This weekend was our annual pilgrimage to the ballpark.
It was an improvement over previous years. There were no speeding tickets. There were no scenes made regarding sunblock application. There were no spills and there were no stains.
William was all about the kettle corn. And the Pepsi. And the playground at the ball park. And pretty much anything besides the actual baseball game itself. You know, the one we paid to see.
Kate didn’t throw up in the car. (I always count that as a positive for any type of outing that involves a long-ish car ride). And she and her friend sat to the side and giggled and paid absolutely no attention to anything that was going on.
But Henry was still sick. After about 30 minutes, he was drained.
And Ella refused the sunhat. Because wearing a sunhat would be sensible when you’re a pudgey, pastey-white little redhead, and why be sensible when you’re Ella? She sucked down a 12 oz cup of pink lemonade in about 5 minutes. Then she pooped. Which would not have been a big deal normally. But when we got to the car to change her, we found that the wipes we had packed were dried up. (Have you ever tried to clean a wriggling, poopy bottom with a dry wipe?) Yeah. Fat lotta good the wipes were. It was a big hot mess. And I mean that in the literal sense.
And then Ella managed to break The Man’s sunglasses.
If there is one thing we’ve learned in the past eight years, five months and 19 days, it is when to cut our losses. I think we made it through the top of the fourth inning.
I don’t really remember anything much about the game. Except there was sunshine…beautiful, glorious, warm sunshine.
And there were friends. Who have become better friends over the last year.
And there was beer. The good kind. In a plastic cup. Outside, in the sunshine.
Fun. We had fun.
And then we left.