The Family That Baseballs Together, Stays Together

It's no big secret that I am a true blue Dodgers fan. Year after year, I am a glutton for punishment as those boys in blue toy with my emotions. Each season, I think this is it! This is our year. I stick it out to the bitter end, and believe me, the end typically is bitter. Disheartened but not deterred, I look ahead with hope to spring, when my faith is renewed with the smell of pine tar, beer and hot dogs.

I tell you this because this year, I decided that I haven't suffered at the hands of the Dodgers or the baby terrorist quite enough. Nope! I had the brilliant idea that a road trip to spring training from San Diego to Arizona with an infant would be the best thing ever. I usually think of myself as an intelligent girl, but decisions such as these tend to make me and those around me question my sanity. Much like the Dodger baseball season, our road trip was filled with peaks and valleys, hope and desperation, the freedom of the open road and the solitary confinement of the car. 

Rather than regale you with a long tale of our misadventure, I will instead give you a visual montage of what a Greene family road trip looks like.

We started out stoked, excited for the adventure ahead. The baby terrorist instantly fell asleep, a sign of good things to come. Around El Centro, we were just starting to feel bored when we realized that we were getting a free air show! The Blue Angels were practicing, so we thought we should stop and have a look.

Feeling spunky, we got the baby terrorist out of the car and took a family photo. 

As you can see, we are all having a great time, baby terrorist included. However, good times were not to last long. A few miles down the road, the baby decided she was just about done with the car seat and she was going to tell us all about it.

Our love of the open road quickly turned into a hatred of all things desert related. Will this road never end? Why haven't we seen a road runner? Why are there so many cactuses? (A fight then ensued about whether or not it is cactuses or cacti. We really know how to party.) For the love of God, will that baby EVER stop CRYING?! Tensions ran high as we crossed the border into Arizona. I looked longingly out the window at a sign pointing toward Mexico, entertaining the idea of opening up my passenger door and doing a fancy tuck roll out of the car, not stopping until I found myself face to face with a tequila shot, a pristine beach, a pitcher of margaritas and a mariachi band singing songs of freedom as they welcomed me, baby and husband free, to a lifetime of leisure. 

And then, just like that, the baby terrorist had cried herself out and fell into a glorious slumber. Renewed, we cranked up the radio and sang along to a little ditty about Jack and Diane. Spring training, here we come! 

We finally made it to Phoenix and to her credit, the baby terrorist handled the game like a champ. It was hot and crowded but she is most definitely our daughter because she rocked her Dodger gear and cheered along with us as LA beat the Padres 5-0.

Because we are crazy and cheap, we thought we'd save ourselves some money and head back to San Diego right after the game. Like all seemingly good ideas, it started out great. Our little road dog was down for the ride.

Alas, the good times did not last long. The baby terrorist employed new tactics to try and convince us to set her free from the car seat. Instead of a high pitched screaming wail, she instead puckered up her perfect pout and looked as sad and forlorn as can be.

It tugged my heart strings and I spent the next 100 miles or so torturing my husband with my fears that I was a terrible mother, sentencing my poor daughter to years of couch time in a therapist's office. I could tell that he was really stoked to have that conversation.

And just as all seemed lost, we finally pulled into our driveway and told ourselves that we had fun fun FUN and we can't wait to do it again NEXT YEAR!! YEAAAH! And you know what? We probably will because it is misadventures like this that make us a family and let's face it, the family that baseballs together, stays together.

20 Types of Boys That I Can't Have Dating My Daughter

I am the mother of an extremely adorable baby terrorist. The other day I got to thinking far into the future, which I am notorious for doing, and thinking about the types of boys I would be mortified if she brought home. Of course, she won't be dating until she is 100 and if it were up to her father, she will be enrolled in "nun school." He thinks that is an actual thing and I don't have the heart to correct him. 

Now, I know that this is silly and unrealistic. At some point, the baby terrorist is going to grow into a teenage terrorist, then a college terrorist and I am certain she will inevitably bring home a boy that her dad and I will want to punch in the face. We'll clutch our hearts and clench our teeth and chug cocktails until she comes to her senses and decides that her mom and dad should arrange her marriage with a nice, respectable boy that we have hand picked. 

