Where's Mine?

I wanted it. I needed it.

The cheesy goodness was about to be mine after running a limo service all Sunday afternoon.

My husband and I made an executive decision to order a pizza for dinner since there had been no time to prepare a meal. For as busy as our weekdays are, with work and school, the weekends are even worse.

In fact, I wouldn't even call what we have a weekend. It is more or less two days without work spent in my van. It's not quite an Uber because those drivers get paid in cash. I get compensated by getting to spend extra time with my teens, and the real joy is wondering which teens I'll be transporting - Jeckels or Hydes.

Anyway, I digress. Although our Sundays are usually busy, this past one had a few extras tacked on. By the time I got home it was around 6 p.m. My only desire at that point was to sit down, watch an episode of The Crown, on Netflix, and enjoy a warm, crusty, cheesy bite of heaven.

So there were only 4 pieces left when I got home. It was ok. Only my daughter and I hadn't eaten yet. Once she opened the box she said, "I'm probably going to eat all of these. I'm that hungry." (Keep in mind she had only had a small lunch five hours earlier.)

Then my youngest walked in the kitchen and said, "I'm still hungry."

Slowly with each cut - the pieces were disappearing. My cheese reward was getting further and further away from me. Finally, there was just a mere sliver of green pepper pizza left. My youngest reappeared.

"Do you want this?" I reluctantly said, knowing what the answer would be. And then it was gone.

Ordering pizza has been something we have done occasionally for decades. It's always been a large, one topping pizza. Sometimes half with pepperoni and half with green peppers. But at some point along the way, as the kids got bigger and their appetites grew, our order pretty much stayed the same.

Although, as with most things I have bought consistently over time, sizes have changed. Look at a package of Oreos - way smaller than 20 years ago. A "Family Size" bag of potato chips certainly has shrunk over time and don't get me started on Twinkies!

 The pizza we get now is called X-Large but it only has two more pieces than the large. Now the term X-Large sounds huge and should be able to feed 5 people but alas it does not. (Although my family does consist of two adults, two teens and one 8-year-old who, depending on the day, may actually want to eat.)  If we went back in time, like to the olden days when I was a teen, an X-Large pizza probably fed 10 people. It was probably that big. But when you consider inflation, downsizing and global warming - pizzas certainly have shrunk. (Except a Vinnie Pie of course.)

So it seems that maybe I was already bitter before PizzaGate 2020 but, when I looked at the empty box, all I saw was red. Actually the box was brown, but you understand the metaphor. And with all rationality out the window I did what any 45-year-old woman would do.

"I'm going to my parents' house," I exclaimed as I slammed the door and made my escape.

I called them from the car to see if they were home and sure enough they were. I asked if they were up for a visit and of course they were. I didn't get into the hows, whats or whys over the phone of what had happened with the pizza - it seemed childish at this point as I had already begun to cool down. But my parents must have been able to sense in my tone something was amiss.

 When I walked through their door there was already a glass of wine sitting out for me in the living room. It was a sight that almost made up for the cheese depression I had just experienced. It makes my heart happy to still have people in my life that oftentimes can anticipate what is needed before it is even said. Moms often take a backseat and just a little "Hey, you matter too!" Is needed amidst the chaos of family life.

So there are a few lessons that we can all take away from this pizza fable. 1. You can never order too much pizza. (It will be eaten. If not today, then definitely tomorrow.) 2. A glass of wine is not a substitute for a piece of pizza but it can help you forget that you wanted one. 3. There is no place like home - even if it is your childhood one.

Auld Lang Syne

I am normally an optimist when starting a new year.

I have been the kind to reflect on the year gone by, assess what needs to be changed and make a game plan on how to make things better - looking forward to starting with a clean slate on January 1. A perfect year ahead with no mistakes in it.

But I didn't do that last year. I along with members of my family spent the final days of 2019 waiting for a loved one to die. The call eventually came at 3:48 a.m. New Year's Day. Once the ball had dropped, all the celebrations had died down and a peacefulness spread across the land, my uncle took his last breath. He had been quite ill so his passing was merciful but nevertheless sad and nevertheless not the way you want to begin a new year.

We had about a month to prepare. The news came early in December that weeks were all he had left. The news did not seem real. I have always been a glass is half full kind of gal but how do you spin news like this? When you are dealing with death in your face, fast and without justification, it's hard to make sense of it all. Especially during the holidays. A time when you are supposed to be...happy.

