Mishy-Mashy-BOO!

I did not intend to go back on my promise of three entries a week so soon.  But this was the week that got away from me!  The entirety of my Friday passed in the company of my married daughter, driving to Fort Campbell on "official Army business" -- mainly mundane paperwork necessary for processing her into their system and facilitating her move to Germany to join her husband.  That little hop, skip and a jaunt ate up six hours of our day before landing us in downtown Nashville.  2nd Avenue to be exact.  Home to my husband's place of employment.  Did you know that there are two, TWO, genuine Starbucks coffee machines which grind and dispense said magic bean brew, along with a pretty righteous hot chocolate, located on the 2nd and 3rd floors?!  Talk about your cush assignments!

 I think I'm in LOVE!

Sweet stimulating nectar . . . 

There was a family dinner at The Cheesecake Factory at the mall for the wealthy, a.k.a. Green Hills, which allowed for a couple of nice shots.  Honestly, aside from the Pear-Sake martini which allowed my inner fatigue to come rushing to the surface, the meal was rather lackluster, and I find that the namesake dessert of this establishment does not meet with my picky palate's approval any longer.  But the company was a delight . . . though we missed my boy, thanks to the ever-popular double-header which marks baseball season with an exclamation point!  We're making memories to bank against the future years'-worth of Sarah-absence soon to be upon us.

 A post-game group prayer.  Wonder who prayer harder?  The winners or the losers?  

 I ran into the mall to purchase cologne for my hubby and happened across this window display for a designer purse.

Those are darts.  My daughter and her boyfriend play in dart leagues.  Reminded me of them.  Sorta.

 In no particular order, a shot of a game played today.

Those storm clouds deposited generously in about 20 minutes from now! And they kept right on playing!

Our dinner club with full bellies on board.

Saturday continued with the busy-ness.  Though I slept-in until 8AM.  Well, let's say I remained in bed, tossing and thinking and wishing I could return to slumber until 8AM; Hank woke me up three times between 5:30AM and my eventual rise-and-shine.  The REM's just never did reengage.  After online research for an insect growth regulator (poison for killing fleas in most stages of life) to combat what the single dead flea on Ashley's bed most likely represents (miss a week with Frontline and see what happens?!) and checking Southwest's ticket prices for our Colorado trip to my niece's wedding in June, I sacrificed an hour for Starbucks and Wal-Mart with Ashley.  Followed by a quick visit to my neighbor's house to give her little boy a few get-well goodies in sympathy with his newly broken arm.  I'm not sure he fully appreciated the juice boxes, Teddy Grahams, Goldfish crackers, stickers and Sharpies for cast-signing, "I can tell there's no Legos in that bag!"  Hey!  I tried.  Kids can't help their brutal honesty.  Don't worry about it . . .  as it seems that most adults lose the ability to exercise true honesty.  Let your kids express the truth while they may!  (Sorry, let me just kick that soapbox outta the way!)  

Then it was off to another town for a ball game.  And back to our town for what became a late-afternoon and all-evening new car-testing bonanza which resulted in the trade-in of Sarah's thirsty Xterra for a car payment on a Ford Focus with enough gas and maintenance savings to offset the cost.  (I'll try not to sicken you with the dollar amount we pay for fuel in the Yukon and Chevy Silverado that we still own outright!)  This will now be the car with which my hubby commutes to and from work.  And what we use on the weekends to drive hither and yon.  My husband has never owned a Ford, much less wanted one, "My motto: I'd rather push a Chevy than drive a Ford!" but the comparable Chevy and Honda models lost out for a variety of personally practical matters.  And I think that saying applied to trucks.  I'm just glad it's over.  I'm not pleasant during such types of large purchases.  The nausea is only now subsiding after an 11 o'clock 2-mile walk and a bout of snacking with my son and his buddy.  The blogging also helps.  So would another pear martini.

 Now THAT'S what I call a cast!!!

