All Good Things End in Tears

We try to go somewhere every morning, including on weekends.  I’ve stated the importance of these outings in previous posts, but in case you didn’t read those, I’ll restate it here: when we don’t get out of the house in the morning, we all go stir-crazy.  Think Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.”  (And he had a whole hotel at his disposal).   

So this past Saturday, we packed some sandwiches and headed out to Excelsior to bum around.  My stepsister Amanda and nephew Walker joined us for lunch, and then we met with my sister Rachel, B-I-L Jim, nieces Bryn, Scout, and Anya, and baby Charlie. 

Our picnic lunch culminated in a little game of soccer (otherwise entitled “I try to steal the ball from you and you try to steal the ball from me”) between Ellen and 2-year-old Walker.  Amanda took some great pictures, and here’s an action shot:



Ellen and Walker play soccer

Now, there are a few things to notice in this photo. 

Item 1: Proximity of Ball to Lake. 

            Dangerously close, right?  It seems that all Ellen’s backyard dribbling practice with Daddy has paid off in a big way.  Her kick is strong and her aim almost impeccable.  Almost impeccable.  You can imagine what happened.  A video metaphor for you:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wO_MYX_Oto0&feature=related

Like Tom Hanks, who watched helplessly as his poor volleyball Wilson drifted toward the open sea, Walker watched helplessly as his poor nameless soccer ball drifted toward downtown Wayzata (despite Uncle Dave’s valiant attempt at a rescue).   That put a swift end to the soccer game.  So we headed to the swimming beach.  There was some more excitement there, the retelling of which requires my reminding you to take a look at the picture of Ellen and Walker again, so that you may observe…

Item 2: Fit/Sag of Ellen’s Pants

SAG award



   Dangerously loose, right?  Ellen got dressed entirely by herself, down to picking her outfit, and I thought she did a great job.  Then when we got to Excelsior I realized that she had picked the pants that are too big, with the non-adjustable elastic waistband.  Any person who’s had to wear maternity jeans will be familiar with the problem Ellen faced that day.  As they sagged lower and lower, they brought her underwear with them.  So there we were at the beach, the whole lot of us…actually, Ellen and Amanda and Walker were down by the water, and the rest of us were up on the grass lounging at a picnic table.  There was only one couple lying on towels at the beach, since it was getting cold and breezy, and lunchtime was over.  I looked over at them and noticed that they were looking toward the lake at something that they found pretty amusing.  Intrigued, I followed their gaze, which landed on Ellen, obliviously bending over time and again to pick up rocks, pants and underwear half-way down her legs, and full moon shining.  It was a pretty ridiculous sight, though probably not any more ridiculous than the sight of her parents doing nothing about her exposure except laughing and yelling into the wind “ELLEN, PULL UP YOUR PANTS!” between sips of cold beverages.  Ah, good parenting there.    

Well, we were having such a good time in Excelsior that we stayed right up to Point Meltdown.  Mix “overtired” with just a drop of “disappointment” (the ratio is probably something like that of gin to vermouth in an extremely dry martini), and you have your basic shitstorm.  As my stepsister says, “You know you had a good time if you stay long enough for tantrums.  All good things end in tears.”  True dat.