Tonight was our second t-ball game with my son. I didn’t bring the camera tonight because I had a feeling it might not go well. First off, my husband couldn’t go because he had to work, but fortunately my sister came.
The game was at 7:15pm. Really, a t-ball game at 7:15. We did not get done until 8:45pm. The game started off okay. No one was crying (not yet anyway). About the third or fourth or fifth inning, my son was up to bat. I noticed him wiggling and moving a lot until he finally threw his bat down and ran over to me. He shouted, “I have to go potty!”. His coach looked questioningly at me and I raised up my hand and pointed to the port-o-potties.
Now by this time EVERYONE was staring at me and so I throw my son’s helmet to the ground and grab his hand and start running across the outfield – me and my big 8-month-pregnant belly. We get to the port-o-potties and I literally start gagging. I was so close to throwing up. I had to keep the door open. I have never been more thankful that I had a boy who could pee standing up. I even pulled my son out of there half dressed just so I could breath fresh air.
I HATE PORT-O-POTTIES. I know I would have lots of problems in a third world country but I am not going to think about that right now.
Once we got back to the game, things seemed to go okay until my son had a small break down. He was on the field with his team when he casually walked over to the fence and screamed, “I can’t do this anymore.” So then I called him over to me and we had a little “pep” talk. Finally he went back to his coach and continued to play.
Until . . . he was in the dugout and him and another little boy began to hit one another with their hats. I came over to stop the fighting and then my son started crying and begging to go home.
“Pep” talk number three involved him crying hard and putting his hands over his bottom like I was going to spank him right there in the dugout. I did not, but the story ended with him coming home and going straight to bed.
I commented to my sister that I thought labor might be less painful than sitting through a t-ball game and I am still convinced that it is. At least with labor you have the option of drugs.
I only have myself to blame I did sign him up. I am just wondering if we can make it through the season. We shall see.
UPDATE: I was telling my husband this story and how much I hate port-o-potties and he said, “Try using them in the desert of Kuwait for 4 months in 100 degree weather.” Well, that shut me up pretty quickly – thanks honey for serving our country and using port-o-potties in the Kuwatie desert. (He served in the Persian Gulf region for about 11 months for those who didn’t know).