Family Matters

Yesterday, we went to Valpo to help Clare clean her apartment and pack.  In two weeks, she graduates with a master’s in sports’ administration.  Where does it say exactly the parent has to lug around the adult kid’s stuff?

After we cleaned and filled my car with boxes and whatnot, we had sandwiches and coffeecake.  (For those of you who’ve never had real coffeecake, my sympathies.  Truly, you have no idea what you’re missing.  Hint: The secret’s in the butter.)  Of course, the White Sox game was on, a titanic struggle with the Orioles from Baltimore that lasted clear through the drive back home; the forces of good won.  It could be me, but O’s manager Buck Showalter is starting to resemble Ear Weaver.  Showalter might want to have that checked out.

Clare still has three posters over her bed, of Paul Konerko (Paulie!  Paulie!  Thanks!); Mike Trout (oh, to have drafted him); and Mickey Mantle, with a quote from Mantle about going up to bat every time looking to hit a homerun.  That as much as anything is my daughter’s philosophy to life.  And soon it will fill up our house again, along with all her stuff.