The invitation to the baseball game came weeks before my oldest daughter was due. I accepted, figuring that a twelve week old would be just fine at a ballpark. I didn’t take into account the heat, the wind off the San Francisco Bay, the noise of the rowdy crowd, or the serious lack of changing spaces. All of those things came to mind much later on the actual day of the game as I packed up our diaper bag and everything else I figured we might need for a four or five hour event.
I worried about that game all the way to the stadium. I worried about feeding her there and entertaining her for the duration of the game. I also worried about the noise and the germs and everything that could possibly go wrong.
I could have spared myself a ton of angst. When we arrived at the ballpark I popped her into a front carrier where she proceeded to guzzle a bottle and then promptly fell asleep. And that is exactly how she remained for the duration of the game and the trip back to the car.
The noise of the crowd must have kept her asleep, or maybe she’s the same kind of baseball fan her mother is—one who would rather be watching the game from the comfort of her couch with only half an eye trained on the game, because to this day she hasn’t shown a hint more of interest than she did that first day.