Don't waste your vote

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This morning on the news, I listened to a disgruntled Hillary Clinton supporter say that she may vote for John McCain or not vote at all because she has been so hurt by the Democratic party's process.  Look, I understand that she is upset that her candidate didn't get the nomination (this time), and I agree with her wholeheartedly that the DNC needs to overhaul its process so that we don't have such a long, drawn-out, divisive primary season in elections to come.  But she -- and any other HRC supporters out there considering the same -- have to listen to Hillary herself.  You have much more in common with Barack Obama than you have with John McCain and his ultra-conservative running mate Sarah Palin.  Unless you have suddenly become pro-life, pro-gun, pro-drilling in protected lands, anti-sex education, believe that the war in Iraq is God's work and want a president who has voted with George W. Bush 90% of the time, you have to support Barack Obama, just like Hillary does.  Don't you remember the last two elections and how close they were?  Hillary Clinton has urged you to make sure we put a Democrat in the White House this November, and I beg you to do the same by showing up to vote for the person the DNC has put forth as its candidate.  Get involved in the DNC. Write Howard Dean nasty letters about the process that upset you so.  But for goodness' sake, don't waste your vote.

Baby Proofing

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Yeah, sure, we have the requisite outlet covers and baby gates to protect our little ones.  We even have some nifty cabinet locks, which keep them away from the nasty items under the kitchen sink which seem to work well and oven locks for the two doors of our 1956 Roper range -- oh wait, we haven't installed those yet.

Thankfully, Josephine didn't start out this lovely Wednesday by putting her head in the oven. Even Sylvia would want her to wait longer.  She did however, select as her first toy of the morning, a bottle of yellow food coloring.  Yep, you guessed it, the kitchen floor is yellow.  Josephine's jammies have yellow spots all over them.  Her hands and feet are yellow -- as are mine.  Lucy was spared, thankfully.  How would I ever explain two yellow-dyed babies?

You're probably thinking that this episode inspired me to close the pantry door and keep a closer eye on my young toddler.  Well, the pantry door is closed.  

Less than an hour later, while I nursed the little one, I see the big one playing with the tiny -- virtually useless -- drawer on an end table in our living room.  When I ask her to come to Mama, what do I pull from her mouth?  A screw.  Great.  She also has in her hands the rest of her bounty from the drawer:  two boxes of matches and a battery.  Since I've taken the screw away, the battery is the next best item on which to chew.  Mmmmm.  Yummy.   The matches?  They are nothing more than little rattles -- the little wood sticks make a great shaky noise in the cardboard box.

Why are these items randomly stored in this end table drawer?  Just the haphazardness of our pre-parenting days, I suppose.  Most of our dangerous items reside well out of the reach of little hands nowadays, even if it is a pain in the neck for us.  But baby proof?  The only real proof here is that children are never as safe as you'd like them to be, that something always lurks.  There is only so much control we can have -- we have to hold on loosely and guide as best we can, hoping that we've at least taken away the most hazardous hazards and that our children will learn how to keep themselves safe.  

For an interesting view on the idea of control and how it applies to parenting and politics, read my friend DoulaMomma's blog from yesterday.  And if you don't read her blog regularly, you should!

Tears

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All of the family photo albums my parents made when my brother and I were little kids include classic shots of me in tears.  I guess it is pretty funny in retrospect, but it sure didn't seem so at the time.  Now seeing my daughter in tears makes me wonder about the frustration kids must feel so often growing up.  Trying new things -- failing -- sometimes succeeding -- it must be stressful.  Since I've been a mom, it seems clear to me that this frustration is why we don't remember being babies.  Learning to eat and walk, growing teeth, climbing stairs and furniture and falling on our butts or our heads -- the stakes are too high for it to not be monumentally frustrating.  So once we learn it, we forget it -- or the process of it, anyway.  

Some people say they don't remember the pain of childbirth.  Maybe this is a similar thing -- it is so meaningful that we don't want it to live in our memories negatively -- we want it to be filled with the tearful kisses and joy of holding that new life for the first time.


Triumph!

