Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Last Public Post

Hey folks.

For reasons that are largely professional, I'm making this blog private. I've been considering doing this for a very long time, and I just can't continue to blog here publicly anymore.

If you want to read future posts, please email me so I can add you to the list of people who can access my blog. I am happy to add anyone, even if I don't know you, but I don't want this blog to be searchable by the whole world wide web.

Thanks. Loveyameanit.


Tuesday, July 1, 2014

A Proper Introduction

Since that last post was the worst birth announcement ever, here's the proper introduction Baby Scout deserves.

Harriet Scout Jones

born February 16, 2014
7 pounds, 7 ounces
19 inches

a little joy baby
named after my dad (Harry)
and nicknamed after the spunky "explorer" I know she'll be

our surprise GIRL with a sister of gold

(pictured here at 2 months and 22 months)


I'm Wearing Pants Again!

Think of this next entry as a “really short book” instead of a “really long blog post,” and then you won’t believe how quickly you can read it!

The last blog post I wrote was right before I sort of… derailed about a year ago. Pregnancy does crazy things to my brain. Some people say that and really mean they get weepy at Mother’s Day commercials or get snappy with their long-suffering husbands or become forgetful and leave their groceries on the checkout counter in Publix. While those are all super annoying side effects of pregnancy, those are not the things I mean. What I mean is that I really go legit c-r-a-z-y. It’s not that I wanted to stop blogging—it’s just that writing here was not an option during this last pregnancy. Putting on pants wasn’t even an option most days. I got some real good wear out of my husband’s XL t-shirts, which are sort of like complete outfits in that the bottom hem hits me at about mid-calf. If I belted one of those suckers I could feel totally comfortable making a quick trip to the grocery store for a four-pack of muffins as long as I remembered to throw on some socks.

I went crazy the first time I was pregnant, too, but since I was so happy to be pregnant, I felt bad saying anything that would come across even remotely negative. I was all too familiar with the “woe is me” pregnancy complaints and how those sound to the less-than-fertile. (“Oh, you have heartburn? I will PUNCH YOUR HEARTBURN.”) So the first time around, the husband was trying to subtly tell me something was wrong while I sat cross-legged on the floor sobbing and saying, “What makes you think something is wrong? I am SO HAAAAAPPY!” I was thrilled to have a baby, yes, but “happy” might not have been the perfect adjective to describe my pregnant state of mind. The second time around, there was no denying it. The situation was grim.

The good news is that with both babies, the crazy turned off like a switch as soon as they popped out. Actually, there are a few things wrong with that statement. The first is that while this particular brand of crazy went away, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to still possessing a couple of other, less dark variations of insanity. The second is that the crazy didn’t switch off immediately but faded away over the first few weeks of sleeplessness so that I slowly started to wonder whether I was real-crazy or just tired-crazy, and then after a while could confirm I was in fact just tired-crazy, which is the much better kind. And the third is that babies do not pop out, obviously. I will not talk about what they do to get out, but it is less “popping” and more “violently bursting.” So starting around this time last year, I went into survival mode. I knew from my first pregnancy that things would get better, so all I had to do was put my head down (and cry into my morning cereal, which I would later vomit into the toilet) until Baby #2 arrived.

Now after Lennon was born I started to feel better in my brain and actually found taking care of an infant quite manageable. I knew while it was happening that this was unusual, since lots of people feel upside down after the baby is born and not before. I just sensed that was made for stay-at-home-motherhood-of-one. I had quit my teaching job, so I napped while she napped, took her on walks, told her long, made-up stories about Eleanor the Caterpillar and Magruder the Hippopotamus (who were unlikely best friends!), and generally enjoyed the slow-paced, hermitic lifestyle that is the stuff my daydreams are made of.

Awaiting Baby #2’s arrival was more ominous from the beginning. I knew in my bones that Baby #2 was going to rock the boat, in that I expected her to tip over the boat and drown me in the murky, freezing waters of double motherhood. Multi-tasking has never really been my thing. It is worth noting that I was 100% certain (and 100% wrong) that Baby #2 was a boy because why else would I have thrown up for 22 weeks? But I was right about the whole drowning thing. SHE arrived, and she cried a super lot, and there was no longer any time to take naps or tell stories or wash myself. Around the same time, Lennon started forming very strong opinions on everything from which spoon she ate her yogurt with to how long it should take me to change her diaper (zero point zero seconds). I slowly stopped feeling pregnancy-crazy, but two little girls were obviously plotting at night to keep me from “getting it together” by staggering their tantrums and poop explosions to cover every minute of every day. Many days I had a few silent phrases on loop in my brain, the most common one being “This is unmanageable. This is unmanageable. This is unmanageable.” The other ones were less common but also more profane, which is why they are not recorded here.

