Confidence in Me!

Before there are junior high dances. Before that first blemish threatens. Before you learn the difference between Garanimals and Nike. 

There's this:

Unscathed. Flawless. A lake without so much as a ripple wrinkling the surface.

Julie Andrews sang about it. Classes are devoted to developing it. These days, every kid gets a ribbon, a cookie, a hug and a "great job!" all in an effort to cultivate it.

Confidence. No, more than confidence. Confidence in me.  Trust in yourself. That belief that you are smart enough and important enough. The belief that your swimsuit doesn't make your butt look big because you are amazing:

Bikinis? Not a problem. You've got this under control:

As parents, we enroll them in classes and schools. We hope they find something they love. But, more than anything, we hope they finds something that makes them love themselves:

She picked out her own costume for her very first dance performance. I wanted her with a big blue bow. She thought the pigtails would make her look more grown up.

There were some moments of uncertainty...

and pre-performance nerves.

But in the end, she found it: confidence in me! 

And for the grandparent crowd, I give you our very own Gigi:

(I encourage you to stick around to the end…or at least fast forward to minute 3 to hear a very confident, if not historically accurate, rendition of the Christmas story--a/k/a Jesus and the Fairies Meet Old MacDonald's Chickens in Bethlehem, with a special cameo by none other than Hello Kitty).

Jump Right In

We get three months each year to play, to swim, to sleep late, and to be kids--at least until we're forced to grow up. Each year, I promise myself that we'll swim a few more hours than last summer; play more games; sleep a little later; and remember what it's like to be a kid.

This year, we jumped right in:

We spent most of the month of June warming up to the neighborhood pool (and hoping it would warm up too):

Honestly, will it ever stop raining?

We've had a run-in with a breaststroking frog in the shallow end. Screams followed, and tears. Ultimately, Gigi determined, "Fwogs just really aren't my thing." 

The Fourth of July is my summertime rubber mallet. It hits me with a solid, yet non-injurious, "Thwack! Wake up! Summer is officially here, and it's already halfway over!"

"Hey RJ, You smell better than usual." "Oh yes," he tells me, "It's the  peanut butter." 

"Mom," RJ tells me, "You've seen a lot more future than dad, 'cause you're so much older than he is." Older, schmolder. I can still rock a pair of flag leggings like nobody's business--even if the old neighbor though they were his business. Said he, "Makes me want to salute! I feel more independent already!" 

The Fourth of July thwacked me solidly this year, but not nearly so soundly as it has in past years. 

Because this year, we've jumped right into summer: 

Yes, it's a trampoline. It will kill our grass. It has already skinned our knees. 

And it is, without a doubt, one of the best toys ever. 

We're jumping into summer this year with both feet. We'll sleep a little later, swim a little longer, and jump until the fireflies speckle the evening sky.