novelle360

A link you might like

2011-12-19T23:46:00.001-05:00

I think she takes after Jerry a little TOO much sometimes.

How we roll at the grocery store

2011-09-24T09:30:00.002-04:00

Alli-isms

2011-09-20T22:24:00.002-04:00

Mama, when's my birthday?

November fifteenth.

Yeah! That's right. ... When's your birthday?

February twentieth.

Wow. You must be really old.

..........................................................

Hey, Al, why don't you put on your bunny slippers to keep your feet toasty.

Well ... okay. They're girls.

Oh yeah?

No, wait. They're boys because they don't have eyelashes.

Newspaper column

2011-07-12T07:47:00.001-04:00

When we purchased a new dishwasher about three years ago, I had the naive misconception that it would outlast me. Now I’m convinced appliance companies have started manufacturing products to break intentionally.

And that certainly isn’t reflected in the sticker price either.

Sure, new appliances have all sorts of fancy gadgets and settings, but inside each one there is a part — a small but expensive one — that has a very limited lifespan. And that small but expensive part will probably become faulty at the most inopportune time possible.

I know because it just happened to me.

My dishwasher, which would be labeled a toddler if it was human, will never see anything remotely close to its golden years. It stopped working two days before I threw a bridal shower and a week before we hosted out-of-town guests. I guess it would’ve been too convenient for it to hang in there for the massive influx of dirty dishes.

Not even an extended warranty could’ve helped me in that case. Unless, of course, it had a clause where a repair technician would stop by in an emergency to help towel dry.

In hindsight, I guess I should’ve seen it coming. At first the indicator lights stopped working, so I never knew when the wash cycle was done. I always seemed to open it prematurely only to get enveloped with a cloud of hot steam that nearly singed my eyebrows off.

After awhile, it only worked on occasion. I would put each dirty cup and utensil in while saying a tiny prayer that the machine would oblige when it was full. Eventually I got sick of jamming at the start button to no avail and taking everything back out filthy to wash them by hand.

So I gave in and called a repair shop.

When the service man showed up, he immediately asked me if we had purchased the extended warranty. At the time I remember thinking it was a waste of money. It seemed completely reasonable to expect a new appliance to work for five years — minimum.

I mean my grandmother’s dishwasher is decades old and probably still has 10,000 cycles left in it, so certainly a brand new model with better technology would last longer, right? Logic tells me that’s a reasonable expectation.

But when he opened the front panel and explained that the electrical wires were fried and that it would be more economical to purchase a new one, my jaw dropped.

We can build rocket ships that fly hundreds of thousands of miles into space, but we can’t build a dishwasher that lasts more than five years? We can construct pocket-sized devices that respond to touch and connect people on different continents, but we can’t make an electrical wire on a dishwasher that withstands a few thousand transmissions?

Frankly, I don’t buy it.

Then again, I don’t really have much choice, do I? I’m stuck buying what’s for sale. And apparently every three to five years forever after.

Unless I can find an old 1970s model somewhere. I’d take a working olive green version over a faulty stainless steel model any day.

.

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-19T07:20:00.000-04:00

Obviously she has her priorities straight

2011-06-17T19:16:00.002-04:00

Me: Honey, you need some rest.

Allison: So I can get bigger?

Me: That's right.

Allison: OH! And when I get bigger, I CAN HAVE WINE!!!

Newspaper column

2011-06-12T19:23:00.000-04:00

If this is the technological age, it certainly isn’t bypassing the young.

My 3-year-old knows how to use an iPhone better than I do, she watches YouTube videos of Elmo on our TV and can listen to her favorite songs in the car upon request thanks to our vehicle’s MP3 dock.

When I compare it to my own childhood and the fact that I didn’t have access to a computer until sixth grade, it’s astounding. I remember my class being broken into groups to visit the school’s lone computer lab once a week. Huddled around a handful of monstrous machines, we learned how to turn them on, what the mouse was and how to peck out glowing green letters on a black screen.

My daughter will likely be tapping out texts at warp speed on her phone’s virtual keyboard by the time she’s the same age.