He landed on his elbow from an 8-foot fall off of a swing in full motion.  The damage required surgery at Vanderbilt.

 So, who is the flea-bitten one in this shot?

The remains of a game.

 Letting go of my middle child in stages.

I was on the verge of tears after signing away her very

first car.  Oh, you can ju-u-ust make out the replacement in the back left.  I'm not ready.  YET.

  

I know.  I know.  An incredibly exciting life I lead.  Replete with scintillating and titillating episodes.  Be still my beating heart.  Slow down, oh drama.  Calm the waters, Moses.  Er, wait?  What was that last one?  It's late.  After 1 in the AM.  I'm fading fast.  I'd best skedaddle off to bed.  Wouldn't want to nod off during Pastor Rodney's informational and heartfelt sermons.  That's my son's job.  And the older gentleman across the aisle.  Us middle-aged folks are supposed to remain upright and wide-eyed.  It's in the church attendance handbook somewhere.  

Perhaps next week (which is officially THIS week unless you live on the West Coast and read this blog, in which case I have 1/2 hour to squeeze into my official self-imposed deadline) I'll get around to finishing the entry I started on my laptop during the hour drive to today's baseball game.  It's a good one.

 I also met with part of my Earth Divas this week.

This is the best shot I got of it: pricey, pretty, metallic yarn.

 Truth and love in advertising.

 Tennessee deciduously beautiful.

 Yes.  That is moi.  In the PX parking lot at Fort Campbell.

Checking the engine coolant fluid level of the Xterra.

Probably a good thing we traded it in.

I just like this shot of me trying out the tables-n-chairs 

in my husband's work breakroom.

The Way of Hope

2:30AM.  Four cups of organic coffee and three slices of simply marvelous homemade chocolate cake down the gullet since 10PM.  Not to mention a few small handfuls of various flavored potato chips.  One rousing round of "Ticket to Ride" by Days of Wonder (a board game and NOT a dance to a revamped Beatles classic) with two of our church  musicians and our best barista.  Oooh, and a cupla games' worth of Bananagrams (which I will now buy for myself and play endlessly).  A trip to Dollar General at 9:30PM with my son to pick up one gainfully employed young woman in need of a ride, a meal and a place to sleep for the night.  Several conversations with strangers, women of all age groups, who've lived in places from whence I hail: central California and southern Colorado.  And places I've yet to visit: Boston, Mass..  An initial chauffeuring of a mother and her two boys, a solemn one year-old and a talkative skateboard-loving five year-old who couldn't wait to meet my son.  Wrestling matches with various and sundry air mattresses in need of mending, replete with minute punctures which sink beds into plastic pancakes.

 Brisk walks in mild night air to stimulate circulation and keep the brain firing through the wee hours.  Pictures ala Instagram of sleeping Valdez' -- Jimmy, Sarah (technically and emotionally now Ekmanis) and Zachary -- all lined up in their rigged rows of chairs, buried beneath covers, slumbering in the relaxed sanctuary hall.  Opportunities abounding to fellowship beyond the Sunday hours with fellow Church at Cross Pointers and learn of peccadilloes, quirks, habits and hobbies previously unknown.  On call for whatever snack or drink or other late night request might form on the mouths of women who gratefully call our humble little building home every fourth Friday of each month . . . and often on Sunday evenings, too.  Ready to start the griddle for pancakes and eggs come 7AM; prepared to pack sack lunches for a slow Saturday afternoon at the public library or other long-term venue.