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I got out of the house today!  Ok, ok -- I know all of you who are not encumbered with two under two have no idea how BIG this is -- just humor me for a second.  My next door neighbor, who has a newborn and a 2 1/2 year old and I, with my newborn and my 14-month old, loaded up our double strollers and walked to Milo Borden Park.  The babies slept in their strollers and enjoyed the shade and the breeze.  The big girls got to swing and climb and slide and run around.  The mammas chased and spotted and gabbed.  Not a bad effort, I must say.  We even laughed as we panted our way up the hill that had been a pleasant downward roll on the way to the park.  It felt so good to be out in the sunshine and to stretch my legs. I feel like I've been sitting for months.  The kids looked adorable enjoying what might be one of the nicest days of the summer.  Pictures, you ask?  Oh, gimme a break!  I was lucky I remembered to bring the children.

Paranoia, not so concealed

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In the news yesterday was a story about the Harrold, Texas school district, which will allow its teachers to carry concealed firearms "to deter and protect against school shootings when classes begin next month."  As an educator, I am shocked and disappointed.  Schools have long been gun-free zones, and the group behind the decision to allow teachers to come to school packing heat suggests that this is the cause of some of the school shootings with which we are all too familiar.  Funny, I don't remember any of the disturbed teens referencing this federal policy as the reason behind their rampages.  I do remember kids who clearly had serious problems that went unnoticed or just avoided.  The story says that the district researched other options.  I wonder what those might have been?  Has the Harrold, Texas school district already maximized its security efforts with guards and metal detectors?  Has the district initiated a robust intervention program for students who display signs of trouble?  Was it just easier and cheaper to tell the teachers to defend themselves with guns?

What kind of a lesson is this for students?  I have always felt as an educator that my most important job was to demonstrate to my high school students appropriate adult behavior, civility, manners, and compassion.  It would never occur to me, despite the fact that I've taught in two tough districts -- the Bronx, NY and Newark, NJ -- to carry a gun.  My protection has always been treating others with respect.  And you know what? I was respected in return.  This is the lesson that I want my students to learn, not that they can "protect" themselves if they carry a weapon.

Let's hope that Harrold, Texas is the first and last district to make such a poor policy.

What day is it?

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Sitting up with Lucy in the early, early morning hours, I was thinking about why I have trouble keeping track of what day it is.  It's pretty simple, actually:  weekends are no longer days off.  Obviously, being a mom is a 24/7/365 kind of job.  But since the schedule never changes (or since there never is a schedule -- I'm not sure which), all the days are the same.  This isn't necessarily a bad thing.  I don't have that feeling of dread anymore that was the staple of late Sunday afternoon and evening; I used to get it right around the time the second NFL game started.  I don't have to switch gears for the Monday morning rush and then again for the Friday getaway.  It's all the same, sweatpanted, barfed-on, baby-snuggling bliss.

On the flip side, my husband has to go from day job to night job on weekdays. Weekends are like the second job that doesn't pay well but gets you to the next paycheck. Even though he never stops being a dad (obviously) it's almost like moonlighting.  Don't tell the boss if you need to be out one day to take care of family business.  Try to appear to have had 8 hours of sleep and a good workout when in reality you had 4 hours of sleep and did 547 laps around the upstairs trying to ease the gas bubbles out of the newborn's belly.  I suppose it is a workout.

People hold weekends sacred because they can let it all hang out.  Since mine hangs out all the time, the need to day-worship has disappeared -- and so has some of that great anticipation of free time to come.  What am I doing this weekend?  All the same mundane diaper-changing and feeding things I did Monday through Friday -- hopefully just in the company of my husband.

Pop-up books

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Josephine loves pop-up books and lift-the-flap books. Anything by Karen Katz is a favorite.  She is obsessed with a Strawberry Shortcake pop-up that requires the reader to sing along with some tinny tunes.  (I confess to hiding this one from her, but of course, she's already figured it out.) 
Lately her goal seems to be to muscle the flap or pop-up right out of the book, but still, these are the ones she very seriously carries to me each day to read to her over and over again.  I recently read The Crawly Caterpillar to her, and it reminded me so much of my recent pregnancies and births:

The Crawly Caterpillar
by Judith Nicholls

Underneath a droopy leaf,
something small and yellow lay.
Who was waiting in the egg,
and who just flew away?
Something wiggled, wriggled, jiggled,
then crawled out on leafy green.
It nibbled, gnawed, and guzzled,
until the leaf could not be seen!
It nibbled, gnawed, and guzzled.
It grew and grew and grew!
"I'm sleepy now," said the caterpillar.
"I know just what I must do."
She turned into a chrysalis
and hid there, dark and still.
She slept, she dreamt, she waited;
she waited there until...
Her hiding place split open.
Out she crept with folded wings!
She spread them wide and wondered,
"Just what are these fluttery things?"
She raised them high, then higher
into the summer sky,
and sang down to her garden,
"I am a butterfly!"

