Madison, Witches, and The Grand Onion

When you dream, what do you dream about?
Do you dream about music or mathematics, or planets to far for the eye?
Do you dream about Jesus or quantum mechanics, or angels that sing lullabies?
~ What do you Dream About, The Bare Naked Ladies

One of my most favorite things to do is to watch my children sleep. It is the most peaceful thing on this earth. They are every bit as dynamic when they are sleeping as they are when they are awake, but for Madison, especially, it is the most still she ever is. I often wonder what they are dreaming about. What has them smiling in their sleep? What has them crinkle their nose? What makes them furrow their brow? The other night, I heard Madison screaming. I ran to her room, half asleep, and triping over the 50 odd items that she took to bed with her that night, and since then, had fallen off one by one on the floor by her bed. I realized that she was having a nightmare. I picked her up, hugged her until she stopped screaming, and then quietly laid her back down. She sat straight up, opened her eyes, and said "Mommy, its a witch." I cuddled her and said "There is no Witch baby", and she said "Yes, she is right dere (we are still working on our TH sounds, so in translation, that was really 'right there')" I said "No baby, there is no Witch here" and she said "Yes mommy, dere is and she try and take Ya Ya away" (Ya Ya is Delaney).
I was at a loss for words. I just sat there and hugged her, until she stopped shaking, and was quietly, rhythmically breathing in a way that you know it is okay to put her down. That she is really asleep. I walked back to my room and thought "She's back."

I first remember dreaming about the Grand Onion when I was 4 years old. My parents, my brother and I lived on the Post Road in Greenwich, Connecticut. It was a main road, with a small shopping center and restaurant across the street. One of the grocery stores we shopped at was called the Grand Union, but my father and I joked that it was really the Grand Onion.
Things were pretty tense in my house at this time, and one night I feel asleep, and had a terrible dream that this old witch, dressed in black (of course, she is a witch after all) came into our house, up the stairs, and walked my father out of the house. I would wake up as they were walking past my bedroom door, and scream for her to let him go. She would walk him out of the house by the backdoor, and up the street towards the Grand Union. He never looked back. He just followed her. I woke up to my mom holding me, telling me that it would all be okay.

A few months went by, and again, the Grand Onion came to our house. This time, she led my mom past my bedroom. I started screaming for her to let my mom go. I followed them, screaming, as I watched her walk her out the back door, and up the street, the same way she had my father. I again awoke to my mother holding me, telling me that it would all be okay.

I did not hear from the Grand Onion again...not for a few years. We had moved to another house in Greenwich, and I figured, she didn't know where I was...after all, we now shopped at the A&P. She had no reason to visit anymore. A few months after moving to our new house, she visited again. This time, she came for my brother. She walked him past my room, down the stairs, and out the back door. This time I followed her. Neither one of them looked back. He just followed her, walking down the Post Road in his tighty whities (after all, it was the summer time, and apparently that is what he wore to bed in the 1980's. ) They vanished. Disappeared into the night. I again woke up to my mother telling me to stop screaming. That everything would be all right. 2 weeks later, my parents informed us that they were getting a divorce. That my dad and my brother would be staying in the house, and that my mom and I would be moving out.

I did not dream about the Grand Onion again. She disappeared from my dreams, and I was glad to have her not visit anymore. Until June of 1999. I had just finished my first year of graduate school. I was packing my things to visit my parents for a few weeks. I was flying to the Vineyard to meet my mom and Donald, and then would be going over to New York to see my dad. I fell asleep reminding myself that tomorrow was Father's Day, and I needed to make sure I called my Dad first thing in the morning. That is when I saw her. She was unmistakable in her long black dress as she walked down the hallway of that house in Greenwich we had lived in 20 years before. She took my father by the hand, walked him down the stairs, and out the back door. I chased them out the door and up the street until they disappeared. I awoke to my phone ringing in my dorm room. It was my mother. "Heather, I need to talk to you" she said. "Your father is sick."
The Grand Onion made one last visit. It was April 13, 2000. My dad was not doing well. Hospice had been called in to make him comfortable, and they were pretty sure that he would not make it through the night. A peace treaty had been signed between myself and my father's wife, and I had decided to spend the night, at the foot of his bed, to be there if ever he needed me. I finally dozed off, and there she was, walking him past that same bedroom I had when I was 4. Down those same stairs, out that same back door, and up that same familiar stretch of the Post Road. This time, as in times past, I followed them, however this time, silently. I did not scream to bring him back. I simply followed for as long as I could...and then let him go.

