Today is the third birthday of the blog. To celebrate (okay, not really, but a segue is a segue), I'll be taking next week off. The family is piling into our trusty compact and trundling off to a vacation spot you've heard of for several days. No internet, no office politics, no fluorescent lighting. If all goes well, by the end of next week, my brain will be starting to snap back to its original shape. At this point, the prospect of a week without purchase requisitions is a source of actual joy. The next scheduled post will be on July 2.
The Boy's kindergarten class sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” at our local minor-league park during the seventh inning stretch one night last week. (The next day I teased my music faculty by telling them – correctly – that he made his concert debut in front of thousands.) The front row of box seats was abruptly commandeered by parents wielding camcorders, myself among them. Unlike certain “singers,” I can attest that The Boy does not lip sync.
The kids were herded into the tunnel next to the dugout a half-inning before showtime. During that half-inning, the home team faced twelve batters, finally getting the third out on a rundown. It was The Inning That Wouldn't Die. At one point, I turned to the parent next to me and said that if they didn't get the next guy out, I'd walk down to the dugout and volunteer to pitch. When it finally ended and the kids got to sing, they looked none the worse for wear, though TB volunteered that the tunnel smelled like poop. I told him that show business is rough.
I didn't share that with my music faculty.
If you ever get the chance to drive an excited six-year-old boy and his excited-by-contact-high two-year-old sister to a ballgame at which he will sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” be prepared for endless, spirited rehearsals en route. Know, too, that there's nothing funnier to a six-year-old boy than ending a verse with a loud burp, or finding excuses to slip the word “butt” into the lyrics. Worse, you will find yourself laughing involuntarily, thereby encouraging him and generating the dreaded “you're-not-helping” look from your long-suffering spouse.
Worse than that, you'll find the altered lyrics annoyingly catchy, and will find yourself singing them to yourself under your breath for the next several days. Try not to do this at work. Trust me on this one.
And that's why I need a vacation. See you in July!