I have compiled a list of boys that should she bring one home, I might just keel over and die on the spot. I consulted my husband and without even showing him my list, his number one was the same as mine. Apparently we really hate skinny jeans. Should the baby terrorist bring home any of the types of boys listed below, I am going to have to enlist some really embarrassing mom tactics to sabotage the relationship and if that fails, the neighborhood liquor store will see a serious boost in sales because mama is going to need a drink.

1. A boy who wear skinny jeans. Your ass is not that fine, we don't want to see it, get off our front porch. You are not dating our daughter.

2. A San Francsico Giants fan. Since the baby terrorist is a Dodgers fan, this is a star-crossed lover relationship doomed to end in tragedy.

3. A boy who bumps gangster rap. I may be an old lady, but I don't want anyone rolling up to my crib with the bass bumping, vibrating my humble abode as he advertises that girls are bitches and hoes. Sorry, honey, cancel your plans. You're staying in tonight, eating popcorn with your mother and watching wholesome Disney movies.

4. A boy who wears glasses even though he doesn't need them. What is with this trend? Your non-prescription glasses don't make you look smart, it makes me annoyed. And I don't want you dating my daughter.

5. A boy who honks his horn instead of ringing the doorbell. You can honk all you want buddy, but you aren't going out with my daughter. 

6. A boy who sags his pants. I hope he trips walking up the driveway. Then we can all have a good laugh and the baby terrorist will understand our stance on low hanging jeans. And if he is sagging his skinny jeans, we can cross #1 and #6 off our list at once!

7. A boy who doesn't make eye contact. I don't trust you, Shifty.

8. A boy who calls my husband "bro." No, bro. It's time to go.

9. A boy who has naked girl mud flaps. You sir, are a douche.

10. A boy who picks up our daughter late because he lost track of time playing video games. You are adult enough to date, so you should be adult enough to put down the video game.

11. He doesn't believe in having a job while in high school. If your parents gave you money for this date, I probably won't like you.

12. A boy with a Justin Beiber haircut. I realize that by the time the baby terrorist is old enough to date the Beibs will probably be obsolete, but I find that haircut so annoying. I can't be bothered with my own bangs, let alone the bowl and bang hair style of my daughter's boyfriend.

13. A boy who wears any type of Affliction clothing.

14. A boy wearing more hair product than either myself or my daughter.

15. A boy with a flat billed hat. It makes me want to snap that baseball hat off your head and smack you in the face with your own bill just to add insult to injury.

16. A boy who says "you know what I'm saying?" No. I don't know what you are saying. And if you saying what I think you are saying, then I don't like you and you can kindly leave.

17. A boy who is really into his car, but hasn't put a dime of his own money into it.

18. A boy who takes too many selfies! The definition of "too many" is up to my discretion but if I have seen more pictures of your face making stupid expressions with lame captions then perhaps you should just date yourselfie. See what I did there? 

19. A boy who comments on what or how much she eats. 

20. A boy who doesn't hold open the door for her. Get some manners, bro, you know what I'm saying?

If you are the mother of a girl or a boy, what would you add to this list? 

A Twist in Terror Tactics - a Valentine's Day Attack

As you may have read, venturing out with the baby terrorist can be a traumatic experience. I race through the grocery store aisles, frantically grabbing goods off the shelves and throwing anything and everything into my cart in fear that at any moment, there may be a meltdown of nuclear proportions. Once that cute little terrorist of mine starts the scream wind up, I am out of that store in thirty seconds flat. If we ever have to escape our house in the case of an emergency, I've got it covered. I have no problem leaving a cart full of groceries in the middle of the store, leaving a house full of belongings, a dressing room full of clothing as I sprint outside, the baby strapped to me like a live grenade.

But this Valentine's Day, everything changed.

Maybe it was the feeling of love all around, or the smell of chocolate permeating the air, but this time our trip to the grocery store was completely different. The sweet baby terrorist is now able to sit upright in the shopping cart. She had on a very cute, pink dress and a ridiculously adorable bow in her hair. As I pushed the cart through the store, I began to marvel at the fact that I was leisurely lingering in the aisles, consciously putting food into the cart without interruption or fear. Everything was going smoothly, so of course, I panicked. What was going on? Was this the calm before the storm?

