Saturday, July 14, 2012

Take Me Out of the Ballpark

What have you been up to this summer?  Vacation? Gardening? Family Reunions? Reading? Special educational excursions? Fun, wait-for-summer-time projects? 
Or watching hours upon hours of ball games?

I may be the only mother in town who bought her son white baseball pants.

But it turns out that white baseball pants don't hang on to the stains the way you think they would. It must be something about the artificial fibers.

GBaby has watched been present for a number of ball games.  For her, the ballpark is a great place to catch up on her list of summer best-sellers.  Also, a great opportunity to practice her Stroller-Escape Techniques.

The primary focus of Norah's softball experience this summer has been improving her batting, catching, and throwing skills.

No, not really.  The primary focus of everything when you are a nearly-seven year old girl is hanging out with your friends.  And taking crazy pictures.

She did swing a bat occasionally. And she swings very well.  Almost as well as she talks.  But not quite.

See that incredibly handsome kiddo in the black shirt?

Yup. That's my Sammers.  I bought him gray pants because I wasn't quite sure that the artificial fibers could stand up to the stains this kiddo can invent.  He's pretty nifty.  Not cool, because he's wearing a black shirt to baseball games in 105 degree heat.  But definitely nifty. 

Here's the part where I express my unending gratitude toward all my friends and their older children. 

Thank you for having older kids and bringing them to the ball park.

I do not know how I would have survived this baseball/softball season without your really nice kids and their sharp little gadgets.

I have the best friends and friends kids.  They match up to my kids just perfectly.
Because my kids are pretty much the best.
Even if I have to schlep them back and forth to the ballpark all the live-long summer. 

I'm not really sure what "schlep" means, but I love the way it sounds and the way it looks. Schlep. Schlep. Schlep...

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