I do not know if there are any studies that have been conducted on dreams and genetics, but if there is a connection, I hope Madison inherits dreams of wild-flowers and long days on the beach. While that last one for Madison is her own kind of nightmare, my hopes for her, is that it forever be her worst.

A Love of Music, A Letter to God,
and a Realization...Sensitivity is Heredity

A few days ago, I was going through some of Delaney's papers to file away. I learned from one of my smart, and extremely organized aunts, that when her two girls were going through school, in order to keep their papers organized, she devoted a filing cabinet drawer to each of them. This way, if they ever needed to refer back to something, they would always know where it was. I started doing this for Delaney, except in Rubbermaid file boxes. I was going through her preschool folder when I happened upon her handwriting book. It was a book they used to practice writing their numbers and letters. In the back she had written her first letter. It was to God, and being as he is extremely busy, she got right to the point. She simply said:

"Dear God,
Thank you for the beautiful music.
Love,
Delaney."

Now, Delaney loves a lot of things. She loves Boston Cream Donuts. She loves ballet, American Girl and playing hockey with her dad. But there is nothing Delaney loves more than listening to music. She has since she was in the womb. Music always seemed to have a calming influence over her, whether it was me singing to her (which is usually as calming as nails on a chalk board), or her falling asleep to the same song every night. A fun, up-beat song will have her dancing through the house. She loves everything from Broadway musicals (her current favorite is Popular and Dancing Through Life from Wicked), to John Lennon and Jimmy Buffet (obviously due to the ridiculous amount her parents play the two).

My almost 7 year old daughter is perhaps the most sensitive human being on the planet. She feels things to the core of her being. There is no guessing with Delaney. You know the minute there is something wrong. Her smile dissipates as quickly as the tears well in her crystal blue eyes. Many things can cause this to happen. A bug, ("one of God's creatures" as she refers to them), being crushed; a sad scene in a movie; a friend who is sad; However, nothing illustrates this point more than her reaction to music. Nothing can reduce her to tears faster than a sad song on the radio.

I remember when she was a baby, and we were trying to teach her to fall asleep on her own. She had a glow-worm that would play Brahms' Lullaby. She would cry the second it would start playing. I attributed it to the fact that she wanted to be held a little longer, or didn't want us to leave the room. When she was almost 2, she received the Fisher Price, Little People's doll house. She would cry every time we played with it. It took me a few times to realize that the crib in the house would play the same song. It immediately reduced her to tears. If we didn't touch the crib, she loved it. The second the song played, the tears fell.

I did not see this reaction from her again for a while. It was pretty easy to steer clear of Brahm's lullaby. It isn't frequently on the radio, and is not a track on any of the CD's we own, nor is it on any of our playlists for any of the family iPods. One day, on a drive to the store, we were listening to our iPod. I had recently created a playlist for Delaney that included her favorite songs, as well as some that reminded me of her. Songs such as "Daughter" by Loudon Wainright III, were mixed in with Hot Chocolate from the Polar Express, and Carole King's rendition of the Itsy Bitsy Spider. "I Loved Her First", by Heartland came on, and the back seat was silent. I looked back, and tears were streaming down her face. "Tttttuuuurrrnnnnn iiiiitttttt offfffffffffffff! Puuuuullllllleeeeeeaaassseeee" she blubbered through her tears. I was shocked by the reaction to this song. She had never heard it before. She could not possibly comprehend what the song was about. What was it about this particular song that made her upset? Maybe it was just a mood.

