Eight

Dear Hannah,

Yesterday, my sweet baby girl, you turned eight.

It's a strange thing to have your youngest hit such a milestone age. With the older kids, you expect (and almost cheer with glee) the passing of ages because it means they are maturing and growing out of difficult phases. Those phases are probably only hard because of the phases that the younger kids are in. Phases that seem loud, incessant, and (at times) life-sucking.

But with the youngest, it's bittersweet because it means that it's the last time you get to experience something, good or bad.

The last kid to learn to ride a bike. The last kid to start school. The last kid to be baptized. The last kid to get a driver's license. The the last kid to go to college. The last kid to get married, have children, and grow old.

Then I die. The end.

Well, not really. But it sure feels like it some days.

Right now, you seem to be testing our boundaries. You have discovered your keen ability to carry on an argument and (JUST LIKE YOUR STUBBORN FATHER. HMMM. WONDER WHERE YOU GET IT FROM?) hate to ever find yourself on the losing end of things. Your intelligence and logic astound me at times, and I shake my head and imagine what courtroom you'll someday unleash your fury on, and for what long shot cause.

Heaven help the world that stands in your way, is all I've got to say.

But deep at your core, you are still the sweetest little pea that ever was born. You have a heart that is always open to those around you. You are so tender. More often than not, I glance your way during a movie and see quiet tears spilling over your rosy cheeks. Whether it's poor Wilbur the Pig or the broken heart of the Phantom of the Opera - you are rooting for the underdog every time. You need them to win and come out okay. Your world makes no sense when people exist in it with sorrow.

I love that about you.

And I thank the good Lord for sending you to me that way.

Hannah, your smile lights up my world. Your laughter fills my soul. You are my angel, my ally, and my bright spot of pink in this life full of gym socks and baseball caps. You make me get up and dance when I'd rather watch. And you help me see that life was meant to be laughed at in all its ironic, beautiful, tragic glory.

I love you, cheeky.

Love, Mama

The essence of me

I am a girl who always loses it the week before a haircut and trims her own bangs. I hate that about myself.

I am afraid of dying and, as a result, plan my own funeral about nineteen times per month.

I am a really, really good baker.

I don't like to fail and worry constantly that I will.

I do not believe in doing my own nails and indulge myself in that every other week.

My biggest fear is public humiliation. Which is really ironic considering how frequent I have actually been humiliated in public.

I love my babies with the fiercest intensity my soul has ever known.

I am a cleaner, but loathe cleaning the bathroom. Of everything in my life, it gets cleaned the least.

My favorite thing is to curl up in the warm sunshine with a good book and a cookie.

I am harder on me than anybody else.

There was a piece of me missing until I met the Husband. He is truly my best friend and I don't know what I'd do without him.

I love music and singing so much it hurts, but can't read or sing a note to save my life. I dream of standing on a stage and belting out Broadway in my next life. I think it's one thing I got gypped on, and I plan to ask god about that when I see him next.

My friends are more important to me than I let on. Spending time with them refills my soul.

I don't like to exercise. But I also like to exercise.

I am completely, irrevocably, undeniably insecure.

I am a religious person, but I would not consider myself to be very spiritual.

I love the top half of my body, but loathe and despise the bottom half.

Looking through a camera lens at others has taught me a lot about myself.

I am always hydrated. Getting my water in is the one thing I am perfect at every single day.

I have a shoe problem. There is not room enough in my closet for all the shoes I have, but they're the one thing I am incapable of throwing away.

I really like to sleep and am quite good at it, too.

I am kind, freckled, hopeful, smiling, tall, and happy.

I am me.

And today I decided that is a pretty good thing to be.

Channeling my inner Elaine

Remember that old Seinfeld episode when Elaine has the arduous task of finding the perfect pair of socks for Mr. Pitt?

And how she gets him tight ones, loose ones, skinny ones, fat ones - and none of them are quite right? And in a fit of rage, he throws a torrent of socks around the room while Elaine covers her head in the fetal position?

Well, let's just say that in my life I am Elaine, and the Husband is Mr. Pitt.

Now Lord knows I love me the Husband. Love him more n' my luggage. He completes me, and all those other trite movie cliches, if you know what I mean.

But, man, the guy has got some serious sock issues.

