Why's it called a potluck, anyway? Pot luck? Apparently because you'll be eating whatever the luck of the pot brings your way. I made cinnamon rolls. I would have made baked spaghetti, but have you ever had my baked spaghetti? Me neither.
As the minutes crawled ever closer to this evening and the baby decided to take a long nap, Ibis and I headed outside so she could capture the perfect photo for her upcoming fair entry. She took eighty pictures, half of which featured my rear end walking around the yard, at which she laughed maniacally as she scrolled through on the computer and reenacted my jiggly walk from behind. Typical eight-year-old humor.
She also paused to snag some dandelions growing at the edge of the yard, and had a field day blowing them into the wind. Almost as much fun as she had taking 45 photos of my butt.
What else are daughters for?