in which i cannot think of a clever title

The other day I was tending my garden when it occurred to me that, my goodness!, I'll be thirty this year. The big 3-0. Where did the last decade go, the years when I was but standing on the cusp of motherhood, children yet a daydream? What happened to their days of infancy, when they were content to cuddle in my lap and lovingly stare at my face? And will the next ten years go by as quickly leaving me to wonder, again, where our lives went? Do you realize that in another ten years it's not a preschool graduation I will be attending, but a highschool graduation? I'll be thirty-nine years old. And what if I become a grandma at forty-nine? Or, gasp!, before that? Someone slow this wild ride down, 'cause I think I'm gonna vomit.

There is mischief behind those eyes, and there is bound to be excitement this summer. Yesterday was the last day of school. Hannah stepped off the bus in tears and made no attempt to shield herself from the deluge of rain falling from the sky. The final moments of second grade were made unbearable by the realization she would be leaving her teacher behind. She's of a sentimental breed, that daughter of mine.

And this one! Oh, how my heart swells with pride and emotion. He was quite overwhelmed with having to perform with his classmates in front of parents and grandparents, and therefore he was a stoic little man. This photo captures the moments directly following his teacher's attempts to manually position his lips into a smile. And when the audience clapped and chuckled, I spied just a hint of a cheeky little smirk. He's holding a memory book, a personalized chronicle of Jacob's year at preschool. I would be sad of our leaving, but for the fact that I have one more to usher through, as well. I marvel at how Jacob has blossomed during the past year. I am reluctant to tell others of his ADD and autistic tendencies, because I want them to see him as the wonderful and quirky guy he is.

And what can I say about this one, except: Don't stare at this picture for too long, or my head begins to look abnormally large.