Right now, I can’t imagine forgetting one single thing.  How could I?

This sweet little smile, the pinching of skin at the sides of her eyes, the dimples below the corners of her lips.  That smile that is all mischief, the one that is pure joy, the one that is Ican’tcontrolmyselfgigglingbellylaughter.  The feel of her soft, curly, crazy hair.  The sound of her voice, babbling nonsense and forming new words. 

The knuckle bump.

The knuckle bump!

Her boodie-shaking, head-bobbing, arm-flailing, body-leaning, shoulder-bouncing dance style.  Her sweet, sweet singing voice.

I won’t forget any of this, will I?  How soft this forearm?  The exact curve of this cheek?  This precise intonation of the word she uses for “bird?”  Just how soft and snuggly?  I’ll remember every little detail, right?

Oh, please don’t answer that.  I already know.

Summer in our neighborhood means that there is never a shortage of playmates.  This group truly astounds me with their ability to play all day long with each other.  They even happily include Shortcake (who adores every one of them).  This photo was taken at the door of a fort made with lawn chairs, a toddler slide, sheets, and towels.  Seven kids were inside, sharing a communal lunch of fresh strawberries, cheddar cheese, crackers, and juice–arranged entirely by the kids.

This day, they were playing some crazy imaginative game, during the course of which I heard these snippets:

“OK, your brain surgery is now finished!  Let’s get out of here!  Quick!”

“…pretend you didn’t know I was an archaeologist.  You know now, but I told you I was just a scientist.  And you’re beginning to ask questions…”

“Oh no!  Something happened!  Dr. C!  Do you know who this is?  Do you know who I am?  (gasp)  He doesn’t know who we are!  Stay here, I need to go check out this alien!”

The entertainment is well worth the 100 popsicles a day.*

*mild exaggeration.  It’s more like 50.

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.  (Henry David Thoreau)

I don’t know how I  feel about this quote, which I’ve only just discovered originated from Thoreau.  I’ve always thought it had to do with marching to the beat of your own drum, and I kind of like my version better, though it is less poetic.  I can make peace with it for the sake of Thoreau, however, by considering that “different drummer” to be the Muse, or that Divine Spark of creative inspiration.  I think my friend Henry David would be OK with that.

If… he weren’t dead. And… if he actually gave a sh*t what Terri Fischer had to say about it.