and helicopters coming and going.
Christmas was hard. It was an exceptionally cold morning in Washington and we were alone on Christmas morning for the first time ever. Alone, but not alone; we went to see them later but it was the first Christmas without my Mom's monkey bread to wake up to. There was no hot cocoa on the stove waiting for us, no soft carols streaming down the hall either. I missed my mommy, and for a moment, even though I loved being a grown-up, I wanted to go back to being younger. I wanted to come out of my room to find her sitting quietly on the couch with a book and her amaretto-flavored coffee, waiting for us to come to her.
There were exactly nine Christmas morning memories on my shelf without my dad at home. As technology got better we could Skype him so he was with us in some way, but there had never been one morning I hadn't woken up with Mom. She was Christmas. I ran into Brett’s room, jumped on his bed singing “Hark the herald angels,” and told him to get up so we could get where we belonged.
We stayed with them all day. It felt good to be home—home with Mom and Dad and Trav, too, and home on the base where the planes landed and took off even on Christmas morning. It was the first night since we moved that I wanted to take it all back. Our gifts were lame grown-up ones like dish towels and Tupperware. The only frivolous gift Brett and I got were our usual season tickets for our local Double A baseball team, the Patriots.
Our parents bought season tickets every year. They swore that minor league was always where the best action was. I agreed. Every player's dream was to move up and on to the big contracts and major league but they had to start somewhere. The players’ dreams were tangible in the minors. The majors were about glory and fame, baseball cards and limelight, but the joy of game was best felt on the high school and minor league fields before contracts got out of hand. Season tickets had become a tradition, one I could keep even if I was a big girl living on my own for the first time.
The summer after we moved out, I met Mom and Trav at the Patriots’ home field for every game. Dad, Theo, Kennedy, and Brett came when their schedules allowed. Somehow, by sheer luck, I managed to weasel my way into a job with the team before the season was over. It was a win-win for everyone. It meant for the next season, and as many as they'd keep me, I got to be part of the team, and not only did my parents not have to pay for it ... I got paid to be there! I greeted the fans when they came in, emceed events during inning breaks and helped set up and close down the field and stands for home games. The gym was totally cool about me getting a second job, too, since my shifts there were early morning and since we were the official gym of the Patriots anyway.
Brett was obsessed with getting drafted and saw my new job as an opportunity to get on the team. I saw a letter come in from A&M offering him his second best option, and I saw him ignore it; he was holding out for the league scouts. He wanted the majors—he ate, slept and dreamed them. It was a long shot; we all knew it, but who wanted to pop his bubble, and who was I to tell him he was ruining his future by passing up their offer? Instead I asked the players I knew from the gym if he could come down to warm up with them before games, and I introduced him to the coaches, too. He joined the gym to get in better with them and he waited for his moment to come, never doubting that it would.
Every morning, every ... single ... morning except for Tuesdays and Sundays, my only days off, I had to be at the gym at four-thirty sharp, and after I got my job with the Patriots, Brett was right there with me. Lucky for us we only lived five minutes away, a huge difference from the twenty minute commute from base. Brett had his alarm wired to a motivational soundtrack and he forced himself up. I was a morning person so it wasn't as hard for me to get
Christmas was hard. It was an exceptionally cold morning in Washington and we were alone on Christmas morning for the first time ever. Alone, but not alone; we went to see them later but it was the first Christmas without my Mom's monkey bread to wake up to. There was no hot cocoa on the stove waiting for us, no soft carols streaming down the hall either. I missed my mommy, and for a moment, even though I loved being a grown-up, I wanted to go back to being younger. I wanted to come out of my room to find her sitting quietly on the couch with a book and her amaretto-flavored coffee, waiting for us to come to her.
There were exactly nine Christmas morning memories on my shelf without my dad at home. As technology got better we could Skype him so he was with us in some way, but there had never been one morning I hadn't woken up with Mom. She was Christmas. I ran into Brett’s room, jumped on his bed singing “Hark the herald angels,” and told him to get up so we could get where we belonged.
We stayed with them all day. It felt good to be home—home with Mom and Dad and Trav, too, and home on the base where the planes landed and took off even on Christmas morning. It was the first night since we moved that I wanted to take it all back. Our gifts were lame grown-up ones like dish towels and Tupperware. The only frivolous gift Brett and I got were our usual season tickets for our local Double A baseball team, the Patriots.
Our parents bought season tickets every year. They swore that minor league was always where the best action was. I agreed. Every player's dream was to move up and on to the big contracts and major league but they had to start somewhere. The players’ dreams were tangible in the minors. The majors were about glory and fame, baseball cards and limelight, but the joy of game was best felt on the high school and minor league fields before contracts got out of hand. Season tickets had become a tradition, one I could keep even if I was a big girl living on my own for the first time.
The summer after we moved out, I met Mom and Trav at the Patriots’ home field for every game. Dad, Theo, Kennedy, and Brett came when their schedules allowed. Somehow, by sheer luck, I managed to weasel my way into a job with the team before the season was over. It was a win-win for everyone. It meant for the next season, and as many as they'd keep me, I got to be part of the team, and not only did my parents not have to pay for it ... I got paid to be there! I greeted the fans when they came in, emceed events during inning breaks and helped set up and close down the field and stands for home games. The gym was totally cool about me getting a second job, too, since my shifts there were early morning and since we were the official gym of the Patriots anyway.
Brett was obsessed with getting drafted and saw my new job as an opportunity to get on the team. I saw a letter come in from A&M offering him his second best option, and I saw him ignore it; he was holding out for the league scouts. He wanted the majors—he ate, slept and dreamed them. It was a long shot; we all knew it, but who wanted to pop his bubble, and who was I to tell him he was ruining his future by passing up their offer? Instead I asked the players I knew from the gym if he could come down to warm up with them before games, and I introduced him to the coaches, too. He joined the gym to get in better with them and he waited for his moment to come, never doubting that it would.
Every morning, every ... single ... morning except for Tuesdays and Sundays, my only days off, I had to be at the gym at four-thirty sharp, and after I got my job with the Patriots, Brett was right there with me. Lucky for us we only lived five minutes away, a huge difference from the twenty minute commute from base. Brett had his alarm wired to a motivational soundtrack and he forced himself up. I was a morning person so it wasn't as hard for me to get
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