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.

Tips for pulling off a nervous breakdown so no one will notice and your life will still be there waiting for you when you feel better

Yeah, I know.  Nerves don't literally break down.  I learned that in my junior high health class (thanks, Mrs. Roberts!), although as a veteran of periodic major depressive episodes, I think the phrase hits as close to the mark as any other description out there, so I feel ok using it.

Anyway, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of the rabbit hole again--haven't gone down it yet, so yay!--but I've decided to remind myself of some of the strategies I've compiled over the years that help me manage myself.  I've also decided to share them here in case they're useful for you or someone you love.  And please.  Not everything works for everybody.  When I first rattled off this list to my friend Louise, she plunked her head down on the table where we were writing and said, "Gah.  This list depresses me even more.  THANKS A LOT, ANN."  And then she didn't move from the table for a couple of weeks.

So there's that.  Still.  It's a good list for me.  And I'll be sharing a few ideas here during this upcoming week.

1.  Read non-fiction.   I know.  This sounds totally random, so let me explain.  We read fiction because we want a) characters who have b) problems that aren't c) easily solved.  And the more problems they have, the more engaging the narrative.  But when I'm REALLY depressed, I don't characters with problems in my life.  So if I can read at all--I have a hard time with both concentration and retention when depression sits in--I read non-fiction.  NOT THAT HISTORICAL PEOPLE DIDN'T HAVE PROBLEMS.  The Romanovs down in that cellar with the bolsheviks, for example, come to mind.  But there's a certain distance in non-fiction's narrative style which I find soothing.

Friday Thoughts on Tulips and Natural Habitats

So walking is my current anti-depressant drug of choice these days, which is why I've spent more time than usual out and about in my neighborhood.

Today as I was walking to 7-11 in the rain to buy a can of Campbell's tomato soup (which is kind of a depressing sentence, actually), I noticed a bed of tulips and was struck by how saturated their colors were.  So vivid!  So glistening!  So pink and yellow pearly!

It hit me that while these tulips might also be lovely with the sun shining on their throats, they're far more beautiful in the rain.  Why?  Because they were invented in the Netherlands, a country that experiences over 700 days of rain a year.  The Netherlands is an overachiever that way.  Tulips love rainy days.  Let the drops fly and they're all about showing off their sturdy fancy selves.

Me, I don't much like the rain.  But today I'm giving the rain high fives for making my little walk just that much more satisfying.

Thank you, Rain!

Dogs and Lessons Not Learned

We have three dogs now, including a 120-pound Newfie that makes the ground shake when she busts out her running shoes and takes off after a squirrel.

Living with three dogs causes Ken Cannon and me to have the following conversation on a regular basis:

ME:  Didn't we have three dogs that one time before?

KC:  Yes.

ME:  Didn't we say we'd never do that again?

KC:  Yes.

ME:  So why did we do that again?

KC:  Because we're a halfway house for other people's dogs.  And also because we apparently never learn our lessons.

ME:  Well, this time we've learned our lesson FOR REAL.  After these three cross the rainbow bridge, it's only one dog for us.  And possibly a cat.  But only one cat.

KC:  Of course.

ME:  Except, you know, dogs are social beings.  So maybe we'll have two . . .

And so it goes.

On blogging in a post-blogging era

I started this blog years ago at the suggestion of my great friend Lisa Bickmore.  And, lo, it has served me well as a place to capture the moment--bits of ideas and experiences and memories that I often later turned into full-blown columns.

Well, things changed.  How, you ask?  Let me list a few of the ways.

1.  Blogging seems to be less relevant or popular or whatever.  People have moved over to Instagram or Twitter or Facebook.

2.  I started losing interest in blogging myself.  I was all been there, done that.

3.  Besides, I still had my column in the Trib.

Long story short, I more or less abandoned the blog.

And then around Christmas I got the news that the Trib would be eliminating my column.

I wasn't surprised by the news.  Papers everywhere are trying to figure out their next move and the feeling downtown was that the column wasn't pulling its own weight.  That happens--many columns have limited life spans--and I accepted the news reasonably well, especially since I still have the advice column, which is a joy to write.

What I didn't expect was how much I miss writing that column.  I've done a version of it for almost 35 years--first at Parent Express, then at The Deseret News, and finally at The Trib.  The column allowed me to record a variety of life experiences while I was in the middle of them.  What a great gig!  And I'm so grateful to all those readers and editors who gave me that opportunity.

I tinkered with the idea of publishing in other arenas--and maybe I can still do that.  But it occurred to me that my blog was still here, just waiting for me to throw something random at it a few times each week.

So here I am.  Still.

Thanks for dropping by.

Ghosts

I'm 62 years old now and the thing about being 62 is that you're more aware of your ghosts than you were when you were younger.

Here's what I mean.

We just got back from a lovely weekend in St. George where (among other things) I listened to the sounds of boys playing basketball across the street.  And for a split second I thought they were MY boys, ballin' like Stalin with their dad and also my dad who always played with his elbows UP.

("I hate playing basketball against your dad," a kid in our ward told me when we were growing up.  "He steps on my toes whenever I go up for a shot.")

It took me a minute to remember that oh yeah.  Those boys showboating out there on the basketball court?  They belong to other mothers.  My boys and I, we're all living another life now.  Still, I'm grateful for the ghosts who sometimes show up and remind me of who we used to be.

Little Red Riding Rodeo Queen Hood

So.

My Mother, the Rodeo Queen, has always been this long-legged cowgirl from the hinterlands of Wyoming who could out-eat fifty football players at the evening training table and still stay reed slim.

I, on the other hand, am naturally built like a football player at the evening training table, albeit a super short one.  That's me.  A miniature football player.   And also a miniature football player  who totally sucks at throwing.  But whatever.  The point is I've always had to watch my weight and yes.  I've spent many years watching my weight go up.

Now, even though she's in her 80's, TRQ still eats like a champ, something I remembered Friday morning when we went out for breakfast together.  When I looked in her car, I noticed she had her basket of goodies in the front seat with her.  Crackers.  Toffee.  Licorice.  Perhaps an apple or two although I'm not sure I saw any fruit this time and, truly, the fruit is mostly for show.

Why the basket?  You know.  To keep her strength up as she journeys from Provo to Salt Lake and back again.

Seeing that basket made all kinds of happiness bubble up inside of me.  I love my big alive TRQ.