Rockin' the 'Hawks

The last week of school in the Casa de Stie signals more than just the beginning of summer. It has come to mark what I have finally accepted as an inevitable tradition, four years running now.

It began three years ago as a test of my marital patience, which you can read about here. This severe trial of my patience was revisited for the next two years, which you can see evidence of here and here, if you're so inclined.

This year, I took matters into my own hands (after listening to the begging, pleading, and sheer desperation from the boys, of course) and took them in for the deed myself.

And without further ado, I bring you this year's Mohawks:

We are pleased, but slightly shocked, that McKay decided to participate this year, potential middle school harassment notwithstanding. Every year, he's talked a tough game, but has always chickened out in the barber's chair at the first sound of the clippers roaring to life.

This year, he ponied up and just went for it. I think the Hawk goes nicely with his broken finger - makes him look like he maybe did get into a fight or suffer a wicked skateboard injury (instead of the unsightly fall during P.E. that really caused it.)

Chase, as ever, makes the Mohawk seem natural and right at home on his head. His hair was shorter this year due to the flaky chick at Super Cuts who was unable to follow the simplest of directions -- which just means we can't spike it up quite as high.

[He kind of reminds me of Puck from Glee. Which I secretly think is pretty cool.]

So here's to keeping traditions, the start of summer, and sun, glorious, sun.

Ahh, summer. Nice to see you, old girl. You've been sorely missed.

And the mystery location is...

Naples, Florida, baby.

And it's been heaven in spite of the following:

--1 trip to the ER for an ear infection.
--1 frantic call to a physician back home and a begging for antibiotics.
--1 case of heat stroke tended to by the fine EMTs of the Ritz Carlton.
--5 sunburns in spite of 50 spf.
--Countless dollars of the Husband's money spent.

I am heartbroken to leave tomorrow.

(P.S. Jen guessed correctly first! Shoot me an email with your address and a little surprise is headed your way!)

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

One more reason to keep the Husband

Dear internet,

Wish you were here.

Love,

Stie

P.S. If you can correctly guess where "here" is, you will win a prize. Happy speculating!

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

And now, deep thoughts...

Some random thoughts before I dash off to take the middle child to the orthodontist (exciting life that I lead, yes):

Right now, I am head-over-heels in love with Glee. Musical numbers, tap dancing, fabulous singing guest stars, and the hilariously two-faced Sue Sylvester. I am smitten and cannot wait to hop on the treadmill every Wednesday morning for my weekly dose. If I could marry the show and have singing, dancing Glee babies - I would. Oh yes. I love it that much.

My friend Jackie and I used to talk about the music we liked to work out to. I told her then, and it still rings true today, that if you judged my iPod playlists, you would think I was a 50-year-old gay man. All the musicals, Streisand, and Barry Manilow you can cram in there, baby.

LOOOOVVE it.

Also, remember a while back when I was looking for my motivation? Well, I found her. She snuck up on me and yelled SURPRISE!! really loud in the dressing room at the mall this morning while I was [ack!] trying on swimsuits. Though I am happy she is back, I do wish she'd come sooner. You know, seeing as how summer starts in like two weeks and these thighs are most certainly not fit to be seen by the general public.

Mucho apologies to the people who live in my town and will be witness to this parade of cellulite soon.

Also, anyone have acrylic nails? I have them and had two break halfway down the nail bed in the last week. My regular girl was out of town, and I do not think her replacement was up to the job.

There is nothing more tortuous than the pain of having to get that fixed. First they have to take off the old nail. You know, the one that's super-glued to your real nail, which broke in half, tearing the flesh underneath with it? I'm telling you - I would give away all our state secrets if tortured this way in less than a minute. I'd rat on every single one of you before they even finished with the first nail.

Hurts worse than childbirth. I'm not kidding.

Lastly, I am in desperate need of something good to read. I finished "The Help" a month ago, and I can't find anything comparable. I loved that book. Please leave me a comment and tell me what fabulous things you all are reading. I need a page turner that makes me happy.

There. That is all.

[I know. Sorry. I'll try to do better next time.]

Indeed, the sun came out tomorrow

Can anyone tell me what that bright, round, yellow thing in the sky is?

Honestly.

We have not seen the sun around here for a few weeks, and today when it shone through my window and blinded my eyes warmed my face, I hardly recognized it.

