This has been an action-packed stretch, and things won't get any better for another week. After a three-day stop at home, I fly back to the West Coast tomorrow, where I'll spend a few days with Tege in Portland before heading up to Seattle for meetings on Monday and Tuesday. In the past week, I have visited a friend in LA, spent several hours and several dollars in Amoeba Records, watched one friend win a tourney thanks to a miracle shot on the 18th hole, followed along as another teed off in the Masters today, had a dinner date with Crazy Nephew #2, and gotten a bevy of things done at work, which is necessary because my appearances in the office are currently sporadic at best.

In the midst of all this, there was opening day at Shea on Monday. Originally, the plan called for our group to enjoy a day of sun-filled drinking. Then KJ's job interfered and she had to cancel, so I took Adam, better known as Crazy Nephew #1. I love that kid more than life itself, but sometimes he has his moments. Monday was one of those times. And given that I was fresh off the redeye and sleep deprived, I probably wasn't at my best either...

Things were going fine. We drove to Newark and took the train to NYC, and then took the 7 out to Shea. He loves the subway, which always surprises me because he's not usually good with tons of people around. We got there and for the first few innings, everything was great, albeit ridiculously windy and cold. This led to Adam sitting on my lap, because he was chilly, which eventually led to him falling asleep around the top of the fourth inning. As he dozed off, I was given instructions to wake him if: A) "the guy with the baseball head shows up" or B) "the apple pops up." Mr. Met made an appearance during the fifth, and David Wright cranked one out in the sixth, and he was notified both times.

By the top of the seventh, he was well rested and had perked up nicely, dancing with the stadium music and animatedly watching planes fly overhead, yet fortunately ignoring the assortment of new-for-him phrases being yelled in our section (most notably of the M-F and ethnic slur variety). At the top of the eighth, he looked like he was freezing, so I decided we'd get a head start on the journey home. And this was where the trouble started.

Really, I'm to blame. I did not understand that a five-year-old boy could drink enough apple juice and Pepsi to cause a small flood, yet not have to empty his bladder. I was under the mistaken belief that he would have to go, particularly since he had mentioned he had to shortly before we arrived at Shea, prior to the game. But once in the stadium, he said he didn't have to, and I decided not to press it.

But before we returned to the subway, I decided it was time. I had to go, and I'm four times his size, so I figured his little body would welcome an evacuation of fluids. I planned to take him to the Toys R Us in Times Square on the way home so we could ride the Ferris wheel in the store, and used that as the bribe.

He was simply not having it, and thus threw a five-alarm meltdown in the ladies' room at the upper deck at Shea, insisting that he did not have to go. I kept telling him that all he had to do was TRY to go, and if he didn't have to, we could leave. I told him that if he didn't try, we couldn't go to the Ferris wheel, because they only let in little boys who went potty. Because he's smart and quick, he said, "How will they know? We could just tell them I went." I told him they'd just know.

Finally, after about 15 minutes of this sort of lying and cajoling (from me) and crying and screaming (from him), he told me that he would try, but that he wasn't going to pull his pants down. I questioned how he could try without removing his pants, but he was past the point of using logic, so that set him off again. Every time I'd give up and say we could just go, he'd ask if he was going to get to ride the Ferris wheel, and I'd say no, and he'd fall apart again. Finally, after 30 minutes, I'd had enough and we left the bathroom. He asked once more about the Ferris wheel, and I told him that it would probably be closed by the time we got there because we had wasted so much time in the bathroom. He actually accepted that answer, and off we went.

Unfortunately, during this delay, the game ended, so now people were everywhere. We still had to make a stop at the gift shop to buy something for his brother, who didn't understand why he couldn't go too. That took another half hour because there was one cat waiting on everyone. Then, it was on to the subway, where it took another 20 minutes to get through the turnstile because there were so many people waiting. It took two trains before we could get one. We finally collapsed into seats on the 7 and he looked at me and said, "I'm sorry we fighted." We then had a rather mature conversation about why it's so silly to freak out about something so minor, and how going to the potty is a good thing, and not something to avoid.

From then on, he was fine. In fact, an angel. Which was good, because due to some poor subway management, no doubt due to my level of exhaustion, we wound up in the trifecta of busy stations: Grand Central, Times Square and Penn Station. There were people everywhere and at times he was completely smushed into me, but he handled it like a seasoned rush-hour veteran. At one point, he actually told me he was having fun.

So after dropping him off around 7:30, I immediately went home and passed out on the couch. I watched approximately six minutes of the NCAA final. Monday was a sweet day for the Good Doctor. He successfully defended his dissertation and then watched his alma mater win the national title. Good times.