Family dinner

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My husband, my two daughters, and I went out to dinner tonight.  Mostly, Michael just wanted to get me out of the house.  We attempted to go to the new branch of the Village Trattoria in South Orange, NJ, but we were not impressed by what we found when we got there.  Basic pizza place.  We decided to split and head over to Arturo's in Maplewood -- also a pizza place, but so much more.  The special pasta was fazzoletti with locally-grown organic beet greens and parmigiano reggiano.  Come on!  Why eat anywhere else?  This pasta was perfect -- hand cut and beautifully cooked.  The greens were soft but smoky from a little red onion (or maybe it was shallot) and the whole dish a bit salty from the parmigiano.  mmmmmmmm.  

Only slightly better than the food was the sight of Josephine assisting her father in demolishing Arturo's famous margherita pizza (not available for delivery due to quality control issues -- I LOVE this place).  It was a large pie.  As soon as Josephine ate the bits of pizza we gave her, she would motion to the pie and grunt.  Repeatedly.  Until she was given more to devour.  (Similar to her dad, I must say.)  Usually Josephine has piles of food in her bib and highchair after a meal, but not tonight.  She also gobbled up two of four handmade ravioli.  She ate as though we starve her at home -- and we don't.  I guess she really is our daughter, huh?

Of course I didn't have my camera with us.  I took some cell phone pictures, and if I can figure out how to get them off of my phone, I'll post them.  Until then, go to Arturo's and get yourself whatever the genius there has on special and one of those margherita pies, too.  

Good times

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It is a rare moment here in the Gallo household. Everyone is asleep except me. Josephine, now 13 months old, went easily to sleep for her morning nap. It only took two rounds of "Twinkle, twinkle" and five minutes of rocking -- possibly a lifetime best for the child who doesn't want to miss a thing. Lucy, now 13 days old, fell asleep on her Dad's shoulder after passing enough gas that she could lay flat in her bassinet. My husband crawled into our nest, and now he, too, sleeps.

It is strange to not be holding anyone, to not be nursing a baby or getting someone a snack or a bottle or a clean diaper.

Don't get me wrong: these days since Lucy's arrival have been joyous. Her birth was a journey I shall not soon forget, and her arrival a true turning point in my life. But there is something about being just me -- just me -- and having time (and two hands) to do something -- anything -- that seems almost naughty. My goal for the coming months and years of being home with the children is to find more of these moments. It is no small task with two under two -- even with all the help I get -- but so worth it.

While I was writing this, I heard the bell of the knife sharpener outside. This is an event I wait for all summer -- taking my knives out to his van and watching him sharpen them makes me excited to cook yummy things. But I let him pass today so I could write this -- I can always call him to come back. It's not as romantic as the surprise visit, but I couldn't risk puncturing the near silence of nap time.

My bonnie lies over the ocean

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A funny:

One of the songs I thought to sing to Josephine was "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean." I had the first part down:

My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea
My Bonnie lies over the ocean

But then I couldn't remember the melody of the next line. I knew the words, but I couldn't attach them to the right notes. I could also remember everything after that one hateful line:

Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me

Egads! It's not exactly a difficult tune. This is, I thought, my personal idea of hell. After all, I have a Bachelor's and a Master's degree in opera singing. But I could not, for the life of me, think of how to sing the line "Oh bring back my Bonnie to me". This discomfort made me sing it even more incorrectly -- and over and over -- in an attempt to find the melody. I could almost hear it, but for some reason I couldn't get it out of my mouth.

So finally I called my dad -- known for his twist but not so much for his vocal stylings -- and had him sing it. Well, he didn't quite have it either, but we went back and forth and back and forth, and I finally found it. We laughed about it, and he, of course, wondered about all that money spent on voice lessons and college degrees -- sigh. It took me another two days of singing it wrong then right to finally be able to do it consistently. What a triumph.

I was so excited to sing it to Josephine and to rock and sway with her just like the very ocean itself. I could imagine her big toothless grin and fancied it might even earn me a giggle. I sang it for the first time correctly straight through and what did she do? She burst into tears.

