Today was the 1st grade’s Field Day at HRH’s school. (For those of you new to B-Sting-speak, HRH is how I refer to my daughter. AKA – Her Royal Highness)
I remember Field Day from my youth. I hated it. Every damned year. It was supposed to be fun, exhilarating, and a great way to burn and run off energy. Instead, for me, it was a long day of showcasing how uncoordinated, lanky, clumsy, and all-around unathletic I was. I dreaded it and would try to think of excuses to get out of attending. That heavy feeling of dank dread hung over me as I prepared HRH for her Field Day. I kept my dark memories to myself as I slathered her with sunscreen and sent her on her way to school. Surely, she would have a better experience? After all, Daddy volunteered this year! She got to ride to school in his cool, tricked out car. She got to hug and kiss him whenever she wanted, all day. And he worked one of the Field Stations! How cool is that?!?
