Seven. The Year You Grow Into Your Teeth.

I got lots of things to tell you, and lots of unpacking to (ignore) do, and some embroidery must be done that won't stitch itself. But the fact that my younger boy turned seven last week is WAY more important than all that. I mean, really.

Here he is, last year in a hay barn out in Two Rock. Being Colyer. He has short hair and that hat is obviously too big.

Here he is this year. That hat almost fits because his hair is so scrumptiously big.

And next year, all those new teeth will fit him and perhaps I will have talked him into a trim at some point.

Golly. I hope not.

Happy, Happy Birthday C!