Father's Day and Tow Trucks.

The kids and I had planned an idyllic Father's Day (long) weekend with the new camper, at this stunning spot to be exact, 

which looked like a little slice of Switzerland and was supposed to have the best bass fishing in the state.

And it really was, full on Americana in the Smokies, with a General Store and an ice cream shop and no-kidding checkers boards and no cell reception.

Unfortunately, the latter- along with miles and miles of windy mountain roads- became problematic when this happened on our first full day.

(For us. For F+F it was the highlight of the trip, especially when the world's nicest tow truck driver let them work the levers.)

Trooper that he is, Seth resigned himself to a long weekend of no reception, no transportation, and nothing but a river with bass that may not have been biting much, but were happy to spend the day with him like this.

And my trooper of a C-max managed the steep roads with his 14 foot fishing kayak cargo strapped to the roof

even when we pulled up like this to the world famous Tail of the Dragon, definitely the only family car in the motorcycle-packed parking lot. (Oh, how far we former cool kids have come.)

Jayne and the kids and I managed to salvage the weekend ourselves, living it up at the pool and lazy river

 jumping in the lake with all our clothes on (a real family tradition at this point);

and when the fish weren't even pretending to bite, we all walked across Fontana Dam (a real Trail of Tears for the hooligans who need to do a lot more hiking) and hit the Great Smoky NP for its 85th birthday.

Even with a truck that had to be towed more than an hour in the mountains and a stranded RV that definitely could not be budged by a small hybrid, we still managed "idyllic." There were sparklers and fireflies,

 obscene amounts of ice cream,

crazy marina dances,

and lots and lots of leaping into summer with glee.

(Naturally, since Finley was involved, this also involved a fair amount of skinned knees and fat lips.)

Days later, with a wildly late night drive home (me) and a sketchy mountain taxi drive and midnight stop at a sketchy Sleep Inn once the truck was sprung and re-attached to the camper (Seth), we reflected the whole thing was the perfect tribute to a Dad who rolls with all the punches, no matter how far out of left field (to really scramble the metaphors), and keeps us all laughing and having fun.

We are grateful.

We're also grateful for his fabulous Mom, who not only raised him but has also been getting us through early-morning soccer camp week with panache.

 (And in this family, that involves Jojo bows.)

Too many favorite photos to count from this wild weekend, and tons of contenders are posted above, but this one made me laugh. It's of Ford with allthetowels on when the temps dipped below 85 degrees poolside. He hates cold water as much as his Ana.

Of Dance and Dogs and Bump-Its.

This is what an early Sunday evening after a long weekend of dance recitals looks like, when you're lucky enough to have Grandma come in for the occasion. 

First, though, we survived a week that included days of round-the-clock smoking of meats, in prep to host my entire office for the summer hail and farewell (Seth's meat is always the main event)

and a game of "how many kids can you fit on the back of a golf cart?"

Seth spent most of last summer with open stitches, unable to go in the water, and it's safe to say that the whole family is delighted to kick off the long, sweltering summer with Dad in the pool. 

Also, the help of a very tall Dad is required for serious fly killing after hours of entertaining and leaving screen doors open.

Friday was USASOC's annual Organization Day, which dawned cool and rainy and perfect for discovering that Dad is also a water balloon fight ninja,

and kids don't mind wet clothes or sandy hot dogs or rainy dance parties.

And then we kicked off three days (including a lengthy Friday rehearsal) of interminably long dance performances. During which it was underscored that I was not cut out to be a dance Mom,

Finley dances to the beat of her own drum (sometimes literally),

dance in the south involves more sequins and larger bows than I ever thought imaginable,

and we have paid way too much for dance lessons. Which were supposed to be ballet-heavy and instead resulted in this

and this

and this.

Plus, Ford crashed curtain call

but at least couldn't be more "exciting" to give his sister flowers.

And now, after an entire weekend sacrificed on a very sparkly altar, we are seriously looking into jiu jitsu lessons.

At least there were also hilarious waterslide birthdays at which we discovered (to our eternal chagrin) what a wet bump-it looks like,

Ford chased dogs in his underwear, 

and the kids may or may not have joined a neighborhood gang. 

In someone else's neighborhood. 

The photo of the week, among stiff competitors, is definitely this one; of no one being able to control their elation at the arrival of Grandma. Ford's face notwithstanding. He always looks vaguely exasperated.