The baby went to kindergarten and now what?

I have spent most of my life terrified of criticism and judgement.

There.
I said it.
Terrified of judgement.

I chose perfectionism as my anxiety controller of choice.
I was a straight A honor student.
I finished my bachelor's degree in two years.
Probably the biggest mistake I ever made, but that's another story.

I picked things that were easy to judge as 'good' or 'bad' and dumped anything subjective.
The panic - cold sweat, heart beating out of my chest, and running in circles to explain anything I may have done that seemed wrong - would eventually break even the strongest of perfect people.

But, one failed marriage, four kids, no grad school, and fifteen years of wandering in the darkness of perceived perfection later, I am getting over it.
I tried like the devil to do everything right and failed relatively miserably.
Because you can't possibly be right for everyone, every time, in every way.

No more picket fences, matching outfits, perfectly decorated and organized rooms, fabulous dinner parties (maybe we shouldn't throw that one away), fancy cars, houses, purses, shoes...this list could go on for a year.

I have a degree in International Relations and Economics (to this day, I still feel like capitalizing it makes it sound better) and yet I realized this morning that I have been pregnant or breastfeeding for nearly eight years of my life.
Not exactly the highly educated, liberated, I-can-do-it-all fantasy of my earlier years.
Liberated might as well mean Pedicure these days.

But I'm happy.
I'm so happy that thoughts about how happy I am pop into my mind spontaneously.
I don't even know how this happens because I was 100% miserable since I can honestly remember.

Before I could face the dreaded Judgement and Criticism, I did everything the "right" way.
Right being defined by everyone around me, and that's not even really fair, since most of what I thought people wanted was something I conjured up in my mind.
Now, by my own sheer choices and sabotage, I find myself doing everything wrong, or winging it, or having no plan - and letting myself just live life as it unfolds.

I have to tell you, it's like white knuckling on the edge of a building scary some days.
And then it's over.
And no one died.

I'm not even going to proofread this post for spelling and grammar.
This is taking things a little too far, in my opinion, but I'm doing it anyway just to make the point.
And the worst that will happen is someone will point something out in the comments.

But no one will die.
And only like four people read this blog anyway, so no biggie.

So, as I sit here with my fresh and sweet little baby (born out of love but not marriage) and my other three kids off to school, I have to face myself.
And that's pretty hard most of the time, that whole facing yourself thing.
And I'm honestly not sure what I'm supposed to be doing now.

Aaaannddd that's okay.

Right?

The Birth of Ella Minor

First of all, this story is gruesome, uses questionable language, and may give you 
visual images that you can't erase.
Reader discretion is advised.
Also, it's long. 

It all starts with a double line on a test.
A long deep breath.
And a text message.

Not exactly the cutesy, creative way all the women on Pinterest deliver the news, but whatever.

I was on a work trip and had the answer to why my brand new work pants did not fit.
My 'really bad PMS' was now going to last FOREVER.

I delivered my first three children in the hospital and had epidurals that slowed/stopped my labor, then had Pitocin, then the epidural magically stopped working, then I got a complimentary back wax as they re-did the epidural during transition.

EVERY TIME.

This time I thought, NO - I want to deliver drug free, IV free, 
little belly-strap-thing-that-tracks-your-every-move free.
I will sit in a spa tub and the midwives will sing to me while I deliver this beautiful baby, with only a slightly pained smile on my face.

Just like on TV.

The pregnancy lasted FOREVER and one day.
I have never gone a full 40 weeks.
In my mind, I was due at 37 weeks, which is when my last one was born at a solid 8 lbs, 6 oz.

With a varicose vein the size of the Mississippi running through my lady parts, ankles that disappeared months ago, one pair of shoes that fit, and a series of three giant house coats disguised as maxi dresses, that I wore every day for at least the six weeks, combined with obscene waddling, strangely huge moles cropping up, and my brain function diminished to kindergarten level, I was  DONE BEING PREGNANT.

To make matters worse, I kept going into labor.
I know, I know - it isn't labor until blah blah blah.
Screw anyone who says that.

But Little Miss had her head turned sunny side up (just google it).
And six hours of painful contractions, on multiple occasions, were not turning it.

