Days don’t always turn out the way you want them to.
As one who relishes planning down to the tiniest detail, this
particular fact of life is tough to swallow.
Days don’t always turn out the way you want them to.
As one who relishes planning down to the tiniest detail, this particular fact of life is tough to swallow.
But as new parents to a beautiful baby girl, my husband, Chris, and I remind ourselves that this is our “new reality.” Of course, baby spit-up, dirty diapers and general crankiness don’t get in the way of us trying to plan an outing once in a while.
Take last weekend for instance. Chris and I attempted to celebrate his birthday two days before his actual birthday. You see, he has the unfortunate lot to be born around the same day that most Americans are bitterly scribbling a check to the IRS. Not the happiest day to blow out one’s birthday candles.
So, we chose Saturday to celebrate his 31st birthday. We shucked our paycheck stubs and receipts for the day and headed north to the San Francisco Giants game.
It would be the first game we would attend this season. More importantly, it would be our daughter, Emma’s, first Giants game.
Ignoring the weatherman’s warning that storm clouds were stationed at Pac Bell Park, we bundled up and made the trek up to the City By the Bay.
San Francisco holds a special place in our hearts. It is the city where Chris and I spent four years attending college. It’s also the place where we met, fell in love and eventually married. We hadn’t been back since Emma’s birth more than three months ago.
Of course, with a baby in tow, we got a late start. But we’re used to that. Traffic and fender-benders delayed us further, but we pushed on, mindful of the rain-slicked roads.
By the time we found a parking space near the ballpark, the Giants radio broadcaster announced that the game would be rescheduled.
What are you going to do? The day felt like it had been wasted. But we didn’t have time to complain. Our little one had awoken and let it be known that she was hungry. So, Emma had lunch and we drove past our alma mater, the University of San Francisco.
Chris and I drove around the sprawling campus and reminisced about special times – and not so special times – during our college careers. We recalled rooting for the Dons at basketball games, yelling until our voices were hoarse; the time he was broadsided by an elderly woman who couldn’t see over her steering wheel; and the tearful day he left for a semester abroad in Japan.
Suddenly, I could see my 18-year-old self shuffling across campus, books in hand, scurrying to get to class. I glimpsed my 19-year-old self sitting in the stands of Negoesco Field, cheering on our soccer team. Down the street, I saw my 20-year-old self running to Chris’ apartment, eager to see him after being separated for 14 hours. And finally I smiled at my 21-year-old self delivering our college newspaper, which I had just helped produce 24 hours earlier.
Later, Chris and I drove to the Sunset District to one of our favorite Chinese restaurants. Years ago, we had spent many an afternoon and evening there laughing, sharing and planning our future over steaming plates of lemon chicken and Szechwan beef.
“This is where Mommy and Daddy used to come all the time,” I whispered to our sleeping daughter.
That evening, Chris and I enjoyed yet another meal there, talking and laughing while watching our Emma and listening to the rain fall. Afterwards, we went back into the soggy weather, warmed inside.
“Sorry about the game,” I whispered to Chris.
“That’s OK,” he said, taking my hand.
Ultimately, our day had turned out completely different than what we had planned. And that was just fine with us.
