We interrupt reality with a few hundred words of mindless banter.
I am the best mom in the world. I really and truly am. I (and let’s count how many times I use the word I) have sat in a car with husband #1 and my three sons for thousands and thousands of miles. I (and this time “I” refers to me sitting in the passenger seat and husband #1 doing the actual driving) have driven to Dayton, Ohio, to Minnesota, to Chicago, through Indiana, Kansas (and Kansas City, Missouri—who knew there were two?). I have been witness to tornado shelters (in Kansas—Dorothy, are you here?), to lightning storms that only stay to the left of the highway, to motel rooms where previous guests have been kind enough to leave my family their old socks, and to supermarkets whose kosher inventories consist of old Passover products. And don’t even ask about the whole minyan thing. I have sat in the car in front of synagogues all across this great nation of ours.
When you have only boys and those boys all like the same thing, baseball, you have no choice but to take the Baseball Road Trip. This is not the road trip where a bunch of guys book some flights, go to some games, and eat in some nice restaurants. (Restaurants, are you kidding? You eat what you fit in the cooler and what you can take out of the classy continental breakfast in the lobby!) These are hardcore. These are pack your clothes in garbage bags because you can’t waste time opening AND closing a suitcase, bring an empty bottle and don’t eat solid food 72 hours before we leave because we don’t have time to waste on rest stops, and have all of your baseball cards in order with Sharpees to get autographs on road trips. These are military-precision scheduled itineraries. Gates open at 4, we pull in at 3:55 because nothing says “America’s favorite pastime” like watching two hours of batting practice holding your factory-sealed less-than-20-ounce water bottle.
I know that the boys bring me along because, just like the part I play when we are at home, I become the organizer, chef, dry cleaner, EMT, psychiatrist, maid, and all around pushover on these trips. You want white bread for dinner, go ahead. Orange soda instead of orange juice? Sure, why not. You want me to carry all of the rain coats because I insisted we bring them along? That’s the real reason why I carry the extra weight; makes me sturdier. And for the record, weather.com said it was going to rain (another ritual of these road trips, you can never check the weather forecast too many times…can anyone say OCD???).
The true joy comes when (after a 32-ounce frozen cocktail, worth the $18) watching my three monkeys work together to cover the field. Divide and conquer and try to catch as many fly balls and get as many autographs as possible, even if means switching baseball hats so the players think you are rooting for their team. My actual job during this time is to walk around the stadium, signing up for “stuff,” so I can get more “free” string bags and T-shirts. You can never have too many string bags with the Chevy logo on them (still have yet to win the free car) and you can never receive too many credit cards from different baseball teams.
But what does the subway have to do with any of this? Son #1 came home from camp to spend the next five weeks hanging out with me (she said laughingly). He wanted to go to a Mets game. I wanted to spend time with him. This required a bus ride into the city (piece of cake, do that all the time, well, eat cake and take a bus into New York, though not at the same time). But then, to get to Citifield, we needed to take the #7 train. I am a Jersey girl, not a big fan of the subway. I used to take them in college, took them when I interned at NBC (yes, I am name dropping), took one to Yankee Stadium with husband #1 on our first date (not getting into that story), and though it is a convenient method of transportation, I would rather walk to Queens. But, for the love of my firstborn, we took the subway. And got to the stadium at 4:26 when the gates don’t open until 5:10 (and the game doesn’t start until 7:05). Enough time for my frozen, factory-sealed water bottle to melt.
The Mets, for a change, lost, but I was the real winner.
May God watch over all of our boys…
By Banji Latkin Ganchrow
