Potty Training

I did not want to be the team manager but must admit, having an excuse to set up a notebook and use a pencil case (one of those little plastic ones with three holes that go right in the binder—high school in the 80’s anyone?) was appealing. So far so good, able to make it to most games, have not forgotten anything important (yet), acceptable attire fits my general “sporty bag lady” look, but sometimes…

Since I have a three year old who gets dragged to every field on the East Coast, I knew there would come a time when potty training interfered with my duties as totally-in-control-of-it-all team manager. The boys are lined up-kicking shin pads, and showing cleats (like horses at the track in the starting gate but with a little less bucking and rearing), the ref is looking around for the roster and ID cards to prove we are who we say we are, and where am I? Nowhere near my cute notebook with everything in it. No, I am at the car holding a toddler with one hand and dripping wet pants with the other. A twisting, squirming, shivering, half-naked toddler, and really, really wet pants.

I manage to get him half-dressed (which is as good as it gets most days), run back to my notebook, run across the field and sortof throw everything at the ref. Luckily, the coach is able to find and distribute the cards (pencil case!) and we are off. I think we won that day too.