My pantless wish is slowly but surely coming true. Temperatures are in the 40s and the snow is melting. There are huge swaths of snow-squashed grass emerging in the yard, and the roads and sidewalks are clear enough for actual traversing without 4-wheel drive.
I've spent the last several minutes listening to one of the surest signs of spring: birdsong. I am no ornithologist. I can distinguish a handful of birds -- cardinals, robins, blue jays, crows, eagles, hawks, doves -- with confidence, and I will get lucky at correctly guessing a finch or sparrow. And of course I know pigeons, seagulls, geese and ducks. But that's mostly by sight and rarely by sound.
This one bird that has been calling nearby sounds exactly like another great sound of spring: swinging. You know, that rhythmic squeaking of a metal chain link on a metal hook that has hung mostly unused and frozen in ice all winter. Swings squeak any season, but there is something ringing and extra clear about it in spring, when a kid can finally get to it in the park again. Summer swings sound different, I swear.
So if you know what that bird is, that one that sounds like a creaking swing set in spring, let me know.
Max and I will be doing some actual swinging any day now. We went for our first spring walk up and down our street today, jumping in puddles and stomping the random dry leaf that had clung to a tree all winter but finally made a dive to make way for new growth.
We have been driving past the village park all winter, but there was something about it today that finally made him ask to go to it. Maybe it was because he can finally see the ground again and he remembers how fun it is to run around there.
Or maybe that calling bird reminded him of the swings.
Showing posts with label fun things to do. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fun things to do. Show all posts
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Operation Save Classic Games
At least most retailers restrained themselves until the clock struck midnight on Halloween, but the beginning of this month unleashed the full Christmas marketing torrent.
I love, love, love Christmas. I look forward to decorating my house all year, but I don't do it until after Thanksgiving. That holiday deserves its own feast and festivities.
I do my best to avoid the rampant commercialism that heralds the coming of the prince of peace. (No, the irony is not lost on me.) But I'm not always quick enough to mute the commercials between the few TV programs my toddler watches.
There are about four blog posts in this introduction alone, and I'll probably get to all of them at some point. What I want to write about today is one of the toys I heard advertised in those commercials.
Hasbro was hocking its games, including Operation. I about needed one myself when the announcer happily proclaimed that the pieces were "now easier to remove!!!"
What the hell? Isn't that the absolute point of this game?
My grandmother had the classic version, preserved since it first came out in the 1960s. We played with it constantly as kids, jumping every time our little metal tweezers made contact with the exposed metal border of the various anatomical parts the player is to remove.
There probably was a significant electrocution risk, but we played it like it was designed to be played: tough.
Operation back then taught us to be careful, patient and persevering. Operation today will teach kids that everything is easy and handed to them on a silver platter.
And we wonder why kids can be such pains in the Adam's apple.
The piece that desperately needs to be removed from parents' brains is that unfortunate desire to make things easier for their children. That won't make an experience more enjoyable. It just will heighten children's disappointment in all things and will erode their self-confidence and creativity. And yet Hasbro has caved to get their money.
Childhood isn't complete without a little zap now and again.
I love, love, love Christmas. I look forward to decorating my house all year, but I don't do it until after Thanksgiving. That holiday deserves its own feast and festivities.
I do my best to avoid the rampant commercialism that heralds the coming of the prince of peace. (No, the irony is not lost on me.) But I'm not always quick enough to mute the commercials between the few TV programs my toddler watches.
There are about four blog posts in this introduction alone, and I'll probably get to all of them at some point. What I want to write about today is one of the toys I heard advertised in those commercials.
What the hell? Isn't that the absolute point of this game?
My grandmother had the classic version, preserved since it first came out in the 1960s. We played with it constantly as kids, jumping every time our little metal tweezers made contact with the exposed metal border of the various anatomical parts the player is to remove.
There probably was a significant electrocution risk, but we played it like it was designed to be played: tough.
Operation back then taught us to be careful, patient and persevering. Operation today will teach kids that everything is easy and handed to them on a silver platter.
And we wonder why kids can be such pains in the Adam's apple.
The piece that desperately needs to be removed from parents' brains is that unfortunate desire to make things easier for their children. That won't make an experience more enjoyable. It just will heighten children's disappointment in all things and will erode their self-confidence and creativity. And yet Hasbro has caved to get their money.
Childhood isn't complete without a little zap now and again.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Heat, Nor Gloom of Night
There was a blizzard yesterday, but not the snowy kind of my childhood that prompted us to wear thermal leggings under our Halloween costumes and parkas over them.
It was a social media storm, conducted by pleading parents and a few school board candidates mere days away from the election. Heavy rain and wind were in the forecast, and communities all over northwest Ohio started postponing trick-or-treat times.
Some did it earlier in the week, while other officials tried waiting as long as possible to see if the weather would cooperate. But once a few communities started switching dates, the rest fell like dominoes -- even those with long-standing traditions of Oct. 31, rain or shine.
It is apparent that many bended not to Mother Nature but to Mother Next Door.
I get it. No one wants to be outdoors in that kind of weather, let alone shepherding kids dressed as dinosaurs and superheros and spooky creatures. And there was the danger of cars losing traction on wet, leaf-strewn streets and plowing into crowds of candy-collectors. Because that happens all the time.
What no one really wanted was a kid dressed as Iron Man writhing on the kitchen floor in a full-blown tantrum that he didn't get to go trick-or-treating this year when his parent determined the weather was too inclement.
First, it would have needed to be an active tornado warning for parents of yesteryear (like mine) to even consider not letting us go out on Halloween night. We might not go far or for very long, but we all bundled up and got a few blocks covered. We'd dutifully unzip our coats when neighbors asked, "Well, what are you supposed to be, sweetie?" Hell, most of the time we incorporated boots and gloves into our costumes just to be prepared. It's the end of October in northwest Ohio. It's gonna be crappy weather most years.
Second, if I had thrown such a fit, my parents never would have let me trick-or-treat again. It just wasn't acceptable, but particularly to be that dismayed about an annual event, one at which we'd get another shot the next year. This was the same for Fourth of July. Fireworks were on July 4 only, and there weren't even displays every week at the baseball game like there are now. If it rained, the show got canceled and you waited until next year.
This was crucial development for us on how to handle disappointment. Parents today seem much less willing to deal with this admittedly hard part of raising a child. They hover over their kids and fix every little trial that comes their way. They're reordering days of the year, for heaven's sake.
I know several amazing, clever, thoughtful, dutiful parents with smart, respectful, playful children who wanted trick-or-treat times to be rescheduled around the weather forecast. This alone certainly doesn't make for a parenting failure. But it is a disturbing trend nonetheless.
