Sometimes the best parts of holidays are the part where the everyday becomes extraordinary. Or just really, really, entertaining. For example, on the 4th we did our usual trek to the warehouse club in the morning, and then packed up 4 containers of watermelon and 2 containers of grapes and took off to the airport where Brief works for their cookout.

I'm going to be the sort of lazy aviator that Brief loves to hate and tell you the kids are standing in front of this plane because it's blue. I have no idea what sort of airplane it is. But if he asks, I'm totally telling him the kids picked it out because the orange one clashed with their outfits.
Most of the people at the airport know me and the kids, but I have to confess that it's not quite a two way street. I recognize the faces and say hello, but mostly retreat to blowing bubbles with Bloomer, or seeking out whatever dogs have been brought to the party. Boxer, of course, bee-lined for the guy that took him up in the helicopter last year. I pried him off the nice man's leg and lured him away with those popper thingies- I think they are gunpowder wrapped in paper and you throw them on the ground and they make a popping sound. Boxer was way impressed.
The best part of the airport picnic happened behind the scenes, and OF COURSE it's a poop story. Bloomer had been going in the bathroom (there is one for men and one for women - a single toilet in each) saying she had to go potty. She was all talk and no action about 3 times, and I'm sure it was amusing to all the men she would flounce by in her foofy dress, waving and smiling. Finally, on the fourth time in (she had happened to be in the men's room this time, as she was alternating between the two), I asked if she wanted me to leave. Her eyes lit up and she nodded.
As I left, I could hear her, um, "getting down to business". And then I heard her singing Jingle Bells. And then the two sounds joined in a concert of pure joy, rising in level and clearly audible outside the immediate area. A woman wandered back to the bathroom area, and I smiled and nodded and said, "She doesn't really like an audience." She had obviously witnessed the Bloomer Parade of earlier, and nodded knowingly and headed to the ladies room. At this time, about 5 minutes has passed and I'm still hanging around outside the men's room, listening to what I now think is Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
I'm straining to hear her tell me she's done, because the one time I opened the door to check on her she gave some sort of otherworldly shriek and told me she wasn't done. Alrighty! Back to my post. Guarding the men's room door. Listening to the 3-year-old version of elevator music. Awesome.
At this point I notice people are actually leaning in to hear what's going on back in the bathroom area. Men who were previously focused on consuming barbeque or trading stories of fabled take-offs or landings in crazy weather are now glancing back at me, either suspicious of my attachment to the men's room or intrigued to hear what's next on the playlist.
After another couple minutes I finally hear the melodious "I'm dooo-ooone!" I'm pleased to note that she hasn't unrolled all of the toilet paper on the roll (as has happened in the past), and we get her put back together despite the foofy dress that is a tad high maintenance in the erroneous tuckage department. As we leave to head back out to the front porch where Brief and Boxer were, she does her smile and wave routine, grabbing a grape off the table as we walk by. I hear the soft tones of "Jingle Bells" from the corner.