Something about driving for an hour and a half sitting through two baseball games and driving another hour and a half back makes us all a little tired.

I want to write about what is taking up all of my time right now, but I can’t.

Let’s just say that one of my three sons is on a certain baseball team.

My husband hasn’t shaved in three weeks. I’ve been driving a pick-up truck instead of my normal car for three weeks. This year no CDs were created to get the team pumped up before games (they were NOT good luck). I bring the same cooler to every game. I even have a friend who texts me before every game and once during the game to get and update because he’s been doing so for each game.

There are plans to go to the beach in two weeks. There are plans for me to go to BlogHer in three. I went ahead and bought a plane ticket to Chicago because not doing so would be a slap in the face to the “gods of the diamond.”

You just can’t mess with things.

I can reveal that I have developed zits on my cheeks for the first time in 25 years. There are approximately 17 lbs of infield dirt in my car. And yes…

I am a baseball mom.

Now keep your fingers crossed or do whatever lucky things you need to do.

I’m not joking. Get to it!

Today we were up with the birdies to head south for the last baseball game of the season. Waking up at 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning isn’t my favorite thing to do, but the drive was beautiful with all the fall colors and it was just me and my boy.

It’s not often we get to have that much time together alone.

We were done by 11:20 a.m. and ready to head home having just lost by one run in the bottom of the last inning. He just wanted to get out of there.

“I hate losing mom.”

“I know but you got to get out there and play a sport you love with your friends. Think about M who played a whole season without winning and still had a smile after every game.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but it doesn’t hurt to win every once in a while.” “And you know what I hate about losing? It means we didn’t do something right. We could have played better.”

He was really okay. He doesn’t take it as hard as some kids. And I love that he thinks about how he can make changes to affect the outcome next time.

Sorry–little bragging.

The terrific thing about living in Virginia is that we are surrounded by historical landmarks. How often do we take advantage of them? Not often. But we were up and out and it was still early and we actually had a Sunday afternoon with no plans, so I suggested a detour to Fredericksburg–just me and him–on the way home.

What a great day!

We visited Kenmore, the home of Fielding and Betty Lewis (George Washington’s sister). It was built before the Civil War and is going through restoration right now.

Big A wasn’t too psyched about the idea of taking a tour, but it was just the two of us on it and even without furniture in the house he was filled with questions.

He really was interested in how people lived, in how old things were, and had clearly paid attention to some of his history lessons being able to talk to the docent about Virginia history.

I walked around with a perma-grin the entire time.

Done with our tour, he then begged me to go over and visit the Fredericksburg Civil War battle site. How can you say no to a kid who wants to do more “hysterical” stuff as we joke in my family.

He could barely contain his excitement. He kept saying “do you think a confederate soldier stood here?” (I’d move one step to the left and say “no I think they stood right here.”)

The Civil War has never been something that interested me greatly–until today. Walking along the trails and looking over the fields where thousands of young men were killed fighting to protect a version of their country, I was struck by how much we take for granted even in at a divisive political time such as this election.

It wasn’t lost on me that those boys on that battle field could have been my boys. I owe it to those soldiers and the families who lost them to think of them and remember their sacrifice. And to be grateful for their passion to protect a country that really was still such a new experiment.

It’s easy to forget sometimes.

There were plaques around the cemetery with stanzas from a poem(s?) (I still don’t know which one, but will research it.) that say it better than I ever could.

I titled this photo above “hope.” For the words are my wish for my boys, their children and their children’s children.

I learned through my sons.

Okay. Not really.

I mean I WAS the first girl in my hometown to play little league–information my boys find difficult to wrap their heads around and not because they don’t play with girls now (they do) but because they don’t seem to think it’s possible that I know how to catch or throw (despite evidence to the contrary).

Baseball is all that is lived and breathed in my house. When my guys aren’t out on the ballfield, they’re playing it in my front yard or on the Playstation or watching it on TV.

