My husband and I have no human children; we have feathered kids.
So it is with much irony that we find ourselves getting up at the crack of dawn on weekends for a travel tournament, riding around with two camp chairs in the trunk and a bag packed with Chapstick and sunscreen and tissues and binoculars. (The binoculars are for me, but some of the umps should use them.)
You see, our 9-year-old nephew plays baseball.
There is an “I” in family, but there should be “t-e-a-m” in there instead.
We’ve got the team jerseys to prove it.
