Wedding Season

This afternoon, while the neighborhood kids played in the sprinkler in our front yard (why, hello, 80 and sunny, it's so nice to SEE you again), I played catch with Jemma. We tossed the pink ball back and forth and were having so much fun that Jemma must not have noticed when my neighbor Shelly came over, wearing a long, white cotton cover-up after being at the pool.

Mid-catch, Jemma spied her, stopped, and ran over to stand in front of her. Shelly was drinking a big glass of something pink, and I thought Jemma was going to ask for some. Instead she planted her little legs on the grass, leaned toward Shelly sweetly, and said, "Are you having a wedding?"

Meanwhile, the older kids switched up their play to begin a game of "family." Wyatt, the dad was "42 or 43," Caden was 5, Jonathan was the baby, and Annie, the mom, was 21. (I have NO IDEA where she might have gotten the idea that 21 is a normal age to be married . . . )

Forget the college savings plans. We should probably start saving for the weddings.