My Baseball Glove

Pudge continues his projectile spit-up streak. Perhaps his distance throwing abilities and consistent weight gain will earn him a spot in Major League Baseball as the next great player. Pudge Stream – has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Yesterday, Destroy successfully puked his way through six outfits. Several of them lasted only through the completion of a diaper change. The second I’d pick him up, BLARF! At one point Jon suggested we wait until before bed before changing him from a cute short-sleeved onesie to long-sleeved footie pjs since it was going to be a cooler evening. No sooner had I agreed than BLARF! Message received. We’ll change now.

The saga of outfits (and beginning to wonder if we’ll have any more to clothe the child in if he continues blarfing at such a rapid pace) reminded me of one of the most infamous childhood stories told in my family.

Camping has always been a classic right-of-passage type of family vacation. (Not for me, my family only ever camped Troop Beverly Hills style). And in the early 1960s, this was just such an outing my mother went on. Since my mom and her brother had reached the wise-old-age of double digits (they were 10ish), G.G. told her offspring that they were old enough to pack their own bags.

Janet and Tommy gathered their necessary belongings. Everything was loaded into the rented RV and the family headed off to the campgrounds. Once there, Tommy began skipping along the stones peaking up from the lake. G.G. repeated warned him to be careful. “You’re going to fall in,” she noted.

“No I’m not,” the all-knowing pre-adolescent assured her.


“I told you so,” G.G. calmly reminded him as she looked up from her book. Tommy waded his way back to shore and stood staring at his mother, dripping from head to toe. “Well,” she prodded him, “go change your clothes.”

“What clothes?” he inquired.

“Go change out of your soaking outfit and into one of the dry pairs of pants you brought,” a very exasperated G.G. instructed her son.

“I didn’t bring any pants,” replied a very confused Tommy.

Beginning to grow increasingly concerned, G.G. slowly looked up at Tommy and asked, “Well what did you bring?”

“My baseball glove,” Tommy proudly stated. Tommy was then shuffled back to the RV to change into an orange jumpsuit belonging to my mom.

What a game of catch that must have been. At the very least he would have been an easy target in his big sister’s orange outfit all week.


Filed under Baby Photos, Destroy, Family Stories, Search

5 Responses to My Baseball Glove

  1. Joanne Hamann

    One of my all-time favorite stories! Mitch has it memorized. It will go down in the history of our family as one of the best moments. Note to self: Do NOT let them pack themselves until 14 (and even that was iffy – we thought all Mitch had packed for Hawaii was his Temper-Pedic pillow:)

  2. Winifred Ahern

    I don’t know that I particularly care for the name “Pudge” even if he’s trying to fulfill it’s meaning. Sounds like he is outdoing Search in the amount of outfits needing washing, after all his barfing.. Ah, that infamous story about letting a kid do his own packing. All parents experience it! G.G.

  3. Gramma Janet

    Ah, yes, the infamous, “but I brought my baseball glove story”. My orange paisley outfit was rather amusing on a boy. Looks like Search is not enjoying the glove. Perhaps because it is a “leftie”?

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