I grew up celebrating Wianki; the Festival of Wreaths. Every summer solstice, Polish people gather, dance, eat, and create beautiful flowered wreaths. Candles are placed on the wreaths, the wreaths are placed on water, sent to sail. I've heard different stories about the meaning and origin of the ceremony; my favorite that maidens would send out their unique wreaths out onto the nearest lake, and the man who found their wreath across the river could claim their hand in marriage. But it is an amazing ritual of beauty, creation, and release-- mimicking the extravagance of the season we now find ourselves in.
But as we parked our car and got out, we were astonished to find that the basin had been drained-- bone dry, with some mud at the bottom, but not a drop of water.
I certainly hope to have many memorable wiankis-- beautiful ceremonies with song, dance, magnificent sunsets, and beautifully lit wreaths. But I also hope I will remember this one. The dry basin, our beautiful wreaths, and a thirst for water.
Pigtails feel like a rite of passage around here. As I go through baby pictures, pigtails are a benchmark. There's bald, then fuzzy, then some short hair and then there are pigtails. They appear right around the time that personality forms, that individuality is asserted, right around the time that babies become mobile and self-assured and independent. They may be there in one picture and mysteriously missing in the next-- a mark of an emerging toddler that has developed some aesthetic preferences. Or there's the single "poof" pigtail, a compromise that seemed to please mother and baby alike-- not quite your conventional pigtails, but a step in that direction.
Well, as with most things, I have found that with this second precious child in our home I am much less eager to reach those milestones. I am happy to savor those sweet baby curls that are growing down her back; shudder to think of altering something so beautiful and delicate.
But that second baby of mine has sharp eyes and a keen sense of what defines toddlerhood. She watches her sister with eagle eyes, and mimics perfectly; climbing to the dinner table and drinking from an adult cup, pushing a stroller with a baby in it, wiping her ice-cream covered face with a napkin just like sister. And so when she saw Zosia climb up on top of the toilet for me to fix her hair, she followed suit, going as far as taking two hair elastics and pushing them into my hand, emphatically gesturing towards her head with a few grunts.
And so somehow, we have arrived here. Fourteen months, two pigtails, and one proud baby.
This is Zosia's rendition of an elephant. And her first depiction of an animal form. I suppose when you're not yet three you see the world in such shapes. I love everything about it: the circles for feet, the colored in oval for a body, the long spindly trunk. Oh, I just look at it and beam.
which can come from a grandma or those that are like a grandma:
Kissy-kissy love (discovered by our two year old at the pool yesterday, I'll have you know. Kissing a three year old named Angelo. Can you believe it?):
Daddy and Mommy love:
Aunt and Uncle love:
(that's my Aunt Basia, celebrating 60 tears of joy and life)
Sister love (my mom busting a gut laughing... a classic sight in our family):
Make that many generations of sister love (not even counting the budding love between Zosia and Lily):
And then the sheer love of life. That's Basia dancing...
to this (a gentleman who has played wine glasses in Alexandria since Ben and I were children):
And Zosia pretending to be a pirate. Pretty scary, don't you think?
I'm just sure some of you can figure out where we spent yesterday morning. Any guesses?
What would summer be without a dip in some cool water? Especially in muggy, humid Virginia, it is quite transformative to have a shady, close-by place where you can go for a quick dip. 
Oh yes, now I remember it: long summer afternoons spent with family and friends, food grilling, children playing, adults chatting. I remember it from my own childhood, and now I am acquainted with it on the other end of things: losing track of my children for hours at a time but knowing full well they are safely playing with friends and cousins and aunts and grandparents; bringing a change of clothes because inevitably there will be a sprinkler or mud or cupcakes to smear on one's face; children and parents sleeping oh so deeply out of sheer physical exhaustion. The past two weeks we have lived out of our home, hopping from one get-together to the next, landing softly among friends and good food. It has been wonderfully exhilarating. Summer is truly here.
Strawberries are coming in! We have limited garden space this year, and an ever-bearing strawberry variety, which means that we have strawberries all summer long, but in smaller quantities. Which has created a bit of a challenge. This is what it has come to in my family: you must "call dibs" on a strawberry if you hope to eat it. I have sat back and let the smaller (and larger) members of the family have the first few, but when I saw this beauty, I knew it was meant for me. It became "mama's strawberry," which I reminded everyone whenever we checked on it. 
Yesterday at the library, my curiosity was piqued when I saw a woman with a beautiful long linen dress and colorful headscarf slowly walking around a tree, picking at the branches. We walked closer, and noticed what the procession was all about: not one, but two mulberry trees (one with dark berries, the other white) filled with ripe plump berries. Of course, we joined in the fun.