If the weather turns sour next Halloween, I encourage you to get more creative about how you will handle it. A neighbor of mine throws a party every year for his children and their friends, and he arranges for them to trick-or-treat on our street at a certain time. (He and his wife even offer to supply the candy.) You and your neighbors could always do this among yourselves.
Check around your communities for shopping malls and churches who offer indoor trick-or-treating for a Plan B. You might find it a happy alternative on most years.
Or stay home and make a night of it. Throw an impromptu Halloween parade around your house, banging on pots and pans. Hide all the candy you were going to pass out around your house and have a scavenger hunt, with all the lamps off and using flashlights. Play games, make paper plate masks, read books, watch "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown."
Resist the urge to call your town hall and demand an official change in trick-or-treat times. You'll be setting a much better example for your kids.
It was a social media storm, conducted by pleading parents and a few school board candidates mere days away from the election. Heavy rain and wind were in the forecast, and communities all over northwest Ohio started postponing trick-or-treat times.
Some did it earlier in the week, while other officials tried waiting as long as possible to see if the weather would cooperate. But once a few communities started switching dates, the rest fell like dominoes -- even those with long-standing traditions of Oct. 31, rain or shine.
It is apparent that many bended not to Mother Nature but to Mother Next Door.
I get it. No one wants to be outdoors in that kind of weather, let alone shepherding kids dressed as dinosaurs and superheros and spooky creatures. And there was the danger of cars losing traction on wet, leaf-strewn streets and plowing into crowds of candy-collectors. Because that happens all the time.
What no one really wanted was a kid dressed as Iron Man writhing on the kitchen floor in a full-blown tantrum that he didn't get to go trick-or-treating this year when his parent determined the weather was too inclement.
First, it would have needed to be an active tornado warning for parents of yesteryear (like mine) to even consider not letting us go out on Halloween night. We might not go far or for very long, but we all bundled up and got a few blocks covered. We'd dutifully unzip our coats when neighbors asked, "Well, what are you supposed to be, sweetie?" Hell, most of the time we incorporated boots and gloves into our costumes just to be prepared. It's the end of October in northwest Ohio. It's gonna be crappy weather most years.
Second, if I had thrown such a fit, my parents never would have let me trick-or-treat again. It just wasn't acceptable, but particularly to be that dismayed about an annual event, one at which we'd get another shot the next year. This was the same for Fourth of July. Fireworks were on July 4 only, and there weren't even displays every week at the baseball game like there are now. If it rained, the show got canceled and you waited until next year.
This was crucial development for us on how to handle disappointment. Parents today seem much less willing to deal with this admittedly hard part of raising a child. They hover over their kids and fix every little trial that comes their way. They're reordering days of the year, for heaven's sake.
I know several amazing, clever, thoughtful, dutiful parents with smart, respectful, playful children who wanted trick-or-treat times to be rescheduled around the weather forecast. This alone certainly doesn't make for a parenting failure. But it is a disturbing trend nonetheless.
If the weather turns sour next Halloween, I encourage you to get more creative about how you will handle it. A neighbor of mine throws a party every year for his children and their friends, and he arranges for them to trick-or-treat on our street at a certain time. (He and his wife even offer to supply the candy.) You and your neighbors could always do this among yourselves.
Check around your communities for shopping malls and churches who offer indoor trick-or-treating for a Plan B. You might find it a happy alternative on most years.
Or stay home and make a night of it. Throw an impromptu Halloween parade around your house, banging on pots and pans. Hide all the candy you were going to pass out around your house and have a scavenger hunt, with all the lamps off and using flashlights. Play games, make paper plate masks, read books, watch "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown."
Resist the urge to call your town hall and demand an official change in trick-or-treat times. You'll be setting a much better example for your kids.
Monday, December 17, 2012
One Rotten Sugar Plum at 'Nutcracker'
With a 7-month-old baby and a 16-year-old teenager in our family, the holidays are an interesting spectrum of joy.
We're celebrating all of Max's "first" moments while we're encouraging Gabe to begin appreciating the traditions from a cultured adult perspective. And like all parenting moments, there are a few exasperated sighs mixed in with all of the laughter and smiles.
On Saturday night, we took Gabe to the Toledo Ballet's performance of "The Nutcracker" at the Stranahan Theater. Dan helped him tie his necktie and advised him on when to button and unbutton his sports coat, and he got more practice at holding open doors for his mother. Gabe agreed to pose with me and a dancer dressed as the titular character with an amazing lack of I'm-too-cool-for-that attitude.
The performance was stunning. Dan especially liked the well-choreographed opening scenes, and Mary Carmen Catoya as the Snow Queen was a marvel. The clever stage trick of "flying" the young angels was a nice touch, and 101.5 morning host Rick Woodell was hysterical as Mother Ginger. The show was a lovely mix of traditional en pointe and innovative gymnastics.
Now, here's the downer. I understand "The Nutcracker" is a magnet for families with young children. It's a fantastic children's story, after all. And with the amount of children in the cast, it's likely that a third of the audience were relatives. I actually enjoyed the occasional exclamation of amazement, a question about why a character was doing something, or even a plaintive request to be boosted for a better view.
What I could not tolerate was the running commentary of the little girl seated behind me. She apparently was familiar with the show and had to announce every scene with precocious authority, as well as complain when things weren't happening fast enough for her. She was sitting with her Nana, who deserves her own scolding for engaging this child in casual conversation throughout the entire performance.
I know the difference between children who have age-appropriate attention spans or even other challenges that mean they don't have the same aptitudes or social skills of typical children, and children who are badly behaved brats. First clue is that the little urchin kept wedging her patent leather-encased foot between the seat and back of my chair, poking me right in my behind even after I twice shoved her foot away with my hand. Second clue is that she asked her grandmother to tell her the time, repeatedly and at a moment Nana was busy, and when she was told she did not say thank you but instead replied, "Well, why did I have to ask you eight times?"
At that point my son's jaw dropped and he exchanged a look with me that pretty much confirmed we both knew he would be mangled if he ever spoke to me like that.
A very young girl next to us played with her stuffed kitty and cuddled into the seat when she got tired. Two lovely girls sitting in front of us politely engaged with us when their dad was telling us about seeing a man propose to a woman out in the lobby. An entire gaggle of children nearby sat in their bow ties and frilly dresses and simply enjoyed the ballet.
People, please teach your children some decorum if you are going to take them to the theater. It's never too early -- or too late. Nana and her rotten sugar plum have their work cut out for them, though.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Slumber Party
Sometimes a girl's just gotta stay in.
