Clark Griswold.

8:45pm. Kristy and I talk as she drives home from her first day teaching at MCTC, and I stand on our front lawn, both kids finally asleep (Spencer on a bed with no sheets, and Nora, only after a 2 hour odyssey of tears, squirming and frantically warming up bottles of milk)... stand and faintly enjoy the evening breeze as every molecule of my body strives to exhale and settle, exhausted, to the lowest place gravity can oblige it.

I had a total Clark Griswold moment this morning. I failed to check the website, and with much ado, trekked out to the St Paul Saints stadium, one week too late to enjoy kiddie Mondays. A nice young man named Taylor offered to let us walk through to see the field, at least. My parental spider sense should have been going off. But no. Spencer races up the concourse, bursts into the open air, marvels at the gleaming field (replete with zig-zagging riding mower), and then is pulled away by papa, denied access from a stone's throw. Tears flow freely. Taylor is surprised. We start to walk back up the concourse and I turn to Taylor (this is the Griswold moment... remember Wallyworld?)-- I say, Taylor, would there be any way that Spence could just take one lap with me around the field? I don't threaten Taylor. I don't emphasize how it is within his power to calm my shrieking child. I don't tell him to watch it, I'm a trained community organizer. Maybe I should have. Instead, calling upon generations of finely honed parental instincts, I murmur several times to Spencer, do you want a chocolate chip cookie? Let's get in the car, and then we can go get a chocolate chip cookie. I mean, I don't know who needs it more at this point, but it slowly breaks the spell. We get in the car. Spencer was asleep before we left the parking lot.

I will plan better for Friday. And next time, if there is one, I'll slip Taylor a twenty.