The midwives advised me to stand on my head and wiggle around.
Just kidding. Sort of.
I actually had to get on my couch, with my knees on the edge and my hands on the floor.

Supposedly, this position would encourage her to 'back out' of my pelvis and go back in the 'right way'.
What they didn't know is that I was going to deliver a baby the size of anaconda, so I could stand on my head all I wanted, but there was no backing out of anywhere.

On my due date, I gave up.
My dream of the singing midwives would be crushed.
I was going to be induced and end up with a c-section.

That night, I asked the mister to bring me a cheeseburger - a double one.
I should take this time to say, he is the most PATIENT man in the universe. 
And he took excellent care of me.
I, on the other hand, would have shot and buried me somewhere by now.

The contractions started AGAIN around 10:30 that night.
I decide going to bed is the best way to handle the contractions since they clearly will not result in a baby.

At 3:00 am I hobble and groan my way to bathroom to pee.
The mister said if I was a horse making those sounds, he would have to put me down.
I'm still having contractions, but whatever.

The midwives have all said I need to always lay on my left side during contractions to get the baby to turn.
Well, laying on my left side hurts.
Well, at 3:15 am, I decide f*** this, it hurts and I want to lay on my right side.
She's never coming out anyway, so I might as well be comfortable.

Two contractions later, I feel the infamous POP and the resulting hot liquid.
I shot my behind off the side of the bed, praying the gush would hit the floor, and not the mattress.
Success.

Now, standing in a massive puddle I freak out a little.
I'm crying to the mister to check and see if the fluid is clear - he confirms.
I decide the toilet is the best place to sit down while I figure out what to do.

I shuffle on a bridge of towels from the bed to the bathroom.
I'm sitting on the toilet, mister is talking to my mom, and the most horrendous pain of my life strikes.
I fall off the toilet.

Labor?
No.
Diarrhea?
Yes.

The worst diarrhea since a red curry Thai dish back in 2004.
It took 8 years for me to eat Thai food again.

I'm thinking, okay at least I don't have to worry about 'pooping on the table' during delivery.
Everyone woman's nightmare.
No one wants to poop in front of everyone lined up, staring at your hooha.

So, pipes cleaned, I get dressed and ready to leave for the birth center, which is over an hour away.
Kids dropped off, family notified, we head out.

Everything is going fine - the contractions are pretty much same story, different day.
And then we hit the halfway point and the sounds change.

The mister makes all kinds of inappropriate jokes about the moaning.
I would have laughed if I didn't want to punch him in the face.

We make it there without resorting to a roadside delivery.
I am relieved to find I am dilated to 6 cm.

Having tested positive for group B strep, the midwife and an intern immediately try to start an IV for the recommended antibiotics.
It doesn't go well.
Twenty minutes later, the midwife says to check me again. 

I was at 8 cm.
I beg for them to let me get in the tub.

I was convinced the tub would be just the calm I needed.
And it was.
For two contractions.

By the third, I looked at the mister, pointed and said I HATE YOU.
He announced I was officially in transition.
He was right.

And then...
Transition pain?
Oh no. God, please no.

Diarrhea. In. The. Tub.

On go the armpit-length plastic gloves.
Out come the little green fishnets.

Those little nets were like using a flyswatter on a hornet nest.

I officially lose my mind.
I start crying to PLEASE-PLEASE-PLEASE GET ME OUT OF HEEERE!
GET ME OUT-GET ME OUT-GET ME OUT!!
PLEEEEASE GET ME OUT OF THE SHIT WATER!

Another round of shitting on the toilet.
The midwife's face is between my legs as she's convinced I will have the baby in the toilet.

Now, it's me, the mister, the midwife, and the intern - all in a very tiny bathroom.
The midwife, in a very urgent voice, tells the mister they need to get me OUT  of the bathroom NOW.

I wail.
BUT NO ONE WIPED ME!!!

The mister insists it doesn't matter. 
I insist on wiping myself. 
With very thin toilet paper. 