A friend was throwing a girl's night out (out for us, in her apartment for her) and she had the graciousness to let me bring one tiny man. I was going to do my best to avoid her Jell-O shots but was looking forward to her company.
Things have been going a little rough for me lately, which manifests in several tried-on-and-rejected outfits strewn all over my bedroom. I'm slightly obsessive about dressing to match Max, so the whole experience was exacerbated tonight.
I eventually got Max and myself dressed. I had no sooner wrestled him into a jacket and strapped him into his car seat when he decided to crap his pants.
I was considering an attempt to still conjure the energy to go to the party while I was changing him. But when I came downstairs I had to yell at Hippo for barking at something in the front yard, and she pissed on an oriental rug that has been rolled up in the basement during her puppy year and that Gabe had lugged upstairs and placed in the foyer only yesterday.
Game over.
I had Max and myself dressed in pajamas by 7 p.m. We'll go to bed as soon as he starts drooping his eyes.
A friend was throwing a girl's night out (out for us, in her apartment for her) and she had the graciousness to let me bring one tiny man. I was going to do my best to avoid her Jell-O shots but was looking forward to her company.
Things have been going a little rough for me lately, which manifests in several tried-on-and-rejected outfits strewn all over my bedroom. I'm slightly obsessive about dressing to match Max, so the whole experience was exacerbated tonight.
I eventually got Max and myself dressed. I had no sooner wrestled him into a jacket and strapped him into his car seat when he decided to crap his pants.
I was considering an attempt to still conjure the energy to go to the party while I was changing him. But when I came downstairs I had to yell at Hippo for barking at something in the front yard, and she pissed on an oriental rug that has been rolled up in the basement during her puppy year and that Gabe had lugged upstairs and placed in the foyer only yesterday.
Game over.
I had Max and myself dressed in pajamas by 7 p.m. We'll go to bed as soon as he starts drooping his eyes.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Kleiboemer Clan Descends
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| Grandma gives Max her signature smooches. |
"Soak" being the operative word. We've been in a drought all summer, and it's been ridiculously hot nearly everywhere that Adrienne and John have been touring in the U.S. to escape the burst-into-flames conditions at their Arizona home. But of course the rain decided to show up right around the time they all did.
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| Eating at Biaggi's is always good to do on a rainy day. Gabe, Adam and Max would agree. |
But nothing phases my mother-in-law. Just to be near her grandbaby was enough to keep her sunny smile going.
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| Brothers bundle up and bond at Balloon Fest. |
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
On the Road
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| Max continues to snooze in his car seat as we finish our meals at Sokolowski's University Inn in Cleveland. |
Today we hitched a ride to Cleveland, which is about 130 miles east of our home. Hubby-daddy needed to travel to a ship chandler to fetch supplies he needed for work, and we needed to get the heck out of the house.
We actually have been dragging Max out and about from the very beginning. A lot of folks follow the six-week rule before they start exposing their infants to the wide world, but I figured that as long as I didn't let a lot of people hold him or touch him or breathe on him, it was OK to head out as soon as I felt up to it.
Really, this is one of the easier stages during which to travel with a baby, on short trips at least. Parents just need to be willing to do the proper planning, and stock the diaper bag with lots of diapers, wipes and extra outfits -- for the baby and for you. (Haven't you been peed on yet?)
Parents also must be willing to watch carefully made plans go to complete hell. Allowing for plenty of buffer time before and after any externally scheduled moment will help somewhat; forcing too much into too short a time span will bite everyone in the poopy butt. And a daddy who waits patiently in a parking lot while his baby is nursed or burped (forever) in the car gets a gold star.
Today worked out remarkably well. We happened to arrive at Turnpike rest stops right when Max needed to nurse or have his diaper changed, and the one time we had to nurse while parked on the street we were in a very out-of-the-way place. I'm really glad I remembered to bring a pillow, and nursing in the car turned out to be way more comfortable than trying to find some tucked-away chair in a public building.
Max did let loose his fire hose once, while we were changing diapers at our lunch stop. But I just cleaned him up, pulled out a fresh outfit, put the wet one in the plastic baggie I had stocked, and kept going. I was full of sauerkraut and blueberry pie at that point, so I was going to be happy regardless. (Hey, you eat what you want at a Polish cafeteria, and I'll eat what I want.)
Of course, Max snoozed for hours in the car. Most babies are vibrated off to dreamland in a moving vehicle, and sleeping is pretty much what he does for most of the day now anyway, so it works well for day trips.
As soon as a baby figures out he can be fussy on purpose, ruining the good time his parents are having, day trips become far more difficult to arrange. I say that while mommy is on maternity leave, take her and her baby as many places as you can.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Help a Mama Out
Life continues to go well here in newborn land, although I had hoped to blog more often. It's not that I couldn't find the time. I just often spend it doing something else.
I always had planned to extend an invitation for guest bloggers, so please don't feel like it's just a desperate, unshowered, overtired mommy begging for others to do her work. No, not at all.
I will keep posting, but it will be good to publish someone else's thoughts when I've suddenly realized what feels like one long day actually has been four in a row and Mommy Remix is getting a touch stale. In journo land, this is what we call having a well, from which we dip when it's a slow news day.
Please send your submissions to me via email at rckleiboemer@gmail.com and I will happily put them in the lineup.
You can write a full-length post or just a paragraph. Send pictures if you'd like. You have my full permission to be as snarky and foul-mouthed as I have been to this point, but no worse.
Topics could include:
For the record, Gabe often hears, "What the hell's the matter with you?" The more I say it, the more I like it.
And this post took me more than three hours to write, interrupted by two nursing sessions and one pee blowout that soaked both Max and me to the point of complete outfit changing.
I always had planned to extend an invitation for guest bloggers, so please don't feel like it's just a desperate, unshowered, overtired mommy begging for others to do her work. No, not at all.
I will keep posting, but it will be good to publish someone else's thoughts when I've suddenly realized what feels like one long day actually has been four in a row and Mommy Remix is getting a touch stale. In journo land, this is what we call having a well, from which we dip when it's a slow news day.
Please send your submissions to me via email at rckleiboemer@gmail.com and I will happily put them in the lineup.
You can write a full-length post or just a paragraph. Send pictures if you'd like. You have my full permission to be as snarky and foul-mouthed as I have been to this point, but no worse.
Topics could include:
- Your own family story
- What you do/did or don't/didn't enjoy about pregnancy
- Adventures in fertility, or disappointments and challenges
- Why you don't want to have a baby
- What you can't stand about how parents raise their kids
- Thoughts on co-sleeping, nursing in public, crying it out, cloth diapers, etc.
