cart that he had insisted upon only moments before, the monstrosity which I was now left maneuvering in this mess while trying to contain him at the same time.

"Logan!  I need your help!" I begged as the baby darted around the giant soda display.  "You go that way!"  As I rounded the other side, I heard screaming.  Familiar screaming.

"Mom.  He won't come!" my daughter whined.

"Okay, I got him," I responded while rounding the corner and picking him up.  Putting him in the cart and buckling him in I said, "Now you have to sit!"  He didn't like it.  The screaming escalated.  At this point I thought it was possible that the entire city was in this store, and they were all watching me.  It really was a shining moment.

"Okay, guys, stay close!" I commanded the other two.  I had had enough.  It was cream time.  Anything else would have to wait.  Upon nearing the dairy section, I found it so crammed that I had to abandon the cart momentarily.  "Watch the baby, and don't move!" I ordered. 

I weaved my way to the refrigerated door. "What?!  Are you serious?!" I said out loud to no one in particular.  "They are out of cream?!  Are you kidding?!" This could not be happening.

(to be continued...)

It Doesn't Get More Exciting Than This...Not Around Here, Anyway

Well, DiMaggio didn't show.  Apparently there were too many things to attend to in heaven and he couldn't be spared.  Logan walked twice and struck out once, but she went down swinging.  What more could we ask?

Besides, we've got too much other exciting stuff going on to worry about that today.  Lincoln went poop in the potty and Logan is getting braces.  That's what we get excited about around here.  In fact, you've never seen a girl more excited about joining the braceface club, nor a mom more excited about a bodily function.

We're feeling so good, in fact, that we'll give DiMaggio one more chance.  Tonight.  At the ballfield.  6:15 pm.  Championship game.  C'mon, DiMaggio.  Be there.