Saturday, September 7, 2013

Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…
 
As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.
 
So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.
It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.
The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.
To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.
New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.
And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.
I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember. 

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