I guess what scares me is that her generation doesn’t have to wait for anything. Music, movies, television, photos and games are accessible from anywhere with a WiFi connection. I can’t tell her “Your show isn’t on right now, go play” because she knows all I have to do is fire up the DVR and select any episode her little heart desires.

I can’t even take a picture without her asking to see it on my camera’s viewfinder. Forget having to wait until the roll of film is finished, not to mention getting the photos developed. Everything in her world happens immediately.

As a parent, the concept of perpetual instant gratification is very scary. I want my children to learn the virtue of patience and perhaps even the old adage that the best things in life are worth the wait.

That said, it’s not always easy knowing where to draw the line. A large part of me wants to ban the iPhone from ever entering her little hands, but when we’re doing something mundane like shopping for a new dishwasher, I know I can hand it to her and she’ll be content, well-behaved and close by for the duration — as opposed to interrupting and running around when her patience understandably wears thin.

The small glimmer of justification I fall back on is that the games geared toward her age group are educational. Dora asks her to count before doing a little dance, a monkey rewards her with a sticker after she puts a puzzle together, and coloring pages test her eye-hand coordination. Plus, she’ll likely need intense computer skills just to keep up in school, let alone the job market when she’s older.

At the very least, it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I see toddlers everywhere using their parent’s smart phones — at the grocery store, restaurants, even at church. So I’m sure those parents have to strike a balance with other electronic devices at home, too.

Part of me wonders if each generation experiences the same concerns and fears. My mom remembers not owning a color television. She probably struggled with allowing me to surf the net without supervision when I was in high school.

I guess when I really think about it, there are a few things that don’t happen instantly at our house. My daughter’s favorite grilled cheese sandwiches don’t pop out of thin air, we can’t go outside until her toys are put away, and the water park most certainly isn’t going to happen in December — no matter how much she begs.

Technology isn’t going to change that. Well, not for her generation anyway.

I just took a crap THISSS BIGGG!

2011-05-21T21:21:00.002-04:00

Mother's Day Jerryisms

2011-05-08T10:32:00.004-04:00

While making a toast to successfully eating out at a restaurant with both kids:
"To make it a full family toast, I guess I'd have to clink my glass against your boobs because that's what Evan drinks out of."

On our way home from said restaurant with both kids screaming bloody murder in the back seat:
"If I ran a vasectomy business, that would be my radio commercial. I'd just run 59 seconds of that sound and finish up with 'For a vasectomy, call 555-1234.'"

Newspaper column

2011-05-05T21:35:00.003-04:00

I think it's natural that holidays mean different things to us at different stages in our lives, but none of them has undergone a more significant change for me than Mother's Day.

When I was a little girl, I commemorated the holiday by bestowing my mom with drawings bedazzled with glue and glitter, macaroni noodle necklaces and other handmade gifts from the heart.

I remember one particular year in grade school that we had been instructed to grow a plant for our mothers weeks in advance. Every morning, someone in my class had the responsibility of watering the little cups by the windowsill, and it seemed like everyone's gift was thriving in time for the big day.

Everyone's, that is, but mine.

Even though I essentially handed her a decorated Styrofoam cup filled with nothing but dirt, my mom acted as if I had given her two dozen long-stemmed roses.

I repaid the favor years later by turning into a teenager who wanted nothing to do with her. She was too hard on me. She didn't understand me. And, oh, the embarrassment if she delved into what I deemed private.

During those years I was forced -- wholly against my will -- to attend brunch on Mother's Day with the rest of my extended family. I'm sure I was a very pleasant table companion filled with sighs, eye rolls and the occasional well-placed scoff.

I came to my senses sometime during college when I realized my mom might actually know a thing or two, and perhaps even be right every once in awhile. I couldn't always make it home for Mother's Day, but I remembered to at least call if I had forgotten to send a card.

After graduation, this funny thing happened. My mom became my best friend. She turned into someone I could not only rely on, but someone whose opinion I valued. Someone who knew exactly what to say whether the news was good or bad.

But it wasn't until I became a mother myself that I really understood and appreciated everything she has done for me.

I've I rocked a screaming baby for hours, changed wet sheets in the middle of the night and wiped away tears while wielding a pink princess Band-Aid. I've located missing stuffed animals, cut food into miniscule pieces and turned a couch into a castle.