Big shots

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For the second time in four months, I held my daughter as the pediatrician gave her three vaccinations. These two moments have been, by far, the most unpleasant of my brief experience as a mom.

First, I should say how much I like our pediatrician. Besides his excellent credentials and the glowing references from other moms, he's just a nice guy. I remember thinking when I interviewed him that he's a person I wouldn't mind seeing just a few hours after giving birth. He makes time for as many questions as I have and doesn't make me feel stupid -- other doctors should take note. He's really fast with the injections, but it doesn't make it any better. Josephine lets out wails unlike any other in her repertoire, which widens by the day. Part of it is clearly shock, because until that moment, she is being cuddled and played with -- but part of it is just plain, ol' physical pain. She turns red and hot. She remains fussy for days.

The pediatrician believes emphatically that the benefits of vaccines far outweigh the risks. He dismisses the possibility of a link to autism, the rate of which is much higher in New Jersey than in other states. He even endorses the much debated cervical cancer vaccine for young girls. I am not looking forward to making a decision about that -- the commercials for it turn my stomach. I have seen the pharmaceutical salespeople pitching it to my primary care physicians, and I'm just so skeptical. The next big shot for Josephine, however, is the MMR (measles, mumps and rubella), the vaccine most debated by the mothering community.

The television actor Jenny McCarthy has recently written a book about her experience in dealing with her son's diagnosis of austism. I am eager to read her book and weigh it as Josephine grows through the vaccination years, especially since we live in New Jersey. Once dismissed as a blonde bimbo and now dismissed as a wacko-mother, Jenny believes there to be a strong connection between a vaccine and her son's autism. Her general theory, as I understand it, is that a kid's system is like a big pot. Each kid has a certain amount of toxicity, allergens, etc. that will fit into her pot. Once that pot overflows, symptoms of the autism spectrum can occur. The medical community is in a huff, of course, but doesn't this theory on some level make sense?

Lately in medicine, it is what we don't know that bothers me, or rather the fact that we clearly don't know something but are given instructions as to how to deal with it. Doctors seem too eager to say that this or that is the prevention, the treatment, the cure -- even though we don't really know. We are given prescriptions upon prescriptions without looking deeper and wider at the cause of dis-ease. We are given definitive instructions based on approximated analyses, and frankly I'm not satisfied. I wonder why so many are.

As an infant, my daughter can't speak for herself, but if she could, I know she would tell me she doesn't like being vaccinated. It's not that she's worried about the trace quantities of thimerosal; it just hurts. This alone isn't a reason to avoid it, but are growing autism numbers more convincing? We just don't know. What's a mother to do? I know that I will put off the MMR for as long as possible. That way maybe her pot will be big enough to take the toxin whallop it delivers without overflowing-- and maybe by then I'll be strong enough to rock her through the pain feeling more confident in my decision.

Tears

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I admit it. On the night the Chicago Cubs won the National League Central Division, tears came to my eyes more than once. For only the second time in my life, I would get to root for my beloved team in the postseason. It was the beginning of a dream come true. I watched the players spraying champagne, hootin' and hollerin', and talking about eleven more wins. I heard them answer all the easy questions that follow a win. I should have known better. I did know better.

The Cubs 2007 postseason appearance was brief. They were a three-game wonder. In 2003, Steve Bartman took the blame for the end of their run. So who gets the blame this year? Well, let's see. The pitching staff that couldn't throw strikes when they needed to. The offense that ended the NLDS with a .194 average. There were nine runners left on base by the Cubs in Game 3 as they lost 5-1 to the Arizona Diamondbacks. They hit into four double plays in the loss that left them swept. There were no clutch performances. For years Cubs fans have been asking the front office to spend some money on personnel, to keep up with the Joneses -- I mean the Yankees. So this year we got some big-bucks players. And what did they do in the three games that mattered most? Not much. We saw Lilly giving up homers and hits and walks. We saw Soriano striking out -- a lot. Not even D. Lee could save this sorry scene. Not even Sweet Lou.