For Easter, I got him some very nice, soft, not-too-tight (or so I thought) Ralph Lauren socks to wear with his suits. Hunted at several stores, and fondled dozens of socks in my quest. I happily found the perfect socks and spent a pretty penny to get them. And the Husband liked them, he really did. Except for the tiny, microscopic part at the top is just a wee bit too tight. The rest of the sock fits like a dream. But he rejects them due to a quarter-inch bit at the top.

Mind you, these socks leave no marks on his calves. No sock tattoo remains after he takes them off at the end of the day. But still, he cannot be comfortable.

And goodness knows, we want the man to be comfortable.

[What with him spending all day earning the money and such for me to spend on my frivolous, bad self.]

This is not the first time my sock hunting skills have failed me. I've tried getting him looser socks, and he hates those because they just fall down. I've tried tighter socks, and he hates those because they're too constricting. He hates them for being too scratchy. Or too silky. Too thin. Too fat. Too long. Too short.

[INSERT EXPLETIVE OF YOUR CHOICE HERE]

So he's resorted to wearing his old ones, with holes in the toes, and he laughs while telling me that the airport security people ALWAYS comment on his poor holey socks.

Not knowing, of course, that he's got about 19 pairs without holes sitting rejected in his sock drawer at home.

I guess it means that this Elaine will just have to continue her search for the ever-elusive pair of socks for her picky Mr. Pitt.

It's a good thing that he's so darn lovable. Otherwise, I might have to sock him in the jaw...

Peanut Butter Fingers: My 12-step program

Want to learn how to make these?

Follow my 12-step program:

Yeah. You're welcome.

Another house warming party

Have you ever moved to a new house, excited about the possibilities? Dreaming of just how perfectly your furniture will fit in every particular spot? You measure the cupboards, the floor, and the doorways. You know that everything you own is going to look fantastic there. You tell all your friends about the new house.

You even mail out "our new address" cards.

Then the day of the big move happens, and you spend the first night in your new space. You look up and notice that the ceiling has water stains on it. And, to your dismay, you discover that the windows won't open. And when you go to take a shower, you notice that there is no hot water. Further investigation reveals that the water heater is broken.

And you wring your hands in agony that you have done the wrong thing.

Ever done that?

I have.

And not just with houses and apartments. I am afraid I jumped the gun a little bit with my photo blog. Compromised my principles to save a few dollars. And the first night in that new space, I lay awake all night regretting it.

So, I'm coming here today to tell you that I've moved. You can now, and forever more, find my business photo blog at:

www.halversonphotoblog.com

Please come see my shiny, new space (which looks eerily similar to the old one). I've even put up some new pictures of a gorgeous girl for you to see. And while you're there, don't forget to update your reader.

Stay tuned here at Stie's Thoughts this week for a fabulous dessert recipe and what happens when a princess turns eight.

There's good things happening all around.

I'm gonna do the things that I wanna do...

Holy freakin' crap.

I just wrote out the biggest check of my life. Was it to buy a new car? Or a new house? What about plastic surgery to make me look as scary and wax-like as Joan Rivers?

Theoretically, this check might have covered all three, so big it was.

But unfortunately, it was to my federal government for a little thing we like to call the taxes.

It just stinks. And makes me ridiculously angry.

So I am not thinking about it. Not one bit.

Instead, I am looking over at my babies, happily reading with their damp hair, just out of the shower. I am smiling at the memory of Chase tearing open the brown box from Amazon this afternoon that held a new book - just for him. I am basking in the warm, sweet smell of pancakes, fresh off the griddle because, well, it just felt like a pancake kind of night.

I am looking forward to proofing a lovely newborn session tonight after the kids are in bed. I am remembering how fun it was to hold him during the shoot. I am relishing the tired, sore muscles that got destroyed by the trainer this morning because it means that I worked as hard as I could.

And it just feels so good to work this body of mine.

I am turning up the iTunes on my new favorite song, even though I am late to the party in loving it. As Hannah informed me the other day, "Everyone in second grade has been singing that song for-like-ever, Mom."

Well. Maybe I'll even eat some candy.

[But probably not with the pork and beans.]

Please subscribe and show me that you love me?

Internets, it is time to introduce you to a new home for the little Stie.

After much deliberation, I have decided to stop posting photos from my sessions on this blog, and will now be posting them here.

Why the switch, you say?

Well, for one, I like to think of this blog as my personal space. And I am not necessarily fond of mixing my personal and professional spaces. It feels untidy and crowded.

I will, however, be maintaining both, as well as my actual official business website.

Confused yet?

