We needed a field trip yesterday. The boys and I were sick of the house and sick of each other. Needing a change of scenery, the little men and I loaded up to head to the park a couple of blocks from our house.
We had arrived and I had unloaded them and we were traipsing to the sliding board... when I realized that the park had been reserved. There was a party underway, but not just any party. A luau.
A real deal luau.
We're talking palm trees, leis, tiki torches, gaudy floral shirts, and grass skirts (on the tables, not the women). Somebody's employer had pulled out all the stops, even renting inflatable houses for the kiddos to play on, since the playground equipment isn't quite enough for the children of our suburbia. (I couldn't blame them... the castle was pretty cool.)
Clearly, we were crashing somebody's party. Somebody's luau.
But did I put the boys back in the car? No way, Jose. We were past the point of no return. My boys can smell a playground. Once it's within sight, they are like horses close to the barn. Don't get in the way, and don't even try to turn around this train. They're on their way.
So, I just prayed that this company picnic crowd wasn't a small, intimate community. I was hopeful that they didn't know each other so very well that they could spot an outsider in an instant. I was hopeful we could blend into the other moms and kiddos, so that everyone would assume we belonged to one of the big wig executives... even though we didn't have our own leis.
We played and played. And nobody asked. And I stashed a palm tree into the back of the minivan before we left.