My husband is 30, our daughter is in Preschool.

That's right, everybody. Apparently Dustin and I are officially grown-ups now that one of us turned 30. This milestone was unavoidable, but greatly feared. 30 years old means you're done playing and are settling down. Dustin is starting to figure out that going two days without shaving isn't an option anymore, and staying up until 1AM each night isn't practical.... or responsible. 

In order to best celebrate and humiliate my dear husband, I planned a surprise party for him. He specifically told me he didn't want a party, just a "nice, quiet evening at home" was just enough to tempt me into throwing an 80's themed party that included dodge ball and Orange Crush soda. Dustin was spoiled that day. He went paintballing with the elders quorum, played lazertag with me (we beat everyone.... when I say 'everyone', i mean the entire arena full of 8 year-olds.), then came home to find friends and family at our house. Dustin's friend, Seth, even took an extreme measure of shaving his head and making an 80's styled Mohawk.

It was a blast, even if we all left with various trampoline-burns all over our hands, elbows, and ankles.

The next weekend, Dustin's boss let us go up to his cabin in Island Park. It was so fancy! We watched What About Bob and many episodes of Seinfeld. We ate at a Saloon, and felt like real western alcoholics with our Dr. Peppers in Budweiser glasses with two tiny black straws in each cup. The best part of the entire weekend was Dustin getting pulled over on suspicion of being drunk. Frantically, he started spewing out all sorts of facts to the patrolman about how virtuous and clean his life has been thus far, including where he served his mission, where he attended college, his current church calling, and how he has never had a drink in his life. I'm sure the cop called his family and friends soon after to laugh about it. Sure enough, Dustin was not drunk, but is, in fact, a distracted, terrible driver. No ticket was warrented. Good times!!

Alright, here is the part about Lillie Jo.

Lillie started Preschool on Monday. She's up in Rexburg at the Preschool on campus for three days a week. I have two classes at the same time, and the timing works out perfectly. I dropped her off on Monday just after taking this terrible picture on my horrible phone (my phone has the WORST camera), and couldn't leave. I went back into the observation booth for 1/2 hour (and subsequently missed part of my first class) and watched my beautiful, timid 4-year-old look around the room, and find a quiet place to read books by herself. I know she'll be okay, and I knew she'd have fun, I just wasn't expecting to be on the other side of the 2-way-mirrors crying my eyes out as quietly as I could so the kids wouldn't hear my sniffles. It's not even kindergarten! It's just preschool. What the heck, Erika?! (that's what I say to myself, frequently) When did I turn into this stereotypical mother? It just doesn't seem like Lillie has been around long enough to already be in preschool. It seems like she was walking on her knees and saying "oooo!" about everything just a year ago (that was over 3 years ago). She's grown up to be a sweet, creative, smart little girl who amazes me everyday by her good, kind example. She is very conscious about others, and sincerely tries to do what's right. She has blessed our family in immense ways. I love her.