But then Scout (yes, we did have a GIRL, and that is HER name) started sleeping through the night and everything got back to normal.

Hahahahahahahahaha no.

That is not what happened. What happened is that I just started thinking about my blog a lot, but I could never find time to do it. And then today I had some extra time because I have decided not to complete the tasks required by my employer. So here I am, sitting in Panera while my now TWO-year-old and four-month-old girls conspire to make my babysitter—better her than me—crazy.

Actually, things have gotten much better in the last few weeks. Scout did start sleeping for an eight-hour stretch at night, and whatever angsty teenager inhabited my sweet Lennon’s body for a month seems to have slunk back into the night, hopefully not to return for at least another ten years. There has been less back-arching and fewer night feedings, and all in all I think things are on the up and up.

So, hey again. Maybe I’ll write here some more times.

For our next magic trick, my husband and I will double ourselves in two years! Abracadabra... family of FOUR!


Tuesday, August 27, 2013

"Number two is on the way."

I can be extremely awkward when it comes to pregnancy announcements.

That, by the way, is my extremely awkward way of saying that I am pregnant.

One result of years of infertility is that a person can become hyper-aware of what it feels like to hear that someone else is pregnant when she wants to be pregnant herself. So in an effort to prevent anyone from having to sit through an unexpected pregnancy announcement, whether at dinner or just while perusing social media, I just clam up and don't mention it. I can't shake the feeling that I should announce that I'm pregnant and then apologize: "I'mpregnantI'msorry!!!"

I also don't mention it because I feel weird making a big deal out of myself (unless, of course, it's my birthday, which is an obvious exception). What? -- am I supposed to call someone and say, "Guess whaaaat? I'm pregnant!" I can hardly call people anyway, much less to tell them that.

I also feel like second pregnancies are just all-around less adorable. So you tell someone you're expecting your first, and they light up. Then you tell someone you're pregnant again and they say just that: "Again?" I mean I bet 9 out of 10 people use that word "again" when responding to my pregnancy. And I know they're burning to ask if we meant for it to happen and how it happened and I can see them doing the math in their heads to figure out how far apart my kids will be, and since I don't really want to have that conversation while waiting for my oil change, I just don't mention it. I just let them think I've had one too many Little Debbie Fudge Rounds because that is probably also true so it's not like I'm lying.

The result of not just being normal and telling people I'm pregnant is that I wait too long (15 weeks in this case) until I'm showing (pretty hardcore in this case), and then people see me and it reeeeeeally gets awkward. Then interactions like this one happen:

* * *

I run into someone I rarely see. We exchange pleasantries.

"Number two is on the way, by the way," I say, awkwardly touching my stomach. Then I ramble on: "So that's the reason for this, in case you were wondering."

"Oh yeah?" she says, clearly confused.

"Yeah, I mean, just because I'll see you again, and then it'll be more obvious, and so I just thought I'd say something. Just thought it'd be less awkward for both of us if I just said number two was coming, you know?"

"Oh okay," she says, still either confused and/or disgusted.

"Well anyway, I'm like 14 weeks or whatever."

"Oh God -- you're pregnant?!" She is clearly relieved.

"Yeah yeah."

"Ohhhhh. Oh my gosh. I just -- I thought you were saying you had to 'go number two,' and that's why your stomach was poking out a little. And I was like, 'well alright...that's kind of gross but...'"

[my face turns beet red] "No no. It's -- I'm pregnant."

* * *

I feel like this should win the award for most horrible pregnancy announcement of all time. Tip: If you are going to tell someone you are pregnant, it helps -- for reasons of avoiding the awkwardness you so fear -- to use words like "pregnant" or "expecting" or even just "baby." "Number two," apparently, is not an acceptable substitute.

Well there you have it. I hope this "announcement" doesn't leave anyone hurting today. I really do.

And now I will answer The Questions for you all because you are my blog readers and I love you:

Lennon and this baby will be 20 months apart. The pregnancy was quite intentional. We are not finding out whether this baby is a boy or a girl. We have names, but I doubt you are going to like them, and therefore I am not going to tell them to you (or anyone else) until it is too late.

