Summer of Sox

I hereby declare this the Summer of the Red Sox!  I, mother and caregiver of these most precious children, vow that we will watch as many games as possible.  We will get to know our players.  And we will teach the kids every single interesting fact about America's favorite pastime.  (Well, old school America.  Ain't no school like the old school!)  There are a couple of significant deterrents, however.  First, we don't have cable, and second, I don't remember much about the game.

When we first moved to Boston, the good Lord in all his mercy graced us with cable.  He had not yet graced us with babies, so B.daddy--back then he was just a sugar daddy, can't be a baby daddy with no babies--SugarDaddy and I snuggled on our 1980s hand-me-down couch and watched tons of games.  I asked him a million questions, and he LOVED that I was actually into it.  We watched by ourselves or with our sweet friends who shared our life in those first few Boston years.  It was an enchanted time.  Bambino's curse had been hanging over this big-little city for 85 years.  Tensions were very high.  Pedro Martinez was one, darn-tootin' fire cracker!  Nomar was still the subject of faithful chants, and Johnny Damon had not yet fallen from grace.  And We Hated The Yankees.*  We'd have the windows open during most of those warm, Summer games.  Every time the Sox won, we could hear our neighbors yelling; cars passing by would honk in celebration.  We were the underdogs, and there's nothing like being an underdog to unite a city. 

In 2004 Li'l Bit joined us just in time to witness the greatest moment in all of history.  Not only did we Reverse the Curse--we were the wild card, we got to beat those darn Yankees from a three game deficit--never done before--and then we gracefully swept the Cardinals to win our first world series since 1918.

As family life busied, it became harder to focus on the game.  Or anything televised for that matter.  In the course of our children's baby-dom, we "got rid" of TV three times.  We gave away two rather large sets, and Gizmo helped us by breaking the third.  Thankfully all three were free to us.  A few years ago we reinstated the boob tube (no longer a tube, technically) in our home by buying our first TV.  But we did not spring for cable.  I'm sure B.daddy could tell you exactly how many Red Sox games we could see on our rabbit ears this year.  I have no earthly idea except that it's not a lot.  Especially seeing as how they play a gajillion games every year.

But I have a plan.

Our beloved Stac will always have every single game streaming to her gigantic TV.  She'd probably sell a kidney if that was the only way to keep NESN.  She loves the Sox and knows just as much about the game as B.daddy.  So we're going to watch the games at her house!  Not every game, obviously.  But, surely, we can manage one a week.  This plan is perfect for so many reasons.  First, it fulfills the call of the Summer of Sox.  Second, we are guaranteed tons of quality time with Stac.  And finally...most crucially....we'll get to eat at Nick's and Helen's again. 

*Dramatic pause.*

Nick's and Helen's are the two best Greek pizza joints IN THE WORLD!  Even better than Greece.  (Cause, you know, it's New England Greek, not Greece Greek.)  Nick's pizza makes me want to cry my eyes out it is so good.  Helen's chicken parm calzone---I have no words.  They were both half a mile from our old apartment.  But now we live too far for delivery, so we rarely partake in their deliciousness anymore.  BUT!  Stac still lives close to them, and she shares our enthusiasm for the Best Pizza and Calzones Ever.  As a bargaining chip I will be bringing dessert.  Hey, I made her an offer she could not refuse.

So it's all set up.  And today is opening day.  (Yes, I realize Opening Day was last week.  I mean figuratively.)  We're going to pick up a delectable chicken parm calzone, I'm bringing a butterscotch pound cake and my yoga pants, and then we're going to school these kids on the greatest game ever played.  Now if we could just make sure Gizmo doesn't break Stac's TV.....

writing on the warning track @ Fenway

the whole fam @ Liberty's Fenway day

in front of the Green Monster, waiting to run the bases

*In 2011, my year in Arkansas, I was picking B.daddy up from the airport.  As I'm sitting in the car I see a man walk out of the airport in full Yankee regalia.  Head to toe Yankee screaming garb.  With all my might I wanted to roll my window down and start yelling the perennial "Yankees suck! Yankees suck! Yankees suck!"  But I was pretty sure he wouldn't get the joke.  Heck, he could have been from St. Louis for all I knew.  So I told B.daddy when he got in the car and we both had a quiet laugh about it.