Okay, let's go!! The mister is getting serious. 
I HAVE TO WASH MY HAAANDS!!
Mind you, I am naked, dripping wet, and a baby is going to fall out of my body any second. 

A contraction hits just after I turn off the water. 
I hit the floor, screaming. 
And now, the mister, the midwife, and the intern are attempting to carry/drag me to the bed. 

I assure you if this wasn't in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, the entire waiting room of sweet pregnant ladies would have run screaming, begging to be un-pregnant. 

Now on the bed, the crew is yelling for me to push - if I feel like pushing. 
I don't feel like anything but please God someone get this thing out of my body so this can be over and dear God WHY HAVE I BEEN IN TRANSITION FOR SIX YEARS???

I push like I pushed with the first three babies. 
Nothing. 

Ohhhhh, remember how Little Miss was turned face up?
Yeah, that's like trying to push a tractor trailer out of the mud. 

Now begins the I am going to die phase of this birth. 

I announce I simply can't push laying on my back. 
The crew flips me on my side. 
That nearly gets the intern a black eye during the next contraction. 

I flip over onto my hands and knees. 
I hold onto the pillows for dear life. 
But somehow, I feel a little control again. 

The crew is still yelling to push. 
All I can think about is accidentally shit-spraying the entire posse of people standing at eye level with my butt hole. 
It doesn't help that every so often, the intern wipes poop off me with a wet cloth. 

Finally, I give in, throw away any sense of dignity I might have - as if I have any left at this point, and yell 
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE (desperate) HOLD A CLOTH OVER MY BUTT HOLE WHEN I PUSH??? 
And, just like that, the wonderful midwife obliges. 

It is worth mentioning that the poor midwife forgot her "work" shoes at home and was doing all of this in her socks. 
I imagine she threw them away.

Now I can focus on getting this baby out. 
Not before I yell PLEASE JUST CUUUUT ME!
I hear the baby nurse say "Nope, you've got this". 

A few pushes later, Little Miss FINALLY turns and there is light at the end of this tunnel of shit. 
I can't leave out the ring of fire at the end, but all things considered, this was just a minor inconvenience. 
I pushed, they pulled. 
Out came the anaconda, I mean the baby. But seriously, her body went on forever.

They put her on the bed under me. 
I tried not to fall on her. 
The mister grabbed her and helped me lay down so I could see her sweet face. 

If you know anything about how babies are supposed to enter the world, you will know that Ella turned at the last minute, but because I was on my hands and knees, she still came out facing the heavens - exactly the way she planned all along. 

Welcome to the world Ella.

 9 pounds 5 ounces and 21.5 inches of chubby sweetness. 

After that, the baby coma set in and I have been madly in love ever since. 

Resurrection

I had previously decided to kill this blog and use my photography website blog instead.

First, that never happened.
Mostly because I was pregnant and vomiting and miserable.
But also because I couldn't figure out how to get all personal and still be professional...

And then, that little person making me vomit arrived four weeks ago.

Now that I'm not completely brain drained and obscenely cranky, I'm back to writing.
And taking photos.
Except I take photos of other people's newborns for a living and have not managed to take any of my own.

But, here I am nearly a year after I killed this blog, ready to share the most gruesome birth story every written.
Okay, maybe not the most gruesome ever, but still.

I also have nice things to say, but if I don't get this story on paper, I might die from the constant replay in my mind.

Crap

How is it August 30 and I have had only 3 whole things to say?

This girl has been busy.
But that sweet little curly-headed boy of mine is about to have a birthday.

I'm going to dig up some photos and cry a little.


But not tonight. I have to go to bed.

Canning Your Own Food: Athletic and Dangerous

Canning food is a long-standing family tradition for the Minors.
I can remember Grandmom spending hours prepping peaches, making relish, pickling beets, and freezing lima beans.
I grew up with my mom canning food from the backyard garden - string beans, tomato sauce, and homemade applesauce.

I even have peach-peeling post traumatic stress disorder from the summer of 1997 or so.
Mom decided she wanted A LOT of peaches for the winter.
I think I washed and peeled peaches for at least three days.
Without sleeping. Or eating.