Also, I am 98% overjoyed and 2% terrified.

Here we go again!


P.S. I would also like to blame the first trimester of my pregnancy for this post and this post as well as for the behaviors therein described.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

In Case You're Bored

  • I feel like I MUST make this happen this summer in our backyard. Don't ask me when or how. I just need some jelly beans and a sheet... and a projector...

  • This article about why English is a valuable major is awesome. I try to explain this to my students every semester (because they all start out so angry that they are sitting in an English class). I think in the future we'll all just read this article together instead of the syllabus on the first day. That should go over well because they act like reading through a syllabus is the worst torture that could possibly be inflicted upon a human being.

Here's a snippet:

The English major wants to use what he knows about language and what he's learning from books as a way to confront the hardest of questions. He uses these things to try to figure out how to live. His life is an open-ended work in progress, and it's never quite done, at least until he is. For to the English major, the questions of life are never closed. There's always another book to read; there's always another perspective to add. He might think that he knows what's what as to love and marriage and the raising of children. But he's never quite sure. He takes tips from the wise and the almost wise that he confronts in books and sometimes (if he's lucky) in life. He measures them and sifts them and brings them to the court of his own experience.

  • Here's a fantastically embarrassing mess from my Alma Mater, CofC. Pretty sure this is the same group that tried to ban Bret Lott's novel. (Who's Bret Lott, you say? Just one of the most famous Christian novelists in the country, you know, the one who recently wrote THIS BOOK ABOUT CHRISTIANITY.) My opinion on this, in case you can't tell, is that all people should read all the things. No one is reading too much, Christians. Books do not make you do evil (and sorry, but freshmen -- especially the ones at CofC -- have already heard about s-e-x).

Lennon loves graphic novels.

  • Yesterday's post was partly inspired by this post by Glennon Melton, which I read over a year ago and have appreciated ever since. Glennon and I were twins separated at birth, btw. Not physically, of course (she's super gorgeous) -- just emotionally and with regard to our exaggeration tendencies.


Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Meal You Prepare

My husband and I love dinner parties. We’ve thrown dozens during our eight-year marriage, for two people or twenty. We’ve pushed together three different tables in our living room to make room for everyone, and I’ve woken up early on Saturdays to start cooking.

Cooking for guests is hard work. It requires hours of planning and preparation, from combing through recipes to driving to the grocery store (sometimes two stores, sometimes the same store twice) to dicing and slicing and stirring and baking. Usually, exactly thirty minutes before guests are scheduled to arrive, I start snapping at my husband, racing up and down the stairs, and searching frantically for that single shallot I am certain I bought at the grocery store.

I don’t love dinner with friends because it is easy. Take-out -- alone, on the sofa -- is easy. I love dinner with friends because it is rewarding. Satisfying. Important.

While I love to host, being invited to a dinner party is a different story altogether. As a guest and not the chef, I anticipate the mystery of what will be served. I savor every bite of the food, which tastes differently because I didn’t prepare it – didn’t see the bread when it was merely dough or the rosemary when it was still covered in dirt on the bush outside. I didn’t crack the bones of the chicken or watch its slimy skin turn crisp and opaque on the grill. With each bite, I don’t worry about the amount of salt on the potatoes. In fact, I don’t worry about anything. As a guest, I am less invested in the meal but more relaxed. I linger at the table without a thought of the dishwasher running three cycles late into the night until all the dishes are clean.

This has become my favorite metaphor, a daily reminder of what parenthood is actually like.

New parents hear a lot about appreciating parenthood – not just in general, but every moment of it. We are told to study our children’s tiny fingers and toes, to savor their sweet milk breath, to watch with delight as they pull Pyrex dishes out of our kitchen cabinets. It is so short, we are told. Don’t let it pass you by.

This advice almost always comes from parents, usually women, who have finished the most intense years of parenting. Sometimes their youngest child is just entering kindergarten; sometimes they have lived years in an empty nest. Very rarely does the advice come from the woman whose child is, at the very moment she writes, leaking greenish poo onto her jute rug.

And there’s a reason for that.

My own child is the meal I prepare. The rest of you, the ones who love my child – grandparents, babysitters, aunts, uncles, teachers, neighbors – you are guests.

