It starts with a giraffe

It starts with a giraffe

I have been addicted to April the giraffe.

For those of you who have no idea who I am talking about, April is a pregnant giraffe in an animal park somewhere in America. She is very, very pregnant and is being filmed on Facebook live. At any given time, hundreds of people are watching this poor pregnant giraffe pace the confines of her pen.

We are all just waiting to see the miracle of a giraffe giving birth.

Why? I can only assume that is has something to do with feeling hopeful for a miracle. People make random comments like, “God bless you April, get some rest.” And then there are the naysayers, “Don’t you folks have anything better to do?” Dude, clearly you are addicted to April too, or you wouldn’t be commenting. And then fights break out in the comments. It is actually quite hysterical.

Some folks think that this a social experiment and that April isn’t pregnant at all. She did look thinner one day than she had the day before, but maybe the baby just shifted positions. Giraffes can be pregnant for about 15 months. 15 months. That is more than a year. (I am so smart.) Man, do I feel bad for April. I was two weeks late with son #1 and I was going bonkers. Poor April. If I had been on Facebook live for those weeks that I was late, my audience would have had the pleasure of watching a 250-pound 25-year-old eat tuna melt, pizzas, and Entenmanns Marshmallow Iced Devils Food Cake. They would have heard me talking to my unborn son, saying things like, “C’mon kid, don’t you want to meet me?” Now that is entertainment.

Speaking of son #1, I had another “When did I get so old” moment. He is now an umpire for TBO — the Teaneck Baseball Organization. An umpire. He is now the guy that all of the crazy parents yell at when their kid gets a strike or an out or a whatever they can get that is penalizing in baseball. My kid is now that guy.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was the crazy parent storming first base? (Well, I was the crazy parent yesterday, but it wasn’t at first base, it was probably just in my kitchen.) Wasn’t it just yesterday that son #1, in his 60-pound glory, was made the catcher because his coach was like 6 foot 4 inches tall, and poor son #1 was afraid to say no? His catcher’s gear weighed more than he did! I think that was yesterday.

Nope, it wasn’t. And now he is the proud owner of a TBO-issued “clicker,” which records the balls and strikes. He is a man. Does this mean I have to go to his games and make sure no crazy parents abuse him? That probably would not end well.

And speaking of baseball (see how seamlessly I am going from topic to topic?), spring is finally here! The grass is growing, the birds are chirping, the gosh-darn woodpecker is hammering away at my siding, and the New York Mets are back in action. Hope springs eternal — as every Mets fan knows, you just gotta believe! You gotta believe that this will be the year we win the pennant. Hey, if the Cubs could do it after 108 years, anything is possible. And this year is pretty special. It is my 25th college reunion (another seamless segue…). It is also husband #1’s 25th college reunion. (Yes, we went to the same college. Yes, we knew each other. No, we didn’t start dating until 2 years later.)

When I originally got the “Save the Date” in the mail, I thought it was for someone else. Twenty-five years since I graduated college? How is that possible? Where did all that time go? I loved college. I was able to take advantage of so many things because it was a small all-women’s institution. (Husband #1 went to the boys’ division of the college, just to be clear.) I was on the newspaper, the yearbook, drama society (I played a very distinguished gentleman in “The Importance of Being Earnest.” My college boyfriend had a hard time seeing me in full makeup with my three piece suit and mustache, but that is for another column.) It was amazing. And it was 25 years ago.

But look at all I have to show for it. I spend hours watching a pregnant giraffe, I have a son who is old enough to be an umpire, and I am still hopeful that this will be the year of the Mets. See, I just brought that all together.

May your spring bring hope, beautiful flowers and miracles. You can’t ask for more than that.

Banji Ganchrow’s children have accused her of not always being able to focus on one thing. She apologizes that this column has proven their point, but hope you enjoyed anyway!

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