This year, having my own garden has made me think rather fondly of the time I spent helping preserve our own hard-earned food.
Even the traumatic peach event has been glossed over in my mind.
Kind of like childbirth.

Have you ever read an article on canning your own food?
Stories of jars blowing up, pressure canners blowing up, disease, spoiled food, and they always say it is imperative to refer to the USDA guidelines for temperature and boiling times.
Scary. Scary. Scary.

I begin.

Google told me I could put the whole peaches in hot boiling water for 45 seconds, then dunk them in ice cold water and the skins would fall right off.
REALLY wish Google existed in 1997.
I didn't even have a cell phone in 1997.

It still took a solid 2 hours to prep a minimal number of peaches.
My kitchen counters were covered in sticky peach syrup, including a drip trail to the garbage.
In addition, the jars all had to be sterilized in the dishwasher, a sugar syrup had to be concocted and be boiling, but only boil for 5 minutes, then remain hot, and all the jar lids had to be sterilized by boiling for 5 minutes, then remain hot but not boiling because they have to be put on the hot jars while hot.
But not boiling.

My kitchen is not equipped for this level of multitasking.
If you don't follow the directions exactly, you could give your family and everyone you know some sort of strange mold disease or botulism, because your jars won't seal.
And you will die.

Now would be the time to mention that while Grandmom canned lots of things, peaches were always frozen in her house. And our house.
But no, I decided I needed the experience of full fledged canning my first time out.
I am an idiot.

By now, I have dredged my entire boob - a boob that is still wearing pajamas at 2pm - through a puddle of peach juice in an attempt to get good photos of this fiasco.
I banished the children from the kitchen.
I could not answer the phone because my fingers were covered in glop BUT REALLY because I couldn't even handle talking on the phone for a minute while trying to figure out if the hot packed peaches were overcooked in the syrup, if the jars were hot enough, did I pack the peaches tight enough, and oh crap, did I let the lids cool down too much?

Because we will all die from disease if I mess this up.
I was sweating and panic stricken.
By the way, don't schedule anything or anywhere to be on "canning day".
You can't leave your house and will barely be able to leave the kitchen.
Because you will miss something and you will kill your family.

This is a hot water bath canning pot.
You need to know your altitude above sea level to know how long you have to boil the filled jars.
Seriously.
And if you don't boil long enough? Disease. If you boil too long? Ruined, wasted effort.

I pressed on.
Called mom only once. Texted a thousand times.

This is the final result.
All but two jars were sealed perfectly.
I certainly could have packed WAY more peaches in each jar.
The lesson here? Freeze them next year.

Of course I am prepping Aunt Mare's Famous Tomato Soup made from my very own homegrown Roma tomatoes.
I have already read all the stories of exploding jars of tomatoes, and I am going to do it anyway.
Because I am an idiot.

The Littlest

One day post birthday party. 

The newly crowned 9-year-old tucked herself away in my room to sing as loud as humanly possible on her new Soulo karaoke microphone. 

She loves loves loves to sing. 

And short of buying a drum set, I'm not sure I did myself any favors with this gift choice. 

I attempt to record the happenings of a 9-year-old before eye rolls and audible sighs roll in.

But the littlest little brother decides to roll in first. 

I am distracted from the vocal artist singing a very stylized version of Take Me Out to The Ballgame.

That is his way. And it works. Almost every time.  

She doesn't really even notice him.

He tries to join her in a song or two and she is is generous enough to make him happy. 

But not too generous.

At this point we have attempted everything from Amazing Grace to Super Freak, Britney to Dixie Chicks, and an exhausting run of Jingle Bells. 

So much for not buying a drum set. 

Making Tracks

A very good friend of mine asked if I could take some pictures of her daughter, just before she enters her senior year of high school.

Needless to say, I totally freaked out, threw up a little, and broke out into a sweat.
I really don't take pictures on purpose of other people's children.
Because they might be horrible. And I don't want to be responsible.

But, I did it anyway. Because I like the kid. And I really like her mom.


She brought no less than eight wardrobe changes.
And lots of "mad ideas".

I'm not really sure if this is what 'senior portraits' should look like, but she really liked them. 

