The Rookie writes...

I'm glad there is a baseball term for novice. I really would have hated calling this thing "Confessions of a Dating Greenhorn." Since I fancy those boys of summer, in particular The Boston Red Sox (sigh) I thought hey...why not include a little ballgame lingo while I'm here. Blogging.


I'm writing a Blog.


I really should be using this time to search the web for a new place to live for me and my two children. Not that I haven't logged an insane amount of hours weeding through the horrors of local rentals already. And certainly if you were to ask my soon-to-be ex, he would curse this. Instead, he would have me first tidying up the house and then working feverishly with any Garrison City renter who could move me out of his house in as timely and cost-effective manner as soon as possible. He thinks I should give this a go at 9:02 at night. After cleaning ketchup art off the kitchen table and tucking his very tidy children into bed. At the end of days that sometime seem as long and as painful as watching Timlin pitch.



I, on the other hand, think now is a fabulous time to start writing a Blog instead.


Oh, where to start.? Not with the dating.
Not quite yet.


Let's start by saying that if you were to look at a snapshot of my life about 2 years ago you would have seen me as a stay-at-home mom, caring for my two young vibrant, beautiful and delightfully silly children. We had a sidekick, my best friend's beautiful little fiery redheaded boy , whom I cared for here to bring in some extra money so I could stay home with my little ones for as long as possible. I was married to this fabulous guy who was a pretty decent musician and an even better father. From the outside looking in, it looked pretty...well...tidy. Like most moms, I juggled the bits of life: play dates, luncheons with imaginary friends (brilliantly named Piss and Khang...no lie), play dough fights, and keeping the pests out of my garden. I wrestled with laundry piles and the rigors of day-to-day life with my husband, the working musician. I liked my life.


And then one morning the phone rang.


I saw the unfamiliar name on the caller ID earlier when the phone rang at some ungodly hour before I had any coffee in me to prop me up. We were all sick with different stages of the flu and hopped up on that horrible Tamiflu in the hopes of keeping us all from needing hospital care. I didn't answer that first call. However, in the middle of dunking a tea bag in steaming water for my husband, who was the sickest of all, the phone rang a second time. I answered it.



It was this one early morning call that took my world away. But not before shaking it about like a snow globe and causing one blinding blizzard of a mess that would swirl around me for a good year plus. My husband was having an affair that would steal him from the world I had been masterfully crafting during our 18 years together. He would never return.


A year can feel like a long time. Everlasting. Unending. When you're facing your foes and you're fighting big fears. When you're wiping tears from little faces with eyes swollen, and when a moment allows, from your own. But we endure. We become wiser. And we heal in almost all of those broken and banged up places. Almost all.

So over a year later, I find myself bandaged up and I'm taking myself off the disabled list. I'm on the verge of divorce, and I have decided it is time. For the first time in over 19 years, The Rookie is stepping to the plate. I'm dating. And think of the fun I can have writing about the antics in the clubhouse. With the terminology. I mean come on!? Did he get to third base? Did he hit for the cycle? Does he have a great bat? Good hands? Was he deep in the batters box? Ba-dum-bing! Play ball!

And truthfully, I'm hoping that even if I'm off to a shaky start, one day I'll get to write about a great stretch run and a fabulous finish. A Cinderella story. And no curses.


Well, perhaps we'll save those for my ex.