Two years ago my sister followed her job from Wisconsin to Charlotte, North Carolina. My sister works for the Professional Golfers' Association; she's been part of the women's and men's PGA Championships that took place in Wisconsin, and then she went to Charlotte to be part of the PGA Championship there, which, after two years of on-the-ground preparation, is happening as I type. (Kevin Kisner is in the lead; looks like the cut is going to end up around four over par.) As you can imagine, my sister's putting in rather lengthy hours this week. Her husband, also a golf professional, is working at the tournament instead of from home as he usually does, and her two boys, who I call on this blog Louie and Fred, are 2 1/2 and 4 1/2. Long ago my mother agreed to come for the whole tournament, to help out, and then I did, too, and so did my daughter, and this morning my dad flew in. I also brought our dog, because hey, why not. You'd think this would be a recipe for chaos, and I haven't actually asked my sister how's she felt--mostly because she keeps coming home from the tournament after I'm asleep, and leaving before I wake up--and I'm sleeping on the couch in her living room so it's not like I'm sneaking to bed before everyone else--anyhow, strictly from my point-of-view it's been a lovely time.
Here's the thing: my parents, sister, brother-in-law, and incidentally also husband and son (but they couldn't make it this week) very much love the game of golf. I don't. I was raised by golfers and live among golfers, and I like golf well enough. I don't play it, but I'll happily watch it either in person or on tv. I've been to tournaments before just for fun, and I had fun, but my husband has also been to the Kentucky Rolex Three-Day Event several times and enjoyed himself without actually loving horses or wanting to ride at all, and I think that's pretty much how golf is for me and my daughter. We aren't here for the tournament. We're here to take some pressure off the rest of my family during the tournament.
The boys really need to see their Mommy, so each day we pack them up and take them to the course. We've all got tickets, and we've got parking passes that let us park at the Catholic high school near the tournament, instead of way out at Carowinds like most people. We take shuttle buses from there to the course. Then we walk to the parking lot near my sister's office and retrieve the stroller, put the boys inside it until we come to a colossal set of stairs, take them out, all go down the stairs, put them back, go to the next set of stairs, repeat, and head out to the course, runing through all the misting fans on the way. Then my mom checks to see where the good golfers are--this is what we did for Wednesday's practice round, for Thursday, and for today except today my dad was with us--and the boys decide that they're hungry. Which makes sense, because by then it's lunchtime.
We get food. We watch a little golf. Then my daughter and I take the boys back home, stopping first to let them hug their mom--and today they also got to wave to their dad, who was a walking scorer. My mom, and today my dad, stay and watch golf. They love golf. We take the bus back to the Catholic school and sing Disney songs as we drive home from there, and then the boys nap, and the dogs cuddle up next to my daughter and I, and it's lovely.
Fred, the two-and-a-half-year old, has decided he doesn't like hot dogs. He doesn't like hamburgers. He likes buns. Yesterday he refined this: he didn't want a hot dog bun, he wanted a "bun sandwich." This worked out great, because Louie wanted "chicken fries," and I was able to get a fried chicken breast sandwich, plain, without the sauce, lettuce, bacon or pickled okra it normally comes with, and a side of fries. I took the chicken out of the bun, gave it to Louie, and handed Fred the empty bun, a proper bun sandwich. All was well. They also each ate an apple.
Today Louie wanted a hot dog and an apple, but first he had to use the bathroom. Fred, who flirts with the idea of being toilet-trained, insisted that he also had to use the bathroom. So I told my parents and daughter to get their own food, I'd handle the boys, and I took them out of the stroller and down some more stairs to the toilets, and Fred took one look at the funky toilet and refused to use it, which was fine, except that by the time we'd gotten back up the stairs he was hungry and hot and cranky. "Bun sandwich!' he said. Yes, I assured him. And did he want an apple? NO. He'd eaten his apple with such enthusiasm the day before that I didn't believe him; I asked him several more times. Fred, look at me. I know bun sandwich. Do you also want an apple?
NO NO APPLE.
Where we were was a sort of food court with different stations. The hot dogs and hamburgers were at a different place than the chicken sandwiches and the apples. So I got a hot dog first, handed it to Louie, and asked the counter for a plain bun for Fred.
It was a hot dog bun.
NO, he wailed, BUN SANDWICH.
I had agreed to a bun sandwich all along and I understood precisely what he meant. I found my parents and daughter, who'd commandeered a table and chairs in some shade, set both the boys down, gave Louie his hot dog, and promised to returned with an apple and a proper bun sandwich. Got the apple. Got the chicken sandwich plain as I had the day before. Went back to the table, gave Fred the plain bun sandwich, popped the chicken breast inside the hot dog bun, and starting eating that myself (it was delicious.) Fred looked at Louie wide-eyed, and said, through a mouthful of bun sandwich, "HEY. I WANTED AN APPLE.
