Day 3: Mini-Golf

Yes, Virginia, it's possible to blog about mini-golf.

Here's Henry and Owen before the round. Notice the strange booster leg Henry grew on the trip down.

Frankly, when you pay $26 for three shoddy putters and your foresome consists of Henry the Squirrel (aka my son - who nearly got dad killed when he refused to wait for the people in front of us), Owen the Dervish (aka Henry's high-energy cousin), me (aka the beer-baked, semi-responsible parent) and Caroline the Red Ass (aka my daughter who had a day to remember - see below), you know you are in for a helluva' mini-golf outing.

We started with good intentions, as the film below would suggest. However, by the third hole, we lost Erica, Josie and Nana to combat fatigue.

Here's some good film of the cute side of mini-golf:

Truthfully, it wasn't that bad with the toddlers. We had fun and no one got hit in the face with a club or lost a ball across the parking lot.

When you are faced with the odds of mini-golfing with three, tired toddlers, you lower your expectations. We made it and the kids enjoyed themselves. That's all that really matters.

As for Caroline, she had a rough day. We got her dressed for the beach and told her to drop our favorite prime number in the toilet (i.e. the deuce). She refused.

After much debating and back and forth, we decided to head down to the beach.

Five minutes after setting up camp, Caroline gave me the "face". You know what I'm talking about.

Here's a shot of the "face" from the unsuspecting eyes of her father who thought Caroline was just trying to be tender with her dad.

Notice the rigid body position.

Seconds after the above picture was taken, Caroline delivered the beach patrons with her version of an Ohio crabcake. It looked as though she had grown a tail.

Adding insult, I had to carry her across the beach back to the house to deliver our "goods".

Nice.

The beach had other moments today, like this one with Mom.

And this one with Joey's new beach pails. No one digs with more conviction than Josephine.

Tomorrow is supposed to be 91 degrees so we're heading to an urban heat island known as Savannah. There's fried chicken on the brain and a Paula Deen buffet in our future.

More to come.