At first it didn't seem like the hospital team's assessment of days to live was correct. When I visited my uncle in the hospital on December 18 it seemed like he was far from death. Yes, he seemed tired and his motor skills had declined but he was able to get up and slowly walk around. We were able to have a conversation, which looking back at it now is heartbreaking. I am not sure if he was sugar coating information for me, maybe thinking I didn't know his prognosis, but he said doctors were still trying to figure out what was going on. But I knew the truth. I knew the cancer had spread.

Hearing Christmas songs on the ride home from the hospital that day seemed like a cruel joke. This holiday season, going present shopping, making cookies - it all lacked the spirit. I went through the motions - trying to block out the black cloud hanging over my family. It made me realize how hard holidays can be for some people and that they are not always Norman Rockwell portraits and that is was ok.

But there was something that kicked in on Christmas Eve. Gathering with my family at church - the hugs were a little tighter, the handshakes a little firmer, the walk to the car arm and arm with my dad, a little more cozy. All was calm - all was bright.

Grief is an individual experience and within my immediate family we were all dealing with the pending loss in our own way. I found myself looking at old photos remembering fun times with my uncle  - especially when I was kid. He was the fun uncle - the cool uncle. He drove a Camaro that looked just like one of the Matchbox cars my brother had in his collection. It was the sleekest most amazing looking car and for this little girl who didn't know her Dodge Dart from an Alfa Romeo it was something that took my breath away.

On the day before my brother's first holy communion,  I guess my parents needed to get a few kiddos out of the house so they could get party ready and my uncle came to the rescue. Years before booster seats were a thing, my bro and I were living our best life cruising up and down the streets of McKeesport in my uncle's newly waxed, black Camaro.

The greatest thing about this memory is that somewhere there is video to prove it actually happened. My uncle, while driving mind you, was manning a video camera, narrating our trip down Grandview Avenue. The cherry on the top, the song that came on the radio to get us home, Hot Rod Lincoln by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen.

My uncle had a mini gym in my grandparents' basement. He was into body building and wrestling and, as kids of the 80's WWF generation, it filled my brother and I with a sense of pride to have our own big muscle guy among our relatives. At one time, I thought Bruno Sammartino was related to me because of all the magazines and photos of him that could be found at the little house on Freeland Avenue.

I remember my brother and I jumping on my uncle's bed, listening to the White Album, a request by yours truly,  while he lifted weights. My grandmother would prepare a breakfast of champions for him each day - a six egg, pound of bacon extravaganza which was a marvel to behold.

These memories of a happier, healthier time are what I prefer to keep in my head right now. Although my uncle was 12 years younger than my dad, he looked a lot older in his final days. I keep looking at a favorite photo from my childhood - the one that sat on my grandparents' television of my uncle running Pittsburgh's Great Race in 1979. I was only 5 when the picture was taken so I didn't quite understand the full significance of running a 10K, but having run a few 5Ks myself in the last five years I get it now and it makes the photo even more of a treasure.

So I didn't start the new year feeling excited about what might lay ahead in the days, weeks, months to come. I did start the year replaying a pocket full of wonderful times from years past that are helping ease the loss at this sad time. I know that the memories I make in 2020 will be added to a mental comfort quilt that will see me through on those rough days which will be scattered along the road ahead.

James"Jim" Bishop running the Great Race in September 1979.

You Have The Right To Remain Silent

 I had my first run in with the law when I was 18.

It was Christmastime and there was a bandit lose in my neighborhood. The bandit wasn't looking for anything valuable. He/she/they were just up to no good. A little holiday mischief. A Grinch among us.

The street I lived on growing up was a festive street. Neighbors would decorate their houses with the most colorful lights - from rooftop to basement. My parents' house was no different. My dad and brother would take great care to make sure the lights were first, untangled. This of course was the hardest part. The lights seemed to be tossed in the bin each year after the glow of new year's had faded only to become an  unearthed jumble 11 months later.

The boys would make sure that each bulb was glowing up to it's potential. With each twist and turn the colorful chain came together. There were a few years when blue was the shade of choice. Our home - light years before the movie Frozen was a thing - was the perfect Elsa castle with a soft azure luminosity.