A local man put to the test his vision of a program which would provide emergency shelter for women and children in a pinch, with needs arising from a multitude of domestic and social situations, through an organization of churches throughout our community.  Our little band of believers agreed to be a part of the pilot program.  It was so successful through the winter months that our faithful organizer returned to the churches to ask if they would be willing to extend their efforts through the summer months, as the women didn't instantly shed their need for assistance just because the trees started blooming.  He put his money and his mouth and his family on the line.  Not to mention a lion's share of his time!  Pulling a closed trailer behind his SUV with the school spirit sticker denoting his daughter's occupation as cheerleader, he lugs clothing and bedding from place to place, each and every day, for these women.  He calls them each by name and chats with an ease of familiarity which cannot be faked for the sake of social graces.  He helps them find jobs and housing and gives them the chance to develop a stable foundation for living before they exit the program.  And he never judges, understanding, instead, the unique and individual circumstances which lead them to his door: mental illness, physical infirmity, domestic violence, sudden unemployment, sexual abuse, and the list goes on.

From the first inkling of its possibility, I wanted to be a part of this through my church body.  To give back in some small part to an almost underground institution of Americana which saw me through significant segments of my own childhood.  I remember what it was like to be without the familiarity of home and neighborhood and church and friends.  Not to mention dreaming of where the next meal might come.  I also recall the generous and open nature of the many people who manned the shelters from Colorado to New York.  As a child, I was thankful for them.  I thought everyone behaved in this fantastic fashion.  As an adult, I see the sacrifices they make and the empathy they dole out with regularity and reliability.  They don't wait for the money to be right or the weather to be comfortable.  They jump in and fill whatever spot needs filling to ensure strangers in need have a safe place to stretch out each night.  There's no blame ceremoniously heaped upon government entitlement programs; no expounding on the obviously lazy persons looking for a handout.  These helpers to the homeless spend their money and their time to show support and extend hope.  In fact, this effort of which I write is actually named "The Way of Hope."  Rather fitting.

I love that these ladies, the regulars and the rotation of new ones, enjoy the atmosphere of Cross Point so much.  They say that they feel the most comfortable here.  And our homecooked food allows them to feel as if they are at someones home.  For the past two months, our pastor has grilled burgers.  Today we actually dined under the pavilion in 80-degree weather with the sun casting dappled shadows all around us.  The smoke from the grill provided the atmosphere.  One lady was celebrating her final night in the program as she is moving into her own place come tomorrow: she consumed FOUR burgers!!!  And there was still plenty of fare for everyone else.  For a treat, I brought dark chocolate-dipped strawberries and they were gobbled up within minutes.  We make our restrooms and kitchen and computers open to them, assisting them to whatever degree makes them feel most welcome.  It's a true service.  And any church with a solid building and a body of volunteers would do well to be involved.  Even one night of security, safety, and satisfying food is a welcome distraction when life has broken away from its moorings.

I can vouch for that.

    

Biceps Over Brains

One night, back when I was planning the big wedding in a week flat, in the hours past midnight but before three in the am, my son joined me at the Mac to check in on my progress with the music playlist.  Originally, it was to be his project but I decided that it might be best for me to have a large hand in the selections after he suggested three 'harmless and clean' songs which turned out to have several expletives in them.  (Ashley, the eldest of my child trio, saw them in my iTunes queue and said I'd better play them because they could be the unedited versions: she was right!  Wouldn't THAT have been a hoot n' holler playing over the speakers at our church after the gorgeous ceremony?!)

Somehow, we ended up perusing one of my favorite blogs -- The Pioneer Woman by Bree Drummond -- and I waxed on about the fullness of her website and the layout of everything and her luxurious photography.  Without an iota of hesitation or insincerity in his ever-deepening boy-man voice, my only son said, "You could EASILY do something as good as this, mom.  Probably better.  You just need to make the time like she does."  Now, if that don't be all!  Being as emotionally melty as I already was, what with my successive late nights and early mornings and stressful organizing and mental adjustments to Sarah's and Derek's marriage and future plans of living abroad, away from all of us, starting their exciting new life together on their own terms, I could have cried.  I didn't.  But I could have.  Instead, I beamed and promptly stated that was not possibly accurate, "But thanks, honey.  That's so sweet."  It was mother-son bonding at its finest.  And he is the last nestling of our bunch.  That makes me even meltier.  (Blogger's spell check doesn't honor my creative forms of MELT, but that's what blogs are for: coining ever-evolving usages of common words.)