They certainly know a lot about the game, its players, major events in baseball history, etc., but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of their facts may be questionable.

Case in point, our conversation over dinner last night:

Eldest Boy: Hey do you know what Jason Varitek* does when he’s in a slump?

Middle Boy: What?? (he has a HUGE boy crush on Jason Varitek)

Eldest Boy: He wears a hot pink thong under his uniform.

And I’m thinking to myself, ouch! he’s a catcher that can’t be comfortable with all that up and down.

Husband: I thought that was Giambi* and it was a gold thong.

Eldest Boy: No, Giambi puts on a fake mustache. Haven’t you ever seen how all of the sudden he has a mustache? It’s not real. He keeps it on his nightstand.

Note to self: Explain shaving to eldest son.

*With my sincere apologies to the Jasons Varitek and Giambi. Trust me when I say my boys are big fans and at this very moment are probably considering sending me out to buy pink and gold thongs–and fake mustaches. Do you know where I can get some?

Baseball season is upon us once again (does it really ever end?) and as you know there aren’t many options for a girl when nature calls at the field.

I avoid the dreaded Port-o-Potties as much as possible, especially after the incident last year, but sometimes there’s just no choice.

We were down at the fields for a marathon afternoon and all of the sudden my breakfast came back to haunt me.

There wasn’t any time to make it home.

I found a relatively clean cabinet o’ ca-ca and went about my business. So many thoughts ran through my head as I was finding my way to sweet relief.

What if some kid forces the door open and everyone sees me with my pants down?

What if a long line has developed since I stepped in here?

Is the tank full enough that the next person will know I had the sour-apple-quick-steps?

As these totally rational and sane thoughts caused me to sweat a little, my eyes landed on this:

I HAD to know whose job it was to figure THAT out.

As part of my research (see what I do for you??), I made the most fascinating discovery–the PSAI–and boy is their website full of interesting information!

For instance, did you know that there are 1,400,000 portable toilets in use worldwide? That they call waste “effluent” (I’m kinda liking that word)? And that they have developed a Special Events Usage Guide?

I know, me neither.

Those portable sanitation people are some helpful folk.

To top it all off, the nice folks at the PSAI hand out the M.Z. “Andy” Dump–I mean–Gump Award which is a “lifetime achievement award honoring those that have improved the image of the industry and have created innovative approaches for sanitation needs through new and improved products and services.”

I want to party with these guys.

I know new posts have been pretty sparse around here, but springtime here in the wilds of Northern Virginia (and when I say wilds I mean the Target parking lot on Saturday morning) speeds by at breakneck pace (or that might be how I drive to work every morning).

So aside from my regular duties protecting poor little corporate America from mean ole lawmakers and their big bully constituents, I’ve been busy ensuring that America’s youth understands that our national pastime is indeed a sport played outside and does not involve controllers and a big screen.

Of course, I’ve also been spreading beauty far and wide (What? My house is on the corner, I have to plant on two sides).

I’ve been sowing the seeds for a bountiful harvest (if you call a few salads and enough jalapeno peppers to start your own salsa company bountiful).

And well, the kids do need a rinsing off every once in a while.

Get three baseball families together, a little beer and we’re all switchin’.

Sounds exciting, huh? Didn’t know that about me did you?

Just switching the husband we regularly haze.

We really are all here because another friend is supposed to come over with her new hot Austrailian boyfriend. All us wives are tired of looking at the same ole guys. We needed some eye candy dammit, and they’re not here.

Oooh wait! Another family is here. Make that four baseball families.

We live the crazy suburban life. Jealous??

The guys are all talking baseball. Yes the fall season ended in October and they’re still talking about it all. I’m pretty sure all the dads are involved just so they can hang out with all their buddies.

Eight kids down in the family room, eight adults in the kitchen. As long as there’s alcohol we’re good.

Wait!

Hot Australian guy is here. Gotta go.