In honor of the first day of summer vacation, my youngest children got up with the sun.
Actually, they didn't. The sun gets up at four, and they were not.
(I was, and I really, really wish I had taken my camera out with me. The mountains were magnificent. Yes. Mountains. You could see them from Moses Lake. The air was so clear it was as if the western side of the state had lifted up and bent towards us, just a little bit, to meet the morning sun.)
The kidlets were up shortly thereafter, waiting for something exciting to happen.
It is summer, after all.
Why waste a moment of it in bed?!
I did my motherly duty and crushed their hopes and dreams with the revelation that before they did anything else they had to 1) do a job, and 2) write a paragraph in their journals.
Oh that I were as organized as Freedom Smith, but alas, this was as far as my iron fist extended.
I also paid my youngest to write lines.
His handwriting is atrocious.
I figured that out when I emptied his backpack and found his homework binder. Apparently something spilled in the depths there some time ago.
Like maybe at Christmas.
The binder was molded shut.
And when I say mold, I mean the mottled black and green, fuzzy type. After I pried the thing open I found his reading log–the last entry is dated October first. And various incomplete reading assignments.
Mother of the year award–that's me.
The kid can read. We just never get around to recording it. It's the reading that's important, right?