Here was my night at the ballpark. The ballpark elevator operator said, "Ooo, you're in the suite." The elevator occupants tried to supress their envy but could not. And that was worth the price of admission. Which was nothing. La la LA. From there the evening went downhill.
I walked into an air-conditioned suite with an incredible view and a 2 to 1 boy to adult ratio. The boys ranged from 1 month to 12 years. Two dozen boys, one dozen adults, plus one quiet girl who hung out with her mom and didn't play tug of war with my fallopian tubes.
Everyone was playing with their little boys, and discipling their little boys, and counting to three with great portent. It wasn't that I wanted a little boy of my own, it was just that EVERYONE ELSE had a little BOY AND I DIDN'T.
(Everyone else has a pony! I wanna pony!)
Then the cutest of the little boys, whom I have met before, came to me and said:
"Blahgunr, arpurnt erm on my hand!" And he showed me his hand. It looked fine.
"I'm sorry?" I answered.
"Blahgunr, arpurnt erm ON MY HAND!" And he showed me his hand.
(Uh, beg pardon?) "Say that again."
"Blahgunr! Arpuuuuurnt ... errrrrm ... ON. MY. HAAAAAAAND."
I found his Mom, and another Mom, and neither of them could understand him. And that made me think I'm not such a helpless freak. Maybe I could play Mom for a minute.
Then that same little boy began running in circles and ignoring his Mom barking at him to "Stop!"
"Stop!" I barked. And he froze. That was awesome. Until Gary pulled at my elbow.
"What are you doing? You can't yell at that little boy; he isn't yours! What is WRONG with you?"
(Don't touch the other girls' ponies! What is WRONG with you?)
THEN as I blinked back tears, the circle-running hand-boy brought his cup of ice to Gary, and gave it to him, and Gary knew to go put water in the cup. Stomp on my guts little running hand-boy! Thanks! (He didn't thank Gary for the water, I know, I watched. His Mom might be reading this. FYI, Kelly.)
So then for an hour everyone continued on, teaching their children to say, "Thank you," and how to be Introduced, and how to Share, and then oh yes, you knew it, someone brought out the one month-old womb-damp baby that still had RIB marks on its HEAD and began bottle-feeding him.
I thought, "I could do tha -- "
"DO NOT FEED THAT GIRL'S PONY!" I heard in my head and then I just decided to cry.
I went over to the baby, tears streaming out of my eyes, and told the father that it was his fault I was crying, his baby was tweaking my hormones. (Using a baby as a shield, that's what you call that.) Because I don't cry pretty. My nose gets red and the fatter I get, the more water weight I lose from my tear ducts. The father was gracious and assured me the baby was no fun, really.
"Oh," Gary said later, "Were you crying? I noticed your nose was red and your eyes were watering, but I didn't really know what was going on."