As I write, you're on your way to spend the night at a farm to see how pioneers lived. Except you'll put M&Ms and marshmallows on your homemade ice cream, and I'm pretty sure pioneers didn't have M&Ms or marshmallows.
The thing is, I miss you. Most days when you're at school, I'm grateful for the time to work. You'll have a great time. I can't wait to hear the stories. Will you and that particularly prickly friend of yours make up? Will you come back asking to play with someone new? Maybe you'll want to show us how to make ice cream, or weave our own cloth, or you'll ask if we can get some livestock.
When I came into your classroom to say goodbye, you let me kiss you on the cheek without embarrassment. I *think* you're not embarrassed, anyway. Wouldn't you tell me? You showed me the math worksheet you'd just finished, upon which you'd written your name in 3-D block letters and drawn some tiny illustrations. You whispered, "Mom. Big Ben made it into the seven wonders of the world." Mentally, I pumped my fist. You triumphed. You wrote a report a while back in which you made your case for Big Ben.Your report convinced the librarian that Big Ben should be in the top seven. Most important, you had that proud look I love to see. You've come far in the last two years.
I'm glad the sun is out for you. Your convoy is on the road, headed for Puyallup, where you'll stop for lunch.
My ten-year-old girl. Be safe.
I love you to infinity and beyond,