Mark had to return to Boston on Labor Day (boo), but the kids and I got to stay on with Mimi and Sir in Maine. The weather was, um, intermittently damp. When we got a clear day, we high-tailed it over to Dogfish Cove for a picnic.
We were a wee bit rusty on the necessities of a good picnic. The s'mores ingredients made it in, naturally. The hot dog roaster did not. We decided to use good ol' fashioned sticks to cook the hot dogs.
Roasting hot dogs on sticks is harder than it looks in those Norman Rockwell-esque Boy Scouts pictures. For one thing, the sticks impaling the hot dogs caught fire, just like the sticks in the fire that were supposed to be burning. Then the sticks broke and the hot dogs fell in the pebbles. Nothing a little salt water couldn't fix, luckily. Then when Frances was eating her hot dog, she bit down on something hard. She handed the something to me, because examining regurgitated bits is part of the Mom job description. I had a flash of panic that it was a pig part that had escaped the grinding process, but it was just a bit of stick that had broken off during the roasting. I cheerily told Frances not to worry about it, but I still may be done with hot dogs for a long while.
Frances, however, loves her hot dogs. I think she ate three that day. I might start to hope she'll have a BMI above four at her next doctor's appointment, but then I look at those skinny legs and know it isn't so.
No hot dogs for baby Chandler. Maybe I'll raise her vegetarian. Think Mark would go for that?
After lunch, it was time for a swim, for Frances at least. I tried to get her to go nekkid so I wouldn't have to deal with a wet suit, but that offended her sense of modesty.
I should have just picked one of the next five photos and skipped the rest, but I can't resist pictures of Sir and Frances holding hands. Just can't resist.
This here is my favorite.
Not a bad day. Kinda helps me hope we're not doing this parenting thing all wrong.
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