Why You Should Never EVER Take a 2-Year-Old to a Professional Ball Game

So on Saturday, I got home from my day alone at the mall at 5:10.  My husband and kids were literally in our other car with the motor running, buckled in, waiting for me to arrive.  (We were supposed to leave for the game at 5:00, and I had agreed when I left that morning to be home well before that.  Needless to say, when my husband called at 4:40 and I was still in Nordstrom making a purchase, 30 minutes from home, he was not amused.)

I got home, ran inside, kicked off the ridiculous heels I had been wearing all day, put on capris and flip flops, and got back in the car.  We departed at 5:15.

For some reason that I cannot imagine, I decided to bring our 2-year-old with us to the Phillies game instead of hiring a babysitter.  I know it sounds insane, but it galls me to drop $50 on an evening to take the other 2 kids to a ballgame.  If I’m going to drop $50 on a sitter, I want a date.  That means NO KIDS.  But hubby had already mentioned the game to the older kids before I had a chance to make my case, so it was too late to back out on taking them.  And I never got around to securing a sitter for the 3rd, so we just piled everyone into the car and went.

We got to the stadium in record time, got settled in our seats, and before the game even started, my 2-year-old was acting up and making the people in front of us miserable.  We kept trying to contain her and keep her happy, but she has a mind of her own and a way of personifying the "terrible twos" — which I always thought was a misnomer until I had her — and finally, I got fed up.

I hauled her out of the stands, walked all the way up the stairs, past all the patrons sitting in their seats waiting for the game to begin, got to the top, looked down and saw that my t-shirt was yanked all the way down so that my entire left [email protected]@b was showing.  Thank goodness for a full-coverage bra at least.  I knew at that point I was NOT returning to my seat.

I got out into the open area with all the food vendors, and put her down, but she was not amused.  She wanted her daddy.  So I called her daddy.  And I calmly informed him that I was not returning to our seats, so what would he have me do. 

Knowing it was fully my fault that she was even there (he had been telling me to call a sitter all week), and also knowing that I had just had an entire day to myself, I couldn’t be mad at my husband.  I tried to stay calm and come up with a reasonable solution.  I didn’t want to drag the other kids out of the game, but what was I going to do with this stubborn child for the next three hours!?

We wandered around for a while, with her screaming for her daddy, no less.  I rewarded her with an ice cream cone (and we wonder why she’s a tyrant) and after she made a royal mess of that, we discovered a playground inside the stadium.

I swear I saw a bright light and heard angels singing.

Once we entered the playground area, she was a different child.  I found a bench, and she found the red slide, and we were both as happy as clams for the next hour.  By that time, my husband and kids were getting tired, and they were happy to join us. 

At the bottom of the sixth, we packed it up and left.  For my husband and son, the die-hards, it was hard to leave before the end of the game, but we all agreed we had about had enough.  And we learned a crucial lesson.  No kids under five to the ball game.  EVER.  AGAIN.