But it does make me oh, so happy to see it. Here's hoping it sticks around more than two minutes. I am in desperate need of whatever vitamin it gives off. For some strange reason, that vitamin isn't found in cookies or diet coke, which is where I've been looking for it.

Anyhoo, we had a fabulous weekend with an old friend who came to town. [Of course, we had a mini-session, which you can sneak a peek at here.]

We've known this cute girl since she was 12 - and she's now a nearly-graduated trauma nurse. We snatched her right up back then and she became our regular babysitter. Sam was my lifeline to the outside world when I spent my days changing diapers, watching Barney, and counting the minutes until bedtime. She sat for us before there was even a Hannah pinking up our lives, and was there to witness McKay and Chase in all their toddler running/screaming/jumping/squealing glory.

Bottom line is: She knew us back THEN and still likes us.

Which is really saying something.

It was a treat to have her here, and my kids were not the same this morning when they woke up without Sam to jump on or cuddle with.

What say you, Sam? Finish up that degree and come be our live-in babysitter.

We'll take you any time, kid.

One for the sibs

One added bonus at the baptism this past weekend was the presence of both sets of parents (and one lovely cousin who braved a solo road trip with four kids to be here). We felt showered by lovely rose petals from our family tree.

Using Mother's Day as the ruse, I begged the parents and in-laws to sit for a mini photo session - and true to their good natures - they humored me and obliged.

I thought they were all so cute and it warmed my heart to see familiar faces through my lens for a change.

I share these here so that siblings near and far can sneak a peek and share in the fun, too.

The in-laws:

And the parents:

The baptism

This past weekend, my baby girl was baptized.

My heart was so full. In the only quiet moment of the day, as I was helping her get dressed, I paused for a minute. I held my Hannah and told her how proud I was of her, and how much I truly loved her. She didn't fidget, play with my earrings, or roll her eyes - as she is sometimes fond of doing. She looked me square in the eye, and I felt our souls connect. She threw her arms around my neck, and pulled back with tiny tears on her cheeks, matching my own.

"I love you, too, Mama," she whispered.

It was a moment I will never forget.

This is truly the joy and rejoicing in posterity.

She has the crazy eyes

Remember the picture I posted last week of the Husband and I?

Yes, that one. The one in which you were all so complimentary and I had a day or two where I walked around the world with my head a little higher thinking, "Yeah. I'm hot."

Remember that?

Well, careful examination of that photo has reaffirmed what I secretly suspected years ago.

That I have the Runaway Bride Eyes.

Remember her? The crazy chick who ran away from home, then came back days later claiming she had been raped and kidnapped? Only we found afterward that she made it all up to avoid having to get married?

Well, say hello to the RB and her blond twin, Stie:

I know, right?

I offer you further proof of my crazy eyes in a photo taken at the Hershey factory in Pennsylvania (Note: I do not normally wear paper hats as my staple fashion accessory):

And more proof here:

What disturbs me most is that I remember the pictures being posted of her and everyone in the media commenting about how you could just tell "by the look in her eyes" that she was crazy and unstable.

I ask you, dear friends, what does that say about me?

Never mind. Don't answer that.

P.S. Have you seen all the exciting sessions happening here?

These I love

I love it when they sometimes crawl into bed with me first thing in the morning, the smell of sleep still in their hair. They curl their warm, lazy bodies next to mine and together we talk and dream of what the day will hold.

I love it when they turn up the music loud and entice me away from the computer or the dishes to dance and sing with them at the top of my lungs. More often than not, it is music from my era, and part of my soul rejoices in knowing I have brainwashed them into loving the 80s.

I love it when they give me hugs. For no reason at all.

I love it when they surround me for a family movie night. Feet and legs tangled beneath blankets, we watch and laugh together. Popcorn or cookies are shared. It's times like this that I can even pretend I don't mind the crumbs.

I love it when I see that their pants are too short or notice wrists and forearms sticking awkwardly out of shirt sleeves because that means they have grown. And it makes me so happy when they do what they're supposed to.

I love it when they dance and laugh in the rain because daddy said yes after I said no.

I love it when they look me in the eye and ask my opinion on something because they think I'm an expert. Even when it's math that totally goes over my head.

I love it that they love me.

I love them with every particle of my being.

And every night when my head hits the pillow, I thank God for trusting me with these three perfect souls.

Happy mother's day, indeed.

Master of Making me Laugh

A few days ago, McKay decided to decorate an old shirt with a description he thought fit himself perfectly.