I still remember the night I first heard the song "I Loved Her First" by Heartland. I literally had to pull over to the side of the road, my vision blurred by the tears that were uncontrollably streaming down my face. I have always been a sucker for songs about fathers and daughters, and this one is no exception. It is perhaps the sweetest song ever written about the love of a father for his daughter. I was sure that I was not the only woman on the planet that had this reaction to that particular song. I envisioned my husband swaying to this song with his baby girl on the day she got married, sweetly singing the lyrics so only she could hear them, and her remembering the days they shared as she was growing up, and finally realizing that she indeed is the center of his universe. I thought perhaps she would tear up as well. If she was anything like me, maybe a bit uncontrollable. I never, in a million years believed she would have this reaction before even beginning Kindergarten.

A few weeks later, her playlist had cycled through, and the song came on again. This time, she was in the middle of a conversation, and again, she immediately started crying.
"Tttttuuuurrrnnnnn iiiiitttttt offfffffffffffff! Puuuuullllllleeeeeeaaassseeee" came blubbering from the back seat. This was astounding to me. Again, she had only listened to a few bars of the beginning of the song. How is it that she knew it was such an emotional song?
I asked the director of fine arts at my school if he had ever seen a reaction to music like that. He explained that he had, from adults, but never from a child. He seemed to think that perhaps she had a connection with music. That her emotional connection was to the instrumental arrangement in a particular song, rather than the emotion from the lyrics.
I thought "hmmmm....perhaps...or maybe she is just as sensitive as her mom."

So from her father, Delaney gets her eyes, her athleticism, her ability to spell, and her love of John Lennon. From me she gets her math ability, her love of reading, and her ability to cry at the drop of a hat! Gotta love genetics!

The Blog of a Mad Breastfeeding Mama!

(not to be confused with Tyler Perry's Play: Diary of a Mad Black Woman!)

Anyone who has talked to me in the past 3 months, knows my obsession with breastfeeding my second child. No one knows this better than my mother, who never really understood my need to at least attempt with every effort to breastfeed this baby. I did not breast feed my first. I tried, and gave up within a matter of hours of being home from the hospital. This time around, I was going to give it my all! I was going to conquer the breastfeeding monster that had defeated me last time. And let me tell you, there was support everywhere! I just so happened to get the hospital room next to the lactation consultant (yes, to my brother's disbelief, there really is such a person), whose sole responsibility, according to her job description, is to provide lactation management services to expectant and new parents. I told EVERYONE that entered my room, including the unsuspecting cousin of the patient in the next room, that I was hell bent on breastfeeding. Every shift change, I gave the same explicit directions: NO pacifiers! NO bottles! NO formula! under any circumstances. Well, the no pacifier thing only lasted through 2 shift changes, but I held steadfast on the other two.

Every nurse that entered my room was instructed to help me with latching. I attended a class held right across the hall from my room. I read everything I could get my hands on...at least, while I wasn't practicing the various different holds, or positioning pillows so that I was holding her appropriately, while protecting my new 12 inch scar on my belly. Now....all the pictures in all the literature and books I read show a wonderful, pleasant, calming experience. I had all of that in the hospital. Well, maybe not pleasant since my nipples were cracked and bleeding. The upside to this is that cracked and bleeding nipples now rate you a free electric breast pump, courtesy of your friendly neighborhood health insurance company, which shall remain nameless for the berating they may receive further along in this entry...that's right...there's more, so go pop your self a bowl of popcorn(or order one up from my Uncle Brian...his is the best), and settle in for the night..this may take a while!

