The Undershirt

This story is a blast-from-the-past and mainly here so that I don't forget it. But also, for your reading pleasure...

My kindergarten-age daughter spent a few hours one January Sunday at a Jayhawk cheer clinic in Lawrence, KS. She was to learn a few cheers and dances then got the chance to perform during halftime of the KU Women's Basketball college game. It was fun for her so, in turn, fun for all of us.

With a five year-old, three year-old and one year-old stuffed into the stands, we loaded up on popcorn, Doritos, pretzels and everyone's favorite fake ballpark nacho cheese. (Okay, maybe just my favorite.) The kids patiently sat through the first half of the game, half-interested while shoving arena snacks into their face.

Five minutes left in the second quarter, time to go! I steer my oldest down the stairs to meet up with the rest of the crowd of adorably loud amateur's from 'Bring It On.' Give her a quick goodbye and head back to the stands where my husband and parents sat with our two younger kids.

Simultaneously:

→ I sit down

→ the lil cheer squad walks onto the court holding-hands, being steered by the college-age cheerleaders

→ my three year-old yacks his snacks all over my husbands back and everything in a two-foot vicinity

Shocked.

Three year-old throws up again.

Uh.

I shove a half-eaten bag of popcorn into his face to...uh, catch it? Or did I make it worse?

Announcer bellows, "let's welcome our junior cheerleaders to center court..."

Three year-old cries.

My husband whisks away the three-year old as my parents use every coat in sight to wipe up the aftermath.

Man behind us grabs paper towels from the concessions faster than Superman himself.

Cheer music starts.

Um.

"Record her!" My mom points towards the court as she's simultaneously mopping up Doritos from three minutes prior.

Okay? So I just turn around to face the court, start recording since my husband will miss the performance. Just, uh, pretending operation Kevin Malone's chili cleanup isn't happening behind me?

Yea. That's exactly what I did.

At one point my husband hollars at me from behind. He's standing in the vomitorium (THAT'S WHAT IT'S CALLED. Can you believe it?! Something about the Romans... ask a man I guess.)

But you know what I'm talking about, the walkway to the concourse. He's holding our three year-old who is now wearing a massively oversized white T-shirt. My first thought was, "Oh, good idea, my husband must have bought a t-shirt at one of these booths. Good call." So anyway, he's hollaring at me that he's taking our son to the car. Got it.

Bless the people surrounding us. I heard one women say to her child, "welp, that's just what happens with little kids," in the most lackadaisical tone. Thank you to her.

So the 1.5 minute dance comes to a finish. My daughter waves up at us as she exits stage left. We gather, apologize to surrounding families and head out.

So turns out my parents are parked in a lot opposite of where my husband is with our car. So my five year-old Cheri Oteri Spartan Cheerleader, my one-year old and myself hop into my parents car and try to find my husband. My dad calls my husbands phone ... it rings in the diaper bag at my feet.

This is fine.

So we're circling the lot where I think my husband parked. (He dropped us off at the beginning of this charade). We find him, my dad rolls down his window to tell my husband, "I'll follow you over there...less traffic" or something like that. My husband literally cracks his window to hear my dad. Again, my immediate thought, "Why?" and also, "Whatever. I don't have enough brain space right now."

Oh -- I forgot to mention, it's January in Lawrence, Kansas. Literally 13° outside, feels like 7°.

So cars are parked on the curb, we very quickly load the girls into their respective carseats. My 3 year-old puker is nearly naked and he's, like, fine. Happy to see everyone. I quickly thank my parents and jump into the front seat. Buckle up and then turn to my husband ...

He's shirtless. Sitting in the car in the literally freezing weather without a shirt on.

"I -wha? Why? What are you doing here, sir?"

So then his version of the story...

Rewind to the blowing chunks on his back part: He whisks our son away -through the vomitorium- and on his way to the bathroom the toddler loses his chunks again. My husband just keeps going, full steam ahead. Sorry to whoever cleaned that up - and thank you. Get to the bathroom and they're both covered in it. So my husband takes off his 1/4 zip and his white undershirt, undresses the toddler, puts the XLT undershirt on the kid, rinses his 1/4 zip in the sink, puts the soaking wet 1/4 zip back on, gets weird looks, comes to tell me that he's going to the car, runs to the car in arctic temps as his shirt is simultaneously turning to ice. So, naturally, when he got into the car he took off the ice cube shirt.

Moral of the story: always wear an undershirt.