... We've joined the pool. Two weeks ago I paid a large sum of money, suffered the humiliation of posing for a photo badge, and voila! we have tons of fun in the sun at least twice a week. It is Emory's all-time most favorite thing to do. (Yesterday she even swam to me, several times, with her face IN the water. Cool stuff, I tell you.) When we made our maiden voyage to the the cement tub of dreams, I impressed on Emory the importance of obeying the lifeguards. "THEY are the boss of the pool. You must do what THEY tell you to do. THEY will blow their whistle at you if you do not follow the pool rules." So, as all children are wont to do, she was running on the deck of the pool. In all fairness, it is incredibly hard not to do when at the coolest place in the world. Seems like torture to me, but I do get the wisdom in it. And, like all lifeguards are wont to do, one of them casually hollered, "Hey! Stop running." Emory stopped, turned to look at him, looked front again, and skipped to her destination. (Evidence of sharing genetic material with a mama who did cartwheels to the front of the class in first grade.)
At church a few weeks, Emory was running a-muck, and our Aimee corrected her. "Emory, my children aren't allowed to do that, and I bet your daddy doesn't want you doing that either." Aimee was right. Our darling cherub looked her dead in the eye and said, "Well, my daddy is not talking to me right now." Luckily, Aimee has enough sense of humor to have relayed the story with a smile.
And most recently, a desperate attempt to reach the tootsie rolls: