Magic Hour

After you've spent seven straight hours in the pool, it's time to throw on your Dora the Explorer "Let's Go Skiing!" pool cover-up (I don't get it either) and do some yard work, so your eyes have a chance to get back to normal and nobody calls CPS on your parents.

Well, okay, yard "work." This is a union shop, and someone has to be the supervisor, right?

It's been a while since my grandfather grew strawberries up there, maybe twenty years, but every summer a couple of strawberries show up in the beds anyway. Could be because of birds or rabbits leaving droppings, or could be because strawberries are like kudzu -- nothing short of nuclear weapons can completely eradicate them. My yard is a prime example.

Better living through denial. Here, she's practically dead on her feet, but you'll never get her to admit it. Sometimes I can't believe that this is the same kid who gets practically catatonic on the sofa watching "The Lion King." It's a cliche to compare her to the Energizer Bunny, but it's not incorrect.

Someday I hope to understand the fascination with sticks. She'll go on walks with her Nana or her Gigi and she'll come home with pockets full of rocks and pine cones, and giant handfuls of sticks and leaves. It's better than bugs or bits of broken glass, I suppose. She also comes home from school more often than not with mulch in her shoes.

Who needs a gym full of free weights when you have a preschooler and an action hoe at your disposal?