An Archaeologist At Heart

"The books we read should be chosen with great care, that they may be, as an Egyptian king wrote over his library, The medicine of the soul." -Oliver Wendell Holmes

So I just joined a book club. A book club existed in our neighborhood for some time. I found myself to be a sporadic member at best and felt shamefully responsible when the club dissolved. So when a cute new neighbor, with an english degree, decided to start one up again, I was resolved to join and more actively participate this time. 

I used to kind of poo-poo the idea of being in a book club, a little literary snobbery showing its ugly head. I just couldn't imagine allowing other people to choose my literature for me, and I knew that no one would be interested in the stuff I was reading. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed being a part of a book club. Books I would never open under any other circumstance ended up delighting me, and the conversation was always a treat, as were the refreshments.

This week was our first meeting. I had dragged my feet in ordering the book, so it showed up only a day or two before camp. I found myself starting the book a day before book club, but was able to finish it no problem. Yes, a little child and house neglect may have been a consequence, but it was a mystery, and I didn't want the ending ruined for me at book club. 

It was a delightful little summer read, all about an independent spinster of the Victorian age, willed some money by her father,  who goes about having an adventure in Egypt. The characters were sweet and the writing enjoyable. Though the story was a little predictable, I enjoyed putting down my heavy reading and just getting wrapped up in a good mystery.

I think the real reason I enjoyed the book was for nostalgic reasons. Books about Egypt were always lying around the house growing up. Mom had a fascination with the study of ancient Egypt, and she passed it on to her children. I was constantly leafing through Mom's library books, dreading that moment that I would come across a mummy photo, and yet feeling drawn to the pictures with a compelling curiosity. Sure enough, I would be up with nightmares all night. It didn't help that Mom would make mummy faces to scare us. Such are the joys of growing up with jokester and sometimes sinister parents.

Not many twelve year olds could pick out Ramses's or Seti's mummy in a line up, but I most certainly could. I was surprisingly proficient in hieroglyphics, and practiced writing in it all the time. I was probably the only twelve year old with a favorite pharaoh as well. Under my mother's tutelage and stories, I came to admire Akhenaten, as he was the only monotheistic pharaoh, who worshipped only the sun god Aten. He was rejected because of his belief and any inscription bearing his name was scratched out.

 Most people think of Cleopatra when they envision beautiful women of ancient Egypt. I dressed up as Cleopatra for at least five Halloweens. I sported the costume my sophomore year and was told, "Nice Asp" by my world civ. teacher who also happened to be the basketball coach. This was before the days of sexual harassment, but I was offended, until I remembered the tin foil snake that was coiled around my upper arm. I still wonder if ol' coach Whiting was referring to the snake. But Cleopatra was not my favorite Egyptian queen. Nefertiti was. She was the wife of Akhenaten and considered one of the most beautiful women in Egypt. I'm still dying to get my hands on a bust of Nefertiti to put on my bookshelf. So when Elizabeth Peters centered her book around the tomb of none other than my favorite pharaoh, I was instantly intrigued. 

I read my first account of Howard Carter's excavation of Akhenaten's nephew, the boy king Tutankhamun's, tomb when I was 14. In fifth grade, I wrote a report on the artistic style of the ancient Egyptians, and when  asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was a toss up between an actress and an archaeologist. I had visions of grandeur. I could see myself walking the ancient temples and pyramids of Egypt. I could not help but relate to this author who earned her PhD in Egyptology. A story of romance and mystery combined with mummies and true stories of Egypt's history had me hooked.

Spoiler Alert! Sabrina sat on my bed last night and read 20 pages out of the center of the book and announced, "It was Lucas wasn't it!" I suppose the fact that the child devours Sherlock Holmes stories like I do a bag of Cheetohs made for an easy deduction. Like I said, the story was a little predictable but charming none the less. I told Sabrina she should read the whole book. "No thanks!" she exclaimed. As soon as she found out mummies were involved, she was out. We haven't driven into Salt Lake for the last six months for fear that Sabrina might glimpse up to see a sign for the mummy exhibit in town, thus rendering her sleepless for the rest of the year. She and I share a dangerously active imagination. She's just smart enough to keep away from the disturbing images while I tend to seek them out, a sort of self-torture I suppose.