Now, I won't delve into the whole idea about whether or not I could develop my blog and turn it into a more quality forum.  It's not as far-fetched as it sounds.  As my boy says, it is time that is necessary as a major part of that equation.  Effort would be another.

What I will dive into is that murky mucky body of water that is mother-and-son-in-the-teen-years.  Because today, and over the course of the past couple of days following a negative school progress report discovery in the pocket of his dirty jeans -- tossed IN the hamper by the laundry room, mind you -- I don't think my boy's thoughts lean toward the generous with his brilliant blogger of a mom.  Right now, I'm over-reactive and unfair and too prying and possibly not in charge of my emotions, what with my PMS and all.  Right now, he's busy slipping in the muttered last word whenever we find ourselves enmeshed in a verbal sparring session.  And I'm busy being highly irritable and irritated and disgusted with my parenting.  A far cry from our touching little scene of that aforementioned early morning.

And that's just how it's done right now.  I talk with the other moms of budding young men.  Mom's who love their sons every bit as I do but find themselves subject to the charms their sons turn on in equal measure for cute young things they hope to impress AND mothers they hope to dissuade or persuade as the situation calls for.  Mothers who admire the smiles and athletic prowess and quick wit of their male progeny but also find cause to restrict and retaliate behind all that blinding youthful vigor.  Mothers who no longer know everything and have all the right answers for their boys because the young men before them, urged on by hormones and biceps and not-fully-developed brains, are 100% certain they no longer require parenting.  I mean after all, they drive without an adult in the car or truck now because the state says they passed a test.  If the state trusts them, shouldn't we?  And they only want to hang out in large groups, passing testosterone-laced pheromones around the circle, to hone their wrestling and driving and gaming and eating skills on one another?  What could possibly come of that?  It's not like someone might drive their behind through the wall at a friend's house?  Or someone might ride a bike off a roof onto a trampoline?  Or expensive sunglasses find themselves broken in the course of a friendly skirmish?  Or a car turn over while fiddling around with a phone or radio controls?  "It's ALL good, mom!" is the cry of our confident and coddled young men.

One day, one year, it may be ALL GOOD.  But for now, kid, it ain't.  And I have to do anything and everything in my power to decrease the chances of you injuring yourself or someone else; or damaging property of ours or the neighbors'; or possibly shortening your handsome gift of a life . . . and that includes blogging about it.  You did say you thought my blog was decent with a good shot at being fantastic.

Just remember that if you read this.

Wedding Cake and Potato Salad

I'm sitting out on my patio with the Dell laptop, watching Hank yank wide strips of bark from the logs rimming the outermost edge of said patio, and chatting with my eldest child as she sips on her protein shake and whittles away her green salad.  (She generally graces me and the pets with her presence during her workday lunch break; Hank and Quill run for the door when Ashley's Honda Civic comes purring up the driveway.)  Earlier, I finished my own lunch, which consisted of something other than potato salad and wedding cake for the first time in five days: leftover lamb chops and green beans from my anniversary dinner of yesterday, actually.

The day is unseasonably warm, creeping up into the low 80's for about the fifth day in a row.  Yesterday we had bright sun and light breezes; today the sun has yielded to a thin blanket of cloud cover and the breeze has become more of a mild wind.  A male cardinal serenades us in the background, though truly we are not the object of his lustful warbling.  My daughter, Ashley, hears our neighbors across the back stretch of fence, and wishes aloud that we, too, had an outside television.  To this I loudly protest.  There has to be some place where the watchful eye of the world ISN'T.  I still like to believe that the yard is a rather sacred place where the plants and birds and bees should garner top entertainment billing.  Oh, and Hank the Wonder Pup, of course, who is now chasing one of those bees.  (He caught a fly last week.)

