A woman named Cecil had three daughters. Those daughters had daughters, who had daughters, who had daughters.
And now, there are four generations of Cecil, and occasionally the daughters and their daughters and their daughters and their daughters all gather in one place for a couple of days.
|Daughters of a daughter’s daughter.|
Babies, toddlers, girls, teenagers, young ladies, old ladies, middle aged ladies. Twins, sisters, cousins, aunts, nieces, great-aunts, grammies, grand-daughters, great-nieces, and one gigi.
This weekend it was Cama Beach, on Camano Island. The Daughters of Cecil came, played, laughed, talked, cried, and ate delicious food.
Our lives are dynamic, just like the characters in books. They’re messy, sometimes sad, occasionally angry, mostly chaotic, and sometimes absolutely perfect.
But we are Daughters of Cecil.
We keep going.
And we laugh as much as we can along the way. So much that our jaws start to hurt and our ears ring.
(And we paint our nails.
With a party nail to show our wild side.)