Here it is in a nutshell:

Stay here for updates on me, my family, and my life. [Which, really, are most riveting.]
Go here to see highlights from my recent photo sessions.
Go here to book a session or contact me professionally.

Any questions? Hope to see you at the new blog soon. I have oodles and oodles of fun pictures to show you.

Seedlings

For Easter, I found these adorable little pots that came with seeds and soil, and got them for the kids. I thought the boys would likely have little interest in growing the plants, and figured the project would then be taken over by the princess.

Oh, how I forget the competitive nature that is our family.

We potted, planted, and watered each one on Easter Sunday and immediately the speculation and betting began. On whose plant would come up first. On whose plant would be the biggest. Or the strongest. On whose plant was going to dominate and destroy all the other plants.

And most of this trash talk came from the Husband.

By Easter night, we noticed that Chase's little red pot was overloaded with water. Apparently, he thought some extra water was the plant equivalent of steroids, and that a few extra doses would give him the advantage over his siblings.

Sadly, the principle doesn't quite work the same for plants as it does for the pro baseball players. It's been over a week now, and Chase's plant has yet to emerge from the soil at all. I think it didn't survive the flood.

McKay's grass seeds were the first to emerge, followed by Hannah's lone zinnia. My sunflower brought up the rear and has been the most entertaining, what with the actual seed pod still clinging to the plant that burst from inside it. Every day the kids check to see if it's fallen off, and every day it holds steady.

Watching it kind of reminds me what it's like to be a mama. You nuture this little bud inside you, are literally torn in half birthing it, and then you devote all your energy to caring for your new seedling. Your previously charming and possibility-filled life now has one singular goal: Hold on tight with clenched fists and gritted teeth for as long as you possibly can. All the while, the indifferent little seed wastes no time in shoving your shrivled self out of the way so it can have its day in the sun.

Don't worry, sister sunflower. We mamas feel your pain.

Our seedlings do the very same thing.

bursting my bubble

[Gratuitous knobby-kneed Hannah shot for your symbolic title tie in viewing pleasure]

As I not-so-subtly alluded to a few days ago, this week has been a tough one for me. I am not going to go into specifics here, but I will tell you that life threw me a curve ball which my sensitive, vulnerable, weak side was not remotely prepared to deal with. I had been in a pretty comfortable groove for quite a while, and getting knocked out of it onto my rear end was not exactly pleasant.

How did I cope?

Well, first I had a good cry on the Husband's shoulder.

Then I devoured a large portion of the remaining chocolate in the kids' Easter baskets.

Then?

Well, then I took some Tums to counteract all that heartburn from the chocolate binge eating.

But after that, I decided my best option was to pick myself up by the bootstraps and keep going. I took a huge blow to my confidence, swallowed that very bitter pill of humility, and pressed forward. As the Husband gently reminded me, it's experiences like this that are precisely what build our character and provide us with growth.

Growth sure stinks though, doesn't it?

But only for a little while. Then we look around and find that we are standing a little taller than we were before. That wounded vulnerability has hardened, and if we look carefully, we can see that it is now thick, like a callous. Ready to shield us the next time something tries to penetrate our armor.

It's quite literally a thicker skin.

And I think it's going to serve me well.

Game on, life. Game on.

[Untitled]

This week has really kicked my rear end.

Physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I find myself with an empty house and it is taking all the strength I have to not crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

Thank heavens there is a mountain of laundry waiting. And bathrooms that are screaming to be cleaned. Productivity is a good thing. Hard work and a little elbow grease will cure will ails me. I will take my frustrations out on the toilet in the kids bathroom. And the disorganized mess that is the basement.

I'll be back with a better attitude soon.

Until then, adios.

Callling all evil geniuses

Let's just say you happened to get together with some friends last night, had a spectacular time, and ended up staying out until the wee hour of two in the a.m.

And let's just say that at the unholy, dark, evil hour of four-thirty in the a.m., an alarm starts ringing somewhere in your room. It is not your regular alarm clock, and you scramble about trying to find it. After much blind rooting, knee bumping, and swear-word-uttering, you find the source of the awful ringing.

In a pillow. Stuffed under your bed.

You scratch your head, puzzled, wondering how or why it got there. But the comfort of your bed pulls you in as you drift back to sleep, even overriding your slight annoyance at the Husband for sleeping blissfully through it all.

