We interrupt this lecture on mental health to bring you the following update . . .

So last night I drove out to Woods Cross to watch my three year-old grandson play in his first tee ball game.

I know.  Three!  He'll be four next week, though, so he's practically a teenager now.  And it must be said he's so excited that he literally has not taken off his uniform for the past five days.  Not even his new cleats.  Not even when he goes to bed.

Anyway, I figured he would be the youngest kid out on the field, but no.  It was a diaper derby with lots of happy dads telling their kids which way to run.  I practically died from happiness watching all of this because CUTE.  Also, because I remembered being there myself as a parent not so long ago.

The difference, though, is the level of engagement.  Back in the day I really CARED how my kids played.  And, seriously, I was pretty much that parent you could hate because I harassed umpires and made many inappropriate comments and basically behaved like a lady jackass whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Bottom line.  I was never classy.

Last night, however, as I looked at the parents and the players, I realized how young I was then--and how watching my grandkid play will be a different experience.  Which is fine.  I'm glad I'm here to have it.

And, actually, that does bring me to Tip #2:  Watch baseball.

Ever since Gigi's dad paid me a dollar per game to scorekeep for our local little league--George was the president--I have followed baseball.  It's the perfect summer sport.  Relaxed and unrushed, it's all the things you want summer to be (even when it isn't).    But during my last major depressive episode, which hit at the height of summer, baseball turned out to be the only thing I could listen to or watch.  Why?  I'm not sure.  Maybe because of the sport's connection to my childhood.  Or maybe because a person doesn't need to pay close attention to know what's happening.  Or maybe because of baseball's sweet, unhurried rhythm.

Whatever the reason, I found myself turning on a game whenever I was at home--even if teams I ordinarily don't care about were involved.  (I'm looking at you, Tampa Bay.)  (No offense.)

Baseball turned out to be a constant and steadying presence during a time when I felt anything but constant and steady.

Thanks for that, Baseball.