Friday, June 03, 2011

Got My First Real Six String

Third and first grade are in the books. They passed.

I wanted to get a ceremonial scootering-off-into-the-sunrise photo, but they were gone.

At the Luau {I'm sure it's obvious a Hawaiian Festival was taking place by Lilly's thematic outfit}, someone was ready for pictures again.

Newsflash: We are not going to the Olympics in hula-hooping.

Jackson rocked the Writer's Cafe with some lovely poetry about the NBA Finals.

Actually, I was impressed by the rhyming and he even threw a golf joke in there.

It was sad to say good-bye to his sweet teacher. We've loved her. And the woman is going to have a baby next month, in case you can't tell by the tiny garden pea that is her belly.

But Lilly's teacher is where I really got emotional. Both kids have had Mrs. A and I kind of feel like she's part of our extended family and now we have to break up.

Mrs. A said Jackson still comes to her room for hugs. Yes, that is my boy. And I guess he already invited her to his high school graduation party.

Standing outside the school when the final bell rang, I watched kid after kid {actually girl after girl} stream out of the halls red-eyed and crying.

I really love our school. The teacher, the staff, all of it. We are blessed beyond words.

When we moved in 4 years ago, we didn't know there was going to be an elementary school within eyesight. Can you believe that? And now, they come and go, growing up each day.

I still can't speak the grades for next year.

Do they look taller? Smarter? In need of greater dental work than I ever dreamed?

Yes. And the dental work could be its own post.

But I won't do that to anyone...especially myself.

{Sidenote: at least I wasn't blogging during Lilly's broken ankle this spring. I missed large chunks of the doctor's detailed bone analysis because my head was between my knees recovering from a slight case of BLACKING OUT the minute the x-ray hit the screen.}

Here they were last August. Full of youth. Full of hopes and dreams. Full of teeth.

I love that they're growing up. Love it. But I want to bottle them at every single age...except 18 months, which I'd like to burn up with great flames and then throw into the sea.

And then burn the sea.

Cue: trampoline (there's a new nanny in town), ice cream, sun and the pool. Bring it.