- Hilarity of traveling with children
- How you keep your marriage and adult relationships going
- Public policy regarding education or health care
- What you like or don't like about your OBGYN or pediatrician
- Tips and warnings for new parents
- The best baby shower game or birthday party theme
- How you're raising your kids to deal with their peers
- To give or not to give an allowance
- Methods of discipline
- What phrase of your parents you swore you'd never repeat but did
For the record, Gabe often hears, "What the hell's the matter with you?" The more I say it, the more I like it.
And this post took me more than three hours to write, interrupted by two nursing sessions and one pee blowout that soaked both Max and me to the point of complete outfit changing.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Chicago: Big-City Birthday
I'm headed down memory lane again, this time on a family trip to Chicago to mark Gabe's 11th birthday.
The following was originally published on The Courier's travel blog On the Road.
In early August 2007, I clambered into the Yukon -- the only leather-padded, reclining way my father was willing to travel -- with one Daddy, one son and four diet Cokes to drive through the night from Whitehouse, Ohio, to Chicago. I have made this trip several times, and I must say: Driving at night with just a few random semi-trucks is the way to go, provided you can stay awake or have the blessed chance to chat with your usually reticent papa for five straight hours.
We descended upon my mother -- in town as a voting member of the ELCA Churchwide Assembly -- at the Hyatt Regency at 151 E. Wacker St. at 3 a.m. like gypsies, complete with brown paper bags under our arms. (I was mortified to discover my father had packed his toiletries in such a manner but was thankful the ungodly hour presented only one pair of valet eyes to behold them. I paid him $5 to keep quiet.)
I would rarely do this, but our hotel really was beautiful: Click here for a slideshow of images, although only the first few showcase the impressive atrium. My son, Gabe, was less impressed. There was no swimming pool anywhere in this sky-scraping multi-towered building, and he was unsuccessful in brow-beating us into paying the "discount" $25 access to an athletic facility a block away just to go swimming.
Instead we took him to Shedd Aquarium, where everything from frogfish to beluga whales were swimming around. The periodic dolphin shows are wonderful, although the aim is more educational science and less theatrical Sea World. The best part about the show in the Oceanarium is the illusion provided by the building's ingenious circular design, situated right on Lake Michigan; the dolphin pool spills over the edge near windows that provide an endless view of water. There are more than just aquatic creatures among the 24,000-plus animals here, including birds, spiders and the weirdest looking shield-tail agama I've ever seen in the Lizards and the Komodo King exhibit. We had a wonderful lunch right there at Shedd's fine dining restaurant, Soundings, which features sustainable seafood and locally grown organic produce. I had the best seat in the house, in the corner with windows that overlooked both the lake and the downtown skyline.
After lunch we headed just down the street to Adler Planetarium, where we tilted our heads back and rested our exploding knee caps during a most instructive lecture on constellations. Admittedly this place held more interest for my son, who turned 11 that very day, than either myself or my dad. Gabe would have gladly stayed there all day, especially once he found the robotic moon rover that visitors can program by computer and then watch roll over rocks and bump into walls.
But he was turning 11 after all, and such a momentous occasion called for a fantastic experience at Mike Ditka's, the former Bears coach's restaurant. While one does not have to check her ovaries at the door, this is truly a man's man kind of place, with sumptuous yet muted decor, dark wood detailing, and sports-themed artwork everywhere. Waiting for my mother to arrive after a day of national church business, Dad and Gabe sat at the bar sipping scotch and micro-brewed root beer, respectively, while I accidentally spilled the best $12 dirty martini with blue cheese-stuffed olives I've ever had all over my birthday boy. What a milestone -- his first alcohol abuse. Upstairs the attendant in the women's room helped clean us both up, and when we returned to the bar there were complimentary replacement drinks awaiting us, "on the Coach." Upon my mother's arrival, we were comfortably seated in one of the smaller dining rooms and waited on by efficient, courteous staff. We enjoyed pot roast nachos, lobster bisque and steaks even better than our own farm-raised beef. My son ordered, and devoured, calamari and rack of lamb. That's how you celebrate 11.
We would have enjoyed the nearby observatory in the John Hancock building -- one of the five attractions on our City Passes, THE way to do tourist-type things and save money -- but we were too full, too tired and too loaded down with hats and T-shirts from the restaurant gift shop. Instead we chatted with the valet as we waited for our truck, learning that our night was a rare exception to Mike Ditka's typical presence at the restaurant. The fireworks exploding over the city that night weren't really arranged for Gabe's birthday; a display is presented over Navy Pier every Wednesday and Saturday night during the summer.
The next day we visited Field Museum and the most complete T. rex skeleton in the world: Sue. We probably could have spent six or seven days exploring the myriad exhibits here, but we made do with dinosaurs, Egyptian mummies and dirt. Yes, dirt. We were "shrunk" to microscopic size and plunged into a tunnel for a bug's-eye view of what's underground and learned about beetles, roots and conservation.
For lunch, we went to Navy Pier via water taxi, providing a welcome breeze and water spray in such sweltering heat. We took "Gotta Go" there and "Wai Wai" on the way back; after seeing another boat named "Andale," I suppose the whole fleet is christened for whatever means "get me there quick." We met my mother for yummy fare at Riva's Cafe and then enjoyed a stroll through the magnificent Smith Museum of Stained Glass Windows. We shopped a little, but it was mostly overpriced tourist kitsch and we bypassed it all.
While Dad rested at the hotel, Gabe and I walked across the Chicago River to the Tribune Tower, one of my personal must-sees in the Windy City. Designed to be the "most beautiful office building in the world" in a 1922 contest, its cathedral silhouette is formed with stones plucked from famous sites all over the world. But more importantly, carved into the walls of the newspaper lobby are several quotes pertaining to the freedom of the press and the importance of watching one's government like a junkyard dog. I made Gabe read every single one.
We then flitted down Michigan Avenue, the "Miracle Mile," the Land of Serious Shopping. We picked up some birthday gifts at the Lego store, which was impressively stacked with life-sized statues of R2-D2 and Darth Vader made completely from Lego bricks, and a thank-you gift at Hugo Boss for our family farm sitter tending dogs, cats, goats and "all creatures, great and small."
We then bid my mother adieu and headed back east, regrettably through daytime traffic and construction delays. Chicago is a notorious pain to navigate, but I have been remarkably lucky -- and decidedly aggressive while driving a big truck -- and have always gotten through there just fine.
My only caveat: This was an expensive trip. Apart from the elevated train, which my father wasn't about to get on, or walking, which my father wasn't capable of doing, getting around town is pricey, especially when you're using the valet everywhere you go. At least the water taxi was fun too. But such an expense is SO much better than driving around trying to find a parking place. We of course took the standard tourist approach to the city, which is solely purposed for making a lot of money, but it was an easy way to keep three generations happy at once. I've hung out in Chicago before with far fewer funds and still had a good time, but I'm glad to have had this kind of experience as well.
