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.