And we had a blast running all over town looking for anything broken to stand next to. 

Here's to wishing her luck and love as she moves into the next chapter.   

It's Fair Time!

Of course we went to the State Fair.

It is one of those events I'm not sure if I love or dread.
But we always end up going anyway.

I went through a phase where I loathed the fair.
The heat.
The crowds.
The all fried all the time food trucks.

But then I had kids.
And discovered that not only is it really not that bad, it's actually fun.

Here is our 30 second tour of the 2012 Delaware State Fair.

I have made it no secret that I would like to have my own little flock of egg bearing hens.
They don't all look this creepy, I swear.

We also love sheep.
Love them.

Go ahead, do it.
Baaaaaaaa.

Her favorite part of the fair.
Except for the rides.
But they don't count because the rides are always the kid favorite.

Oh the sweet teeny tiny baby chicks.
Pretty sure that was the only animal we DIDN'T get as an Easter present growing up.
And I'm sure that's the reason I am so obsessed with chickens.
Thanks Mom.

Everybody's favorite!

FYI, Lil' Partner.

Games anyone?
Everyone's a Winner.
So I was told, only about a thousand times.

This was the throw that sealed our fate.
You should know I can't hit a baseball with tennis racket.
But I won my son his first fair goldfish.

Meet Goldy and Gill, everybody.
Inspired by his athletically-challenged mother, HE won his second.
Why I didn't exercise parental guidance in the game choice, I will never know.

Yep, that's her.

Too scary for us, but makes a pretty picture.

We had a great day - a great day!
We spent nine hours of purely unadulterated, fried, thrilled, screaming, sweaty fun.
Looking forward to next year!

Procrastination is Not Just for College Kids

So far tonight I have caught up on every blog possible, plenty of Facebook gossip, Pinterest, and spent an hour researching retired New York City Ballet dancers to find out where they are now teaching/directing.

All this because I have a presentation to put together.
Tonight.

Sigh.

So I've Been Told

After spending all day at the Delaware State Fair one day and a birthday party on the beach the next, I've been told that the best thing you can do is sit on the couch and eat a Haagen Dazs.

So I am.

So You Think You Want Boys

Some recent family news has me thinking about boys.

Growing up with a sister and two cousins, also girls, and all ballerinas (even though the little sisters canned that idea by 5th grade)...I just didn't know anything, and I mean anything, about boys.

Now, I am the mother to two little alien child boys.
And they get away with way more than they should.
They are just so damn cute.

Here are the rules for a regular, ordinary, run-of-the-mill-no-they-don't-sit-and-color day.

Football should always be played in the living room.
Golf should also be played here.
And soccer.
And yes, even baseball.

It is perfectly acceptable to perfect to your football catching moves on the couch.
Obviously, no one wants to get hurt by falling on grass.
Outside.

Transforming yourself into a video game character is an everyday adventure.
The character will always be one who runs fast.
And fast running is always more fun when you do it in the house.

And doesn't stop just because I ask.
A request for "one more cool move" means no less than 35 more cool moves.
And the couch is always the crash pad.

Having fun has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with sitting still. Ever.
Something always gets broken.
Or hurt.
Or mom loses her mind.

But I really don't know a mom who would have it any other way.
Including me.

I'll Take That

While I was doing my daily Pinterest scan yesterday, Roxy (you know, the surf brand) posted some photos with the caption "European Road Trip".

Yeah, I'll take some of that.

I would take a road trip of any sort right now if it meant I could pack only the happy good things in my suitcase and leave the worries behind.

Thank goodness for imagination.

If you need me, I will be driving the Italian coast with a scarf tied around my hair.
I've always wanted to wear a scarf like that.

Snips, Snails, & Puppy Dog Tails

While the oldest is spending three weeks at her first for-real summer ballet program, the boys and I are spending our days doing, you know, boy stuff. 

Like executing a full snail massacre inside a gatorade bottle. 

He is convinced they are soundly sleeping. 

Pictures would be wrong. 

Today I am just plain worn out. 

But that doesn't mean they are. 

I guess my never-ending-smile-please-no-not-like-that!-just-one-more-I-swear is rubbing off.

We should probably leave for the pool before something gets broken.
Have a great weekend!

Toilet

If the toilet bowl was as gaping as the Grand Canyon, I am convinced the little gentlemen I live with would still miss.

Almost

I simply cannot accept that July is nearly half gone.
The days just keep rolling.
The years that used to drag along now seem to pass when I blink.

This sweet little girl is turning nine next month.

She made me a mother. 

And we are growing up together. 

Time feels like a faucet that won't turn off. 

I can't hold on.

She wants it to move faster. 

I want it to freeze. 

I know we are on the edge. 

Toes hanging off. 

Change is coming. 

She is bursting with personality. 

And attitude. 

Total confidence and total apprehension. 

I like her. 

Happy (almost) Birthday to the true love of my life.

Girl vs. Garden

This is my lawnmower. 

It was given to me, by my father, as a gift on Father's Day. 

Yep. 

If you teach a man to fish...

Starting this $20 yard sale gem might be one of the hardest things I have ever done over, and over, and over.
And still failed.
Yes, I cried.
And I might have called it a foul name or two.

Add this to the fact that I only just learned how to mow a lawn in the past year.
I was given the lawn as a chore once when I was 15 and was never allowed to do it again.
My lines weren't straight enough.

Don't worry, I did plenty of other chores well enough to have them permanently assigned.

Anyhow, after several replacement parts, lawnmower and I are becoming friendly.
I even mow lines in my yard.
They're still not perfect.
But that's why I don't live with my parents.

You should know that in addition to my wild 'someday' fantasy of having a second home in the South of France, I also have a fascination with self sufficiency.
Like, gardens and chickens.

I have french linens that I hang on the clothesline because it makes me feel like I am at my 'someday' second home.
You know, in France.
Because that's not pathetic. At all.

And no chickens yet, but I do have my first "real" garden this year.
And by real, I mean more than herbs and tomatoes growing in pots.
Two raised beds full of all my favorites!

I am not delusional.
Obviously I can't possibly live off the grid, or the land, or whatever,
AND have a second home in the South of France.
Obviously.

There is a point to all this.
I swear.

So, in my garden, live some tomatoes.
The tomatoes look a little sad.
I investigate and find said sad tomatoes have BUGS.

I hate bugs.

Especially bugs that are referred to as LICE - plant or otherwise.
300 Google searches later, I determine the tomatoes have aphids, or plant lice.
And apparently, like the hair kind, these lice are hard to get rid of.

I say bring it.
And because Dad says I can't have a garden without using chemicals, and organic is stupid...
I won't be using chemicals.
Because even an adult girl can't listen to her father.

Soooooo....
I learn that aphids also attack roses, and bolt out to the rose bushes to see if they are killing my beloved roses!
I find this:

OH MY GOD, I have an invasion of spiny hairy BUGS!

This is where it gets good.
Why are they spotted?
Thanks to Google and toys for a 4-year-old, I learn that I have Ladybugs!

Okay, ready for the good part?

Ladybugs' favorite food is aphids!

I know, you can't contain your excitement. 

According to the toy, we have some stage 2 larvae and stage 3 pupa.
You learn something every day.

My genius plan was to move some of these ladies over to the tomatoes.
I moved one and watched her devour an aphid, which was strangely exciting.

So far, the kids have had a great time being ladybug runners (we found them in the apple tree too) but sadly, every ladybug has mysteriously disappeared.

I know how nail biting the garden adventure has been thus far, so I will be sure to update you on the success or failure of the great ladybug migration.

Even though I have a bajillion other things that have to get done today and every day, somehow this little garden makes me very very happy.

I highly recommend getting one.

Joys of Motherhood

Doesn't she look peaceful?
My sweet, beautiful girl.

This is the same child who, lately, has made me question my unending adoration of little girls.
I want to know why no one warned me that "teenager" started WAY before 13.
Like, years before.

And I will love her through it all.
Even if I don't like her some days.
We will be friends again when she's 24.

Until then, we will muddle our way through as she transforms, slowly, into a beautiful and confident woman.

I love him.
I don't get many good shots of this cute boy.
He wiggles a lot.

