Go Cubs Go. Go Cubs Go.

Oldest Chicken texts: “Do you wanna have dinner Monday or Tuesday, just you and me?”

Me: “Yes. What’s wrong?”

Oldest Chicken: “Nothing. What night is better for you?”

Me: “Either is fine. Really, you can tell me anything.”

Oldest Chicken: “Don’t be dumb. I’ll pick you up Monday at 4:45.”

Two days later. Me: “Is it something bad?”

4:45 is rather early, but dinner with a son who might be in crisis, or at the very least, needs the advice of his mother, does not move on a regular timeline. Those with children of the male variety are acquainted with their lack of chatter, sharing, and constant calls, unlike their sisters.

The sisters have a tracker on my phone. No clue how to turn it off. No need to worry over such silliness as falling, dying in my sleep, or staying out too late. There’s sure to be a girl child, breathless: “Are you okay?”

Oldest Chicken arrives precisely at 4:45 (I taught him that. A man who is on time is so attractive, non?)

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“For tacos.” This child knows his mother. “But we have to get downtown.”

“Downtown Phoenix?” The mind whirls about. Downtown Phoenix at 4:45 in the afternoon for tacos? I’m not particular. Tacos of any variety, anywhere, work for me. No need to go all the way downtown. And then, ding ding ding.

“Are we going to the Cubs game?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

Sweet Oldest Chicken has a surprise. Tacos are fine. But time spent with a grown child is priceless. At a Cubs game, no less. Childhood memories stir.

The girls who grew up in Chicagoland know. Cubs’ childhoods are dotted with similar memories. Staying out of the front room, going to the Jewel, sometimes Dominic’s, where hot chocolate chip cookies came out on a conveyor belt and you could take them. Really. Games at Wrigley with my dad, who taught us to throw the ball back when the other team scored, which was a lot back then, are especially sweet.

Hot dogs with mustard, pickle, and celery salt. Hot beef–still a staple, thank you, Portillo’s. And an accent. The second you’re back in the hood, you pick it up again, pronouncing “th” with a “d,” as in Da Bears, and loving your teams despite their records or accomplishments. Gym shoes, pop, and the expressway.

Mired in the day-to-day of the Dale and all its fancy, every once in a while a girl needs to drift back to a land where hot dog buns have poppy seeds, Old Style or Hamm’s, sold by a bear, fill the fridge, Bozo the Clown was actually terrifying, and riding bikes to the massive hole in the ground that would become Woodfield Mall would have got us in deep trouble if anybody found out.

Thanks for the trip, Oldest Chicken. Yes, the Cubs won 7-0, and yes, the people surrounding us got up off their butts with every crack of the bat and high-fived strangers all around with each homer. Who wants to be 12 again?