Yep, a for real live post (just for you Josh, wink wink). Now, what to write about...
SpRiNg FlInG! (I'm so creative, did you see how I made a pattern with my letters?)
Last year's post about Spring Fling was about a mile long. As I recall, it had pictures and everything to document the momentous occasion. Y'all aren't so lucky this year. I'm sure I had parents take pictures of my getting whipped cream up my nose and my awkward movements getting out of the lame dunk take, so I'll be sure to get those to you as soon as I get them.
It was pretty fun. I had the Plinko booth again, high fives for Plinko, yeah? I'm really going to do some serious thinking about how to jazz it up for next year. It needs to be bigger, and blink, and make noise, and shoot prizes. I think that may be the only way I can compete with "Soaring Hawks." Stupid stomping game...
I did see, and photograph, 20-something of my Spring Flingin' kiddos (which will not be posted, because honestly, do you really want to see?) who seemed to be having a rockin' time. I stole some cotton candy from said kiddos and ate way too many pieces of pizza and Krispy Kremes...oh, the Krispy Kremes... On to the best part:
The pie booth. My kids had been looking forward to smacking my face with whipped cream for weeks and on that night, they came in spades to rub it in my face. Twenty minutes later my contacts were glued to my eyes and my hair, face, and back were covered in dairy and my kids were lining up to help me get clean. On to the bestest part:
The dunk tank. If they were excited about the pies, they were borderline psycho about the dunk tank. Let me tell you though, these dunk tanks sucked! Not like last year's with the fancy ladder and step inside so that you could pull yourself onto the collapsing platform in a lady-like fashion. Oh no. The tank on these ones looked like a small prison, and by small prison I mean a metal crib which was lined with some kind of sturdy tarp. No fancy ladder or step. Let me paint you a picture: beloved Miss R hoists herself up on the platform using some sort of bar on the outside of the tarp and is dunked for the first time by the teacher who just paid her dues (this seems to be a tradition for said teacher, she gets a lot of enjoyment out of this). So Miss R has to figure out how she's going to hoist herself up for the remainder of her shift. Mind you, there is NO STEP and I am not a slight girl (though watch for July 2009 photos as I plan to be by then). I work out, I've got strong arms and shoulders, however they are stubs and not long enough to get me up high enough to sit on the platform (stupid, STUPID genes) so I have to fling my leg out on top of the cage, soaking the small children standing there, and looking like a complete freak. This was the procedure for the next 35 minutes. The line NEVER ended and after every dunk my children, the small people who hug me every day and tell me they love me, chanted as the next person grabbed the ball. I had to give the people working the tank $50 each to stop the line (not really, I think they felt bad for the chubby girl in the cage).
Fast forward to Saturday morning: my eyes were puffy from the whipped cream, my rear hurt (and still does) from hitting the pavement 298 times, and I had a bruise the size of a golf ball on my right shin (from hurling my leg atop the cage). Not to mention I was exhausted.
Only 360 days 'til I can do it again!