Thanks to Brad’s major league connections, my dad, Evan and Brad went to a baseball game to see Brad’s childhood friend, Heath Bell, and the San Diego Padres play the Mariners. The seats were amazing and all three boys had a blast. Evan flirted with the players' wives, ate pizza and Cracker Jacks, and tried a hot dog for the first and probably last time in his life.
When they went down to the field to visit Heath, he even gave Evan a baseball.
Evan loves that baseball. In fact, he loves it so much, I’ve saved it for special occasions when I need to assure a distraction – like when I’m changing his diaper.
Evan is a boy in so many ways; he eats dirt, he loves cars and trucks and anything with a motor, and when the diaper comes off, his hand goes south. Which isn’t really the problem. He’s a boy. He can play with himself til he’s blue for all I care. The problem is, when it’s a dirty diaper and not just a wet diaper, those little roaming hands can make quite the mess. So now I have him play with his baseball rather than himself. At least, I did…
Yesterday I handed Evan his baseball during a particularly messy diaper and Evan, being the baseball fan that he is, threw his baseball. Right. Into. His poop.
I quickly grabbed the ball and wiped it off, but I only managed to smear the poop right into the grooves of the stitching. So now Evan’s prized baseball sits up on a shelf as a display item and we’ve moved on to plastic bath toys for diaper changing distractions.
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