Pizza and baseball

Allow me to let down the walls for a minute.

A lot of you know me as a very strong person. I have a gift for mostly being able to compartmentalize my life and to throw my tantrums in private, but I also know that sometimes it's good to let people in to what's on my mind.

It's simple, really.

Pizza and baseball.

Now, before you think that Ryan really has hijacked my mind since being married to him, allow me to explain.

We live in a beautiful section of West Michigan, very close to a local dairy that has a pizza shop. We love the dairy and if you picked through our garbage at any given moment, you'd often find a black and white pizza box there, stained with the grease that serves as a reminder of delicious cheese, fresh veggies, and pepperoni that we enjoyed.

On many Friday nights, I pick up salad ingredients at the grocery store and when Colton and I get home, I make a salad. I call Ryan and ask him to pick up the pizza on his way home from work, and then wait for him to walk through the door with that familiar box.

After noshing on too much of our favorite pizza and probably too little salad, we head over to the couch, a remarkably short distance in our small starter home, and turn on the TV to watch the Tigers (when in season). Lots of cheering and hissing ensues.

I love pizza and baseball.

Normalcy.

On March 1st, my son and I were on our way home from a normal Friday. However, Dad wasn't coming home. He was on his way to CTCA with his father to be admitted to the hospital.

Colton asks me from the backseat, "Where my daddy?"

"Daddy is in a car with Papa. A doctor is going to fix his owies, Colton."

"My dad otay?"

"Yes, sweetie, he's ok."

"Mama, I want Daddy to come home. I want to eat pizza with my daddy. I want to watch baseball."

There was nothing that Colton could have said that could have driven the stake in my wounded heart deeper. I had an instant, almost visceral reaction to his words. Tears flooded my eyes and I immediately cried out, ME TOO.

There is nothing I want more than pizza and baseball. To sit at home. Snuggled with my husband. Tigers on the tv, pizza in our bellies. Colton begging us to pitch him his foam balls so that he can whack a "ho'run" like the boys of summer on the big screen. I want to kidnap Ryan from his hospital bed, rip out that drain that constantly reminds me of the uphill battle we are facing, and rush him and Colton home in time for tomorrow's spring training game. And pick up a black and white box along the way.

Normalcy.

Oh, how I ache for normalcy.