And he really likes to chew gum.

That little one on the right?
He was not in a mood for having his picture taken.
So there aren't any.

Except this lovely group shot.
There are only about 10 of these on my computer.
And this was the best one.

Little, drive-you-crazy, and somehow, still-adore-them, loves.

Inventions

Photo courtesy of April Allsyon Abel, a woman who inspires daily invention. 

People think up new ideas all the time.
Some people just think about them.
Other people do more than just think.

They take action.

I wonder who has better odds of success - the folks who act on every single idea, or the ones who really focus on just one thing and make it happen?
Is it like sales? The more calls you make, inherently by statistic,  the better your numbers are?

But what if the invention is yourself?

I used the be the kind of person who picked one thing and went after it with all the force and focus I could muster.
Pretty exhausting when the one thing turns out to be the wrong thing.
Or at least wrong for me.

Alas, in my "old" age, I don't know what the one thing is anymore.
I find myself stirring and jumping into 12 different pots at once, having no real clue which one is "right".
But I do know what is wrong, so I guess that's something.

Maybe there isn't a right answer. Maybe our parents idea of picking something, one thing, and doing it forever and forever isn't the right way, just the way they did it. Maybe the world really is different now.

Can we be happy with an undefined career?
No, that's not a cop-out or a carefully worded disguise for no career.
Is a broad brush better than a pigeon hole? I don't know.

But the truth is, no matter what, staying relevant in this world is hard. Really hard.

Everyone wants to be relevant.
Everyone needs to be relevant.
Our disposable mindset moves from objects to people.

Does constant reinvention keep us out of the trash?
It sure can keep you busy. I know that much.
Getting comfortable with the great unknown, closing your eyes and jumping takes some getting used to.
Ah, but the promise of true fulfillment is an addicting chase.

I have never taken bigger leaps than I have over the past few years, and for the first time, I  see a real opportunity to live a complete life. I just have no idea which pot I will end up in.

Scariest. Thing. Ever.
Tossing the comfort and camaraderie of common daily misery is, well, nausea-inducing.

So, I offer applause to all my friends and colleagues who have chosen to stand, undefined, proudly reinventing for a greater purpose, and a chance live truthfully, as they are.

Much love and admiration.

What to Give

So, every year, like everyone else, I have to figure out what to buy the "difficult" people on my list.
It isn't that they are actually difficult.
(That may be too generous)

Let me explain.

All of my grandparents are still alive (I know!).
So - what in the world do you give to people who have everything?
And by everything, I mean every last thing a person could want.
And they stopped collecting circa 1972.

You should also know that I have been harassed of late.
For not giving any of them updated photos of the kids.
How am I supposed to remember they're not on Facebook?

Photobook.
I took a lot of pictures this year.
Serious hit. All the way around.

There is this company I like - Blurb.
I have used them before, and my sister did her wedding album with them.
Basically, they have awesome software so even if you are horrible at design-y type stuff, your book should still turn out great.

This is my middle guy's first day ever of t-ball.

This is a full two-page spread, with a full bleed.
Just don't choose a photo with a face in the middle.
It ends up in the crack.

And of course, Miss Ballerina.
The page layouts are predesigned but you can edit the pre-designed design to suit you.
And the color around the photos? Yep, you can change that too.

The software also gives crop lines and crack lines.
So you know if you're chopping anyone's head off.
Or if you forgot, and put someone's face in the crack.

I did this book in chronological order, but the choice is yours.
It took me about 3-4 hours total to put together.
And about 5 days to get them here.
Not bad when you get to knock 6 gifts off the list.

I decided to give the book to my parents as well.
Everyone really seemed to love it.
They have been passed around offices, parties, and extended family visits.
I highly recommend making one for your nearest and dearest.

Blurb can also automatically generate a book from your Facebook photos. (comments included...yikes)
AND they do a super cool Instagram book - straight from your Instagram account!
They pretty much rock.

So, for my family and close friends who have requested a copy...here's your chance.
If you would like to preview and buy your very own, here you go!
http://www.blurb.com/my/book/detail/2836401


Have fun book-making!!