It's Not Like Baseball

Two of Katie’s favorite things about her husband (me) that make her head shake and her eyes roll–and, if you are a wife or a girlfirend, you know you know what I’m talking about–are color commentators: “He ran right through that huge hole created by the defense!” and the use of Baseball as metaphor for, you know, the uncertainty and beauty of life.
Both of which, I admit, are more stupid than anything (especially, color commentators). However (and I’m not saying this is like waiting for the next pitch when there are men on second and third, two out, full count, ninth inning, home team down by one at all), when Katie and I are sitting there, waiting for Max to go to sleep, there are moments so full of hope which are then dashed. . .but it’s not like baseball!
How did you like that run-on sentence? Mr. Wall and Mr. Rubish would be totally dissapointed.
Anyway, we’re in a little phase of letting Max get himself to sleep. We let him cry a little bit before we go into the kid’s room and, for the most part, it’s working. There are moments between his cries, moments of silence, when you think that could. be. the. last. one! Aaaannd, then it’s not. There’s a stretch of more crying, silence: this could be it! Aaand, then it’s not.
You know, it’s not like Baseball. It’s more like Deal or No Deal. And, no, we’re not watching that show! Well, only a little, ’cause it’s on before The Apprentice.