Pics and etc.

Easter, lilies.

A couple of days later.

The engineering genes are coming out (G). . .

And again (E). . .

And again (K). Note that S isn't digging. She did some, but spent most of the time running around, just like she did when she hit the sand for the first time at about 15 months old -- the little squirt chased a soccer ball, barefoot, kicking it around for most of an hour, attentively tailed by a doting daddy. Is the digging in the sand thing universal to all punkinheads? I did it when I was a kid. Shoot, I'd still be doing it if I weren't now the, you know, spotter of jellyfish, pusher/hauler of Q, wiper of sandy mouths, the resident managing Jill of all trades (not that I'd trade the mama gig, believe me). I loved to watch the kids on the beach with their daddy, digging like mad or cavorting in the waves. I'd inevitably fall asleep on the soft part of the beach while they played. 'Twas lovely to sit and just be. There's a unique belly-dwelling, up-welling, wave of satisfaction from watching one's beloved and babies, no? Maybe it's as deeply seated as digging in the sand.

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We're back in court tomorrow. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated, as always.