We decided to take the kids to a baseball game. Because this is ‘Merica and that’s what we’re supposed to do. Except I forgot I dislike baseball. And sometimes I also dislike my kids.
We happened to choose a day hotter than #Trumpcat is trending. So there we are, sweat pouring from places that some people don’t wash – and we finally take our seats … 45 rows up and directly in the sun.
The literal hypersecond we sat down, my 4-year old claims he is “so so so so soooo hungry” so we head back down to get a snack. Did I already ask him if he was hungry 10 minutes ago before we climbed Everest to get to our seats?
Of course I did.
So we travel down to the food area and it’s no surprise that he has changed his mind. He wants a Hawaiian ice. So after waiting in the forever line and getting the kid an overpriced cup of ice and high fructose corn syrup, we were headed back to our seats to sweat some more.
I have been sitting for thislong when my toddler comes and sits in my lap. Then I smell it and I think “I’m not dealing with this shit right now” and check the back of his diaper for the concrete proof of what I had suspected. Well – not only did I get proof – it was coming out of his diaper and a nice sized chunk plopped out of the back when I lifted his shirt.
So now I panic.
We are in a very public area and I’m now pretty sure the teenagers behind are now so horrified that we don’t have to worry about them contributing to the teen pregnancy epidemic.
So now – what to do with A) the disgusting child and B) the live grenade that is directly below my feet?
For problem “A” I send Daddy-o to change the precious little angel’s diaper. Then on to problem “B.”
Of course I have no napkins of any kind (see Hawaiian ice reference), so I take a spoon and shovel up the steaming divot and dump it into a water cup.
By now hubby and angel baby are back – but there is still a wretched smell afoot.
I investigate and determine that the incident claimed an innocent victim – my son’s shirt. Did I pack a spare? Not a chance. So we trek down to the gift shop because they have to carry kids’ sizes, right? Wrong.
And since I brought both boys with me I was conned into yet another Hawaiian ice. We return to our seats – one child with a smelly shirt and another on the verge of a sugar coma – only to realize the game was ending.
All of us are exhausted and I’m pretty sure I didn’t see any of the actual baseball game.
Who won? I’m pretty sure it was the guy selling the Hawaiian ice.
Amber Brentwood is a working mom, just trying to make it each day and not raise serial killers. By day she works in marketing. By night she is trying to keep everyone alive, (mostly) clean, and occasionally she cooks dinner. She lives in Florida with her two boys, husband, 3 cats, a dog and a large wine refrigerator.