I'm afraid that me and my siblings have not outgrown our love for all things Egyptian and archaeological. My brother hosted a party a few years back because the history channel was featuring a documentary. We get excited over documentaries like most people do the Super Bowl. They had found a mummy and thought that it might possibly be...you guessed it...Akhenaten. There we sat, eating our nachos and little smokies, riveted to the television. A collective moan came across the room as...the quarterback fumbled the football, you ask? No, as we learned that the mummy was not our favorite pharaoh. That elusive unpopular king shall forever remain a mystery.

But even if you find yourself having to swim out of the nerdiness of this post, I would still recommend the book. The Egyptology is really a side note. There is a whole series about Amelia's adventures, and I just might read the next book and find out how dear Amelia gets herself out of the next predicament. 

Crazy crazy thing. I was just closely examining the photo of my collection of Egyptian literature only to discover a book by Barbara Mertz. Barbara Mertz is none other than Elizabeth Peters. She wrote a few non-fictional books about ancient Egypt and used her married name for those books, whereas the name Elizabeth Peters is strictly a pen name. I've enjoyed some of her fiction, perhaps it's time for some non-fiction.

And Now For a Good Hair-Washing!

"Long, beautiful, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen...I adore hair!" -James Rado & Gerome Ragni

There is a tradition in our ward that was started by a genius camp director a few years ago. That camp director only served one summer, and yet her tradition continues. Most camp activities come and go, but this one has remained.

On Thursday afternoon, after a long hot hike, when everyone's hair has reached a pinnacle of greasiness, and the grime on our bodies is peaking, we take a couple of hours and enjoy a nice hair washing. Amongst our duffle bags, foam pads, and camp chairs, everyone packs a gallon jug of water to take to camp. In the morning, we put the water out so that the sun will warm it. By Thursday afternoon, everyone is ready for some down time and a good scalp massage.

There is something about this activity that is so therapeutic. Girls and leaders alike take turns washing one another's hair. After bonding for a week, this is a way for us to serve one another in a very simple yet profound way.

Giggles and chatter echoed through the camp as the girls laughed over the experiences of the week, and the beautiful lake made a perfect backdrop for our peaceful afternoon.

I might have squealed once or twice as the day had been cold and the sun hidden, thus leaving my jug of water not quite as warm as I'm used to. No matter, it felt so good to have clean hair!

Many girls choose foot baths over hair-washings, and some choose both. Those dirty tired feet long for a good soak. I have fond memories of an experience last year, when I helped wash the feet of one of the young women as we discussed important principles of the gospel. She is a new convert and receives little encouragement at home when it comes to spiritual matters. But when she visits her dad in the summer and is able to attend girls camp, she gets to learn of the gospel unencumbered. That pleasant afternoon last summer in the mountains, with a young woman seeking answers to all sorts of questions, was a perfect teaching opportunity.

I can see now the significance of the Savior washing the feet of his disciples as he taught them saving principles. 

By the end of the afternoon, everyone was brushing their squeaky clean hair and standing in line for intricate braids by the resident master hair-stylist. It was the perfect way to prepare for the evening fireside and testimony meeting, where the spirit abounded and everyone was spiritually fed and filled. Ah, the beauties of Girls' Camp!

A Hike

Thursday was hiking day. I had been fighting a headache after two sleepless nights. I took a power nap and downed two Tylenol, and we were off. I was under the impression that we would be taking a leisurely walk around the lake, so when we started to head another direction, I began to panic. This wasn't going to be one of those supposed to be 2 miles but ends up 4 miles, up hill both ways kind of hikes was it?

The priesthood assured me that this would not be too strenuous. Don't get me wrong, I'm ok with hiking, but I prefer to do it on the west coast where there are no bugs, where shade abounds, and where the temperature rarely gets above 75 degrees. Utah hiking is not my favorite. It's too HOT! The patches of shade are few and far between, and the mosquitoes! 

This happened to be a fairly overcast day, which was a blessing. The mosquitoes did come out much to my chagrin. I'm not in very good shape this summer, so there was some huffing and puffing. It was beautiful and green. 

We stopped for a break as Jessica gave us a lovely depiction of Esther. You know, Esther with sunglasses. It works.

And here we all are after said hike. This is one of the few camp pictures that you will actually catch me in. I have to jump into a few to offer proof that I was there. That is the group of girls that I love so much.

An Afternoon at the Lake

"A lake is the landscapes most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature." -Henry David Thoreau

A highlight of girls' camp every year is the chance to take the canoes out on the lake. The persistent winds kept us from enjoying the lake last year, but this year, we were scheduled for the waterfront on a most warm and peaceful afternoon.