The bonus of having a C-Section, is that I had 5 days in the hospital to work with the nurses and the lactation consultant, and by the time we left the hospital, with hand pump (electric will be delivered directly to my home for no additional charge), literature, and phone numbers of every lactation consultant in the area, I had this breastfeeding thing down pat. Feed every 2.5 hours. 10-15 minutes on each side, and everyone will be happy. Well, discharge took forever, and by the time we made the 45 minute drive home, It was well past 2.5 hours, not to mention that baby was quietly sleeping in her infant carrier. Wake a sleeping infant? If that does not go against conventional wisdom, I do not know what does. But woke her I did. And what seemed so easy, yet painful, at the hospital, no longer worked. She screamed, she cried, as if she was petrified of my breast. We first tried feeding her breast milk with a medicine dropper. That seemed to frustrate her even more. I finally gave in and gave her a bottle. And that was what we did for 3 days. I would pump, and feed her, and pump and feed her. I called EVERYONE, and immediately broke into tears. My doctor, her doctor, the lactation consultant. I made an appointment for her to come to my house. She assured me that we would get "back to the breast!". We had a checkup with the doctor, and found out that she had lost weight. This is normal, or doctor told us. They usually drop a few ounces from their original birth weight, and he assured us that she would gain it back. He was less optimistic than the Lactation Consultant about us going back to breastfeeding, but he said it was not impossible. We would just have to see what tomorrow held for us!

My New BFF:
Kathy the Lactation Consultant

It had been two weeks since Madison was born. We had successfully breastfeed in the hospital. We could not get it together at home, and I could not figure out what I had done wrong. I had definitely entered a state of depression. Why was this so difficult for me? I felt like a failure as a mother. My mom and my husband kept telling me to relax, that I was trying my best, and it just didn't work for some people. That made me even more determined to prove them wrong! I had seen friends and family members do this. It didn't look so tough! I couldn't talk to anyone that called. I would immediately burst into tears, so my mom fielded the phone calls for me. She would tell every one of the well-wishers that called that I was doing okay, but that I was having a hard time breastfeeding. That I would soon be meeting with the Lactation Consultant, and that she hoped that would help in one way or another.

Some callers, like my amazing cousin Samantha, shared stories with her about their own difficulties breastfeeding. Others, like my Aunt Cherie, the one family member each turn to with all things medical, said to beware of the Lactation Consultant, they could be considered "Breast Feeding Nazis" who can, at times, make women feel inadequate for not being able to breastfeed. Others, like my brother, were just amazed that there was such a thing as a Lactation Consultant. He was interested in knowing their qualifications, since his high stressed, Presidentially Appointed job did not seem half as interesting as working with boobies all day, but I guess with the current administration, it could be considered the same thing! (sorry, I couldn't resist!)

The lactation consultant, Kathy, became my new best friend. With Jamie at work, and my mom and Delaney at Wall-E, it was just me, Madison, and Kathy, and more gadgets for boobies than I have ever seen. She assured me that we would be able to do this, and if not, that it was okay, that didn't mean that there was anything wrong with me. It turns out that once my milk came in, I no longer had ideal breasts for latching. But, with some trickery, and a handy dandy nipple shield, we were SUCCESSFUL! Well, as successful as one can be, when they have to use a nipple shield and pump for 20 minutes after feeding. I was feeding every 1.5 to 2 hours around the clock, but I was not going to complain, becuase I was feeding!!

All things seemed to be going well, and that is when the screaming started. The poor child had really bad reflux, and would spit up almost everything she ate, hence, why we were feeding every 1.5 hours. I called my new BFF, in tears again, and she suggested cutting all dairy from my diet. So I did, as well as any form of caffeine. That still didn't work. She seemed to be hungry ALL the time. She was eating every hour, and with my pumping in between, I was either feeding, pumping, or cleaning. And she was still screaming.

I would have hung on forever, except for the words of my wise sage of a mother "You have 2 children now, make sure you are doing what is in the best interest of BOTH of them." I was thinking of this when I was making lunch for our 4.5 year old one day, while my husband was trying in vain to calm our screaming newborn. She came in and said "mommy, can I use these" pointing to the bottle caps that go on top of our wide mouth bottles. "Sure you can sweetie", I replied, barely aware of what she was asking for, and to preoccupied to ask why.

A few minutes later, she came in with the tubing from my pump, and asked if she could use those too. With an "umhumm" she was on her way. When I called her for lunch, she answered me in her sweet little voice "Sorry mommy, I can't. I am pumping". Now this I had to see. I made the trek upstairs, and low and behold, she had the bottle caps under her shirt, with the tubing coming out. She was telling her baby doll that she could not play a game with her because she was too busy pumping. Through tears, I told her lunch was ready, and sat down to re-think my obsession with breast feeding. I was so determined to succeed at breastfeeding, that I did not see that I was failing at being the mother of two. Something had to be done...I had to figure out a way to balance the needs of both children. Who knew that all the support I had to begin breastfeeding would not be there when I decided to stop. And who knew that something so excruciatingly painful would be so difficult to give up.

My Quest to End My Breastfeeding Debacle:
What do you get when you Google "Weaning from Breastfeeding?"

We had our good days (when Madison would eat every 2.5 hours, and sleep for 3 at night). She would nap during the day, and would smile a few times as well. Then there were our bad days. She would eat every 1.5 hours, and then scream until it was time to eat again. This would happen until 10:00 at night when she finally fell asleep, for 3 hours. The weekend before Madison's 2 month check up, we were visited by three of our Aunts. I am sorry to say that they witnessed one of Madison's bad days. She was eating every hour to hour and a half, and crying when she wasn't eating. She was also refusing to breastfeed. She couldn't latch on, with or without the nipple shield. We had been having difficulties for the past couple of days, but nothing like this. One of my loving and supportive aunts suggested giving Madison some formula. Now, this was something that had been suggested by numerous other people that I trust and whose opinions that I value (especially my husband and my mother), and a few that I don't (who shall remain nameless), but none of them (especially my husband) had ever breast fed. This advice was coming from someone who had. This aunt had successfully breastfed both of her daughters, and supplemented with formula. I decided to do it.

I started off slow. 3 oz. of breast milk, 1 oz. of formula. She LOVED it, and let me tell you, she slept like a baby (pun absolutely intended). She refused to breastfeed that night, or the next morning. That was when I noticed the white patches on the inside of her cheeks. She had white patches on her tounge and lips, but she had those at our 1 month check up and the doctor said they were just milk residue. My breasts had been incredibly sore, more so than usual. So I looked up Thrush online, and sure enough, we both had the classic systems of this strand of yeast infection. I read the causes of it, and that it was passed to her from my milk. I called the doctor, and they prescribed a medicine for her.

2 days later, I was in excrutiating pain. 800 mg of motrin was no match for the amount of pain I was having. Madison, however, was in heaven. She even woke up in the morning with a smile. No screaming. No crying. Just a happy, satiated baby. I decided there and then that we would completely wean to formula...as long as the doctor agreed. And why wouldn't HE? Because HE is a HE and could not possibly understand what it was like to breastfeed a child. Even though we both had an infection that we kept passing to one another. Even though I was virtually ignoring my other child becuase of breastfeeding, pumping, cleaning, and sanitizing. Even though Madison was misearble 14 hours of the day (the other 10 or so, she was sleeping). Even though she had bad acid reflux. Even though my family history showed that 3 of my moms 8 siblings could not be breastfed due to allergies. With all of this, he still said he would support me continuing to breastfeed. He would support the passing of yeast from me to my child and back again. He would support the excrutiating pain. BUT he would understand if I wanted to wean to formula.

The doctor told me to continue doing what I was doing, IF I really wanted to wean. And I learned that was the normal response. IF you REALLY want to wean. IF you REALLY want to introduce formula. I stupidly did not ask him what I did to wean my boobies. So I did what I always do to find an answer to a question I have. I consult GOOGLE. And what did I get? A website where you can order pro-breastfeeding t-shirts (notice, however, that they are not breastfeeding compatible. They do not have the entrance pockets hidden in them for easy feeding). After sifting through countless links, I FINALLY found one that gave advice on weaning. Finally an article that would tell me the best way to go about doing this. Then I actually read it, and this is what it said:

"withdrawing the breast can cause emotional trauma in the baby. Since nursing is not only a source of food for a baby, but a source of security and emotional comfort as well, taking it away can be very disturbing.: There is absolutely no way to explain to a baby why he suddenly can’t nurse anymore."