My own child requires hours and hours of planning and preparation, much of it tedious. That does not mean my child, any more than the finished product of a dinner party feast, is not enjoyable. She is supremely satisfying. But you are a guest at the feast, with all the energy to ooh and aah over her soft baby skin, to shriek with delight over her wobbly steps across the room, to watch with a wave of nostalgia as you remember your own babies. In the meantime, I am in the kitchen refilling your wine glass. And when you are done, you will go home while I am scrubbing dishes.

When you tell me to enjoy every moment, you mean well. But let’s face it – you didn’t enjoy every moment. You may regret how often you lamented the chores of the day or the number of trips in the car. And very likely, you ought to have worried less and complained less, just I ought to sit a little longer at every dinner party, actually tasting the food. But if you had enjoyed every moment, your children would have been very smelly, very rude creatures. Quite foul human beings actually.

If you could revise history the way nostalgia would have you do, you might have ended up with a house full of feral children. Instead, you worked hard to prepare a feast, and while you might not have gotten every moment right or adequately enjoyed the process, you did a good job. It wasn't supposed to be all fun.

Someone has to prepare the meal. Someone has to discipline the child, wipe the child, feed the child, and lose sleep right along with the child. That someone is a mother or a father, and that someone doesn’t have the luxury of enjoying every second of every day.

During every dinner party at which I am the host, there’s at least one moment where I look around the room and feel that tingly surge of joy: joy that I have food enough to share, joy that I have a home that is warm and inviting, joy that I have friends who want to share life with me. Sometimes, I even get a knot in my throat. But before I can begin gushing gratitude, I notice someone’s empty wine glass and, on my way to the kitchen, remember the pie that’s still in the oven. I return to my role as host before I have much time to relish the experience. And yet, that one moment of overwhelming satisfaction makes the whole evening worth it.

I can honestly say this has been true of parenthood so far. Whether it's that window before bedtime when my daughter suddenly gets the giggles or a glimpse at her ridiculously squishy baby body in the bathtub, there’s been at least one moment every day when I have breathed deeply and felt joy. This is my realistic parenting goal: one moment each day of overwhelming gratitude. One moment, instead of an entire day, to seize.

If I enjoyed every moment of a Saturday before a dinner party, there would be no feast. I could pull something together – maybe a frozen pizza. Sometimes that’s exactly what we make for friends. But I don’t always want to offer up a frozen pizza. I want my life’s work to have been a feast, and feasts aren’t prepared by people who spent all day in the kitchen savoring the aroma of sweet basil. They are prepared by people who work hard.

So please remember, well-meaning (if unrealistic) encouragers, the meal always tastes differently – and seems easier to prepare – when you are a guest at the table.


photos from here

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Some Things I Wrote

I have a post up at Image's Good Letters blog today, so head over there if you want to read the only piece in which I've ever publicly acknowledged how baby Lennon came to be.

(It seems necessary for me to tell you that I didn't choose that picture, and that is not actually my baby.)

I have mixed feelings about this level of honesty on the internet, but I finally got to a place where I wasn't going to be able to write about anything if I didn't write about this. So much of the writing I do on my own (that no one has seen yet) is about this very thing. Now you know.

And now that you know, we will, perhaps, have much to discuss.*

*Just remember: (1) be kind and (2) it's complicated. Can that be the motto of this blog?

Since we're on the topic, I hope you don't mind me telling you all that I won a prize for an essay I wrote. Translation: A literary journal sent me money for my words. (Magazines pay me, but literary journals usually do not pay. I think most artists can appreciate that feeling of getting a check in the mail for your ART. It's like, "Are you SUUURE?")

The essay is called "Fall in Love, Lourdemie," and it is published in the current issue of Ruminate magazine. If you go the Ruminate website, you can click on the PDFs in the right sidebar ("Look Inside") and read some ditties about the essay. Even better, order Issue 28 in PDF or hardcopy format and give yourself the chance to read tons of beautiful fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

This post seems a little self-promotiony, so I debated about it. But ultimately it just seemed weird to have this stuff out there and not share it with YOU GUYS. Y'all are, like, my first readers. Put simply, you all would be the equivalent of my hometown visit if I were ever on American Idol. I'd come back home slapping fives and wiping the snot from my nose, and we could all reminisce about how I used to be a nobody in your algebra class. (You would hold up posters for me if I were on American Idol, right? "PTF loves Lindsey" or something like that?)

The point is -- how could I keep secrets from you?

Thanks for reading.


Monday, July 8, 2013

Coming Clean

Read my last blog post, the one that makes absolutely no sense.

