Bonding with the grandkid is a walk in the (amusement) park

I need another vacation.

I began the last one with a colonoscopy. It was either that or talk to Steve Soboroff about his time with the Dodgers.

The rest of the vacation was spent with the three grandchildren, who make more noise these days than a Dodger Stadium crowd.

It’s hard to describe the steady din. The twins still kind of grunt, especially when they are eating. You know, like Tom Lasorda.

The 7-Eleven Kid, meanwhile, turned 6 on Monday and someone thought it would be a good idea if G.P. took the kid to California Adventure a few days before that. Just me and the kid.

You can imagine my response: “Sure, but not if it means missing any of the Women’s World Cup soccer.”

I thought it would be a good chance to talk to her about sports. You know, maybe let her down gently given my experience and tell her no one cares about women’s sports. What’s important, as most girls learn, is getting married.

“Rich guys are the best,” I suggest.

“But Mommy likes Daddy,” she says. It doesn’t take them long to figure things out.

She says she wants to be a babysitter when she grows up and do nails, which is quite a relief. I don’t know what I would have said if she wanted to be a WNBA player.

So off we go after she has her pancake, French fries and ketchup. I suggest she wash the syrup off her hands, but she asks to hold mine. How can a G.P. turn down such an offer?

I’ve never been to California Adventure with sticky hands, or ever for that matter. But after being there, I can tell you now it’s how I envision Guantanamo.

It cost $204 for a G.P. and grandkid for a “hopper ticket” to go to both California Adventure and Disneyland.

Later the kid would be too tired from being pushed in a stroller to make it to Disneyland. I never pushed my kids in a stroller at age 5 and look how they turned out. OK, so I thought I better push the 7-Eleven Kid.

It was brutally hot as we stood for what seemed like four hours in the Toy Story line surrounded by sweaty people who smelled like hockey players after three periods.

Now go ahead, try to make small talk with a 5-year-old while killing four hours, back hurting and doing everything you can to bite back the “would you please tell your screaming brat to stuff it, lady” to the woman ahead of you in line.

As we chatted, I learned my own daughter won’t let my grandkid watch “SpongeBob” because “she doesn’t like animals, won’t even pet Sam, and sometimes the crab’s head falls off and his arms too, and she doesn’t think it’s funny.”

Just like making small talk with Ron Artest, as it turns out.

The grandkid likes Handy Manny, and no, she doesn’t think he was using female hormone drugs, although we argue and she can’t explain why his tools talk.

Parched, and needing a bathroom desperately, it’s our turn to go on Toy Story, which pits G.P. against granddaughter shooting pop-up targets.

“I’m going to win you,” she says.

This is one of the most difficult moments in a G.P.’s development: Do you let the sweet little kid win or do you squash the twerp because it’s competition?

“Crushed you,” I say after beating her by 100,000 points. She isn’t even upset. I forgot, she’s been on the ride before with her father.

The ride over, she notices the games that offer stuffed animals if you can beat everyone shooting a water pistol or roll a ball up a ramp that makes horses move forward.

They charge $2.50 to $5 a game here in addition to the $204 paid at the front gate. I’m proud to say Dumbo cost us only an additional $125.

“I knew you could do it, G.P.,” she says with a glance at the nearby ATM.

Having won the elephant, I have to push her back to the park’s entrance to rent a locker so we can stand in line for Toy Story again. What I would have given for a whole bottle of Advil.

Once we get our two rides in for the day, it’s time to go home. She refuses to push me, my back and legs shot.

“The stroller is for Dumbo,” she says.

At home, she sits in my lap, a very nice moment for G.P. and granddaughter. But it doesn’t seem right watching “Criminal Minds,” what with the way she chatters on and on. The show is already hard enough to follow.

We turn off the TV, one of those little sacrifices a grandparent has to make, and talk sports.

I tell her how important it is to be cute if she’s going to play sports. Otherwise no one will pay any attention. And since she’s already going to be 6, it’s probably too late to start thinking about becoming an Olympian.

I mention the hubbub about women’s soccer once again, which is such nonsense. Twelve years ago, a Rose Bowl victory by the U.S. supposedly was going to change forever the way people view soccer and women’s sports.

Never happens. Nobody’s fault it never happens. Name any woman’s sport and almost no one cares unless some babe is the centerpiece.

Just a fact of life, kid.

Now take this group of female soccer players who might very well win it all again. If one of them doesn’t take their top off, this U.S. team won’t come close to matching the excitement everyone felt 12 years ago.

“Mommy would never let me do that,” the granddaughter says.

There you go, so much for making it big in sports, kid.

t.j.simers@latimes.com