Baseball

Yesterday was the greatest day of the year, and Fiona and I celebrated by playing a little "baseball" (at 8:30 a.m., but you can see below for that story).

This involves Fiona sitting in a chair while holding a pink toy Padres bat picked up in a ballpark giveaway a few years back. I throw a beach ball at her and she hits it (the beach ball being big enough that even a four-year old can make contact). I field it and hope Mommy doesn't walk into the room right as the ball bounces off the china cabinet.

She swung and missed, and I told her that was called a "strike." The next time I threw, she swung and missed and shouted "yea, a strike!" I then explained that, as the batter, she didn't want to swing and miss.

A few swings later she smacked the ball over the couch. "Home run!" I shouted. Fiona liked that. Now each time I throw she says something like "I want to hit a home run" or "here comes a home run." Or, my favorite: when I catch the ball or smack it down before it can go too far she says "that should be a home run." Hey, it worked once for Jeter.

Later in the day, Fiona and I were playing again when she looked at the ball on the ground.

"Let's play golf," she said. "Make a hole with your hands."

I did, and she tried to hit the ball into the "hole." She missed.

"What game do you like better?" I asked. "Baseball or golf?"

She responded quickly: "baseball."

Good girl.

(Take that, Pop)