And now read this:

So we waited two weeks from when I lost my keys to when we had the house and car rekeyed. After turning the house upside down a few times, we finally decided to pull the trigger. That was a Wednesday (the day I wrote that last, awesome post).

You already know where this is going because of course.


If I were you, I would be thinking:

Duh, of course they were just lost. Why would you assume they were stolen from your door? Paranoid much?

Well here's why.

1. We looked everywhere (everywhere except, apparently, that one spot).
2. I don't really lose things, in general.
3. We have tons and tons of foot traffic on our street. We don't really live in a neighborhood. So while in our old house, I would never have jumped to that conclusion, at least four strangers walk by our door every hour now. Our house is pretty... urban (for South Carolina, at least). Having our keys stolen from our front door (where I thought I must have left them) isn't a stretch.

We also thought rekeying the house wasn't a terrible idea because we'd just bought it, and who knows how many keys are floating around out there. I even read somewhere on a moving checklist that you should do that.

The car, though? Such a different story. So much more trouble, so much more expensive, and now I have to drive with these ugly generic keys and this beat up used car remote that doesn't even say Toyota.

And yes, that actually bothers me. I like things to match.

Well looking back on that last post, it seems inevitable that I'd find the keys (in the crack of a dining room chair) the next day. It was during a little Fourth of July celebration and I just tried not to start crying in front of everyone.

I'm very angry with myself (as I tend to get), but thankfully Brian's not mad at me. I keep apologizing, though, because I feel like a huge turd.

Not really sure why I'm explaining the whole key saga, except that since I said they were stolen in the last post, it seems to be my moral obligation to correct that lie.

MORAL OF THE STORY: There isn't one.

In other news, we finished Arrested Development. Just amazing. It's like the television equivalent of literary fiction, though -- this despite the fact that it uses terms like Anus Tart. (Don't Google that, Mom.) The show's not highbrow, it's just that you don't want to watch it while you're half asleep on the sofa. If you do, you will catch about one in every nine jokes.

Speaking of, THE BACHELORETTE. Still love it. Still not too good for it even though I spend all two hours of the show complaining about how stupid it is. (This is a ray of hope, a chance I am beginning to outgrow the show.) But in the meantime... Today is MONDAAAAAY!

One more thing before I go. READ THIS BOOK. Put this one on the "game changer" list. (You do have a subset of your master book list labeled "game changers," right?)

P.S. All of this nonsense I'm posting may be good news for the ol' blog. It may mean I'm back in the game.

P.S. Dishwasher gets fixed tomorrow! If the guy doesn't show up, MURDER  forgiveness.



Wrote this last week but never finished it. That will not be surprising once you read it.

In the past month, I
  • went to the beach, twice.
  • turned 29.
  • officially started my job.
  • sent 4,000 work emails.
  • had my keys stolen from my door.
  • rekeyed my entire house.
  • rekeyed my car.
  • tried for the 97th time to have my dishwasher repaired (still no dishwasher).
  • did some more work things.
So here's a narrative of my recent life:

Eat Cheerios out of a paper bowl. Since you're too lazy to find a plastic spoon, use a real spoon. Since you're too tired to wash the real spoon, leave it sitting in the sink under a banana peel until the gunk on the spoon turns blue-green and fuzzy. Make a long list of things to do, and silently chant to yourself all day long, "Complete one task. Complete one task." In a moment of weakness, decide that the task is going to be eating lunch. Eat Cheetos out of the bag -- dishes problem solved. Attempt to pack or unpack a suitcase, depending on which day it is, but give up and just throw dirty clothes on top of the suitcase. Make a whiny sound. Move your child from the crib to the floor and tell her to play with things. Eat a cupcake while feeling sad that you are old, and then put the dirty fork in the sink with the dirty spoon and watch as fruit flies descend upon it. Lie awake at night imagining that all sounds are the sounds of someone stealing your car from your driveway or breaking into your house to rape and murder you.

And there, my friends, is June in a nutshell.

Okay maybe it hasn't been that bad (that did sound pretty bad, eh?), but when I think about the last month, all that comes to mind are dirty dishes and Paula Deen.

The beach was great, obviously, and the birthday was fun. But since overall I seem to be in a season of blerg-iness...

... I probably should've avoided the blog until I was in a better mood, not having just walked to the locksmith because he was working on my car and I had no ride.

Yes. Yes, I definitely should have waited on the blog.

But since I've already gone to the trouble to upload an awesome Liz Lemon video, I will continue with this uplifting post.

