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We took Bubs to a baseball game yesterday. First time in toddlerhood – we went last summer when he was only a few months old. I was nervous, knowing he likes to throw things, yell, run around, and generally just be a one year old.
We sat in the outfield, a few rows off the rail. Of course, no homeruns. Sorry if you’re a Nats or Twins fan. Me sitting in these seats guarantees no one in my section would see any action.
The game was right at nap time, so it was my hope that Bubs would just let me wear him and he’d fall asleep.
He was cranky and distracted. There was so much going on and he needed to at least watch it with a mush face as if he’s never smiled in his life.
At least he wasn’t yelling or trying to run around?
I decided to pop him in the carrier and get myself some food and drink around 2:30pm, a solid two hours after nap time.
Is there anything more glorious than a yard stick on a beautiful 75 degree day? No. Maybe a kid laughing, but whatever. Booze. I needed it. Bubs was on me most of the game worming around. I needed that drink. And those chicken fingers. Don’t judge me.
The best part? He fell asleep, and I could enjoy my drink and chicken fingers without having to play keep away or share.
Praise the alcohol gods for long straws.
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