It’s here.
Welcome back, baseball season!
Sure, I’ll take you boys to watch Dad’s games, but first…
Please raise your right hand and repeat after me

I do solemnly swear to refrain from begging for snacks, especially right after I ate one.
Bleachers are for sitting. Not climbing. Not racing, not drumming. On or off, I will choose one.
If I must pee against a tree, I will do so discreetly and without spraying bystanders.
I’ll do my best to let Mommy watch the game.
I will not heckle my father mid-throw.
I will not heckle my father while he’s at bat.
I will not heckle in general.
All small toys I bring to the ball diamond are my sole responsibility.
I will refrain from using the following words: butt, butt crack, penis. I recognize that additional words may be included at the whim of either parent.
I vow not to give my brothers wedgies.
I will do my best to let Mommy watch parts of the game.
Again, I vow not to harass my mother for additional snacks.
Any and all clothing I choose to remove is as mentioned above, my sole responsibility.
I will let Mommy catch a few glimpses of the game.
This is my promise.
Play Ball!

It’s a sad commentary on me that I’m primarily amazed that you actually want to watch your husband’s baseball game. I rarely want to go watch any game, performance, or ceremony. The people, the noise, the disruption of routine, the reality of watching a toddler there. Leaving the house is hard, yo.
Word.