Still, it's only a teeny fraction of what Chicago has to offer. Art museums can be one vacation all to themselves. Funky ethnic neighborhoods, lake cruises, sporting events and deep dish pizza are also signature experiences. Gabe has decided that each double-digit birthday (11, 22, 33, etc.) should be declared a "Big City Birthday," and I bet he just might find himself in Chicago again one day. I hope we're invited.
The following was originally published on The Courier's travel blog On the Road.
Chicago: Big-City Birthday
In early August 2007, I clambered into the Yukon -- the only leather-padded, reclining way my father was willing to travel -- with one Daddy, one son and four diet Cokes to drive through the night from Whitehouse, Ohio, to Chicago. I have made this trip several times, and I must say: Driving at night with just a few random semi-trucks is the way to go, provided you can stay awake or have the blessed chance to chat with your usually reticent papa for five straight hours.
We descended upon my mother -- in town as a voting member of the ELCA Churchwide Assembly -- at the Hyatt Regency at 151 E. Wacker St. at 3 a.m. like gypsies, complete with brown paper bags under our arms. (I was mortified to discover my father had packed his toiletries in such a manner but was thankful the ungodly hour presented only one pair of valet eyes to behold them. I paid him $5 to keep quiet.)
I would rarely do this, but our hotel really was beautiful: Click here for a slideshow of images, although only the first few showcase the impressive atrium. My son, Gabe, was less impressed. There was no swimming pool anywhere in this sky-scraping multi-towered building, and he was unsuccessful in brow-beating us into paying the "discount" $25 access to an athletic facility a block away just to go swimming.
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| Gabe and Dad brave the komodo dragon entrance to Shedd Aquarium, a nod to a 2007 special exhibit. |
After lunch we headed just down the street to Adler Planetarium, where we tilted our heads back and rested our exploding knee caps during a most instructive lecture on constellations. Admittedly this place held more interest for my son, who turned 11 that very day, than either myself or my dad. Gabe would have gladly stayed there all day, especially once he found the robotic moon rover that visitors can program by computer and then watch roll over rocks and bump into walls.
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| That's a root beer Gabe is drinking at the bar at Ditka's restaurant. |
We would have enjoyed the nearby observatory in the John Hancock building -- one of the five attractions on our City Passes, THE way to do tourist-type things and save money -- but we were too full, too tired and too loaded down with hats and T-shirts from the restaurant gift shop. Instead we chatted with the valet as we waited for our truck, learning that our night was a rare exception to Mike Ditka's typical presence at the restaurant. The fireworks exploding over the city that night weren't really arranged for Gabe's birthday; a display is presented over Navy Pier every Wednesday and Saturday night during the summer.
The next day we visited Field Museum and the most complete T. rex skeleton in the world: Sue. We probably could have spent six or seven days exploring the myriad exhibits here, but we made do with dinosaurs, Egyptian mummies and dirt. Yes, dirt. We were "shrunk" to microscopic size and plunged into a tunnel for a bug's-eye view of what's underground and learned about beetles, roots and conservation.
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| Gabe admires a stained glass piece honoring Martin Luther King Jr. |
While Dad rested at the hotel, Gabe and I walked across the Chicago River to the Tribune Tower, one of my personal must-sees in the Windy City. Designed to be the "most beautiful office building in the world" in a 1922 contest, its cathedral silhouette is formed with stones plucked from famous sites all over the world. But more importantly, carved into the walls of the newspaper lobby are several quotes pertaining to the freedom of the press and the importance of watching one's government like a junkyard dog. I made Gabe read every single one.
We then flitted down Michigan Avenue, the "Miracle Mile," the Land of Serious Shopping. We picked up some birthday gifts at the Lego store, which was impressively stacked with life-sized statues of R2-D2 and Darth Vader made completely from Lego bricks, and a thank-you gift at Hugo Boss for our family farm sitter tending dogs, cats, goats and "all creatures, great and small."
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| As only an 11-year-old boy can, Gabe fixates on the plop of poop a Lego bird left on this Lego man's jacket. |
My only caveat: This was an expensive trip. Apart from the elevated train, which my father wasn't about to get on, or walking, which my father wasn't capable of doing, getting around town is pricey, especially when you're using the valet everywhere you go. At least the water taxi was fun too. But such an expense is SO much better than driving around trying to find a parking place. We of course took the standard tourist approach to the city, which is solely purposed for making a lot of money, but it was an easy way to keep three generations happy at once. I've hung out in Chicago before with far fewer funds and still had a good time, but I'm glad to have had this kind of experience as well.
Still, it's only a teeny fraction of what Chicago has to offer. Art museums can be one vacation all to themselves. Funky ethnic neighborhoods, lake cruises, sporting events and deep dish pizza are also signature experiences. Gabe has decided that each double-digit birthday (11, 22, 33, etc.) should be declared a "Big City Birthday," and I bet he just might find himself in Chicago again one day. I hope we're invited.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Get Thee to D.C.
Taking your kid to our nation's capital definitely should be on your bucket list.
I first tried to take Gabe to Washington, D.C., in the summer of 2007, but we made it as far as Pittsburgh before national disaster-level flooding recalled us to our home in Findlay, Ohio. I'll share those lovely tales some other time.
Below is my diary from when I finally got him there in August 2009:
I first tried to take Gabe to Washington, D.C., in the summer of 2007, but we made it as far as Pittsburgh before national disaster-level flooding recalled us to our home in Findlay, Ohio. I'll share those lovely tales some other time.
Below is my diary from when I finally got him there in August 2009:
Mother-Son D.C. Trip
Gabe and I headed to Washington, D.C., this past weekend to celebrate his 13th birthday.
We stayed with Megan -- my senior-year Syracuse housemate, Daily Orange coworker and all-around gal pal -- and her husband and adorable baby in Springfield, Va. Their hospitality was amazing.
We drove from Findlay and made good time, even poking around Hagerstown, Md. for a little bit. The drive back for me was a little more stressful, since an accident in the Allegheny Tunnel clogged up the highway forever. But I just shut off the car, wandered around the lanes and chatted with the other motorists. It had that creepy destruction-of-the-world movie scene feeling, but it worked out well.
On Friday, Gabe and I went to the National Archives. We ate first, and then promptly got evacuated after a fire alarm. So we walked toward Capitol Hill, just far enough to see the buildings and snap pics. We returned to the Archives and saw the Declaration of Independence, a real highlight for Gabe. The whole place was very educational, and Gabe is beginning to put "archivist" into his imagination for his future. (Although really he wants to be the one who builds the model scenes.)