Unfortunately, your regular alarm clock goes off at the usual unholy, dark, evil hour of six in the a.m. You painfully pull yourself to an upright position and wonder if you can bribe the hospital to hook you up with some diet coke intravenously. You stumble in a daze to the bathroom, splash some cold water on your face, and discover that all of your bathroom towels are missing.

And, just when you thought it couldn't get any stranger, you hear your cell phone ringing. You get that heart-stopping feeling of, "Holy frick, something's wrong!" grab your glasses, and put them on your wet face as you fly down the stairs. On the way there, you trip over some toys that you could swear were not there last night. You get to your cell phone, buried in the very bottom of your purse, just as the caller hangs up.

Scratching your head, you wonder what cruel joke the universe has decided to play on you until you walk into the kitchen and see your oldest son, falling on the floor in a fit of giggles. His face is red, he can barely sit up straight, and he utters the words, "APRIL FOOLS!"

Now.

While I love my firstborn more than my own life, at that moment, I seriously considered sending him back to meet his maker. I wondered briefly if they'd let me take a nap in jail.

But instead, I smiled, and told him that he won't know where, he won't know when, but someday I'd be coming for him.

So what I require here is your help, internets. I need your best tricks. I need your evil genius. I need something that he will never expect. Something that will make him think twice before placing that alarm clock beneath my bed next year or stealing my bath towels.

Please help me in my sweet, sweet revenge, won't you?

This troll must be stopped in his happy little tracks.

The one in which I pretend it's really all about me

A little something minutely related to yours truly popped up in this particular magazine this month:

While your first guess will probably target this article as the one relating to me, you would be incorrect:

(although I will admit to having several undiscovered stages to my new and old rear end which I am striving very hard to discover, explain, and eradicate).

But what is most exciting to me is a little article featuring this family on page 130:

Remember when I went to Philly last November and battled a hurricane to take pictures of 11 families?

Just so happened that this darling family was one of them:

And this adorable picture is now immortalized forever in the annals of Parents magazine.

But what makes my little heart giddy with joy is this three-word blip, hiding in the far right-hand corner, almost invisible to the naked eye:

Congratulations, Tara on making the magazine. I thank you from the bottom of my photographer's heart that my name made it in there, too.

What's that? You can't find a copy of it in your store?

That's probably because I single-handedly bought all the copies west of the Mississippi.

Really, it may be my one and only shot at fame, fortune, and status. I've got to make the most of it. You know, in case other magazines start beating down the door, begging for my work. My raw, undeveloped talent. My very essence, my aura...

All right. Stopping now. That was fun.

One for the grandparents

Since my baby decided it was okay to grow up without my permission, I figured it was only fitting to commemorate that with a little photo shoot of her very own. She's turning eight next month, and cannot wait to get baptized.

It's funny to actually have a session with one of my own kids now. I used to have to beg, plead, and pay cash to get them to smile for me. Now, they don't seem to mind it quite so much. Pray that this attitude will continue so that years from now I will have more than just pictures of other people to look back on.

I'll tell you something though, it's sessions like this one that are why I wanted to become a photographer in the first place.

LOVE them. Love the girl in them even more.

Join me for a tear or two, won't you?

Sweet fancy moses.

What will I do on that fateful day when she wears another white dress?

Somebody freeze time for me. Please. I need to start stockpiling the Kleenex.

On advice of counsel

After reading so many of your comments on my last post (yes, even that really nasty, unkind anonymous one), I decided that a lot of you missed the point.

You know, kind of like if you were to say:

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Lincoln. But what did you WEAR that night to the theater?"

The point of the post was this: I WALKED IN ON SOME LADY SITTING ON THE TOILET.

It was wholly unrelated to the innocent adjective that I used to describe myself in what I felt was a harmless, self-deprecating, humorous manner.

As I have done many times before.

But for future clarification, I offer you this disclaimer, drafted by the brilliant legal team of Mee, Miselph, & Aye:

I, Christie, being of sound mind and cellulited body, do hereby declare that any references on this blog, either in the past, present, or future, relating to body size or image, do not in any way, shape, or form refer to anyone other than the author of this blog.

Those references include, but are not limited to, the following: chubby, fat, dimpled, roly-poly, bloated, weight-challenged, super thighzed, ample, chunky, plump, portly, stout, or hefty.

These terms of endearment are meant only to imply that the blog author is capable of laughing at her damn fine self whilst simultaneously stuffing her belly full of donuts.

