A pretty new blog makes me actually want to blog.
Take that, Soviets.
Last night, we attended Kayla's JUNIOR HIGH orientation.
I can't hardly believe it.
But I am really excited for her, too.
I survived my awkward years.
I loved them, actually.
Mostly because I didn't realize I was awkward until later.
She went to Outdoor Ed last month.
I asked her to write a post about it and this is what she came up with:
"Outdoor Education was awesome. But the fact that the beds were hard and had waxy, plastic coverings made it feel like you were sleeping on melting candles. I saw two varieties of deer, bats, millipedes, pigs, a scorpion, a junco, a stellar's jay, nine banana slugs (including the one I put on my nose) and a lot of moths."
And I think I'm just going to leave it.
It's camp in a nutshell.
Waxy beds and banana slugs.
She is my favorite writer.
End of fifth grade calls for lots of fun activities.
Marie Antoinette took names during a class History presentation.
"Why so serious, Kayla?"
"You'd be serious, too if your head was chopped off, mom."
She looked like a tore up Dolly Parton by the end of the day.
I didn't realize wigs need hair spray.
And the two-sizes too big dollar store bridesmaid dress didn't help.
It's milestone central around here.
She has two teeth.
She crawled for the first time on Easter Sunday.
And she slept through the night.
She's babbling a TON.
Ashlyn's not blind.
Ashlyn's not blind.
She lied to the school nurse during her routine eye exam.
And again during a second follow up.
"I WANT glasses, mama."
Hope ditched Wednesday service for an impromptu church BBQ.
It was 87 degrees in April.
Also, my favorite.
This is me doing my child's homeschool homework while they are at public school.
I'm sure there is so much wrong with all of this but I can't really put it in words.
I do know that peregrine falcons are the fastest animals on the planet.
And my girls rock the public speaking triangle.
One last thing.
I need you to make these cookies.
I'm on my 17th batch in as many days.
You won't be sorry.
Well, you might be a little sorry.
Blame the Russians.