Sabrina vehemently refused to go out on the water. My prodding only pushed her to the point of fury, so I relented. She gets her timidity for water from yours truly. Every year, I insist on enjoying the lake comfortably from the shore, so that I can "take photos", I always profess. The truth of the matter is, I don't swim. And bodies of water where the bottom cannot be seen frighten me, as do bodies of water that carry wildlife of all sorts. This particular body of water carries wildlife of the leech variety, which makes an accidental dip in the water even more scary.

But there was something about the very pleasantness of this afternoon, watching all of the girls glide across the water, giggling as they paddled, that made me put all fear aside and long to hop in a canoe. I asked Jessica if she would go with me. She jumped at the notion.

I made sure my life jacket was on good and tight, then the stake president helped me lower myself into the less-than-sturdy vessel. I asked him if perhaps there was a seat belt of some sort. He assured me that I did not want to be fastened into a canoe. The ridiculousness of such a question had not occurred to me until then.

Jessica did the steering, and we had a delightful time, gliding across that smooth lake. Paddling the canoe was invigorating. Jessica had stopped her canoe in the middle of the lake the afternoon before and had spent some time reading her scriptures. I could see that that would have been very peaceful and was wishing I had an open schedule and a good book with me at the time. But alas, there were more activities to enjoy, and we made our way back to the dock.

There was just enough time for a little leech hunting, a favorite pastime of our dear little beehives. President Thompson fished a nice fat juicy one out of the lake, a specimen they most enjoyed playing with.

The adventure ended with four brave little beehives diving into the chilly lake, with the bishop to follow. It was a delightful afternoon!

Girls' Camp- Sleepless Nights and Profound Days

"Mountains inspire awe in any human person who has a soul. They remind us of our frailty, our unimportance, of the briefness of our span upon this earth. They touch the heavens, and sail serenely at an altitude beyond even the imaginings of a mere mortal." -Elizabeth Aston

I've just returned from my fifth girl's camp as a leader. As I try to catch up on sleep and put countless articles of smoky clothing into the washer, I look back on a delightful week with my girls. There is just nothing like girl's camp. It is the quickest way to get teenage girls to come out of their shells and to bond with one another. It is also one of the best ways to get those girls to feel the influence of the Holy Ghost. One week completely unplugged. One week among the beauty of God's creations. I remember the significance of that one week each summer in my young life, and love being a part of it now as it has such meaning in my own girls' lives.

We got up bright and early Tuesday morning and began the three hour trek into Wyoming. The ride is pleasant until the last few miles, when it is nothing but a rocky dirt road. If you didn't take advantage of the last pit-stop, then heaven help your poor bladder at this point. We pulled into camp and were greeted with enthusiastic YCL's (Youth Camp Leaders). Jessica was one of the more over-enthusiastic YCL's. 

Once camp was set up, we headed over to "The Martha". The Martha is the amphitheater, but it has been called the Martha for decades. Mention "The Martha" to any local female under age 60, and she will know exactly what you're talking about.

Jessica and Sarah came up with a charming "12 Rules of Camp" song. Rule number five being "Be Sure to Poo and Pee"! Yes, the girls had to be reminded to do this one. The biggest complaint at girl's camp is tummy aches, due to not enough water and a reluctance to use the BIFFIES. 

Our ward introduced itself with an enthusiastic Harlem Shake.

Girl's Camp in this stake is very different than the experiences of my youth. Camp was all about certifying in my day. It was all about starting camp fires and cooking tin foil dinners and knot tying. In this stake, it is all about the girls having experiences where they feel the Spirit, experiences that draw them closer to Jesus Christ, experiences that increase their testimony. 

Many would say that these girls are having a cush camp experience, with a cooking staff providing them delicious and healthy meals three times a day, and a bishop eager to start their fires for them, and their physical exertion stretching as far as a mellow two mile hike. But these girls face different challenges than girls of past generations. I prefer that these girls spend an entire week having spiritual experiences. The ability to recognize and heed the Holy Ghost is a skill that will serve them better than knowing how to create a log cabin fire or a lean-to. A valiant testimony of Jesus Christ will be vital as they navigate life, and the roots of such a testimony are often developed here at Girls' Camp.