We next visited the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden, and Gabe took a lot of pictures there. Then we walked to the National Mall, starting with the Washington Monument. Gabe was bummed we couldn't go inside, but after my infamous freak-out atop the St. Louis Arch after two hours of waiting in line and only 30 seconds of being able to stand being up there in that teeny space with all of those people, I was relieved I wasn't going to be seeing the D.C. metro area from 555 feet.
We skipped the Tidal Basin because we knew how much more walking was ahead of us, and we wanted to save something new for future trips. Gabe really liked the World War II memorial and the Reflecting Pool, and he got "overwhelmed" at the Lincoln Memorial. We also took in the tributes to those fallen in the Korean and Vietnam wars, and the latter wall makes me cry every time.
We walked up Constitution Avenue and discussed Gabe's sudden realization that he was getting older and that his life was unfolding before him. I think he was steeped in the idea that as an American he was part of something larger, something profound, something meaningful, and he wanted to contribute. It was a good chat. And a long walk.
We weren't planning on doing any museums this trip, but we still found ourselves inside the Museum of American History after our walk. We took in just the wings on transportation (which was excellent) and, of course, American military action. I was pretty war-ed out by then. We shopped for family gifts and got the heck out of there. It will be good to spend an entire day in there on another visit.
Gabe was desperate to hitch a ride with one of those poor fools who would peddle our body weight through the streets, so he treated me to the fare and we ended up at Harry's sharing the biggest plate of chili cheese fries I've ever seen. Megan picked us up from the Metro station and we ended the day with some ice cream.
On Saturday, Gabe's birthday, we drove to Mount Vernon and had a delightful experience, even though it was pretty hot. We did not see the gardens or slave quarters, again saving something for a return visit. Without prompt, Gabe took off his ball cap, put it over his heart and stood silently outside George Washington's tomb to pay his respects. It was really sweet. We took a cruise of the Potomac River from a wharf on the property, and the experience was better than I thought it would be. I learned a lot about the river itself and Fort Washington.
Gabe snoozed as I drove to Arlington Cemetery, and it was super muggy as we walked around there. We both enjoyed the Women in Military Service for America Memorial. We of course visited the eternal flame at JFK's grave, and I was pleased to read the inscriptions at Robert Kennedy's grave. We came upon the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier right at the changing of the guard.
In the evening, Megan took us to a Japanese restaurant for a teppanyaki experience. Gabe even caught a piece of shrimp in his mouth that was flung from the chef's spatula! A piece of cheesecake with a candle arrived with a piped rendition of "Happy Birthday," and it was the perfect cheesy end to an all-together good birthday.
I had planned to worship at the National Cathedral on Sunday morning, but we had packed a lot into two days and I was tired. Gabe slept in, and I did laundry and got to snuggle Lexie and talk with Megan a little more. Then we packed up, thanked our gracious hosts and headed to Old Town Alexandria for a lunch of oysters on the half shell, calamari caesar salad and crab-shrimp omelet. (Can you tell we like seafood?)
Then I did something completely unnatural: I left Gabe with total strangers.
Gabe entered his first summer camp experience at Mar-Lu-Ridge, a Lutheran Outdoor Ministries camp about four miles outside Frederick, Md. He signed up for the Civil War theme week, visiting historical sites in the morning and participating in traditional church camp activities in the afternoon and evenings. They'll even have an overnight trip to Gettysburg. How perfect is that for him?
Mr. Jack, the counselor, was really excited that Gabe had the new Lutheran study Bible, even though it had gotten soaked in diet Coke in my back seat, so that helped reassure me I was leaving Gabe in good hands. Mr. Matt, the volunteer, was into re-enactments and brought just as many flags and sundry memorabilia that Gabe had lugged along, so they became fast friends. The whole staff seemed kind and sweet, and you can't beat folks who give you a snow cone while you register.
So, my baby boy saw our nation's capital and sent me away from camp with a casual wave, engrossed in swapping Civil War trivia with another enthusiast.
*Sniff.*
I called my mother.
We stayed with Megan -- my senior-year Syracuse housemate, Daily Orange coworker and all-around gal pal -- and her husband and adorable baby in Springfield, Va. Their hospitality was amazing.
We drove from Findlay and made good time, even poking around Hagerstown, Md. for a little bit. The drive back for me was a little more stressful, since an accident in the Allegheny Tunnel clogged up the highway forever. But I just shut off the car, wandered around the lanes and chatted with the other motorists. It had that creepy destruction-of-the-world movie scene feeling, but it worked out well.
On Friday, Gabe and I went to the National Archives. We ate first, and then promptly got evacuated after a fire alarm. So we walked toward Capitol Hill, just far enough to see the buildings and snap pics. We returned to the Archives and saw the Declaration of Independence, a real highlight for Gabe. The whole place was very educational, and Gabe is beginning to put "archivist" into his imagination for his future. (Although really he wants to be the one who builds the model scenes.)
We next visited the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden, and Gabe took a lot of pictures there. Then we walked to the National Mall, starting with the Washington Monument. Gabe was bummed we couldn't go inside, but after my infamous freak-out atop the St. Louis Arch after two hours of waiting in line and only 30 seconds of being able to stand being up there in that teeny space with all of those people, I was relieved I wasn't going to be seeing the D.C. metro area from 555 feet.
We skipped the Tidal Basin because we knew how much more walking was ahead of us, and we wanted to save something new for future trips. Gabe really liked the World War II memorial and the Reflecting Pool, and he got "overwhelmed" at the Lincoln Memorial. We also took in the tributes to those fallen in the Korean and Vietnam wars, and the latter wall makes me cry every time.
We walked up Constitution Avenue and discussed Gabe's sudden realization that he was getting older and that his life was unfolding before him. I think he was steeped in the idea that as an American he was part of something larger, something profound, something meaningful, and he wanted to contribute. It was a good chat. And a long walk.
We weren't planning on doing any museums this trip, but we still found ourselves inside the Museum of American History after our walk. We took in just the wings on transportation (which was excellent) and, of course, American military action. I was pretty war-ed out by then. We shopped for family gifts and got the heck out of there. It will be good to spend an entire day in there on another visit.
Gabe was desperate to hitch a ride with one of those poor fools who would peddle our body weight through the streets, so he treated me to the fare and we ended up at Harry's sharing the biggest plate of chili cheese fries I've ever seen. Megan picked us up from the Metro station and we ended the day with some ice cream.