Here is something that can make us all laugh:

My 4yo Is Weirder than Your Corgi

(Now that I think about it, this 4-year-old sounds suspiciously like me on a bad day. I DON'T THINK YOU KNOW WHAT'S REAL DON'T TOUCH ME WHILE I AM A ROCK STAR I WISH I COULD PUNCH YOU IN THE BUNS.)

And even though I'm late to the party, we spent our vacation laughing about this meme:

And have you watched the new season of Arrested Development yet? Because it is the best show of all time, and that's no exaggeration. (I'm sorry, Tim Riggins. You are Friday Night Lights is a close second.)

Truth is, we're only about halfway done with the new season. (I save episodes the way I save pink Starbursts -- everything has to be just right before I can sit down and watch one.) Every time we watch one, I say about nine times throughout it, "How did they DO this?" It is smart television on a new level, like the smartness of 30 Rock (also a top 5) times ten.

Actually, here are my favorite shows. These are my real favorites, not like "The Bachelorette," which is good in the way an Oreo is good ("I'll eat it if it's just sitting there...") but not great in the way a salted caramel cupcake from Chocolate Moose is great ("I'll go to great lengths to get my hands on it.").

1. Arrested Development
2. Friday Night Lights
3. 30 Rock
4. Six Feet Under
5. Breaking Bad
6. Mad Men
7. Lost
8. Downton Abbey

Maybe those last few are in no particular order. Here are the shows I haven't watched but have heard I should:

1. Dexter
2. The Wire (couldn't make it past two episodes)
3. The Sopranos
4. The West Wing

Any more you'd recommend? With all our vacationing behind us, July seems like the perfect month for watching old shows on Netflix.

[Here's where I got up to eat some Cheetos out of the bag.]


Thursday, June 13, 2013

Lennon turned one, just exactly as scheduled.

A couple of weeks ago, we celebrated Lennon's first birthday with a little ice cream party in our backyard with family and a few friends. It was a beautiful May Sunday afternoon. (We're becoming a bit famous for our luck with party weather, starting back in May 2005 with our amazing wedding weather.) (We try to schedule all important events, including the birth of babies, according to the weather. Hahahahahahaha get it?)

Side Note: If any of you are trying to figure out a way to celebrate a kid's birthday, consider an ice cream party. It requires no cooking and lots of crafting (just the ratio I like). And also lots of crunching up of candy bars that may be surreptitiously sampled. I got the idea from my friend Allyn. It will be hard to convince me not to have ice cream parties for all birthdays from now on. Walking into the grocery store with a list that just says "toppings" is one of the most liberating experiences ever -- I just walked down the candy aisle with my arm held out over the shelf so that ALL THE CANDY cascaded into my cart.

And now, I will show you very many a lot of pictures.

Have I mentioned that we are obsessed with our back deck?

muffinbug with her parents

me, turdburglar, and my mom

me, goosemonkey, my mom, and my sister

chickenhead, my sister, and Brian's mom

Brian's job: designated scooper

I am in love with this picture. This kid was the MOST excited about his ice cream cone. It made me want to be that age again, when I had to have someone's permission to eat ice cream, thus making it the most amazing experience imaginable. Now it is like five minutes of awesome followed by five hours of shame.

Lennon's cake was actually super healthy until my mom iced it with buttercream icing. Somewhere in there is a low-sugar apple cake. I promise.

Not sure what to think of the first taste of sugar...

... but she eventually got the hang of it.
In this photograph, she resembles her mother. Just something about her expression, I think.

Lennon's cousin Mae with her parents

That is my dad working the bubble wand. Amazing.

I am super conflicted about the fact that our new house has a playhouse. I keep telling people I hate it and they say that's because I'm stupid.

Really, though? A play house?

Isn't it going to be disappointing when she buys her first house and she's like, "actually I had my own first house when I was a baby." Blergh.

Someone weigh in on this.

Pop (my dad) teaching her how to walk. She's still not quite ready.

Because she's wimpy.


I challenge you to name ONE THING cuter than a baby in a bathing suit.



sugarbear in her new pool (from Aunt Jannie)

The birthday was happy and also very sad.

I think the word for that is bittersweet.

She is allowed four more birthdays before she has to stop growing. (Six year olds are just not my thing. And beyond that? I shudder to think.)

(I'm only joking, Six Year Olds.)

(Eleven Year Olds, I am NOT JOKING.)