It took 11 paragraphs of explaining all the reasons to NOT wean, before they would explain how to. I decided to figure it out on my own. So now, two weeks later, as of today, Madison is completly on formula. She doesn't seem to be suffering any attachment issues, and she seems much happier. I still make sure that we cuddle while feeding, and that I talk/sing to her (which with my voice, could be considered abusive) while feeding. She is just as attached to me now as she was 2 weeks ago when we were exclusively breastfeeding. And as I sit her, stewing in my inadequacies of not being able to successfully breastfeed my child, and wondering what detriment I may be doing to her devlopment, I am reminded of something my hospital lactation consultant said to me shortly after our class. She had just finished explaning all the positives of breastfeeding, including that breastfed babies were shown to have slightly higher IQ levels than those that are not. My precocious 4 year old daughter and I were walking through the halls of the hospital talking about our days. The lactation consultant was walking behind us, and Delaney said something profound. The Lactaition consultant later told me that Delaney was one of the smartest, most mature 4 year olds she had ever met, and that she could see what a great connection we had. My response to her? "Not bad for a formula baby, huh!"

My Sister, My Friend.

I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers.

It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage.

Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at.

~Maya Angelou

I have a friend. Well, after 33 years on this planet, I have a few. But I have a friend that is my oldest friend. We have been friends longer than we have not been friends. That friend and I were inseperable in middle school and high school. Even in college, her in the deep south, and me in the northeast, we were still inseperable.

When we were growing up, people thought we were sisters. She is, and always will be the closest thing I ever had to a sister. Not becuase we looked the same (she has ringlet curls, while I have straight hair, one of many differences), or because we dressed the same (sometimes on purpose, mostly by pure coincidence), or becuase we had the same mannerisims. We have always had a connection. We have always known when one of us needed the other. It was that connection that woke me up at 8:00 on a sunday morning, my freshman year in college, 2 seconds before the phone rang. It was her, crumbling into the phone, telling me that her beloved grandfather had passed away.

It was that connection that had me calling her 6 years later, on Father's Day, crumbling under the weight of the news that my dad was sick. This time it was me calling at 8:00 in the morning, and what is even more impressive, was that she answered, being as she lived one hour behind. It was that connection that brought her home to Connecticut that following April, to help me through the toughest time in my life.

Something had changed on that trip. Something was different. We were different. In the 8 years that have passed since that trip, I am still unable to figure out what had changed. We had gone our seperate ways geographically, that was true. But, we always managed to bridge the distance, with long telephone calls, emails, or whatever we could to make the distance seem manageable. Our lives were taking different paths. She was engaged to be married to one of the most amazing men in the world, and I could not be happier for her. She was planning a wedding, and I was finishing grad school. We were in different places, both geographically and metaphorically.

But the distance that grew was not due to geography, or personality, or life. We now have different "go to" people in our lives, mainly our husbands, who, ironically, grew up as best friends as well. We have children, my daughter and her son are a month and 5 days apart. It wasn't until I stumbled upon the quote by Maya Angelou that things started to be a bit more clear. Sisterhood is something that you must work at. Our friendship had always been seemless. It was just there. It was nothing we had to work at. Sometimes months would go between our talks, but I always knew she would be there if I needed her, and I hoped she knew the same about me. I see now, that when neglected, a relationship can not stay the same. It needs to be worked at. Which is hard when you have husbands, and children, jobs and school. Hard, but not impossible.

I know we still have a connection. It was that connection that had me thinking last night, "I have to call her. I never asked her how her niece was doing the last time I called". It was this morning, when I read my email that said, last night, about the time I was thinking about her, her niece had passed away. When I realized that there was something that had changed, was when I called at 9:00 this morning (8:00 her time) to make sure she was okay...and there was no answer. We have different lives now. And that is ok. I still love her. I am still here for her whenever she needs me. I just hope that she knows that.

