Summer

It's the middle of June already.
And we are already in love with summer at the Casa de Lil' Dude!


We have fashionable and UV-Free eyewear in tons of colors.


We have ridiculously cute summer outfits to replace lasts.
Don't tell anyone about that morning I tried to wrangle you into those 3T shorts (that you just wore to Florida in February, by the way!) and you cried, get these baby shorts off me!
I had to buy you one romper. I wore them non-stop when I was little, and I will pay any price for nostalgia. Mine were probably velour or terry-cloth, and most definitely homemade!


We're adhering to healthy, fresh eating.
Well, sorta.
There's just something SO good about McDonald's orange soda when at the park.


And we're not caring about anything else.
Not bedtimes.
Not dirt.
Not scrapes.
Not sticky hair.
Not work.


We're admiring ballerina bathing suits in a 5T.
5T.
That makes me want to cry.
But, I simply cannot shove your tiny tushie into a BABY SUIT anymore, can I?
Besides, you're taking swimming lessons next month.
Again.
The ones you failed in April.
But that's another story for another day.
(I'll preface it by saying, you're totally three years old)
You owe me $28.
So I can immediately buy more of those ballerina bathing suits.


We're asserting your independence.
You + preschool in the fall = time to get a grip on your own life, ladybug.
You want your pool filled up?
You do it yourself.
While Mama watches from her sun bathing chair.
Observing, encouraging, doting.
Sorta.
Daddy did give you pails and pails of warm water.


Yep, it's summertime at our house.
We're ready for the sun.
The dusk.
The sweat.
The tan lines.
The music.
The watermelon.
The hummingbirds (you told me Friday that males have red necks. My head exploded).
The friends.
The bonfire-scented fleeces.
The flip-flops.
The peonies.
The neighbors.
The molting Beagle.
The late mornings.
The Daddy brunches.
The Mama coffees.
The love.