All previously stated references to weight in this blog are attributable solely to the author's imagination and possibly deluded self-image. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

[Surprisingly enough, this blog is all about me. I did not intend to offend anyone and would apologize profusely if I could, but my fingers are too sticky from the aforementioned donuts.]

That is all. Have a nice day.

One more story of shame to add to my life's work

I had a lovely little lunch date with the Husband today. He happens to be in town this week, and I most decidedly took advantage of that rare treat.

We finished eating, and I got up to go use the, um, facilities.

After inquiring with our waiter, I was pointed towards the back of the restaurant. I pushed open the door to what I thought was a multi-stall restroom.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Some poor woman, pants down around her ankles, her big white cheeks planted on the single toilet in the room. She looked up at me and shrieked, "Oh sh#@! I thought I locked it!"

I ran as fast as I could to our table, told the Husband that we had to leave, LIKE. RIGHT. NOW. Good man that he is, he didn't question me. Just grabbed his coat and we vacated the premises faster than if we'd robbed the place.

As we booked it down the block and I told the Husband what had happened, he roared his head back in laughter.

Somehow, I didn't quite see the humor.

I mean, if I had known it was a single, of course I would have knocked. But we were in a restaurant, and I figured there would be more than one. There's always more than one. And since the door was not locked, and there was no knob, I pushed the door open and marched myself right in.

And so today, somewhere out there in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch probably feeling very, very embarrassed. And maybe just a teensy bit angry with the chubby girl who walked in on her while she sat on the toilet.

And also today in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch and vows NEVER to make an assumption in a restaurant again.

[Tell me I'm not the only one this has happened to. Lie to me, if you must. I need some commiserating.]

Sixteen

You still make me laugh, after all these years.

You know everything about me. And yet you love me anyway.

You gave me three perfectly fantastic children.

And you're as in love with them as I am.

You believe in accountability and don't accept excuses for anything in your life.

You live deliberately, not allowing yourself to waste a single moment.

You never question how I spend my days. Even when they're less productive than they could be.

You support the dreams I have, and help me to make them a reality.

You buy me that silly People magazine on your way through the airport. Because you know that I like it.

You let me sleep in, even though it irritates you.

You always tell me I'm beautiful. Even when I'm not.

You play my favorite song in the car. Just to see me smile.

You tolerate my cooking, in spite of how bad it is.

You let me have my way. Even when it's not my turn.

You hold my heart.

And you trusted me enough to give me yours in return. All those years and lifetimes ago.

Happy anniversary, baby. I love you.

The elephant in the room

Since we are celebrating spring break around here, I decided to pretend I'm a good mom and took my kids to the zoo yesterday. We had a lovely time, and I noticed some things when we stopped by the elephant exhibit.

Some things that I may or may not want to admit here.

Things I found that I have in common with the sweet, old girl they call Pearl.

Like I can totally relate to her dry, crackly skin in the wintertime. There isn't enough lotion in the world to moisturize me right now.

And the wrinkles in between the eyes just begging for Botox?

Yep. We've both got those.

Of course, I should mention the obvious: She and I both have similar, um, well, shapes when it comes to our rear ends.

Though I am afraid hers might be a tad bit slimmer than mine.

But the similarities go beyond just appearances. For instance, we both are a little bit clumsy and seem to fall down from time to time when taking a little walk through town:

We both like to show off when we know that people are watching, though we pretend shyly that we don't:

And, sadly, I am afraid that both of us will do tricks in exchange for the sweet treat of our choice.

Hers: A banana.
Mine: Everything in the chocolate family.

(We also both seem to be willing to eat food right off the ground.)

And when we find ourselves exhausted from all that walking, falling, and sweet treat eating, all we really want to do is lie down and take a nice, long nap.

But the most disturbing similarity of all, the missing genetic link between humans and elephants:

We both occasionally find that a teensy bit of pee slips out when we are doing the exercising.

Sorry, old girl. But you and I both know that it's the awful, honest truth.

Living the life of a diva

Said by Hannah in all seriousness this morning:

"I'm so surprised there aren't any paparazzi trying to take my picture."

Give it time, little rock star. Give it time.

Rocky Mountain Mama

Well, internet, we have arrived in beautiful Colorado. And can I just say how much I have missed the mountains? I grew up surrounded by mountains, and even though it's been a good 14 years since I've lived in their shadow, I will never get over the sheer majesty and beauty of them. Waking up this morning and looking out the window just brought a lump to my throat. I felt a little piece of my soul restored.