And then I saw it. People were literally stopping and staring at the baby terrorist with hearts dancing in their eyes. All I could hear around me were ooh's and ahh's and oh look at the baby, look at the baby! Baffled, I looked around, certain there was an angelic baby somewhere in the vicinity and that mom was definitely getting the stink eye from me and my baby terrorist. Slowly, incredulously, I began to realize that these people were talking about my baby! I slowly turned to look at Bug and sure enough, there she was, smiling from ear to ear, showing off her two bottom teeth, eyes twinkling, looking like the cutest, most well behaved child in the world. She was smiling at each person who stopped to look at her, all "Hi! How ya doin'! Can you believe my mom calls me a baby terrorist? Got any chocolate?"

I'm not kidding. Men and women alike were stopping to talk to my baby, to let me know just how lucky I was to have such an adorable daughter.

No one noticed that I had actually found a spare second to put on some makeup and do my hair. I had on my Valentine's Day outfit, too, but next to the baby terrorist I was just the woman pushing the  throne to the pretty little princess who was busy perfecting her precocious grin for all to admire. There was not a person in that grocery store who thought that perhaps this little charmer had gotten half of her good looks from me, and clearly she has her daddy's ability to flash a grin and all is forgiven.

And then it hit me. I am no match for this baby terrorist. She is employing tactics that I can't even begin to combat. But I do know that for the patrons of this particular grocery store, she may just have been the catalyst for the creation of Valentine's Day baby terrorists, made with love and delusions of baby bliss.

Booze & Bad Decisions - A True Greene Love Story

Since Valentine's Day is upon us, I think it might be time to share the tale of how I met the man to whom I am now married, with whom I am in debt for the next 30 fixed years and with whom I am currently in the trenches taking grenades from the baby terrorist. It's a lovely story, really. If you like scheming, strategizing and steamrollers then boy, is this a love story tailor made just for you.

Let's rewind back to the carefree days of yore, when I was a mere 21 year old college student at UC Santa Cruz, full of dreams, ideologies, booze and bad decisions.

Always liking to keep a little green in my pocket, I was working at the front desk of a hotel near the Boardwalk. After living in Santa Cruz for a few years, I had come to love the winter months because it meant fewer tourists, which translated into me getting paid to do my homework while manning the front desk. The hotel, however, had a different agenda comprised of the money making mentality and, in an effort to fill their rooms they decided to rent out the top floor to college students. Little did I know that this one decision (and several questionable choices on my part) would alter the course of my life forever.

One fateful afternoon as the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, I was sitting at the front desk alternating between mindlessly staring at my Sociology book and wishfully glaring at the second hand on the clock as it slowly ticked away the final hours of my seemingly endless shift. Just as I decided time couldn't possibly move any more monotonously, in walked the future husband and just like that, time stood still.

I like to remember this moment because, as unrealistic and sappy as it sounds, it was one of those split seconds where life changes completely. I try to go back to this moment when we are yelling at one another, arguing about how it isn't rocket science to put dirty clothes in the hamper rather than on the floor of the bathroom, how if he comes home to one more of my online shopping packages on the doorstep we are going to go bankrupt, and oh my god HOW do you NOT hear the baby SCREAMING?! I fall back into this memory because we have been together for 10 years and we have met more than our share of challenges, but from the instant I looked up from that front desk a decade ago, I knew that no matter where life took me from that point forward, he would be along for the ride.

He walked into the office and stood in front of the front desk. The way the afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the blinds highlighted his green eyes, making them sparkle. He smiled and I never heard him say hello because oh sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. And I kid you not, though it might make you puke, I thought to myself "that is the man I am going to marry and he doesn't even know it."

He, however, only remembers that my face turned beet red and he thought to himself (probably in a voice similar to that of a caveman), "Huh. Her face is really red." Typical.

The reason he was standing in front of me, eyes all twinkling, dimples all dimpling, was because he had lost his room key. I made him a key and off he went, leaving me sputtering and blushing and being completely uncool.

From that point forward, he would come in almost every shift I worked with the excuse that he had lost his key. I would make him a new one and watch him ride his bike to baseball practice, smugly thinking that he definitely was totally into me because seriously, no one loses their key every. single. day.

What a fool I was! Here we are, married with a baby, and he literally loses his key every. single. day. It was no excuse to talk to me, he was not playing flirty games, he was not determined to date me. He just couldn't find his key and at the end of the day, the man needed to get into his room.