Prior to Y2K, our home had two huge pine trees in the front yard. One to the left of our house in the front yard and one adjacent to our house on the right side. These were only a handful of trees that once dotted the yards of the homes on our street. In fact, our next door neighbors' home was practically hidden due to the foliage from their large shrubs.

My father would take the time to put lights around the large tree closest to the street. This was a painstaking process involving a ladder and plenty of patience. Each year, once the decorating was complete, we would have light up night and stand across the street to witness the finished product and bask in the warmth of holiday radiance.

After all the hard work that went into making Christmas come alive on our street, imagine the frustration when the bandit first struck. Lights on the huge pine tree started disappearing or were left broken in our yard. Yes, a Grinch indeed was among us.

I was in college at the time and only heard about the criminal activity via telephone. Even though I was living an hour away, I was upset and angry about this violation. My father had alerted the police about what was happening and asked if maybe an officer could do some drive-bys on our street to possibly catch whoever was responsible.

When I came home for Christmas break, I helped my dad replace more lights on the tree. He was talking about scaling back our display in the future if this kind of destructive activity kept up. This made me want to catch this bandit and take a stand for holiday decorators everywhere.

The next night my younger sister and I had been out having sibling bonding time and were on our way home. Before turning down our street, I had the bright idea to turn off my car lights and drive slowly down the hill on the approach. Once we got to the street I sped up,  turned on my lights and started beeping the horn hoping to scare the person who I thought would be stealing lights right at that very moment.

Of course no one was in our yard but we did manage to have a few laughs during our attempt at undercover detective work. We were regaling our parents with the details of our mission when there was a knock at the door. My dad opened the door only to find a police officer standing upright with his notepad at the ready.

"There she is officer!" my father exclaimed.

I immediately wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But there was nowhere to go. I went from detective to criminal in a matter of minutes and my own father gave me up for no ransom. The officer had been doing a patrol on our street when he observed my erratic driving which caused him to stop and find the driver responsible. Here I was thinking I was going to bag a criminal and instead was getting the third degree. I was aghast. Christmas had certainly taken a turn.

I was left with a warning to let the police do the detective work. I am not sure if the thieves were ever caught that year but we were left with a pretty funny story and a pretty good reason why I never went into law enforcement. The element of surprise, not my strong suit.

My father still decorates our family home with care - and this year is no different. The large pine trees are long gone and the large bulbs have been downgraded to strands of LED lights. Whether or not that is because of the bandit incident of '95 is not for me to say, but even decades later driving down the hill to my house has never been the same. Am I tempted to reenact my stunt of a Christmas long gone by? You betcha. Will I do it? Not a chance.

Happy Holidays.
Enjoy the brightness of the season.

My current home and the textbook bulbs.

Was It A Dream?

I could have sworn the other day that Albert was in my kitchen.

I turned around and there was a quick motion from the side of my eye that seemed to indicate he was there. The feeling caught me off guard and I had to tell myself it wasn't real. It was my imagination working overtime.

We put our beagle, Albert, to sleep three years ago on December 15. He had started having seizures and in two months his mobility had deteriorated quickly. I cannot believe it has been three years already. Some days it seems like it has been even longer or even that our time with him was just a dream.

I think I started having these thoughts about our dog a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon a box of old photos. Looking at pictures when my kids were little and Albert was less gray and more feisty rekindled thoughts of a simpler time.

There were photos from our oldest's first snow and Albert playing in the yard. There were photos of Albert on the floor curled on a blanket with our middle child and on the couch watching TV. The best one is when Albert was reluctantly posing wearing reindeer antlers for the holiday photo.

Not long after the trip down memory lane, our oven broke. We were in a scramble to get a replacement before Thanksgiving and had to clean the area where the new appliance would go. Pulling the broken down oven away from the wall unearthed 14 years worth of stuff...there were pieces of toys, magnets, pens, coins and old dog biscuits.

We would always give Albert a treat when he came in from outside. We would toss them on the floor for him to retrieve and there was many a time when the treat found its way out of reach. Our poor aim was evident from the biscuit graveyard under the stove.

It made me stop and think how weird it is that so much time has gone by. There are still days I think I'll see him at the top of the stairs when I get home or that he will jump up on the table to grab a quick morsel of food before getting caught.

We had planned on getting another pet shortly after putting Albert to sleep. That didn't happen because we eventually decided to make some home improvements and get new carpeting and a new couch. It was nice to not have dog hair to clean up. It was nice to not have to corral a dog every time we had company or make arrangements for him when we went away. Still we had planned on opening our home to a furry friend once again.