Fred Michael, I said, Holy Mother of God. How many times did I ask you if you wanted an apple?
Fred looked at me. He held up his hand, five chubby fingers splayed. Then he folded his fingers, and spread them out again. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Then he laughed and laughed.
So did I. So did all of us.
Louie gave him half the apple, and we called it good.
Here's the thing: my parents, sister, brother-in-law, and incidentally also husband and son (but they couldn't make it this week) very much love the game of golf. I don't. I was raised by golfers and live among golfers, and I like golf well enough. I don't play it, but I'll happily watch it either in person or on tv. I've been to tournaments before just for fun, and I had fun, but my husband has also been to the Kentucky Rolex Three-Day Event several times and enjoyed himself without actually loving horses or wanting to ride at all, and I think that's pretty much how golf is for me and my daughter. We aren't here for the tournament. We're here to take some pressure off the rest of my family during the tournament.
The boys really need to see their Mommy, so each day we pack them up and take them to the course. We've all got tickets, and we've got parking passes that let us park at the Catholic high school near the tournament, instead of way out at Carowinds like most people. We take shuttle buses from there to the course. Then we walk to the parking lot near my sister's office and retrieve the stroller, put the boys inside it until we come to a colossal set of stairs, take them out, all go down the stairs, put them back, go to the next set of stairs, repeat, and head out to the course, runing through all the misting fans on the way. Then my mom checks to see where the good golfers are--this is what we did for Wednesday's practice round, for Thursday, and for today except today my dad was with us--and the boys decide that they're hungry. Which makes sense, because by then it's lunchtime.
We get food. We watch a little golf. Then my daughter and I take the boys back home, stopping first to let them hug their mom--and today they also got to wave to their dad, who was a walking scorer. My mom, and today my dad, stay and watch golf. They love golf. We take the bus back to the Catholic school and sing Disney songs as we drive home from there, and then the boys nap, and the dogs cuddle up next to my daughter and I, and it's lovely.
Fred, the two-and-a-half-year old, has decided he doesn't like hot dogs. He doesn't like hamburgers. He likes buns. Yesterday he refined this: he didn't want a hot dog bun, he wanted a "bun sandwich." This worked out great, because Louie wanted "chicken fries," and I was able to get a fried chicken breast sandwich, plain, without the sauce, lettuce, bacon or pickled okra it normally comes with, and a side of fries. I took the chicken out of the bun, gave it to Louie, and handed Fred the empty bun, a proper bun sandwich. All was well. They also each ate an apple.
Today Louie wanted a hot dog and an apple, but first he had to use the bathroom. Fred, who flirts with the idea of being toilet-trained, insisted that he also had to use the bathroom. So I told my parents and daughter to get their own food, I'd handle the boys, and I took them out of the stroller and down some more stairs to the toilets, and Fred took one look at the funky toilet and refused to use it, which was fine, except that by the time we'd gotten back up the stairs he was hungry and hot and cranky. "Bun sandwich!' he said. Yes, I assured him. And did he want an apple? NO. He'd eaten his apple with such enthusiasm the day before that I didn't believe him; I asked him several more times. Fred, look at me. I know bun sandwich. Do you also want an apple?
NO NO APPLE.
Where we were was a sort of food court with different stations. The hot dogs and hamburgers were at a different place than the chicken sandwiches and the apples. So I got a hot dog first, handed it to Louie, and asked the counter for a plain bun for Fred.
It was a hot dog bun.
NO, he wailed, BUN SANDWICH.
I had agreed to a bun sandwich all along and I understood precisely what he meant. I found my parents and daughter, who'd commandeered a table and chairs in some shade, set both the boys down, gave Louie his hot dog, and promised to returned with an apple and a proper bun sandwich. Got the apple. Got the chicken sandwich plain as I had the day before. Went back to the table, gave Fred the plain bun sandwich, popped the chicken breast inside the hot dog bun, and starting eating that myself (it was delicious.) Fred looked at Louie wide-eyed, and said, through a mouthful of bun sandwich, "HEY. I WANTED AN APPLE.
Fred Michael, I said, Holy Mother of God. How many times did I ask you if you wanted an apple?
Fred looked at me. He held up his hand, five chubby fingers splayed. Then he folded his fingers, and spread them out again. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Then he laughed and laughed.
So did I. So did all of us.
Louie gave him half the apple, and we called it good.
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