I think he summed it up quite nicely, don't you?

A good man

I married a good man.

A man who takes the trash out without being told. A man who plays games with our kids and sometimes lets them win. A man who can't wait to get home at the end of the day, just so he can be with us.

A man who builds me up when I am doubting myself. (which, let's be honest here, is a lot)

A man who laughs at my "chair closet" when I get lazy and don't want to hang things up. (And also a man who doesn't take that time to remind me how often I nag him about hanging his own things up.)

[Note to self: No more nagging about the clothes]

A man who loves freckles and dimpled thighs. (or at least pretends to anyway)

A practical man who approaches life with logic and intelligence.

A man who sees me at the end of my rope, and always ties a big knot for me to hold onto.

Yes, I married a good man.

And today I thought I should tell him that.

How to tempt the universe: Step-by-step instructions

Step one: Read this blog post and immediately pop over to Amazon to order this book. Wait a week for your book to arrive and find you have no time to actually sit down and read it.

Step two: Make the time to read it about a week or so later, and begin eagerly one evening before bed. Find yourself laughing, crying, and repeatedly waking the Husband up to read him passages from the book.

Step three: Pause, look around at your life and think these famous last words, "Man, I am so blessed. I have it so good." Put the book on your nightstand with a smile and fall blissfully asleep.

Step four: LITERALLY EIGHT MINUTES LATER, be awoken by the blood-chilling sound dreaded by mothers everywhere: Your girl child puking and coughing all over her bed.

Step five: Jump out of bed, and help her get into the tub. Throw sheets and blankets into the washing machine, and begin the laboriously painful process of scrubbing the carpet.

Step six: Hear commotion coming from the bathroom, and go in to find that your oldest boy child has stumbled into the bathroom and - ONE FOOT FROM THE TOILET, MIND YOU - stood there and puked all over the bathroom floor, whilst his sister sits shrieking in the bathtub.

Step seven: Take three seconds and try to keep your head intact on your shoulders. Curse silently under your breath. Fume madly. Step into action. Remove girl child from tub, insert oldest boy child. Create makeshift bed for girl child out of blankets on the floor. Continue scrubbing carpet, break your fingernail so far down that it bleeds, and consider updating your resume to read, "Can simultaneously remove puke and blood from carpeting." Decide you really don't want that job and mentally crumble up your resume and throw it in the trash.

Step eight: Get oldest boy settled in bed with strict admonition to MAKE IT TO THE TOILET NEXT TIME. Return to finish cleaning puke off every surface in the bathroom.

Step nine: Two hours later, crawl exhausted back into bed. Have the Husband roll over in a fake-sleepy voice and say, "Hey, what's going on?" Consider choking the Husband. Decide against it as you'd probably have to clean the toilets in jail, too. Roll over and attempt to fall asleep.

Step ten: Curse the universe. Vow to never tempt that cruel, cruel mistress again.

Any questions?

"What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself." Abraham Lincoln

Recently, I was contacted by a company who wanted to know if they could sponsor this website.

It is not the first time I have been offered cash for my soul.

Ouch. I know.

And it will not be the last time that I decline it.

When I first started blogging three and a half years ago, I did it for me. I saw it as a fun outlet for writing. It became a way to keep in touch with long distance friends and family. It is, at times, my own personal soapbox, a place to laugh at myself, cry with myself, showcase my family, and keep a record of the everyday stuff that I'm afraid I'll forget. I had no idea there existed perfect strangers in the world willing to read what I write here.

And it is not now, nor will it ever be, for sale.

Cluttering up these pretty pages with ads for diapers, jewelry, tampons, and books seems a bit like selling out to me. I wouldn't send my kids off to school with bumper stickers on their cheeks or backpacks, so why do it here? Isn't there enough branding and consumerism in the world without me contributing to it?

I am left now to wonder about those of you who do choose to accept advertising dollars for space on your websites and blogs.

Specifically, I am wondering this:

1. How much do you make?
2. Do you feel it leaves your site cluttered and busy?
3. Does it make you obsess more over your stats, knowing that revenue is dependent on that?
4. Do you think less of those like me who opt out?

I cast no judgmental rocks from my glass house, but I am curious. I mean, if some of you tell me you are getting a couple thousand a month, I might jump on that train so fast that there'll be no time to stop and get my luggage.

But I can't imagine they pay well enough to support the lifestyle I would like to become accustomed to.

Am I wrong?

Discuss.

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.