Back in my day, you were lucky if the bishop showed up for one day of girls' camp. We had every bishop from every ward up at camp for the entire week, this year. How valuable this was after an entire month of teaching the girls the importance of the priesthood. These good men took an entire week off of work to spend it in the mountains with these teenagers. They spent the week giving priesthood blessings, starting campfires, conducting meaningful devotionals and firesides, getting pushed into the lake, and enduring manicures and facials. 

There are no finer renditions of "I'm A Little Teapot", than those performed by the Layton West priesthood. This happened to be a Mormon Tabernacle Choir version. It doesn't take long at all to get 280 young women chanting "TEAPOT! TEAPOT! TEAPOT!" And the brethren never disappoint. 

President Thompson was unsuccessful in winning the beard-growing contest. Too much of a baby face. The consequence? A makeover with full-on foundation and glitter and painted finger-nails. These men are good sports. Somehow it is not as difficult for these young girls to discuss serious matters with a bishop who they've seen sing a mean Teapot and who's allowed them to apply makeup to his face and polish to his nails.

When I was at Girls' Camp, the camp crafts consisted of painting  a piece of tree log or attempting to imprint a piece of leather. Not in this stake. The girls are offered a variety of craft projects. It's a veritable Pinterest workshop as you move from campsite to campsite. The girls were up to their elbows in modge-podge, and acrylic paint, and glitter, and ribbon, and gum balls. They all came home with fun meaningful crafts to remind them of their experiences at camp.

This is the lodge that decades of young women have enjoyed. It has come to symbolize Lake Lyman. 

And because we were the first ward to enjoy the camp this year, we were greeted by this sweet little baby owl every time we ventured to the lodge. The YCLs lovingly named him Ozzy.

Another lovely benefit of going to Lake Lyman this early in the season was frigid nights. Frigid Nights! The first night was cold, but when a cold front came in the next day, it meant a 28 degree night. I was lucky enough to be in the tent, and was therefore exposed completely to the cold. 

I felt ridiculous, two days before, as I packed a winter coat and gloves and earmuffs, per the packing list's recommendation. "I'm never going to use these!" I mumbled.

As I lay shivering in my -20 degree sleeping bag, with everyone of those items piled onto my body, I kicked myself for not bringing hand warmers. I placed the sleeping bag over my head, leaving a tiny triangle opening to breathe through. If any more cold air than that was allowed to sneak into the sleeping bag, then I was thrown into instant chills. They were long sleepless nights. Rigorous days of activity after activity with two dozen giggly teenagers, on virtually no sleep, is a recipe for a migraine. Me and every other leader wrestled with such headaches all week. Sheer will-power, Ibuprofen every six hours, and a tiny nap snuck in now and then, seemed to get us through. 

When night time came around, and I thought about climbing into that freezing tent for another subarctic sleepless night, I would begin to weep a little bit, and I would have to quickly regain my composure before one of the girls came along. There are parts of camp that are pure acts of love and service by us leaders. More than once, I was tempted to just drive into Evanston and check into a hotel, but I persevered for the girls' sake.

Two of the little Beehives in my tent started to get worked up the first night. One of the girls had had a vomiting incident the year before and was starting to complain of an upset stomach, and then her friend started to complain of the same problem. I'm sure the 25 pounds of candy sitting in her backpack had contributed somewhat to the problem. I was not in the mood to clean up throw-up at 3:00 a.m. and in subfreezing temps. I told the girls to go use the biffies. That didn't seem to help. It became apparent that this was more an anxiety issue than anything else. These girls were going to work themselves up into a vomiting episode if I didn't act fast. I kicked myself for not packing some peppermint oil.

Then it occurred to me. I had a bottle of lavender essential oil in my bag. I had brought it for myself to hopefully combat the insomnia and night terrors that like to strike at camp, but thought that it might help my little panicked beehives. I told the girls that this was a miracle oil that would instantly relax them and help them to sleep. They put a drop on each wrist, then we had a little prayer. Katelyn declared, "I feel relaxed already." And in about five minutes, they were both out cold, and I never heard another word the entire night.

I'm guessing the lavender was little more than a placebo, for it did me no good. I was up all night. All I know is that the girls asked for some every night, and we never had another problem. The mind is a powerful thing. By the end of the week, girls from the cabin and other tent were paying me a visit, pleading for a drop of the miracle oil. 

