Cue to last night, a rare non-humid, actually nice summer night. Perfect, one would think, to watch America's pastime. Pastime if you count a field of six and seven year olds playing t-ball including kicking the dirt and scratching themselves constantly. Hey, at least ONE is a real characteristic of baseball, not just the average actions of my seven year old at every game.
This summer, Ben's team has been assigned to a ball field that includes a playground within steps of the field. This sweet goodness, as I always have Ian with me at practice and games, is proximity. The field is close enough to the bleachers that I can actually sit and watch both the game and keep an eye on Evel Knievel.
The bathroom is also within steps of the bleachers and playground. When asked if he could go wash his hands showing me filthy, dirt-caked palms, I of course said, "yes, but come right back." I'll admit the lazy parent, the same one that can count on one finger, on one hand, the number of naps said three year old has taken the entire summer, was tired. The mantra this summer is, "how can you possibly still have energy given you haven't slept all day, plus you were up at 6 am."
I notice that Ben is yelling, "mom" at the top of his lungs and pointing in the direction of the bathrooms as Ian has not "washed his hands," but rather has taken off all his clothes, minus his sandals and his shirt is hanging like a noose around his neck. Ian is running towards Ben's team dugout. Seeing this, as well as hearing behind me lots of laughter from the crowd of parents, run interference and grab Ian and head back to the bathroom.
Of course he gave me his three year old logic for why he decided to take off his clothes. It defied logic. It defied reason. It was, simply put, gettin' busy in the