Overheard

When I watch my boys play baseball, I bring my camp chair and set it up next to the bleachers. I'm aware that this makes me seem anti-social, but when I have two and sometimes even three games to sit through, my back just can't take the agony that multiple hours of bleacher sitting imparts.

And though one would think that the amount of padding on my backside would provide ample shock absorption, one would be egregiously wrong about that.

So Saturday, I placed my chair strategically behind home plate and settled in.

Soon, another gentleman set up his chair beside me. I found out that he was the grandfather of one of Diminutive One's teammates, visiting from out of state. Shortly after he sat down, his grandaughter took up residence in his lap and began a steady stream of chatter.

He was very patient with her. I truly admired his werewithal in not only listening, but also responding at appropriate intervals, in a manner that suggested he was thoroughly riveted by what she had to say. And afterall, what kid doesn't love the idea that someone is hanging on their every word? She beamed from the attention being lavished on her. It was very sweet.

Once the game started, I turned my attention to the field, effectively tuning her out.

After a while, there was a lull in the action as a new pitcher warmed up, and my ear wandered to the conversation being had between grandfather and granddaughter. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I witnessed Grandpa getting himself in way over his head.

"Grandpa, is that your belly button?"

"Er....yes."

"But why does it stick out like that?? Mine doesn't do that"

"Well, you have an innie, some people have outies."

"Brother has an outie, but his doesn't stick out that much. Yours in huge! I'm going to poke it."

Brief silence as poking ensued.

"I like poking your belly button Grandpa!"

"Please don't do that any more dear, it hurts Grandpa."

"But why? It doesn't hurt when I poke my belly button. It tickles!"

Poke, poke. A small grunt of discomfort from Grandpa.

"Well, um....that's not really my bellybutton."

Stunned silence.

"What is it Grandpa?"

Poke. Grunt.

"It's a, um...(quietly) hernia."

"A (loudly) HERNIA? What's THAT?"

"Well, um...it's a boo-boo."

"A boo-boo! Do you want me to kiss it Grandpa?"

"NO! No, that's okay. It's a boo-boo on the inside."

"What kind of boo-boo? Do you need a band-aid? They have Barbie band-aids at the concession stand. I got one when I skinned my knee. You're a boy, so you probably wouldn't want a Barbie band-aid, but they have Pokemon too. Do you want a Pokemon band-aid Grandpa?"

"No, no, that's okay dear. A band-aid won't help for this kind of boo-boo."

But it was too late. She had already bounded off his lap and was striding purposefully toward the concession stand. Her lilting little girl voice could be heard clearly above the din of the crowd as she called out....

"MISS MICHELLE! CAN I HAVE A POKEMON BAND-AID FOR MY GRANDPA! HE HAS A HERNIA!"

Grandpa turned a shade of deep scarlet and slouched in his chair. I couldn't supress a small chuckle of amusement. He glanced at me and rolled his eyes.

"Well," I said, leaning over, "At least she didn't announce to the whole world that you have your period and need some Crampons."

He laughed, and with that, we formed a truly significant bond; that of adults who have been humiliated and chagrined by proclomations of an exceedingly personal nature on the part of the pint-sized.

Ahhh, kids. If nothing else, they keep us truly humble.