We have a minor league team here in town called the Normal Cornbelters. Both of us have a nice memory of taking baby Jacob to the game last year, watching him crawl around on the grass, and giving him his evening bottle under the glow of the stadium lights.
We decided to go to a game last night, even though it began at 7 pm, which is late for a kid who goes to bed at 8. He likes baseball, though, so we thought it would be fine. He likes to watch games on TV and point out bats and balls and gloves. We didn't expect him to actually sit the whole time, so we got lawn seating so he could run a bit and play in the grass with his car.
My guys were so cute.
And it was a great night for baseball.
Only we didn't watch baseball.
We- well, specifically, Frank, chased after our little screaming crazy-man.
He ran up the hill and down the hill and yelled and rolled and bugged people and was generally nuts!
Despite how Normal Rockwell the next two pictures make it appear, we had had it by this point. I think he thought there was a prize for the worst-behaved child, and he was determined to win it. (and if there was, I think half of the stadium would agree he had it in the bag last night)
We tried again to interest him in his car (see the little blue dot in the right side of the picture?), but no dice.
All he wanted to do was throw rocks. Like I said, I didn't expect him to sit like an adult, but I also didn't expect the bratty, uncontrollable behavior. We lasted two innings. Maybe next year will be better...