A New Definition

This afternoon, we (stupidly) went to a local high school baseball game. Yes, it was June 6, but it was 53 degrees. There was no sun, and the famous Chicago wind was blowing. We were the only people in the stands without a blanket. Or real coats -- I had on a jacket, and the wee ones were wearing their raincoats and rainboots because they had seen it rain earlier in the day. Do I really need to explain beyond that?

Fortunately, we didn't show up until the end of the bottom of the third, so the game was well underway by the time we got there. Without much room we were in the top corner of the bleachers, with a little flat space behind us that gives access to the press box. Two boys were playing up there, and Mister Man was of course very interested in that himself.

I let him go up there, as well, while I tried to watch the game and shrink further into myself to try to stay warm. Fortunately, Little Miss periodically needed to come snuggle with me to warm up, so that helped.

After awhile, I heard something whispering in my ear.

Pssst. Psssst. Psssst, Mom!

I turned around with my polite mom face on (don't tell me you aren't familiar with it) Yes, Sweetheart?

Mom, those guys over there -- pointing to the two boys still playing up there -- they aren't teenagers or kids. They're adults!

Ummm, ok? How do you know this?

I then received the five year old look of derision. Well, look, Mom. One of them has a phone.

Errm. Umm. Yeah, only adults can have phones. No, Mister Man, you may not have your own phone. Yep, those little pipsqueaks (somewhere between 11 and 14, as I don't yet do estimations of potentially middle school aged children) are certainly not teenagers. Way to use your powers of deduction to figure out that they must be adults.

I wonder how long this ruse will last. Do you think he'll figure out pretty soon that there are first graders in our district with their own cell phones that they bring to school in their backpacks?

I've Been Trumped

As I sit here watching my husband watch baseball for some unknown team on his computer, I smile.

I always thought I was a sports fan. I haven't missed a Northwestern football game since I started attending school there. I never turn down a ticket to a baseball or hockey game. Heck, I can even tell you when you do and don't have icing called in a game.

But my husband? He's a whole different breed. To me, baseball just isn't a fun sport to watch on tv. If I'm doing something, I'm fine with a baseball game being on in the background, but I won't turn it on as a solo activity.

My husband cheers for the Cardinals. Let me tell you, the Cardinals are not one of the teams playing on his computer. And yet he's engrossed. He's learned to have his earplugs in because after too many years of baseball 24/7 for eight months, I can only stand baseball for two or three games a year now.

He's trying so hard to be quiet, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see him failing. He's waving his arms in the air above his head in celebration before realizing what he's done and pretending he's just stretching. He wrings his hands together before nonchalantly scratching his nose. A yesssssssssss escapes every once in awhile.

And each time, I look at him and giggle. He gives me a helpless look, but then it's back to the ballgame.

I finally asked him who he was watching. It was the Twins. That's my team. I'm the one who cheers for the Twins, who can tell you the 1987 batting order, who bought the wee ones all theri baseball gear. But ... I don't care anymore. I don't even ask him the score.

But I'm not hopeless. I can tell you that football starts late this year. That the first weekend of September is still preseason. That counts for something, doesn't it?