This all sounds rather normal and idyllic.  And it is.  Wonderfully and blessedly so . . .  at least on the face of things.  But there are currents which have forever been crossed and charged. In the space of a day, by blog time, everything familiar about my life was forever changed by a simple late night conversation across the kitchen island of my family home.  On March 2nd, I hopped online and finally completed my monstrosity of a 2011 Top Ten countdown on my blog; by midnight of March 3rd I was reeling from the news that I might possibly become a mother-in-law before the 19th of the same month!

But how is this possible?  Why has there been no hint of such news in the air?  Well-l-l, to be fair, news of a milder sort had been brewing for some time, but this here blogger has neglected her public forum and, thus, deprived her readers of the necessary facts they'd need to read to be kept abreast of the life and times of the Valdez Bunch.  My middle child, the Chattanooga kid, has been pining away for her high school sweetheart and Army love, Derek, during the entire of her freshman year at college.  But not to the neglect of her studies or family.  (Dean's List first semester; many calls, texts and visits to us here in the 'Boro.) But to the growing lack of sleep and peace of mind due to distance and the unknown future of one in the military. 

Last week was her spring break from UTC, and Derek had intended to return to town, fresh from graduating his advanced training in Texas, to ask her father's permission to request her hand in marriage before heading off to Wiesbadan, Germany for two years.  (A funny little saying when we all know that surely the hand is not ALL the suitor would desire for life.)  A concerted hunt for just the right engagement ring led to a back-and-forth of iPhone pictures displaying the best bling bang for the buck.  Sarah had lined up summer employment to start saving for a December trip to visit her beloved with me as her chaperon.  This was all the talk between us girls, with the guys on the periphery but not altogether absorbed in the news.  So, we all knew this was in the works.

But so were The Oscars and that fabulous Banana Pudding Cheesecake recipe I discovered in the latest edition of Southern Living magazine and baseball season for Zachary and the ongoing saga of Ashley's kitten-cat, Quill, with her mystery allergies that have required her to remain in her Elizabethan-collar since December!  My father-in-law retired.  My son attended his first formal.  Ka-ching! Not to mention my attempts to plan a weekend getaway to mark my 23rd wedding anniversary with my own beloved, the intrepid Jimmy V.  And when? OH WHEN? would the Earth Divas next come together for a little friendship adventure?  And let's not get into tornado warnings on a national scale, early spring and yard work, my good friend's painful divorce headaches, and the fact that my tech-loving dog ate my 3G iphone, my handheld Girlfriend, thus causing the earlier-than-desired purchase of the 4G model!

This will deserve it's very own entry to fully explain!

My father-in-law playing at his own party!

(Check out the cute drummer boy.)

Even the Otter Box was no match for Hank the Wonder Pup!

The trigger to this upgrade in marital planning hinged upon the discovery that the Army base to which Derek is presently en route has an American accredited college on base.  Sarah ran into someone who had attended during his time stationed there.  She decided that if she could transfer her credits and continue her studies, that she was willing to make the move overseas and avoid any further long-term separation from the one holding the other half of her heart.  "On the upside, mom," she sweetly informed me, "you and dad wouldn't have to pay all that money for my schooling! As a military wife, money for education is available to me and it would all become mine and Derek's worry."  She further insisted that this would go through ONLY if the school thing was possible because she didn't want to stop her education in its tracks.

At the UTC Dean's List pin ceremony.

Within the next 36 hours, my girl and her boy managed to sew up all the loose ends with phone calls and e-mails to the Army, UTC and the overseas college.  When I spoke with Sarah either Sunday or Monday night, I made the comment that "if this happens, we'll have to blah, blah, blah" to which she promptly replied, "Oh, it's happening, mom.  I already know the answers.  It can all work out."  Somewhere in all of this, she also had very in-depth conversations with a married ex-military couple (she's a good friend with the wife) as to what they could expect, pros and cons, and how to avoid pitfalls AND make the most of the time abroad.  Sarah also felt that though we all understood many aspects of her relationship, the Army aspect presented unique issues that only those in similar circumstances could comprehend.  Being ensconced in a community of like-minded people was becoming increasingly important to her.  Especially if Derek did, at some point, end up deploying with his unit.