I am a mountain woman.

Though, I am definitely not to be confused with those crazy people zooming down the mountain at perilous speeds on two tiny, little wooden sticks, just begging for death.

A skier, I am not.

I tried it once and absolutely hated it. Might have had something to do with the fact that a slightly-less-than-patient Husband was my instructor. And after watching me fall, laugh hysterically at my own predicament, and be unable to get back up, he retired his ski teaching position for the betterment of our marriage.

I may give it a try another year with a proper instructor, but have decided to happily sit this round out.

Don't spend too much time feeling sorry for me though. I have the lovely staff of the Ritz Carlton at my disposal, a stack of very good books to read, a large, comfy bed for napping in, and a spa masseuse just waiting to pamper my chubby self.

We left the kids in the very capable hands of their Oma, and so far they have not worn her out completely or turned all Lord of the Flies on her.

The night she arrived, I had to laugh at the sight of this in my kitchen:

Technology, much?

Looks like it's going to be a fantastic weekend for everyone.

Some helpful hints for the zookeeper

Tomorrow morning I am getting on a plane with my People magazine and the Husband, and heading for a little ski getaway. The animals children will be left in the fine care of the Oma, and the kids are dying with excitement for her to get here.

To make Oma's life easier, I thought I would leave some helpful hints about each child, their quirks, and individual needs. You know, things that might help Oma when they have tied her to a chair, built a fire in the living room, and are madly dancing half-nekkid around her.

Or something like that.

Boy number one:

This one likes to be called Mack, Mackey, Dude, and Hey You, but will flip out if referred to as "Bub," (which apparently is a name from the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series that was adopted by Chase and makes McKay crazy with rage).

He will probably be the most agreeable of the bunch and easily gives in for others to get their way. He is flexible and cheerful by nature. He shrugs his shoulders and tries not to smile when attention is on him, which you will probably find utterly irresistible.

He seldom remembers to pick up after himself and will leave a trail of shoes, books, jackets, and musical instruments behind him. He will look around in disbelief at the mention of his discarded items, shocked that he could do such a thing.

His appetite for bread is voracious, but he can be staved off with fresh strawberries. He will not remember to brush his teeth unless reminded. He does, however, remember to wear the deodorant.

Thank goodness for us all.

In case of emergency: Send him outside with a basketball and he will only return periodically for water and fresh strawberries.

Boy number two:

This wily fellow is a clever one. He has been known to wake up the entire house at the crack of dawn and then be slightly annoyed when action is not happening at the dark, unholy hour of seven in the a.m. It will be hard to remain annoyed, however, when he flashes that big, toothy grin, flanked by his lone dimple. He is always happy, and has a tender-hearted soul.

He WILL track mud into the house obliviously, make no mistake about that. He will wander the forest in the backyard for hours, and do not be surprised when he unearths bones of some sort. He will study them and definitely have facts to share when he's done.

He is very kinesthetic. The boy CANNOT. SIT. STILL. When he's telling you a story (as he undoubtedly will 1,549 times per day) he will circle you as though he were a jungle cat and you were his prey. Feel free to read blogs, online shop, or give yourself a manicure during any of these stories. He will not notice and you will be happy for the distraction. After all, there are only so many times one can hear about hobbits, frogs, weapons, and war.

In case of emergency: Tell him there is a dinosaur buried in the sandbox and that he can sell the skeleton on e-Bay once he finds it. You will not see him for hours. Possibly days.

The Girl:

This little munchkin will probably want to be your tiny, talking shadow. Do not be surprised if she offers to style your hair, fix your make-up, and give you a pedicure. She will most likely critique your outfit in such a way that you will second-guess yourself for years to come.

She is happiest when she is baking or cleaning. She can scale the counter tops with the agility of a tree monkey to reach ingredients on the top shelf. She constantly likes to snack, but very seldom eats more than a few bites of any meal. She will pretend she is the boss of you, and no amount of convincing will tell her otherwise.

She is cuddly and will sit happily at your feet for hours listening to stories. She loves movies, and has a penchant for the romantic comedies. A word of warning though: She almost always cries at the end. Be prepared with a box of tissues.

In case of emergency: Tell her you want to have a tea party and she will scamper off to prepare one. This will buy you at least an hour's reprieve, but it will unfortunately require your presence eventually at the tea party.

