Take Me Out to the Ball Game

In Major League Baseball there is a rarity known as the "perfect game".  In order to achieve this anomaly a pitcher must last a minimum of nine innings without allowing any opposing batter to make it onto base (this includes walks or a hit player).  A perfect game has only been achieved 21 times in the modern era of baseball. 

There is a lot of superstition in baseball.  So much so that when players suspect their pitcher is on their way to a perfect game (or even a no hitter), they stop talking to him so as not to jinx them.  

In my three year stint in the major league of parenting I've learned a lot.  There aren't any umpires to call the shots, there isn't a rule book and really most of the time it's governed by Marshall law as we stumble our way through.  However, that doesn't mean that the territory comes without superstition.

For a while now I've realized that if I ever marvel at what wonderful sleepers the minions are, or even give the slightest bit of toddler sleep advice to anyone else that I will automatically jinx myself to sleepless nights. This self-imposed jinx comes in the form of a sleep regression that lasts anywhere from one night to two weeks.  I've learned the hard way and I try not to talk about it.

Last week while we were up at the cottage with family, in close quarters and a shared space with three other adults, Chris took it upon himself to brag that Molly and Jack never get up in the middle of the night any more.  Jinx.  Was I surprised when I was up at 1:00AM because Molly had fallen out of bed and needed to be comforted?  Not really, because my husband had already provided the kiss of death.  Did I elbow Chris to to take the next shift at 3:30AM when I (and everyone else in the cottage) heard a blood curdling scream from the boy?  Yes, because he talked to the pitcher during a no hitter and this was all his fault.  It turns out the birthday cake that Jack had shared with his cousins earlier that night didn't agree with him and he threw it up in three neat little piles all around the bases (all over his sheets and comforter).  Chris thumped back across the cottage to whip on the light and called in the reliever: me.  As I worked to I changed him into clean, significantly less barf covered uniform, Chris soaked the puke sheets in the bathtub and Molly gave us running, colour commentary loud enough for everyone in the cottage to hear.  We were finally all back in bed half an hour later.

Defeated Molly after her no-hitter was ruined (AKA daddy put her Barbies into her backpack).

As I said to Chris the next morning, surely that was just a dream, because our kids NEVER get up in the middle of the night any more!  The next time Chris talks to the pitcher I'm dumping a cooler of Gatorade on his head.

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