After I wrote my first blog about my life as a Cubs fan, my dad emailed me to correct two items. First, he reminded me that I misspelled pennant because, of course, as a Cubs fan I haven't had much practice in writing the word. He also reminded me that I am not a third-generation, but a fourth-generation Cubs fan. This is quite a legacy. My great grandfather, Giuseppe Ciacioppo, was a rabid Cubs fan, and, my dad writes, "was alive when the team last won the World Series, and according to legend was at a World Series game, standing in the pastoral outfield." Lucky Giuseppe. We're all lucky that Wrigley Field still stands after all the subsequent losing that has taken place there. We have to be careful that the Cubs aren't sold to someone who doesn't understand that we don't need a nicer stadium or a move to Texas or somewhere else. We just need eleven more wins.

My newborn daughter is named Josephine, after my maternal grandmother who was a big sports fan, too. But her name clearly has more history than just that. My father's name is Joseph, and for those of you who aren't paesans, Giuseppe is Joseph in Italian. She's a legacy, too -- and, I might add, a fifth-generation Cubs fan. My dad had suggested that maybe the Cubs were meant to win it all this year -- for how else could they win their division with an 85 and 77 record? But maybe the gods have made us all wait so that Josephine would be old enough to understand and celebrate such a feat with us. Or maybe ninety-nine years just isn't long enough and we need to wait that perfect 100 years for our next World Series. You see, I am already thinking about next year. As a Cubs fan, I have to believe in next year. So I do.

I'm not usually a group activity kind of person,

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... but I've been wanting to try one of those baby and me yoga classes. Yesterday, I happened to meet a yoga teacher as I searched for a copy of The Motherhood. The yoga studio was known to carry it, so I stopped in. After helping me find the publication, the warm Erica Furman looked at me and said, "You should come to yoga tomorrow!" So this morning, Josephine and I headed out to Shakti Ma Yoga and Living Arts. ( www.shaktinj.com) I was the first to arrive for the class and a bit early, but I was immediately made to feel comfortable. When I lived in the city and practiced yoga, the rules -- those written and unwritten -- could be overwhelming and intimidating. None of those vibes were in the air at Shakti.

For moms like me, transitioning from a career to maternity leave can be a strange and sometimes lonely proposition. It was neat to see seven moms like me -- looking a little weird in either their too-big maternity clothes or their too-small regular clothes -- enter with their babies and prepare for an hour or so to connect. The babies ranged in age from seven weeks to about five months. We were encouraged to play with our babies as we practiced, to stop and nurse and/or change diapers when necessary, and to include the children in poses when we could. And it was wonderful.

Let's face it. I'm fat and unstylish at the moment, but as I practiced, I felt true beauty well to the surface. As I laughed and giggled with my daughter -- who couldn't figure out why on earth mommy was doing all those crazy things -- I felt great. Even though my muscles and joints were stiff and slow to find each posture, I was happy to be where I was. Surrounded by women experiencing some of the same rites of passage that I am, I was supported. Erica led us through eight sun salutations that left each of us with a glow. I could feel my loose abdomen tightening as I connected with the earth and the sun and moon above.

By the end of the class, many of us were nursing. Babies who had gotten grumpy and fussy were calmed. We OMed together to close. Erica invited everyone to hang out and nurse as long as we wanted. A few of us did and chatted a bit. Josephine nursed until she fell asleep on a soft purple pillow. I think we were all pretty content. There was something about this group that was just what I needed -- something that helped me connect with the world and also with myself.

The Sweatsuit Alternative

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I'm a little upset with Tim Gunn.

As a Project Runway fan, I was excited to see his new makeover show, Tim Gunn's Guide To Style, debut this month. I was particularly interested to hear his silhouette advice to women with fit difficulties -- this seemed tailor made (pun obviously intended) for women like me, those of us not blessed with the 5' 10" 125-pound body. The show's promos suggested a kinder, gentler version of TLC's What Not To Wear. So far, it certainly hasn't been a grand slam. Both Tim and his cohost, supermodel Veronica Webb, seem a little stiff yet; perhaps there are some first-season jitters to work through.

One of the ideas behind the show is that a woman's closet needs ten essential items. I love this concept, and the closet cleansing through which Tim and Veronica coach their guests. Most of the women I know have the tendency to buy too many poorly made, ill-fitting "fashions" that don't necessarily flatter them. The cleanse leads women to keep the clothes that make them look and feel terrific. Many of the essential items are expected: a skirt, a trench coat, a blazer, etc. As someone who has a tendency to buy too many grey t-shirts and the daughter of someone who buys too many turtlenecks, I like the idea of having a shopping (or closet-purging) list of must-haves.

