T-ball

Originally, while mentally drafting this post in my mind, I called it “A String of Profanity.” At the time, I could not compose a sentence that didn’t have “fuck,” “shit,” or “mother fucking” in it. I’ve moved past the foul language, though I still want to run outside and scream nonsense into the Chicago sky.

So, the boy started t-ball four or five weeks ago. Today was the first day I was able to take him. I’m finally up on my feet and getting around. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to take the bus to the park field house so that I didn’t have to walk nearly two miles round trip. What I neglected to take into consideration is the considerable pain in the ass taking a stroller on public transit is. We’ve lived in Chicago for three and a half years, and today was the first day I took a stroller on the city bus. And Science help me, I never want to do that again. The ride to the field house was only bad. The ride home was terrible. More on that later.

After walking (in the rain) and hauling the stroller onto the (overcrowded) bus, we arrived at the field house. We were a bit early, so I encouraged Jude to run, run, RUN off some energy before his t-ball clinic started. All went well and when it got close to three o’clock, we headed inside. After getting Jude situated, Ramona and I went to play in the pre-school room. It was lovely. She was having a great time playing with the other babies and putting everything she could find into her mouth. Ten or fifteen minutes into the clinic, Jude came into the pre-school room. He wanted to check on me. (Sweet) He wanted to see Ramona. (Adorable) He doesn’t want to play t-ball, he wants to play with Ramona in the pre-school room. (What?) COME ON! Here’s the thing-normally, I wouldn’t care. Really. If he doesn’t want to do whatever it is we’ve set out to do, fine. We can change course. But! I’m hurting so, so much right now. And getting to t-ball really stretched me physically. And the whole thing just frustrated me. AND! Then things got worse.

We packed up and headed home. I checked the bus tracker, and it told me I had eight minutes until the next bus. We got to the stop and waited. And I checked the bus tracker again, and we waited some more. And then we waited. And Hey! Look! Bus tracker says a bus should be approaching. But it never did. Twenty or so minutes later, we were still waiting for the bus, and Ramona was screaming because she wanted to eat. Fine. I took her out of the stroller and latched her on. And then the mother fucking bus pulled up. So there I was, supporting a nursing Ramona in the cross cradle position with one arm, driving the stroller with the other, and wrangling Jude verbally. The bus, of course, was packed (again), and we got all the way to far end before someone offered me a seat. Thanks MisterOnlyGuyOnTheBusWithAnyManners. Finally, we got to our stop, and I somehow get us all off the bus and eventually, home.

So here we are. Honestly, my frustration has waned even since I started writing this post, but still! Child of mine! First-born whom I adore… Please. Cut me a break. I do understand that in his not quite five years on this planet, Jude really can’t grasp how much traveling today took out of me. He just doesn’t understand. And the nuance between being angry because I’m hurting and had a shitty time getting to and from t-ball and being happy to suck it up and get him to where he needs/wants to be even though I’m hurting is lost on him. But after all his talk this morning about being excited that I was going to take him to t-ball and how he wanted me to see what he was doing, he just wasn’t happy to be there. And that’s where I’m stuck.

Why, oh why didn’t that boy of mine tell me he didn’t want to play t-ball today before we schlepped it to the bus?