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A couple of Spokane Indians’ tickets, a few too many sugary soda pops on top of a man-sized greasy hamburger on an already excited three-year-old’s tummy and a foul ball.

That’s all it took to create what is sure to be the highlight of our summer.

But wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.

As the kids have been getting older, we’ve started to venture out a bit more, taking them to a few events we think they might enjoy. Since the newly potty-trained twins have bladders the size of their grandfather’s, we have to be sure there are restrooms reasonably close to where we are sitting, for easy access.

But we hadn’t counted on what was going to happen next.

We’ve been experiencing – and cherishing – a lot of firsts as a family lately. The first movie-theater movie, first bike rides, first circus show. And we were lucky enough to be offered tickets to a Spokane Indians’ game recently. We wanted to make the boys’ first baseball game a memorable one, so we did it in spectacular fashion: We let them pick out their own souvenir Tshirts, order their own greasy burger for dinner and drink as much orange soda as they wanted (a BIG first for them).

Perhaps that’s where we went wrong.

Brock (left) and Jack (right) enjoy the game with Alex.

We didn’t notice anything was off until after the seventh-inning stretch. Brock was looking a bit peaked, but I just assumed it was because he was exhausted. It was, after all, way past his bedtime. (As a side note, I’ve realized baseball fans are by far the most patient of all spectators).

It wasn’t until I heard him whisper the word that I realized we were in trouble. He only had to say it once, but I made him repeat it, just to be sure.

“Puke.”

So I did what any woman who wore the wrong shoes to a baseball game with two three year olds would do, I handed him to his father and asked him to make a mad dash for the bathroom. Dad came back, looking relieved and certain it was just a gassy tummy. But it’s never that easy.

The next time Brock felt the nausea creep up, he didn’t have a chance to warn us. He just leaned over and let it fly. This time he was sitting on daddy’s lap. And a foul ball was headed our way. Two things we mothers worry about, though we never expect them to happen within 90 seconds of one another.

Using the same caliber of dexterity being displayed on the field, Alex managed to grab the foul ball while balancing an open soda pop and a puking child. This splendid display of athleticism, however, came to a screeching halt when, while leaning back to retake his seat, Alex slipped and fell right into the mess.

I was incredibly impressed by the professionalism of the Avista Stadium event staff. They quickly and courteously cleaned up the mess and asked several times if Brock was ok. We will definitely be back. But perhaps we’ll skip the all-you-can-drink orange soda.

This foul ball gives new meaning to the term sacrifice fly.
This column was published in the July 13, 2011 edition of the St. Maries Gazette Record.
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