I thought a few months ago we were close to making that commitment. A friend had a dog that needed a new environment and my husband and I thought our family might be a perfect fit. We went to meet the dog on a Saturday morning and spent some time getting to know him.

Unfortunately, it just wasn't meant to be. He needed a place to run, which we do have, but not to the extent he was used to. He needed to not be in a crate during the day which we would have had no choice but to do considering our work schedules.

There is also the other aspect to consider. I don't know if there will ever be another dog as perfect as our dog was for us. I see pictures of puppies and yes, I would like to take one in, but I still don't think my heart is ready. I've gotten used to not having Albert around but I think the sorrowful experience of watching him take his final breath might have rendered me incapable of going through that experience again.

It makes me happy to know that we had the best dog the first time around. And who knows, once my three kiddos are grown and on their own maybe my heart will be ready to take that leap of love with a new furry friend. But for now, I have great memories of our dear Albert Von Pupsley.  I'm sure when our 14 year old fridge finally breaks, we'll smile once again when we find a few more treats our careless aim put just out of his reach.

Nicholas and Albert 2003

The Feelin's Here

It wasn't long after the lights flickered out in the rain soaked jack o' lanterns that the winds of change quickly turned one holiday to the next.

The very day after Halloween it was a surreal experience as I watched Christmas come to town. It started with the morning trip to Dunkin' Donuts. I was driving my husband to work, instead of having him take the bus, so we decided to stop for coffee. Our morning pick me up was served in a holiday style cup. At first I thought it was just a winter theme, but then I noticed the reindeer head and wreath. Yes, folks less than 24 hours after I had a porch full of ghouls, we were ushering in the Yule.

After the downtown drop off, I headed to Squirrel Hill for an appointment. I was a little early so I decided to do some window shopping. There was still evidence of fall - with your friendly pumpkin displays and Halloween decorations but there were other things too. Holiday lights were going up on the light poles and some storefronts were already getting their festive window displays in order.

I was feeling, as my cousin, Kelly, would say, all sorts of ways about what was going on. I do not like to rush things and here I was knee deep in Christmas. The holiday, for me,  has morphed into something that is almost unmanageable with the gifts and the parties and the baking on top of the regular day to day. You think it would get easier as kids get older but that is not the case. The presents get more pricey and the teens harder to buy for.  As the primary holiday shopper, I have longer lists than a Walmart receipt for all the things to get done before Christmas Eve.

Part of the problem for me is that I have turkey brain right now and all I want is a plate of my mom's stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes - yeah, you hear me. Don't even get me started on desserts. I turn into Bubba from Forest Gump but instead of talking shrimp, I'm talking pumpkin pie, pumpkin cake, pumpkin roll...etc. We need to let the oven bag breathe and whipped cream run out before Santa steals the show.

But something hit me as I watched two creative ladies put together their window display, last Friday,  with a zebra laden with packages near two Christmas trees. The scene was beautiful and it made me happy. By the time I made a second lap, after my appointment was over, the window was almost done. I stood there and took a photo with my phone not noticing one of the ladies still adjusting things on the floor. My photo captures her waving at me.

Since I was busted I felt like I needed to go inside and at least say hi. I told them how much I loved the finished product and how it made me happy to look at it. They said my comments made their day and, after a few minutes of friendly banter, I moved along. It seemed like I was already filled with the holiday spirit and all it took was beauty - appreciating the beauty of the season.

My husband, who always has a wise and simple way of summing up my emotional dilemmas, could not understand why I wasn't ready to give in to the holiday cheer. "It's a beautiful time of year. Just go with it."

Yes, just go with it. But I am not one of those people who have been looking forward to putting trees up since summer. The Hallmark Countdown to Christmas isn't on my radar and I am not one of those people who need their carols 24/7 stat. I am thinking of my to do list, getting it all done while making joy happen - you know,  the stress of it all. That's when the snowflakes start to melt and my inner Grinch with the noise, noise, noise starts to manifest.

But maybe this year, I AM going to go with it. Maybe I'll let Christmas wash over me with wild abandon and channel my inner Kristen Kringle and do it up right. Happy Holi-YAY will be my new mantra. So what if I am listening to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas as I eat my Thanksgiving dinner - is it going to taste any less yummy? What if we put our tree up in November instead of December 1? Will the Pilgrim police stop by? Ho-Ho-NO!