On Saturday, Gabe's birthday, we drove to Mount Vernon and had a delightful experience, even though it was pretty hot. We did not see the gardens or slave quarters, again saving something for a return visit. Without prompt, Gabe took off his ball cap, put it over his heart and stood silently outside George Washington's tomb to pay his respects. It was really sweet. We took a cruise of the Potomac River from a wharf on the property, and the experience was better than I thought it would be. I learned a lot about the river itself and Fort Washington.
Gabe snoozed as I drove to Arlington Cemetery, and it was super muggy as we walked around there. We both enjoyed the Women in Military Service for America Memorial. We of course visited the eternal flame at JFK's grave, and I was pleased to read the inscriptions at Robert Kennedy's grave. We came upon the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier right at the changing of the guard.
In the evening, Megan took us to a Japanese restaurant for a teppanyaki experience. Gabe even caught a piece of shrimp in his mouth that was flung from the chef's spatula! A piece of cheesecake with a candle arrived with a piped rendition of "Happy Birthday," and it was the perfect cheesy end to an all-together good birthday.
I had planned to worship at the National Cathedral on Sunday morning, but we had packed a lot into two days and I was tired. Gabe slept in, and I did laundry and got to snuggle Lexie and talk with Megan a little more. Then we packed up, thanked our gracious hosts and headed to Old Town Alexandria for a lunch of oysters on the half shell, calamari caesar salad and crab-shrimp omelet. (Can you tell we like seafood?)
Then I did something completely unnatural: I left Gabe with total strangers.
Gabe entered his first summer camp experience at Mar-Lu-Ridge, a Lutheran Outdoor Ministries camp about four miles outside Frederick, Md. He signed up for the Civil War theme week, visiting historical sites in the morning and participating in traditional church camp activities in the afternoon and evenings. They'll even have an overnight trip to Gettysburg. How perfect is that for him?
Mr. Jack, the counselor, was really excited that Gabe had the new Lutheran study Bible, even though it had gotten soaked in diet Coke in my back seat, so that helped reassure me I was leaving Gabe in good hands. Mr. Matt, the volunteer, was into re-enactments and brought just as many flags and sundry memorabilia that Gabe had lugged along, so they became fast friends. The whole staff seemed kind and sweet, and you can't beat folks who give you a snow cone while you register.
So, my baby boy saw our nation's capital and sent me away from camp with a casual wave, engrossed in swapping Civil War trivia with another enthusiast.
*Sniff.*
I called my mother.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Party Pooper
Nearing the end of my pregnancy, I am passing up more and more social engagements. I thought it would bother me, but relaxing in my own home has become quite a fine substitute.
I'm toying with the idea of going to at least one date of my season ticket package for the Mud Hens baseball team, if only to see the look on the face of Charlie, my favorite usher, when he sees the reason I will be selling off the rest of my games. But I imagine I will be spending more time on a soft club house chair indoors than on the hard bleacher seat overlooking the field. That's a big energy investment for no beer and no baseball.
I was disappointed to miss a fundraising dinner for the Maritime Academy of Toledo Foundation, of which my husband serves as director. Held at the Toledo Club, guests enjoyed nine courses of the final meal served aboard the Titanic to mark the 100th anniversary of the luxury liner's sinking. Certainly I wanted the food, particularly the foie gras atop the beef medallion, but I also wanted to be on the arm of my dashing officer all dressed up in his Navy tuxedo. Being able to hobnob with the muckity-mucks from my own company would have been a plus, too.
My supper club group repeated the experience, same bat place, same bat menu, the following weekend, but I sent a declining RSVP for that one too. I'm as big as the Titanic now and late nights really sink me. There is a casual event slated for four days after my due date, which seems silly to even think about. The only gourmet meal I'll be concerned about during that week will be the one coming out of my own breasts.
I missed my nephew's birthday party after a particularly uncomfortable bout of baby-in-bad-position, having left work early two days in a row, one of which to head to the hospital triage to make sure everything was still ducky. (It was.)
Going on a movie date sounds great early in the day but dissolves into an exhausted "not tonight, honey." Heading out to dinner is OK as long as we go during the early gray-haired hour. Staying up to watch TV shows or play board games with the family loses out to soundly snoring with the bed pillows.
Some day I'll have a life again, once I bring forth another.
I'm toying with the idea of going to at least one date of my season ticket package for the Mud Hens baseball team, if only to see the look on the face of Charlie, my favorite usher, when he sees the reason I will be selling off the rest of my games. But I imagine I will be spending more time on a soft club house chair indoors than on the hard bleacher seat overlooking the field. That's a big energy investment for no beer and no baseball.
I was disappointed to miss a fundraising dinner for the Maritime Academy of Toledo Foundation, of which my husband serves as director. Held at the Toledo Club, guests enjoyed nine courses of the final meal served aboard the Titanic to mark the 100th anniversary of the luxury liner's sinking. Certainly I wanted the food, particularly the foie gras atop the beef medallion, but I also wanted to be on the arm of my dashing officer all dressed up in his Navy tuxedo. Being able to hobnob with the muckity-mucks from my own company would have been a plus, too.
My supper club group repeated the experience, same bat place, same bat menu, the following weekend, but I sent a declining RSVP for that one too. I'm as big as the Titanic now and late nights really sink me. There is a casual event slated for four days after my due date, which seems silly to even think about. The only gourmet meal I'll be concerned about during that week will be the one coming out of my own breasts.
I missed my nephew's birthday party after a particularly uncomfortable bout of baby-in-bad-position, having left work early two days in a row, one of which to head to the hospital triage to make sure everything was still ducky. (It was.)
Going on a movie date sounds great early in the day but dissolves into an exhausted "not tonight, honey." Heading out to dinner is OK as long as we go during the early gray-haired hour. Staying up to watch TV shows or play board games with the family loses out to soundly snoring with the bed pillows.
Some day I'll have a life again, once I bring forth another.
Monday, April 16, 2012
I Brake for Baby Shower Themes
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| Trick of the trade: Throw a party in a church that is already decorated for a special season. Flowers abound. |
OK, it's not a secret. Those who know me know how much I love to throw themed parties. And since I love babies so much, throwing themed baby showers is the ultimate gift that keeps on giving. The honored guest gets a great party and I get to throw said great party.
My cousin Amanda and good friend Jan ostensibly hosted my baby shower, held at my church. They did so because they are the people who love me enough to let me pretty much throw it for myself.
Now, I like help as much as the next person. That slideshow didn't put itself together, those game prizes didn't materialize out of thin air, and those tables and chairs didn't magically appear in the right places. Any hugely pregnant woman who really does everything herself is a sad creature with a heap of disappointment in store. And likely a hernia.
