Much like the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, I had a very Southern California Weekend (incidentally, I was at the gym when the news cut in with their landing at LAX and I wanted to shout, "Welcome to my home, you Adorable Royal Couple! Stop on over for some cookies!")
I went to the Dodger game on Friday night (we won!) and the beach on Saturday morning (no sun burn!) and the Hollywood Bowl on Saturday night where we watched Westside Story (probably my second favorite musical - after Sound of Music, natch) with the LA Phil playing the score live, in sync with the film. And if you're wondering - IT WAS AMAZING.
But back to the Dodger Game. We got free fancy seats (thanks, Uncle Rob!) and there was a couple sitting in front of us with their son and his friend, both about 6. Katie and I sat in total wonder as the mom spent the entire 4 innings that they were there doing everything for those two boys, such as breaking their hot dogs into smaller pieces, telling them when something good happened and making them clap, and cracking the peanuts out of their shells and handing them to the boys. When she wasn't wiping ketchup off their faces or fixing their hair she was taking pictures of them. The kids didn't seem to mind having their baseball experience micromanaged like that and the mom seemed like it wasn't a hassle to her. EXCEPT: (Cranky Spinster Woman Disclaimer: I don't have kids. What do I know about anything.) isn't one of the joys of childhood learning how to crack a peanut? And can't a kid just sit with his friend and laugh at silly 6 year old things without constantly being told to clap or smile or eat this bite-sized piece of hot dog? I felt bad for the kids. But I also felt bad for the mom because 20 years from now her son is going to be calling her up from the Dodger game asking why she didn't pack shelled peanuts in his lunch?