And maybe, by embracing the season instead of individual holidays, I will maximize my time to accomplish must do tasks - like baking and shopping. (This tactic could come in handy with Thanksgiving falling late this year.) So you heard it here first. I am turning over a new holly leaf and who knows, maybe this change of attitude is just what I need to simply have a wonderful Christmastime.

It Ain't Over Till It's Over

I started doing something last week I haven't done since 1988.

I started watching the World Series.

As a child of the one television decade, with no remote, and parents who controlled the viewing choices, I think I was just along for the ride. I was rooting for the L.A. Dodgers that year and their All Star pitcher Orel Hershiser.

When you don't have a local team in the hunt for a championship it is hard to be fully vested in the outcome. I vaguely remember the hype from the 1979 World Series, being that I was all of 5-years-old. The guys from that team - I felt like they were part of my family.

Teke Tekulve, Willie Stargell, Omar Moreno, Ed Ott. Yes, Ed Ott, I remember him because of my brother's baseball card collection. I used to help him organize his cards from teams all over Major League Baseball. I knew more about baseball in the early 80's than I do now.

It is a shame it has been 40 years since Pittsburgh had the best baseball team in the land. It is a shame that a sprinkling of postseason appearances, since then, is all Pirates fans have had to sustain themselves. But there have been many familiar faces making contributions, this 2019 postseason, with their new teams hoping to make it to the big show:  Mark Melancon with the Atlanta Braves, Russell Martin with the L.A. Dodgers and Charlie Morton with the Tampa Bay Rays. Memories.... like the corner of my mind. Misty water-colored memories of the players we had.

But the greatest storyline of all is the journey of Geritt Cole. Our guy who was traded back in January of 2018 and now look at him. He pitched seven innings Sunday night - striking out nine and allowing just three hits to help lead his Houston Astros to a 7-1 victory against the Washington Nationals. His success is something a Pirates fan can get behind. But it also begs the question - why couldn't that be us?

This World Series, for me, was something I was drawn to because it was comprised of some relatively new faces. The two teams who played have four World Series appearances combined since 1903 versus the 40 for the New York Yankees or the 20 for the San Francisco Giants.

Even though the Houston Astros won the world championship just two years ago, this series marks only their 3rd appearance. And for the Washington Nationals , this is their first appearance as a rebranded team established in 2005 - the former Montreal Expos who were founded in 1969. (I noticed some fans in the stands wearing Expos jerseys which was a nice nostalgic touch.)

It is nice to root for teams who don't go to the dance every couple years. I like to root for the underdog - teams that could be on par with my home team if things were - let's just say - a little more focused on making a better team instead of making another dollar. But that is a discussion for people more qualified than myself.

I was rooting for the Astros for a couple of reasons. 1. Going back to those days of yore and my brother's baseball cards, I remember loving Nolan Ryan wearing the awesome Astros jersey with the Lone Star and orange stripes on the front.  2. I have been to Houston. I visited friends, for a total of 36 hours, a few years back and I liked what I saw and wished I could have stayed longer. Heck, I even had a beer with a cowboy at the airport. (But that's a story for another day.)

One of my Houston friends has been quite vocal about supporting his Astros and, since I was rooting for the same team, we enjoyed texting back and forth throughout the series. After the first two Astros losses, I provided encouragement saying "I'm not worried." By Sunday night he was texting me about plane tickets so I could attend the victory parade. I told him that was a bit premature, but he said he was only looking at the economics of waiting to buy a ticket.

Either team deserved the win in my opinion. They were that good.  I love that I have learned the names of some new players - Jose Altuve, Alex Bregman and Anthony Rendon. These guys take a distant second to Dave Parker, Lee Lacy and John Candelaria, but I really liked watching them on the field.  I admire their talent and their reactions when they make a great play. I like that Altuve reminded me of my youngest, the way he bounces around the bases.

Looks like I don't need a ticket to Houston now that my Astros have lost and I do have a friendly Dunkin Donut wager with my 8-year-old to honor. But it's been a fun ride and a great display of what baseball can be. As the winds of change swirl around our Buccos, may they usher in a rebirth that helps our boys of summer become a family that has reason to celebrate once again.