A Yankee Fan Living in the Middle of Red Sox Nation

"If 'manners maketh man' as someone said
Then he's the hero of the day
It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile
Be yourself no matter what they say"
-Sting: "I'm an Englishman in New York"

I am a Yankee fan. I have been a Yankee fan for the past 17 years. It took me a while to settle on a team. I went back and forth between the Yankees and the Mets for a while, but this is to be expected growing up where I did. My father, a Yankee fan, my brother a Mets fan, I always had someone to side with. What was the deciding factor that finally lead me the way of the Bronx Bombers? My dad purchased Season Tickets to the Yankees. This gave me FREE access to home games, FREE being the operative word. There you have it, a Yankee fan. I also realized as I grew up, that it was an unbreakable tie between me and my father, something we could always talk about, something we finally had in common. I would say now that it was that bond that tied me so tightly to the Yankees. While I don't think we ever attended a game together, he never hesitated to get me the tickets I asked for. Coveted Yankees v. Red Sox Tickets were always mine for the taking, especially since I went to school in Springfield, Massachusetts. Half the school rooted for the Yankees while the other half pined away for the Red Sox.

I never really hated the Red Sox, I felt sorry for them. What I did begin to notice was that Red Sox fans, while they are loyal to the core, hate Yankee fans. I knew there was a rivalry, dating back to the Babe, and maybe even further, however, I didn't realize how bad this rivalry was, how hated Yankee fans were, until I stepped foot on the Ferry to visit my mom. The man who led my car to its parking spot in the belly of the "Island Home" was glaring at me. Not just straining to see who was behind the wheel, and usher them into their tight little spot, but glaring, a look of all out hatred. I could not for the life of me figure out why. Had I run over his dog when I was pulling in? Did I look like his ex-wife? Had I slept with his ex-wife? No, couldn't have been that, as much as I love my girl time, I do not "bat" for that team. It wasn't until I was washing my hands in the bathroom of the ferry, that I realized why I was scrutinized by all of the people on the boat. I had worn my Yankee hat. My 17 year old Yankee hat that was purchased by my father for my first game. The hat that I wear not only when the Yankees are winning, but when I miss my dad. When I want to be closer to him. When I am thinking about him. I meant no disrespect to the people of Red Sox nation, I simply was missing my father.

This was not my first encounter with the people of Red Sox nation, and it certiantly would not be my last. But I was tucked away in my little corner of Connecticut surrounded by my family, mostly women, and ALL Yankee's Fans. It was okay to root for my team, hell, we even allow you to root for your team...as long as it is not too loud, or at least not louder than we were. Now, here I am, 30 minutes from Fenway. My husband has actually installed numerous signs for those coveted Fenway Franks. No one here likes Yankee fans. They despise them on mere principle alone. I am happy for the Red Sox. They played an awesome series. I can say that because I am secure in my allegiance to the New York Yankees. We will not always win. We will even loose sometimes to the Red Sox. I can handle that. It is okay, because we will live to play another game/series/season. What I can not handle are people despising me for simply wearing a hat. I love my little town in Massachusetts. I can tolerate the Red Sox/ Patriot fans. I can tolerate the commercials from local furniture stores guaranteeing a sale if the Red Sox bring home the pennant. I can tolerate my Conservative political talk show host blabbing uncontrollably about the Red Sox victory. I can even tolerate the morning news broadcasting live from Fenway, where my morning weather update is brought to me from the top of the Green Monster. I get it. Red Sox Nation is excited. What I have a difficult time with is their inability to accept me. Just because I root for the boys in pinstripes, does not make me a bad person. It just means I have better taste!!

One Million questions....and two statements of fact.

October 16th. I never know how to feel on this day. I usually feel sad, tears are inevitable, but I try to be happy. I try to picture what he would be like today. Would we get together for dinner? Would we talk about politics, or the fact that the Yankees where eliminated in the first round of the playoffs? Would he be proud of the person I have become? Would he know how much I love him? How would he be with Delaney? Would he fit comfortably around that little finger? Would she make him laugh? Would he make her giggle that deep belly giggle she only does when she can not bear to hold it in any longer? Would he look into those deep blue eyes and see himself? What about Branden and Rae? Would he go to their games, and cheer silently from the sidelines? Would he disect their play over dinner that night? Would he be as proud of them as I am? Would he look at Chris and see the incredible man he has become? Would he be able to finally forgive himself? Would he see how much we truly love him? How much we truly miss him being a part of our lives? Happy Birthday Daddy. I love you, and I miss you.