It’s so hard to figure dinner into a jam packed afternoon and evening schedule filled with games. My daughter’s softball games tend to run right up until my son’s bedtime, which forces us to play tag-team parenting. I take the kids to the game, my husband arrives mid-way through from work, then I leave with my son, to go home and make dinner, or pick it up along the way. My son and I eat dinner, and as we begin getting him ready for bed, my husband and daughter walk in, famished. This isn’t unique, but that doesn’t make it less complicated. I don’t know how we’d make it some nights, if not for the nearby taqueria and pizza place that sells by the slice.
Tonight, while the girls were warming up, it smelled like summer. Once I noticed the smell, I knew it was hot dogs on a barbecue. I looked around, assuming it was coming from a nearby house, but I spotted the Little League snack shack near the baseball field 200 yards away. We could just eat here, I thought, which of course is what they want you to think. I passed, mostly because I didn’t want a hot dog, not to mention my daughter’s coach is a cardiologist, but it would have been so easy to become snack shack diners.
Instead, I went home, ate with my son, and was later followed by my daughter and husband. Our usual non-gourmet sporting routine.