Swing Batter Batter...Or Not

Baseball isn't what it's cracked up to be. Especially after you get hit in the head with a pitch.

So what do you do when your kid is afraid? Legitimately afraid and refuses to participate in the team sport he signed up for?

A few weeks ago my youngest, who plays kid-pitch baseball, got hit in the head while he was up to bat. Luckily, I wasn't there for that event and even my husband, who was there, looked away at that particular second and when he looked back at the batter's box he saw our son lying on the ground.

The little guy had a helmet on and that cushioned the blow. So I think him laying on the ground may have been the result of a little overdramatization on his part. Of course everyone rushed to his aid, and of course there was crying involved but once it was determined he was ok, off to first base he went.

The rest of the game went fine and when he returned home he had quite the story to tell - as he finished his Dairy Queen Blizzard. It was funny to hear him recount the event like a soldier who had returned home from battle. "It was a bad scene...."

This season of fall ball has been a transition for us. Prior to now, it was the coaches who were on the mound throwing to the kids. My son is one of the youngest on his team and some of the kids have been pitching for a couple years now.

Despite their youth, some of these kids get some speed on their throws. The first kid pitch game I attended I felt like I was at PNC Park. I was aghast. I exclaimed to my husband, "Just how old are these kids? These pitches are like 70 miles an hour!"

As a mother, I have been reluctant to send my kiddo into these circumstances. It has been a long time since I've been part of this level of baseball.

Our oldest retired after his first season of T-Ball and pretty much for the same reason. He often played catcher and he didn't like speeding objects coming at his head. So prior to now, my most recent experience with kid pitch goes back to when my brother was little and since I really didn't care about baseball I didn't really pay attention. I know he probably got hit with a ball quite a few times in his career, and I am sure he had to get back in there or deal with a major pep talk from our dad.

Fast forward a week or two from the head hitting incident, my son got rammed in the foot with a hard hit ground ball to second. This one I was there for and I not only saw it - I heard it. I was convinced his foot was broken and as he lay on the ground, for a second time, I watched from the bleachers until I could not wait any longer and ran over to the field.

We inspected his foot back in the dugout and amazingly it looked fine and within a few minutes he was walking on it. He put some ice on the little bump and just relaxed. His coach asked if we were going to Children's Hospital but, with a $300 co-pay just to walk in the door, we told him we would see how it goes. By the end of the game, my son was back in the outfield.

So now he has been hit twice, he cries before each game and his batting record is down the tubes. (He has struck out pretty much every time he has been up to bat since the head hit.) He has been talking about retirement - at the age of 8.

I have tried being stern. "Your team needs you. You can't quit now there are only a few games left."

I have tried being sympathetic. "You have been through a trauma. I get it. You are scared but you have to get back in there and work through this."

My most recent attempt - probably not the best- "Just swing at every pitch and get it over with."

As you can see I've been worn down but nothing prepared my husband and I for the cry fest on Monday and complete refusal to participate in the game. He sat with me in the bleachers. He sat with my husband in the dugout. Coaches tried to coerce him to get in the game. Our son was not having it.

I felt like I brought this on myself because of another stellar pep talk we had in the car when the tantrum started after we got to the game. My son said he was embarrassed he cried both times when he got hit. He said you never see professional players cry and they are always cool.  I said, "You are a kid. They are grown men. I love that you are not afraid to show your emotions. That's cool too." I would have tweaked my talk a little had I known he was going to show his emotions for two and a half hours.

So here we are with one game left. I don't know what is going to happen but I don't want him to end the season on a bad note. I would like the storybook ending where he makes a great catch in right field for the out and gets a grand slam while up to bat to help boost his confidence because the kid does have talent and loves sports. He just needs to get out of his head but I am not sure how to accomplish this. And maybe time is all he needs.

I set up a practice session with his uncle, who has been coaching for decades and can really break down the nuts and bolts of the game. When my little guy came home afterwards he said, "I feel a little more confident now." Let's hope that confidence spills over into Saturday. Having the World Series to watch right now is also a good motivator.

This type of stuff I have never been quite prepared for as a parent but, somehow, I hope we make it to the other side. If down the road he makes his major league debut, I will say it was all worth it. But for now...this Pinterest quote from Jaja Q pretty much sums it up: "Life is like a baseball game. When you think a fastball is coming you gotta be ready to hit the curve." With kids - the curves are pretty much a given.