popsicles.

They bring out the best in all of us.

(And make a huge freaking mess...but I am going to focus on the positive).

last day (and a lot to say).

Last day of school.

SAY WHAT?!

It still doesn't feel real.

But it is.

And now, we officially have a first grader.

And that makes us feel old.

Hads, you are now a true, blue kid.
A grade schooler.
A full dayer.
A can buy school luncher.

 Hadley Jane, you knocked kindergarten out of the park.
You were a little sponge.
And it was fun to watch you soak it all up.

And as I was focusing on you learning to read, and write, and adding and subtracting, and coloring inside the lines, and remembering to flush the toilet...

well, you kiddo, were working on stuff that really matters.

Like being a good person.

And more importantly, being a good friend.

Let's take it back to the beginning of Spring, and the start of parent/teacher conferences.
There we sat, in your cluttered classroom, at table #3 (your table), staring at your little name tag, in those teeny tiny chairs, feeling like NBA stars as our knees rested nicely on our necks, and we were nervously chatting with your teacher about your successes, your 'need for improvements', your reading journal, looking at your artwork, basically trying to wrap up a half year of progress into a 15 minute show & tell.
As we were leaving Miss Polly asked if we had any more questions...and, of course, your dad...being your dad...asked, plainly and simply..."Is she nice?". 
Because of course he would want to make sure that you were nice. 
 I was more worried if you tried to sound out hard words, if you raised your hand, if you paid attention.  
But not him.  
He cares about what actually matters.
Being nice.
And you know what.
You are.
Because at the end of the year, Miss Polly pulled me aside (remembering what dad had asked in March), and told me a story about you being nice.
And it goes a little something like this...
You were on the playground with your kindergarten buds, and one of your gal friends was teasing your pal Oliver about having his pants tucked into his socks.  Now, I don't know if he meant to have his pants tucked into his socks or if he just got ready in a hurry or if he even cared (who knows, boys are weird).  But you didn't like that he was being teased.  So you bent down, and without a second thought, tucked your pants into your socks.  You grabbed his arm, and said "It's okay Oliver.  It's cool to be different.  Let's swing."  
And off you two ran, both of you with your pants tucked into your socks, to play on the swings.
Not caring what anyone thought.
And, after she told me this story, my heart skipped a beat.
My eyes filled with tears.
And I just smiled.
Because you, my dear, are something pretty darn special.
Someone pretty darn different.
Something pretty darn cool.
And someone very, very nice.
(who still forgets to flush the toilet).

Congrats on a great year kid!

gymnastics extravaganza.

As Ryan and I were watching I whispered to him...

"I never thought we would be the ones with the worst kid on a team."

He just laughed...and fully agreed.

She's terrible.

So terrible that it makes her awesome.

And, I have never been more proud.

Plus, she does a wicked somersault and an amazing bridge.

What more is there really to this sport?

Hads, you killed it.

happy dada's day.

They think he hung the moon.

And you know what...

i think they might be right.

xoxo.

Happy Day.

We love your guts.

three cheers to our dad.

We could celebrate this guy all month.

One day just wasn't enough.

anything but a baker's man.

I hate baking with my kids.

I actually just hate baking.
There are WAY too many rules.
But I like the smell of something cooking in the oven, and the thought of being a good mom (why in my head this equals a 'good mom' is beyond me), the idea of fresh cookies in the cookie jar, and the warped sense that maybe I am creating some sort of great memories for my kids.
Memories about flour on our faces, reaking of chocolate chips, laughing, and frolicking, and gayly skipping around the kitchen.

And all of the above clouds my judgement and I forget that I don't like baking.

And that I really don't like baking with kids.

And haflway through our little baking extravagannza, I remember why this is a dumb idea.

My heart starts to pound as I look around my messy kitchen covered in flour, my voice gets a little bit louder as I say for the fifteenth time 'please, don't touch that', 'we can't put that in there yet', 'you're going to spill my beer', 'JUST STOP!', and shortly thereafter I am kicking them out of the kitchen so I can 'finish up', and pounding my beer.

And, unfortunately, the only memories I am probably leaving them with is that their mom is an inpatient alcoholic, who abhors a messy kitchen, sticky hands, and who can't bake for sh*t.
But damn those cookies smell good.