I will tell you more tomorrow. I have a renewed appreciation for those women who sacrificed so much to attend camp when I was a teenager. They left behind their babies and their home conveniences to spend a week helping me to feel the spirit and to strengthen friendships. I never knew it was a sacrifice for them. They seemed to be there because they wanted to be. And now I understand. They did want to be there. 

The cold nights and daytime headaches are worth it. It's worth it to help these young women have the same profound experiences that I had. It's worth it to see the tears well up in their eyes as they feel the Holy Ghost in such a strong way that they don't quite know how to react to such powerful feelings. It's worth it to watch some of them have experiences they've never had before. It's worth it to be that mommy figure to some girls as they get anxious at night, longing for their own mom. 

It's worth it to experience very small discomforts to help build God's kingdom by preparing the next generation. The next valiant generation who will be the future mothers, missionaries, and leaders of the church. Girls' Camp. It's an honor and a privilege to attend each year, and I will continue to do so, until the Lord decides that He needs my services else where.  

Our Favorite Dad

"I am not ashamed to say that no man I ever met was my father's equal, and I never loved any other man as much." 

-Hedy Lamarr

This dad is our favorite dad for more reasons than we can count. But we will list just a few.

This dad is our favorite because he has always been so good with his babies. Some dads don't really get involved until their kids can start walking and talking, but this dad has been there for his little ones as well as his older ones. He changed his share of diapers. He got up for night feedings. He rocked and snuggled his babies. 

This dad has always taken his kids on outdoor adventures. He's happiest when he's hiking with his kids. He doesn't have hobbies separate from his children. He includes his children in all the things that he loves.

This dad spends one-on-one time with his kids. He takes them to their favorite restaurants and talks to them about their lives. He takes a genuine interest in each child and never forgets to tell them how much he loves them.

This dad is Mr. Fix-it. He never pays for labor when he can do the labor himself. He has taught himself to do electrical work and duct work. He's taught himself to lay a wood floor and to install ceiling fans. Our children have learned the importance of doing it yourself from their father. 

This dad never turns an eager child away when he wants to help. It has meant more work for this dad, but he continues to welcome the help. These kids have grown up working beside their father.

This dad has coached every one of his children's soccer teams. Some games he has coached and reffed. He's rushed home from work many an evening to coach a practice and woken up early many a Saturday to coach a game.

This dad works hard every day to provide well for his family. He only gets a pittance of his paycheck for his own spending, the rest goes to providing a pleasant life for his children. Much of that money goes to lovely vacations that have brought our family priceless memories.

This dad goes out every December and purchases a live Christmas tree because his wife, and now his children, just couldn't imagine Christmas any other way. He spends the ridiculous amount of money for the tree, then fights to strap it on top of the van, then wrestles it into the house and strings it with lights every year, so that we can have warm holiday traditions.

This dad adores and respects the mother of his children. His daughters will require respect from their husbands, and his sons will adore their wives because of the daily example of their father.

This dad doesn't miss a performance. Whether he's taking a long lunch during the day or rushing home from a business trip, he will support his kids at all costs.

This dad is never too busy to help with homework. He's come to bed at midnight after helping a child with pre-calculus. The kids know they can always ask dad for help.

This dad honors and magnifies his priesthood. He humbly presides in his home. He has an unwavering testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ which is perhaps one of the greatest gifts he will give his children. They laugh that dad has a scripture for everything. They may be right. He immerses himself in the scriptures and blesses his children with his knowledge and testimony.

We love this dad of ours. How we got so lucky, I'll never know, but we're grateful. So very grateful.

Ahhh, Summer!

"Summer's lease hath all too short a date." -Shakespeare

Ok, I can see that this little blog of mine could become quite neglected this summer, if I'm not careful. There really hasn't been much to document over the last three days. I basically put on my slave-driver pants, and condemned my children to hours of hard labor, at least that is how they see it. Reality would describe it as requiring that my kids give a good hour each day to helping me whip this house into shape. I was the one that was going through the house like a Tasmanian Devil. But it looks pretty good now, so we are free to enjoy our summer.

We decided that a picnic at the park would be just the thing to start the summer with. We threw a few things in a cooler, grabbed a blanket, and we were off to "Castle Park". We stoked up the tunes on the way there. You know, some Beatles, A-Ha, Depeche Mode, Erasure, the staples. My kids have a healthy appreciation for music of just about any era but their own.

Everyone but Jonah is passed the whole playing on the playground thing, although Sabrina and Spencer snuck over to the castle playground for a few minutes. We are now at the lounge on a blanket with a good book phase of life.