He and the other students living on the top floor used to play a little beer pong in the hallway. They would store their beers in the ice machine and the guests on the lower floors would call me and complain about the noise. I would run up to the top floor and not wanting him to think I was a square, I would slam a beer, blush wildly, ask them nicely to keep it down and then run away. 

One night, we ran into each other at the Seabright Brewery. I was dressed up and absolutely tipsy enough to be incredibly witty and full of hilarious stories that made me adorable. I was just enough fun that his friends invited me to a party afterward, but I sadly declined because he didn't invite me himself. He and his baseball buddies left the bar with a dimpled goodbye and a noncommittal maybe I'll see you later, and that was that.

I didn't hear from him for three days. I furiously wrote him off, telling myself that he could take his sparkly green eyes and shove it up his sparkly Greene ass for all I cared. I had better things to do, like hitting up happy hour and, and, .... and then the phone rang. It was one of his friends asking if I had heard from him.

"NO!" I yelled. "And if you see him, tell him - "

Before I could finish my sentence, his friend told me to take a deep breath and prepare myself because he wasn't ignoring me. He had gotten himself into a bit of a sticky situation and was having trouble charming his way out of it.

Apparently, my dimpled green eyed dream boy had channeled his country boy roots and hot wired a steamroller. This may be common practice in his little home town of Arbuckle, but driving it down 7th Avenue in Santa Cruz in the middle of the night is, folks, a felony. Being the daughter of a very strict dad who happened to be in law enforcement, I sadly thought that this might be the end of our love story.

Remember when I said I was young and full of bad decisions?

I had every intention to go to the gym. Every intention. But the gym was right by the courthouse, and would it really hurt if I just popped in to see if his arraignment was around that time? And there he was, in all his orange glory, being laughed at by the judge as he ruled that this boy was no felon, he was just stooopid.

And so a love story was born amidst the rubble of a narrowly avoided misadventure. 10 years have come and gone and we look back, shake our heads, laugh a little and turn the page, knowing that we can't rewrite the chapters that have brought us to this point. And even if we could, would we? We have the blank pages of tomorrow's chapters waiting for the next ridiculous story to be written. He will probably leave his dirty clothes on the floor and I will definitely continue to shop online and oh my god seriously, you HAVE to hear the baby SCREAMING!

But his green eyes still sparkle when the sun hits them just right and when our baby smiles, I can see his dimples on her sweet face. And that's enough for me.

We're so little! Circa 2004

All is Quiet on the Western Front

All is quiet on the Western front and this has me quite nervous. The baby terrorist has been laying low, smiling a lot, taking forty minute naps in her crib and almost sleeping through the night. She happily eats her sweet potatoes, laughs at some of my jokes and rewards my good behavior with a burst of babbling.

I am terrified.

Just last week, I was fighting with her about anything and everything. She was the root cause of arguments with my own parents. I was fairly certain that I might leave my husband in the dead of night in our home that has begun to resemble a homier version of Guantanamo Bay so that he would finally be forced into waking up and negotiating sleep with the adorable yet diabolical baby terrorist.

Seriously, the worst thing that has happened in the last three days is when she spit out a mouthful of butternut squash straight into my face. In her defense, I should have seen it coming. I don't even like butternut squash. I buy it in a halfhearted attempt to show that I eat my veggies. It is just bad parenting to pawn it off onto the baby. Do as I say, not as I do apparently is my mantra.

Impending doom must be directly around the corner, right?

I recently read an article written by a non parent who fancies herself a prospective parent but is scarred by all of these scary mom blogs. She has a point. I have had readers inform me that my blog is terrifying. I admit that scaring people straight has become somewhat of a hobby of mine. Perhaps I take keeping it real just a little too far. But I need you to know, to fully understand, what I am dealing with here. I used to be full of satire and cocktails, and now I am holed up in a sleeper cell of baby terrorism which is just a silly thing to say since there is not a whole lot of sleeping going on here. 

But now I am cautiously typing as I find myself in the midst of a cease fire. No treaty has been signed, but the baby and I are acting like a couple of frenemies who are definitely on again this week. Next week she might stab me in the back and I will probably talk smack about her on my blog, but right now, right this second, we're cool.

What is a wannabe mommy blogger who has built a story line around her very own baby terrorist to do? Once again, she has won because now I am practically begging her to give me a little material. 

I'm holding my breath - stay tuned.