Apparently too impatient to wait for the completion of the field, LCB (Loquacious Cabana Boy, otherwise know as my husband, in case you’ve recently popped in on us here) and my oldest son began playing around him.
A bunch of jellyfish that suddenly washed up on shore last week added an exciting “dodge the jellyfish” element to the game that maybe the NFL should consider as a way of adding a level of drama to the sport. Incidentally, I don’t know what it is and if I’m alone on this, but those things turn my stomach if I stare at them for more than three seconds.
On Sunday afternoon, the boys and LCB went at it again.
Here the boys stand, discussing what play they’ll use against LCB. It’s amazing how two boys with graduate degrees in how to get on each other’s nerves can show such solidarity in the face of a common rival.
And then, in predictable form, my younger son took a break from playing for a moment to go disrupt the seagulls. Off he went, running down the beach, waving a stick and yelling as he ran, and then laughing as the birds flew upward in a swirl over his head. He’s inherited none of his mother’s fear of sudden downward-headed droppings, clearly. Then again, he doesn’t have her history. Yet.
He wrote a couple of sentences about the whole thing, but that was the gist of it. Later, he lamented that perhaps he should have added a cheerleading sign-up spot as a way to encourage more participants. He’s always thinking, that one. And, even as we were packing up to leave, I watched him standing on the deck, watching a couple that stopped to read his words, waiting to see if they wanted to “sign up.”
If they knew him like I do, they’d have signed on the dotted line.