So, Oma, any questions? If so, you can reach me in one of the following places:

My hotel bed, where I will be napping and eating room service pancakes
The spa, where I will be getting massages, manis, pedis, and facials
Shopping, where I will be spending all of the Husband's money

Good luck. You're going to need it!

Is three dollars all a soul is worth these days?

Note the spring-action, perfectly molded spots for holding spare change in this picture of someone else's lucky car

Last week, as I rounded the corner of the McDonald's drive-thru for my little dose of crack cocaine happiness in diet coke form, I reached my hand down to grab some change to pay for the drink. As my hand repeatedly grasped only air, I looked down in horror to find that my change was missing.

Only not just my quarters, nickels, and dimes.

MY ENTIRE CHANGE HOLDER WAS GONE.

I immediately called the Husband and accused politely asked if he knew anything about it. He scoffed and wondered why on earth I would think he would want to take my change holder.

I interrogated the children when they got home from school and all three proclaimed their innocence to the point that I believed them.

What the eff?

Essentially, what I am left to conclude is this: Someone risked prison and their eternal salvation to steal a change holder right out of my car, netting themselves MAYBE three bucks in coin.

Leaving behind my iPod, and several scratched and scuffed Barbie movies to take my three dollars in change. Not to mention the meal in old french fries and crumbs they could have scooped from the floor of the backseat.

The change thievery I can forgive. But for the love of all that is holy, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE MY CHANGE HOLDER? I loved that thing. Might have been my favorite part of the car, what with its neat and tidy organization. The separation of coin by type and size. The spring-loaded mechanism that kept everything right in a row.

Sigh.

I am now forced to root around the bottom of my purse for spare change like a regular person when the craving for that ice-cold brown deliciousness strikes.

It's just wrong, I tell you. Wrong.

Baby love

Had a session last week with probably my favorite thing on this planet we call earth: a newborn babe.

I love me the newborn slug. They are just like a little slice of heaven curled up on your chest. I could lose hours of my life cuddling a baby.

Have lost hours of my life, in fact.

And it's time spent that I never, ever regret.

Can't you just smell her yummy neck? Sigh...

Life is definitely sweet when one of these is around. Best wishes and congrats to the new mama!

Hello, March

Can you believe it's March already? Didn't we just celebrate Christmas like two minutes ago?

Honestly.

I swear, time just keeps going faster and faster.

Anyhoo, I am exhausted and wanted to pop on here before I head upstairs to take a much needed, seldom-taken, short Monday morning nap.

Don't judge. You know you'd do it, too, if you could.

Here's what we've got on tap this week:

• The return of Chase, who has been on a business trip to Philly with the Husband, and stories galore of his adventures and escapades with his favorite cousin.
• Not one, but two, gorgeous photo shoots to share with you.
• My new favorite thing: The Blurb Book. Six months down, only thirty more to go.
  
• Orthodontic appointments for the boys to begin the process of bracing their teeth (goodbye, money. I'll really miss you).
• Manic house cleaning to prep for Oma tending while I'm on a ski trip with the Husband next week. (Which really translates to: The Husband is on a ski trip; I'm on a sleep in/nap/pedicure/shopping trip)
• And last, but not least, Stie on a diet. It ain't gonna be pretty, folks.

Happy Monday, peeps.

PVC: It's not just for pipes

How much do I love the internet?

THIS MUCH.

You are all so sweet. I cannot believe the influx of emails I received when I posted about my silly little palpitating heart.

To answer all your questions at once, this is what the doctor found:

I have PVCs.

No, not the kind they use to connect toilets and sinks and run dirty sewer water through. That would be pretty disgusting inside my chest.

And noisy.

It simply means my little heart is getting ahead of itself, the valves are contracting prematurely, and it's throwing my whole heart into a tizzy. And as a result, that big jolt that I feel is just my heart resetting itself.

Which it seems to be fond of doing about 10 times an hour.

Twenty-four hours a day.

But the doctor assures me it is perfectly harmless, lots of people have it, and I have nothing to worry about. Turns out that my father has it, as did his mother before him.

Our family and our little over-excited hearts. Sheesh. Why couldn't we be the family with freakishly fast metabolisms who have to eat 4,000 calories a day just to keep from losing weight? WHY?

Thanks again for your concern, little friends in the internet. Just know that I'd totally bring you a plate of cookies if I could.

[And I'd also sit and help you eat them. I'm just a good person like that.]