That brings me to "the sweatsuit alternative." In the two episodes of the show I've seen, the women are encouraged to find something to wear in place of a sweatsuit -- and in both cases the alternative was a short, bare dress. WIth all due respect, these women -- one a working mother of three and the other a pediatrician -- need comfortable clothes for running errands or doing housework or just hanging out with friends that don't require strappy designer sandals and specialty undergarments. My guess is that Tim has never tried to heave his strapped-in-the-12-pound-car-seat child into the back seat while balancing a stack of slippery, plastic-wrapped dry cleaning. Doing this while managing to keep a strapless bra from slipping down to my waist would probably qualify for the 35+ Summer X Games.

I don't know if the show is too NYC-centric or just out-of-touch with what real women actually do during the day. Perhaps both are true. I don't know -- even when I lived a more fashionable life in Manhattan, it would never have appealed to me to run errands in a halter dress. The fact of the matter is that women need functional clothes infused with a touch or so of fashion that fit well and wash well. I wish that one of these women had challenged this particular outfit, or at least questioned it. Ladies, how are those little dresses working out for you?

Perhaps I really have lost track of the fashionable me, but I don't think so. When I'm wearing cargo capris (a no-no, according to the experts) and a t-shirt in a pretty color that hugs my curves, I can still look pulled together while having a place to stash a half-consumed bottle, a paci, and my car keys. I feel beautiful when I see my husband gazing at me as I hold and nurse our daughter, not when I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that might make my legs look longer. So where is the middle ground? I would love to have Tim and Veronica help me clean my closet and shop for clothes that fit me properly, but I'd need something that really is a sweatsuit alternative rather than a pipe dream.

September baseball is the best baseball

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My husband is not a very good Cubs fan. He wants to be, but as a Yankees fan, he just doesn't understand what it's like to wait. And wait. And hope. And believe -- and then to be let down. Way down, usually. I am a third generation Cub fan, and so I'm more than accustomed to having my hopes dashed, or as has more often been the case, for there to not have been hopes to begin with. For the last ninety-nine years, the Cubbies have only rarely been in a pennant race, let alone in the playoffs.

Last night, the Cubs won a nail-biter in the ninth, as Bob Howry struck out two to give the team a 3-2 victory over the Reds. I enjoyed every pitch of that last inning like it was the World Series. In a way, it was the World Series for me. How many times in my thirty-seven year life have pitches meant so much? As the battle for the NL central continues, every game counts -- the Brewers sharing the same goal as the Cubs -- the penant and a spot in the 2007 post-season race. In a way, the Brewers are just as unlikely as the Cubs, since both teams are barely above .500, but the Brew Crew started the season hot, hot, hot. It is thanks to their slide, in part, that Lou Piniella and the Cubs are even in the conversation.

It's possible that my friends who are Red Sox fans can understand what this is like. Watching the Cubs is a thrill and torture all at the same time. It is a game-by-game, inning by inning journey, taking nothing for granted. Think about it: in recent history we've had two of the greatest pitchers to accomplish nothing (Prior and Wood), the unsung pitching hero who finally gets his due (Zambrano) and a closer who, well -- has trouble closing (Dumpster -- oh, I mean Dempster). We had -- dare I even mention him -- Bartman. Don't get me started about Rothschild or Hendry. I'll just get too mad. So the Cubs finally spent some money on players in the off-season, and now we're blessed with Lilly, Soriano, and DeRosa, to name a few. But did this get us an easy ride through lame NL Central? Nope. That would defy the ninety-nine year story line and the Billy Goat himself. Who are we to hope?

My dad thinks that maybe this year the Gods have ordained it. He grew up in the shadows of Wrigley Field and often attended games with my grandmother. He's waited seventy-one of the ninety-nine year drought. Last year we bought him a paver to commemorate all that waiting and hoping. So maybe he's right? What else could have kept the Cubbies in the race?But here's the thing -- even if the Cubs do win the division -- it's that or nothing as the wild card is way out of reach -- think of all the great teams they'd have to beat to win it all. The Diamondbacks. The Mets (if they don't blow it). What ever slugging team the AL puts forth. Oy. In April, it seemed like the Brewers had been chosen, but now I'm not so sure. The Cubs have had some great comebacks this year -- is momentum building? Maybe Harry Caray is up there working some kind of voodoo. I don't know. I just know that I cringe every morning when I check the standings. It's crazy, but I am still, dare I say it? Hopeful.