Photographic Hijinks

OK, so it's feast or famine around here. What else is new. Here's some dang pictures:



T does this with her hat on game days. She takes it off and rubs it in the dirt of the first-to-second baseline. (She usually plays in the outfield, which, when you're six, is right about there.) I'm very curious as to why she might do this - it reminds me of pregnant women who eat great clods of earth, or mumbling homeless people who continually streak their hair from puddles of motor oil. It's sort of ritualistic and compulsive. I mean, look how much she got on there! And this is the amount that survived the ride home in the car, too. God only knows how much she had on there originally.

She did really well yesterday, though - she went three for three, and needed only a grand total of about eight pitches to get her hits. A vast difference between now and when she first began, when she would take 25 pitches and finally, randomly hit it. She's downright plunking them now.

Here's another:



This is Q in the Brandon Jennings jersey I bought him for no good reason, and which he opened in the car on the way home from school today, and which has already brought him much joy.

That's the picture that's in focus because I remembered to use the flash. But in the other one, he looks cooler, or so he tells me. So I'll include that one too:




He's wearing it to school tomorrow. With a T-shirt underneath, though. Never fear.

Here's T on opening day of baseball season, back when she couldn't bat her way out of a paper bag:



And here again, waiting to march in the parade, and apparently having heard Mami say, or seen her do, something scandalous:



Her Grandpa sent her that baseball glove, a year ago, I think. And on opening day, her first game, she took it with her to the port-a-potty, and left it there. We had a hard time locating it for about five minutes. "Oh no!", she squealed. "Grandpa sent that to me special! OH NO...!" These kids' memories astound me.

Here's the whole league, assembled for the opening day ceremonies at Bud Anderson Field.



Which, of course, my kids consistently refer to as "Butt Anderson".

Those apples have fallen pretty nigh, I'd say.