Foam Party

Last night we took Ethan to his first professional baseball game. Peanuts - even skin contact with peanuts or peanut shells - will cause him hives, best case, or anaphylaxis, worst case. So we have never been able to take him to a baseball stadium where he would be surrounded by thousands of peanut eaters and their discarded peanut shells.

Last night the minor league stadium near our home sponsored a peanut-free game. They clean the stadium extra well, wipe down seats, and serve no peanut products during the game. SOLD! Ethan was excited to see his first stadium baseball game. I was excited for beer.

I do not like sports. I do like shopping. And I do like alcohol and salty snacks. So if I can go to the souvenir stand with beer and bag of pretzels in hand to sustain my efforts, a sporting event might qualify as something sort-of-approaching fun.

We had great seats! Seats right behind home plate. Seats with backs. Even though we paid for seats in the bleacher section, my dad who tagged along with us sagely observed "since 2/3 of the stadium is empty I am sure they won't mind if we sit right up front to make it look more full." The lawyer mind appreciates a good defense. Who was I to argue?

As squatters, we were right up on the action. Every wad of spit, every ass pat, every foul word to the umpire, we had an unfettered view. Even with a stellar view, you know how it is with young children at adult events. Or with me.

Five minutes in: "Bored."

Someone hits something and someone else runs. There is some clapping.

"... still bored ... "

The mascot does a dance.

" ... and I'm hot ... it is hottttttt ... "

Ethan sighs and exchanges a look with Jeff. Jeff hands over twenty dollars and instructs me to head toward the souvenirs and get myself a beer. SCORE!

All sorts of good stuff at the shops. Caps, mini bats, glow-in-the-dark (!) bats, jerseys, baseballs in signature team colors. After I have selected my $15 eight-ounce microbrew (*Dirty Blonde, natch) I head back to our illegal seats to pick up a shopping accomplice.

"E, let's go get a toy! Want to pick out a souvenir?"

To my untrained eye it looks like the players are not doing much - some more spitting, a little more congratulatory ass-slapping. These acts must have some strategic significant lost on my non-sporting brain. Ethan does not answer, so intent is he on the action.

Jeff, however, practically tackles me. "NO, I want to take him to get his souvenir! It is his first game and I want to help pick it out!"

Those of you who know my husband recognize that he has strong views on very little.

Animal Testing? Huh.

Death Penalty? Meh.

Dafur? Yep. Sad.

His laid-back attitude serves to both frustrate and placate, as I am one with strong views on pretty much anything and everything. SPRING POLLEN! SWOLLEN ANKLES! INHUMANELY RAISED CHICKENS! Middle-of-the-road is often a soothing counterpoint to my points. Because there are only so many hours in the day one can spend with voice raised or signing petitions or chained to stationary objects in protest. Trust me on this.

So I am taken aback that Jeff is ready to arm-wrestle me for the title of Master Stadium Souvenir Procurer. I back down. Not because I don't like a challenge, but because I know my gym card has been sadly neglected over the past several months and I don't want to be sore the next day from muscle flexing.

I figure he is really excited about helping Ethan pick out a jersey and a hat. Maybe a ball and bat they can play with in the yard. It's a guy thing. Got it. I'll take him to pick out his first training bra ... or something equivalent. The boys head off for their consumer goods.

I concentrate on my microbrew and the dancing mascots on the dugout in front of us. Wonder Woman has shown up now to join the dugout dance party, wearing a tight pleather costume and knee-high platform boots. I imagine pleather is stifling in ninety-three degree weather.

Some more ass-slapping, more spitting ... this time from the charming couple in front of us. She is wearing a white wife-beater that nicely offsets a HAWT tattoo between her shoulder blades. She flags down a passing Batman to take a photo with her. He, like Wonder Woman, is in pleather, minus knee-high boots.

I watch my dad eat a Polish Sausage the size of a small Navy vessel and marvel at the farmers' market harvest of onions and peppers stuck in his beard. A beard many pirates would envy. Perhaps the sausage was not the best choice for him.

The good hunters return with their bounty. Ethan is beside himself with excitement and waving his purchase. This is the one thing Ethan wanted more than anything.

I look at Jeff. "There was nothing else? No bat? Or shirt? A ball? No glove? You practically threw me down the steps to take him to buy a ... giant finger?"

Let me say this: We have a small house. A small house with little storage, little play area, but no little amount of ... stuff. Like fingers made of foam. And I know that when Ethan gets attached to something, it stays. I know that we will be eating lunch with foam finger on tomorrow. I know that we will be taking foam finger on outings to Target. I know we will be tripping over foam finger while packing up his belongings for Yale. I know that, by midnight, I will have lost count of how many times I have been poked by a finger of foam. (Tally at 14 by the time we left the game).

This morning Ethan woke me up, still in his cap, sitting expectantly on Jeff's side of the bed, by sticking the foam finger in my ear. Repeatedly. Resistance was futile. I gave in, opened my eyes and suggested that maybe this weekend we could play a more appropriate wake-up game? Like water boarding.

He agreed, provided he could wear his foam finger while doing so.