Jessica took her first bite of a peach. Summer can now begin.

There were so many wholesome and healthy food options to choose from at our little picnic. Rule of Thumb: It is not wise to shop for a picnic when one is suffering from the munchies. I left the bag of cotton candy at home. I took a few bites of pineapple but mostly indulged in the many other nutritious food choices.

Our blanket was spread out on a hill. We were afraid that our delicious lemonade might tip over in the grass, so Jonah came up with the brilliant idea of using our shoes as cup holders. It's a good thing that enough of us opted to wear shoes over flip-flops. Most of us chose to actually remove the cup from it's holder before slurping from it, but you know, to each his own. 

During lunch, the kids discussed what their future children might be like. Jessica is convinced that she will end up with a brood of boys who want to do nothing more than play sports and do math, while Jonah will get only daughters who have an insatiable love of music. Yes, sometimes irony plays cruel tricks. I forgot to remind them how important it is to begin brain-washing your children at a very young age so that they only have passions for things like 80's music and fine literature. I'll wait until that time gets a little closer.

Sabrina decided that she had had enough of the bugs and the allergies. We had already had two ugly encounters with a Daddy Long Leg, and now the mosquitoes had the audacity to show up to our picnic. She picked up her Great Gatsby novel and left for the van in a huff. That left Jessica and myself to enjoy this blanket so perfectly placed on the hill. We lay reclined in such a way to allow for maximum napping enjoyment.

At this point Jessica mentioned that she felt like she should be worrying about something. Ah, but that is the beauty of summer. The worries are washed away by the sunshine and warm breeze. An Oreo never hurts either. Yes, that is one sitting on her stomach right there. It's a new form of relaxation. Deep breaths followed by large bites of cookie. It's very therapeutic.

Why can't life be this carefree all year? I suppose that when you work hard nine months out of the year, such revelries are considered relaxation and rejuvenation. But if one did nothing but lounge under shade trees with a box of Pringles all year, it would be called idleness. So we will take what we can get and cherish it for as long as it lasts.

And That's That

"The two best days of school, the first and the last."

Shhh. Do you hear that? Listen to that hum. It is the sound of children, mothers, and teenagers alike whooping and hollering for the end of what may have been the longest school year on record. If you listen closely, you can hear a joyful chant, "No more school, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks YAH." My seventeen year old just informed that she never uttered such a chant. I told her that the moms of my generation know it. We chanted it every day on the playground.

This little guy graduated from sixth grade today. It seems like just yesterday that I was sending him off to his first day of kindergarten, sporting his Spiderman shirt and shoes with matching backpack almost as big as him.

He's become quite the young man, and a smart one at that. Here he is, about to receive a special award for "Overall Academic Excellence". And he deserved it. He came home to show us his report card of a year of straight 3's. For those of you who don't understand the new lame elementary grading system, this is the equivalent of a 4.0. He set the goal at the beginning of the school year to earn nothing less than a 3 in any subject, and he was the only child I never had to nag to do his homework.

The graduation ceremony was a lovely affair. All kinds of speeches, poem recitations, and songs about reaching for the stars, oh the places we'll go, the time of our lives, and the road less traveled. Spencer was the only instrumental musical number. And he played marvelously.

Once he had received his certificate and a hearty handshake from all the teachers and the principal, he was ready to blow this popsicle stand.

He had no desire to give his final goodbyes to classmates or to take a farewell picture with his teacher. The doughnuts over in the gold neighborhood didn't even entice him. If it weren't for the backpack he left in the classroom, he would have been out the gym doors with barely more than a "Good Riddance" slipping from his lips. So different than his sisters before him. 

So that's that. One last picture in front of the elementary school before moving on to bigger and better things.

We finished the afternoon with a celebratory calzone from Brick Oven. This may have been part of the reason for his flight from the school. The boy likes himself some pizza. Just me and him, dipping our bread in hot marinara, discussing the things he won't miss about elementary school, and the things he looks forward to in junior high. 

"Do you think I'll have as much drama over missing assignments as the girls have had, when I get into junior high?" he asked.

No, Mr. Overall Academic Excellence, I don't believe you will. In fact, your father and I are banking on the fact that you won't. This glimmer of hope is what keeps us going. Keep your eye on the 4.0 kiddo, and you'll be just fine. But for now, enjoy your pizza. You've earned it.