Flamig Farm

Every year, pretty much without fail, we head out to Simsbury, CT (my husband's hometown) to chill at his mother's, be overall lazy, and take the kids every day to a place called Flamig Farm.  This year was no different, but some of the same old things appeared to be different...  My girls are not super-young anymore, and although everything in CT and at "THE FARM!!!!!!!" was still magical and fantastic, nothing was out of their world, realm or grasp as things once were not so long ago:  Englebert the alpha goat has been MIA for the second year in a row (goat stew, anyone?).  The kids could swim in the deep-end of the town pool  unsupervised (save for the five or so life guards).  My husband and I weren't fighting like a street gang over petty things due to novelty or sleep deprivation (and we even managed to go for a late night ice cream walk, hand-in-hand.)  My mother-in-law was noticeably a few years older than a just couple of years ago, and the kids didn't whine, not once, due to sugar or toddlerdom (Is there any possibility that is a word?) mainly because they are seven and not two-year-old toddlers. Seriously...where the hell does Time go?

Nothing and everything remains the same, and for some reason, I sort of got it this same-and-yet-very-different run-of-the-mill/extraordinary summer.