So picture me a little frazzled, with a varied and lovely network of tan lines (because who remembers sunscreen in February?), wading through drifts of cheap plastic beads, moon pies, empty Bud Light cans, fried chicken bones, and purple, green and gold feathers. (And drained Gatorade bottles. We did remember to stay hydrated.)
The season has come and gone, and I did much of it alone, as the Prof had a book deadline that sent him to the office many, many nights and weekends. The boys and I love parades, and Jack is big enough these days to be pretty helpful vis a vis lifting and hefting stuff, so I felt confident braving the parades with the three of them. Jack would either push the double stroller with brothers in it, or drag the wagon with the cooler and folding chairs in it. We’d trek, sometimes more than a mile, sometimes less than three blocks, to get to the route. I would keep Craig close to me, lifting him up when the floats come by (“You have to go CLOSER, Mom”). These days Jack and Liam are old enough to get free reign to run up and down the route, and generally they make friends with the other parade rats. Over the course of the hour, they gradually gather more and more finery, festooned with jester hats, samurai swords, blinky rings and necklaces, and of course, beeeeeeads. At the end of a parade (or three, sometimes there are multiples that roll by in a row), we would shove it all in our bead bags and trek back home, filthy and tattered and hot and full of fried chicken and chips/candy we caught from the floats.
And now, some pix, split into two posts bc there are tons. Plus our holiday was interrupted briefly by a hospital stay for one of these guys . . . stay tuned . . .