Chapter 1,001: In Which We Are Engulfed In Darkness

It's been rather gray lately.  A close friend noted the correlation between my silence here and my emotional.......well-being.

It's called depression.

I realize that, like, every American is "diagnosed" with it and over "medicated."  And "christians" shouldn't be "depressed" or see "professional counselors."  My life is too small--too Right This Very Minute to work on that one.  I can only handle so much.  And when I'm in the gray, all I can do is let it wash over me until it leaves me the heck alone.  That is a very hard thing to do.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say I'm not the only woman in the world who likes to feel like she's in control.  I realized this most painfully when we lost our fourth baby in early pregnancy.  As soon as the gushing and contracting erased every hope I'd held on to for twelve motionless, sleepless hours, I felt totally and completely responsible.  I was guilty.
It was my fault.
Whether it was the deli meat or the glass of wine or moving heavy boxes, it was my fault that our baby wouldn't be born.
The first thing my midwife spoke into me as I sobbed over the phone was, "This is not your fault.  You didn't do anything to cause this, and you couldn't have stopped it."  I hadn't spoken a single word to her about my guilt.  She just knew it's how we women work.
A few weeks or months later I finally starting writing out the unspeakables.  That's when the Spirit so graciously pointed out:
"It's not actually your fault.  You have to believe it is, because you want to believe you can control even this."

Protective control, not manipulative.  Can I keep my man happy?  Can I keep my kids safe?  Can I make my friends like me?  That kind of control.  When things are good, I am ALL too glad to silently take credit for it.  "I am managing all this happiness for everyone, because I love them all so much."  But if I am going to take credit for the good, I must then take credit for the bad.  Enter in guilt.  And if my reasoning is that good things come from my abounding love and dedication, then what the heck am I to think of my Father when the bad comes to me?
I couldn't talk to him for a while after this had all happened.  I was afraid of what I might feel.  I was afraid of what I might say--that I might curse, out loud, the Lord of Hosts.

When I finally could......I sat on the floor, sobbing, and simply said, "I didn't want this!"  And I immediately felt that what was grieving my heart was grieving his.


In a much more annoying than painful way, that's how I feel about depression:  I don't want this; I don't have time for this.  No one in my life has time for me to be all sad and depressed and.....depressing.  There's the control thing again.  I want to believe I can control the state of happiness in those I love, so my gloom and doom is the worst thing I could ever do to them.  It's a bunch of crap.  I realize that.  But it's hard to remember when you're in the gray.  It's hard to remember anything productive then.
Inch by inch, I feel like the gray cloud is passing.  For the first time in weeks I've had one solid day of Okay.  I want to write down some things I've learned this time around.  But it's only been a day.  I need to get the ball rolling here, and then let it ruminate....

Astounding Grace

I'm really tired today.  Can I just be lazy and say what's on my mind as it comes to my mind even though it will be grammatically incorrect without the excuse of being poetic?

Let's say our house was "falling apart."  To us, it felt like it was.  We rented to the tune of $1300 a month for eight years--that's $124,800--and praised Jesus every time something went wrong 'cause we didn't have to pay for it.  So even though I can paint my living room trim a deep, gorgeous red and the floor antique green, pipes leak, the boiler breaks along with the bulkhead, the electric is nuts, and we replace the water heater.  No rejoicing there.  Doubting, questioning, worry.  

Guilt.  

What a fool!  I have a home.  I'm warm when I sleep.  My kids are safe and have never been hurt in the worst way.  Why are you bellowing about a freaking hot water heater?

And then we find out that we aren't technically eligible for the $750 rebate.  Had I, the white liar among all other white liars, been filling out the form, maybe we would have.  But my man is a Man.  He won't lie.  Not for money.  Not for anything.  So we're short the bank we thought was coming.  But God reminds us that the very day before the form filling, he sent us $700.

$700.

Not earned.

Not begged for.

Not prayed for.

Just given.

I remember he's always sustained us, so why not now?

I remember all the other ways he's carried us through all of this.  Individual instances gathered together into an exquisite tapestry of love and nurturing care.

I remember to keep praying and relying and trusting and thanking.  Stop groveling and complaining and fretting.  Not because I'm faithful or committed, but because he never forgets.  He never forgets his promises to his people.  And the very fact that I can belong in His People is astounding.  I was not born a Jew, but I still get to call him Father.  If only I knew the eternal word for astounding!