In case you weren't aware, a Major League Baseball game is not a developmentally appropriate activity for a one-year-old. Not in the slightest.
I spent the greater part of two hours holding and chasing Baby B, and sweating my butt off. Lord have mercy, it was sweltering.
We were so busy entertaining Baby B that we didn't even have a single second to take a picture. And you know I brought the camera along. It was just that you can't really set your child down to explore in a baseball stadium while you try to snap a couple of candids. Mainly because there are half-full cokes to dump and/or dip your hand into, peanut shells to stomp on, and scary baby-snatching looking people to defend your kid from. Probably not, but you can never be too safe.
Did I mention we were in the nose-bleed section?
Anyway, Baby B already thinks it's way uncool to hold my hand, so that was out of the question. He wanted to walk alone. Without an escort. And exclaim loudly how unfair it was that I would actually expect that he would have an interest in me, when there were water fountains to drink out of. It was not sufficient that I let him drink out of the water fountain 14 times in a row. He kept pushing for the 15th, but I had to draw the line somewhere.
Especially since I am certainly not one of those parents that would allow my child to get his way just so to prevent Public Temper Tantrum #48.
And I am certainly not the kind of parent that would request that my husband FIND THE NEAREST ICE CREAM VENDOR IMMEDIATELY so that I could sit in my actual seat for the four minutes it took him to slurp it down.
Nope, I would never seek solace in calorie-laden, sprinkle topped soft-serve.
So, yeah, I'm thinking future baseball games are out of the question...or at least until Baby B can speak and write what RBI and MLB stand for.
However, the tickets were free, we hung out with our neighbors (who are moving! major sad face!), and we each left with a collectible bobble head.
So, someday in the next five years when I'm tucking Baby B into bed, and he points to the baseball player bobble head perched on the shelf above his bed and asks me to tell him where it came from, I'll let out a lingering sigh and tell him of the night when his mother nearly lost her sanity over a trip to many to the water fountain. The end.