Trust me when I say we engaged in countless discussions over all of this.  But in the end, Sarah Olivia Valdez knows herself and what she wants.  Basically, she's possessed this self-awareness since she was 5 years-old.  It was just the rest of us who needed to figure it out and catch up to her.  One does not talk Sarah OUT of anything.  One must talk WITH her and allow a wide enough berth for her to turn her circumspect 360 degrees as she takes in the surrounding landscape.  Derek is his own person, friendly and polite, but not ingratiating the point of suspicion, like a few of his predecessors.  And friendly and polite don't begin to scratch the surface of his persona.  Suffice it to say that I already loved him before he became my son-in-law.  I know he has my daughter's back.  And I know he is pleased to be a member of our family.  Though both of these young people are 19, they possess good measures of maturity, independence, responsibility and stick-to-it-iveness.  Enough for a safe start.  Enough to push them down the path with their heads held high and hand-in-hand.  The rest, I believe, based on the natures of these two kids and the friends and family behind them, will come in due time.  Probably NOT around Oktoberfest.

Let's call this entry good for the day.  I'm making a promise here and now that my blogging will pick up to a dedicated 3 entries a week.  Otherwise, it ain't much of a blog.  I'll take you behind the scenes of "Planning A Wedding In A Week 101."  It'll cause your head spin and your heart sing.  And potato salad and wedding cake will make perfect sense.

Signing off as the pollen count rises and my sinuses call the development to my attention.

  

2011 Countdown: #1 . . . REALLY!

And FINALLY, my patient blog readers, we reach the end of this interminably long countdown.  I promise you there will be a contemplation of possible rules for THIS year's countdown when the time comes.  It's rather exhausting.  And the digital age presents far too many pictorial options for a gal given to sentiment, affections and beauty in all things.  At this point, I am yet a wanna-be-regular-writer with a crunched-for-time-already-full life.  That'll change at some juncture in a future yet to be determined.  This I do know, down, down, DOWN deep in the recesses of my little ol' heart.  There are yet pages and pages yet to be covered with my scribblings and typings.

So, from divas to dogs, Cross Point to company, and tornadoes after snow fall, 2011 bore plentiful fruit in the life of this liver and lover of life.  But what could POSSIBLY top all of that in significance?  Well, let us speak to the fruits of the vine, or make that the fruit of my womb, rather.  My second child hit that momentous milestone whereby childhood breaks away and adulthood rears its responsible head.  Yes, my Sarah, OUR Sarah, graduated high school.  Phew!  It was made all the more enjoyable an occasion by the out-of-staters who swooped over from the West.

And it went down a little something like this:

Once there was this wide-eyed cherub of a child.

Who allowed us to come along for the ride through the years of her childhood.




(A series of years which passed in a seeming blur!
And most assuredly faster than this blog entry!)

She made me want to be more like her.

 And then there arrived that morning when I realized  it was time . . . time for her to graduate high school!

And coinciding with this monumental event, the emergence of the 13-year cicada . . . 

 . . . and its many friends!

But I knew we could get through this: 
after all, we managed to get the first one graduated and SHE turned out fine.  As you can see, I have trained her well.



So, where should we start first?

The light fixtures seemed a logical start.
(This here is my wonderful mother-in-law.)



And that rather unsightly pile of laundry that wasn't getting any cleaner sitting in the basket!

Then I thought to feed my help!

Maybe allow her to rest a bit?

I checked the bylaws, and there was nothing stating the graduates themselves can't lend a hand.  Or two. 

Bro-in-laws and cousins are always eager to offer their expertise in all things requiring instructions!

I asked the neighbors to trim their unsightly trees.

We rounded up a pile or two of  our own yard debris.

