What if I told you that basketball camp is over? And then I showed you what a Mr. Hustle of the WHOLE entire week award looks like?
Would you get excited and say "SEE, Life is fair after all, toldya so! Toldya toldya toldya so! Things always have a way of working out happily ever after in the end."
"YEAH, if you live at Disneyland!!!!" That's what I would say.
That gol dern, cotton pickin' award went to my oldest son. Baby A's big brother. Baby A came home empty handed at the end of the week. AGAIN! Not a single accolade to his name.
My hub says it's good for him. To feel hurt. And angry. And overlooked. Stokes the fire, and all that crapola, but my daughter wouldn't have it. She went right out and bought a ginormous Gatorade and made Baby A his very own Mr. Hustle award.
Because that's what we girls do, ain't it? We comfort the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . . free at last . . . of the oppression . . . of . . . of . . . of . . . going unnoticed at . . . basketball camp . . .
. . . I guess there are worse things he could be free of, huh? . . . gulp.
I hope Jackie Robinson isn't reading this from heaven.