Breakfast at the cafe with my daughter and two grandsons.
Home cooked dinner tonight with all the big kids.
Eight hours of US Open on tv.
How do you top that?
Well, I had a big idea.
Take Oliver, my oldest grandson, with me to visit Pete. Three generations of family.
So out we drive to Melissa.
I get Ollie out of his car seat.
He takes one look at the statue of Pete, and his eyes open wide like he's just seen Bigfoot. He screams at a pitch and decibel into my right ear that I hope stops ringing sometime this week.
"It's just Uncle Pete, bud."
As I take a step closer to the statue, Oliver grabs chest hair, my lower lip and screams louder.
He has a hold of me like a Rhesus monkey holding on to its mama.
So being a fatherly genius, it seems only obvious to me that geting Oliver even closer to Pete would calm his fears. That's when he grabbed my sunglasses and ear lobes.
"Oh, Ollie. Just reach out and touch Uncle Pete."
That's when he went he over my shoulder, put his legs around my neck and dug his fingernails into the middle of my back.
About then, I stepped in the fire ant pile.
Trying to get a 30 pound kicking, screaming, panicked 18 month old from doing a full header while hopping on one foot because the other is being attacked by a thousand devil stingers, is when I pulled something in my back.
I hobbled to the car, strapped Oliver in his car seat, and looked back at Pete.
That's when I heard his laugh.
"Ha-ha yourself, Pete. Glad Pops could bring you some entertainment."