"Hey, easy boys! Put me down.  I'm NOT being thrown out with the trash!"

(They were jealous of my shorts.)

We borrowed a few chairs from our church.  

(Guaranteed delivery by our esteemed pastor.)

I hired a dedicated crew to try and 'smoke out' the cicadas as the OFF wasn't getting the job done!

These beautiful gals, Cousin Laur and Sis-in-Law Shelley, made up 2/3 of my "Charlie's Angels" trio.
Without them, I'd still be filling balloons and unraveling streamers!

Cousin Darrell volunteered for beer quality control:

the refreshing beverage of choice for beating the Cicada Summer heat amongst the adult prep crew.

Darrell's board of directors.

These two (Geiser sibs) traveled from Wyoming just to decorate the party tent for Sarah.  What love!

Laur, in turn, used her own people to handle the spillover party area in the garage.

It turned out pretty well, I'd say!

 5 out of 5 party attendees agree!

I lent my best side to the cause of the Duct Tape Avenger -- unbeknownst to me.

Aunt Marie's expert hands took charge of the green chilies.  One more worry that was NO MORE!

Cousin Dave kept the graduate relaxed with methods I found it best not to question.

I found a crowd to test out the patio.

And thus Graduation Eve drew to a close.

Only to allow dawn to break on GRADUATION DAY!

My kitchen staff was already hard at work, following taped instructions everywhere they turned!

I think they're discussing my OCD issues.

With everything under control at party central, the rest of us headed off to the ceremony.  

(I've got a hitch in my dress!)

Jeremy assures me he carries no contraband on him, save for his chest hair.  

The sizable and sweltering venue as the graduates file into the stadium.

I'm a sucker for our country's Star Spangled Banner.

There's our girl, second from the left in back!

Her boyfriend and all-around good guy, Derek, received his diploma near the beginning, when we were all still conscious!

One by one, my fellow attendees began to drop off.

Seeking distraction via technology as we awaited the advent of the V's . . . 

At some point, maybe around the H's, my attention strayed to the people around me . . . 

. . . and their hair . . . 

. . . 

My infamous pea-sized bladder (no pun intended) put in a request around the S's.

And then she was up and walking . . . 

Because V is for VICTORY!

The first of many victories!

My son melted.

"A work call, Jimmy? Really?  Have they NO boundaries?"

I think we done good.

And with that: let the party commence!

But first, a little swig of Darrell's relaxation formula.

Eat, eat, EAT, everyone!

My neighbor's son demonstrates the important 3 food groups: fruit, chips and CANDY!

Fellow graduates and good friends stopping by.

Revelers busy reveling!

Our stunning blue-eyed blondes!

A proud Grandma Sharon . . . 

And a proud Grandma Olivia with ALL of her granddaughters!

Little Jack brought his family to say 'congrats' to his favorite babysitter.

The cards all grads love to open!

Friends and neighbors who have watched our gal grow up in the Jamison 'hood.

Now, this picture of Cousin Annette (Netsy) with Sarah in her arms is a full circle moment . . . 

Because Netsy got us through the terrible twos!

(They even look alike.)

Us proud parents are still reeling from it all.

But Sarah seems pretty darned satisfied.

As the company dwindled, those of us left behind let our hair down and had some fun.

Me, chief among them!

Ollie is a tremendously good sport!

The gang's all here.  Just barely, folks, as the big day shuts down in our neck of the woods.

The party bubble finally burst . . .

 As the time for goodbyes rolled around.

 Fare thee wells to family . . . 

 . . . and fun times . . . 

 . . . and fresh faces . . . 

. . . and feisty fritters . . . 

But most of all . . . 

. . . we bid the most bittersweet of fare thee wells . . .

. . . to little girls . . . 

. . . who . . .

. . . are . . .

. . . little . . .

 . . . girls . . .

 . . . no . . . 

 . . . more . . . 

. . . except in mom's heart!