The 4th

I begged and I pleaded for someone to take my shift at work last night. I had to get home to my dad's Fourth of July party. Had to. How could I be at work knowing that the entire country was celebrating while I was serving glorified spaghetti to the three people who actually eat at Olive Garden on the Fourth of July. It seemed hopeless though. Who in the world was going to take the shift that no one wants?

I don't know, but somehow, I found someone. Mason and I were Morrisdale bound. I couldn't have been happier.

I'm not sure if I mentioned Mase's third (fourth? third.) word. It's dog. He loves dogs and he loves pointing them out and saying "dawwww" which is, quite obviously, Mason Talk for dog. When we got to my dad's yesterday afternoon, he was beyond thrilled to meet my beagle, Boomer.

(I'm now convinced we need to get this baby a puppy.)

He rocked. Alone and with grandpa:



He hung out with his cousin, Haylie:



When the party started, and my dad's yard was full of thirty people Mason didn't know, he allowed himself to be passed around without any complaints. He also did everything I did, including four-wheeler riding:

And trampoline jumping:

Much to my disappointment, he crashed just before the fireworks... but not before eating three meatballs, four perogies, a few bites of hotdog, and half a watermelon. Oh well. There's always next year.