But I admit to designing and printing the invitations myself. My cousin dutifully took the RSVPs but forwarded them to me so that I could happily fill in my spreadsheet. I planned the menu, ordered the cookies, arranged the flower centerpieces. I raided my home for nautical decorations and searched every store until I found just the right compass favor.
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| However did I throw parties before Pinterest showed me how to make sailboat tea sandwiches? |
Sure there were sailboats and shells and fishing nets artfully placed, but that's not what made it a great party. The beloved family and friends who were there, in the room and in well-wished spirit, created the joy and merriment. The baby was blessed by their presence, not their presents.
May this carry on throughout the years, with every themed birthday party I will happily throw for as many years as my son will let me.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
A Basket Full of Easter Memories
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| Standing here with my brother Andrew, circa 1981, I'm wearing a yellow sundress and lace vest made by my mother for Easter. |
She sewed a new outfit for me to wear to church every year. She helped me and my brother dye dozens and dozens of eggs, most of which came from hens on our own farm. My dad liked to dye some too, and we always had one coffee mug of blue dye set aside for him to soak an egg extra long to get his favorite hue. We used wax crayons to create patterns, tiny stickers of ducklings and daisies, and these cool plastic cuffs that would form around the egg when dipped into hot water. Ah, the '70s.
My parents would send us to bed and then hide the eggs all over the house for us to seek on Sunday morning. As much as I like fancy shoes now, I pretty much lived barefoot on the farm. My mother recalls that Easter was the only day of the year that we kids wore slippers, only because we knew there would be an egg hidden in one. She also recalls our furious objections when she decided we were too old for this hide-n-seek game. I might have been 25 or so.
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| Perhaps that expression on my mother's face, circa 1979, shows concern for how much candy her son could eat and still be expected to behave in church later. |
In a brilliant move to reinforce how much we kids were to respect our daddy, she always put the biggest chocolate bunny into his basket. We thought that was pretty cool. He was a big guy, and the Easter Bunny knew he had to have a big piece of chocolate.
He never tore into it right away, displaying it in its box on the table next to his recliner for a week or more, giving us kids time to mow through our own goodies. Soon enough, we would start eying that big, beautiful, brown confection with big, beautiful, brown eyes that he just couldn't resist. He finally would open the package and let us bite off the ears.
I got a real, live bunny one year. It lived outside and pooped what looked like chocolate beans, but I never could convince my brother to taste-test.
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| Searching for hidden Easter eggs was definitely one of the best parts of the holiday morning. |
My mother is still knocking Easter out of the park, but she's wearing a backwards collar to do it these days. She is preaching basically non-stop from Palm Sunday through two Easter services, and all she wants to do after that is take a long nap. She may envy Jesus lying in a private, dark space for three days away from the rest of the world.
So today, I'm hosting a family meal. My dad has taken over nearly all of the cooking at the farm these days, but only part of the cleaning. A big to-do there, even if she's not making calico casserole, is still work for my mother. It's harder to guilt your kids into doing the dishes when they are chasing after their own children.
However, the roasted beast and some side dishes is all I'm able to manage this year. Apart from spring flowers and different placemats on my table, I didn't even decorate. I figured that if I didn't drag up from the basement my Grammy's collection of decorated eggs and rabbit figurines, I wouldn't have to bother putting them away again. I have enough work to do in the nursery, with my due date about five weeks away.
And don't bother looking for a basket of candy. Chocolate gives me heartburn now (*sob*).
Friday, April 6, 2012
Play Ball
I share a set of season tickets with my newspaper's beat writer and his family's friends, four club-level seats behind the home plate net at Fifth Third Field. The walls of the club house and indoor-outdoor suites are peppered with dents from fly balls, a few of which have found our hands.
One also nearly found my dad's face once. He was standing along a suite exterior, stretching his back, when a shout alerted him to "objects leaving the playing field," as the warning signs profess. He ducked his head to the side just as the ball thwacked the concrete wall, right where his head had been, with a sound that promised it would have left more than a lump on his skull.
Apart from the occasional near-death experience, getting taken out to the ballpark in this particular stadium is immense fun. It truly is a family-oriented place.
The park is a green oasis right downtown, ringed by decent pubs and eateries. The food is pretty darn good inside the gates too, with specialty grills and carts offering better quality fare at better prices than any major league game. I'm spoiled by the club house concessions, but the masses below are closer to the yummy gyros. And anyone can get an entire batting helmet full of ice cream.
The promotions and between-inning contests are amusing enough, and summer weekends boast firework displays. Kids kick off the action with a shout of "play ball," and they get to run the bases after Sunday games. Great big JumboTron screens keep fans informed and engaged. For a buck, you can get a birthday or greeting message played on them. The "Kiss Cam" always catches two guys on the opposing team, who sometimes play along with an exaggerated smooch.
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| My son Gabe, brother Andrew and dad Jim enjoy each other's company before the start of an April 2011 Mud Hens baseball game in Toledo, Ohio. |
Oh yeah -- there's some sort of game being played on the field too.
Mud Hens grow up to be Detroit Tigers, so we can have league-winning teams whenever we haven't been gutted by the parent organization. The players truly are Triple A: approachable by fans, aggressive in the game, and all-around good guys.
One of the absolute best things about this baseball park is the open fencing surrounding it. Anyone walking by can catch a glimpse of the game and feel a part of the community, even if they don't have a paid ticket. One section of the fence is a bronze statue of kids peeking through knotholes in a boarded fence, an homage to just how much people love the game. It was quite the scandal when one of the figures was stolen, but thankfully the little girl in overalls and an old-fashioned fingered mitt was reunited with her "Knothole Gang."
But you really don't need to like baseball to have a good time here. There's a gaggle of women who sometimes sit in my section, and they chatter and yammer through every inning, swirling their cocktails and laughing merrily at every shared story. They may sing along to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" or clap along after a home run, but they aren't there for the baseball. They are there for the warm sunshine and the amiable spirit of the crowd.
Kids are there for everything. There is a playground behind the black wall in center field, but a surprising many of them are content to sit in their seats and cheer for the Mud Hens. Grabbing a fat wad of cotton candy on a stick as the concessions hawker passes by helps a great deal. I'm pretty sure my son Gabe has been going all these years just for the food.
For this season, though, I'm on the DL. I might manage a few innings of an April game, wedging my pregnant hulk into my folding seat with the help of Charlie, the best usher on the planet. He always gives me a big hug, and we laughed when he felt it was necessary to transition from high-fiving Gabe to shaking his hand like a man.
But the rest of the 12 home games I secured will be sold off to friends and coworkers and whoever else will take them off of my hands. I've seen newborn babies at the stadium, but I don't think I'm cut out for that kind of commitment this summer.
I don't like baseball that much.
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