Sometimes all before 9 a.m.

And when I feel like I can't possibly give of myself any more, when my patience has long since run out, I call my mom. Most times I just need to hear that it's going to be alright. That I'm doing a good job and my daughter isn't going to be ruined forever if I caved and gave her fruit snacks for breakfast.

Before we hang up, I always end up thanking her. She probably thinks it's for the advice or just for listening, but really it's long overdue for all the years she spent raising me -- years I was too young or stubborn to say so.

This year the day snuck up on me. With a toddler and an 8-week-old in the house, I didn't get a gift together in time to mail it. And I know my mom won't mind or care because she'll understand.

She knows I'll make her proud by raving about a decorated cup of dirt when it comes my way.

Blue Steel

2011-04-22T10:05:00.002-04:00

Outsmarted by a 3 year old

2011-04-21T09:10:00.002-04:00

Jerry: Lets play a rhyming game. I say a word and you say a different word that rhymes, okay?

Allison: OKAY!

Jerry: Hat.

Allison: Bat. ... My turn! ... CELERY.

Jerry: ...

Allison: I WIN!

Newspaper column

2011-04-16T09:13:00.005-04:00

Although the idea of retirement probably sounds like pure bliss to the majority of those putting in a 40-hour work week, I now realize that the transition isn't always so easy.

Long commutes, never-ending meetings and aggravating co-workers aside, careers often define us. They provide much more than a paycheck and a sense of purpose. For some, they can result in a body of work to be remembered by.

I started thinking about all of this as both of my parents near the end of their final year of teaching. The decision to retire wasn't one either of them took lightly, but after more than 70 years of running a classroom between them, I'd say they're entitled to some downtime.

The hard part is that neither of them know how to sit still. When they visit for a few days, I have to mentally prepare for the ensuing exhaustion. Frankly, I've stopped trying to keep up with them.

My dad rips around the house looking for something, anything to fix. He checks the expiration status of the water filter on our fridge, tests the batteries in all of our fire detectors, and once I caught him inspecting the seal on our new storm windows.

If it's possible, my mom is worse. You'd think my house was uninhabitable the way she cleans. I could hire an entire team of professionals to scrub from ceiling to floor right before she gets here and she'd still head right for my vacuum and mop.

Neither have hinted that they're feeling any trepidation about the impending life change, so I'm just planning being there for them if they need to talk when the time comes.

Personally, I can only relate on a small scale. A few months ago, I left journalism -- a career I loved and cultivated for over a decade -- to spend more time at home with my children.

As I drove away after my last day at work, a box beside me filled with the personal contents from my desk, the range of emotions I felt was almost indescribable. Even though I was confident I had made the right decision for me and my family, I ended up sobbing so hard I had to pull over and call my best friend.

Responding to breaking news. The rush of meeting nightly deadlines. Satisfaction of a job well done. Even the office environment -- occasional computer problems and all. It was a lot to give up all at once.

I can only imagine adding a few more decades to the tally.

Now that I've had some time to adjust, and with it a little perspective, leaving a career isn't the end of the book. It's just the start of a new chapter.

I guess it's natural to think about the change as an ending. But eventually you realize it's also a beginning.

With that in mind, I suppose I shouldn't be worried about my parents. I should probably be more concerned about resting up for their more frequent visits.

The Newborn Heavyweight Champion

2011-04-07T12:59:00.009-04:00

I know. He's a month old and I haven't updated one bit. To be honest, I have SUCH a newfound appreciation for parents with more than one child. Hard doesn't even begin to describe the responsibility.

But when I get a few hours of sleep and can focus my eyes, I have two incredible little beings to cuddle with and love.

Here's one quick photo from the hospital. He's already benching 20 pounds.

He's here!

2011-03-11T17:23:00.003-05:00

Evan Louis was born Sunday, March 6, 2011 at 11:11 a.m. He weighed 8 pounds, 10 ounces and is 22-inches long. I feel blessed beyond measure.

Photos and more details soon.

February 27, 2011

2011-02-27T08:41:00.002-05:00

Today is my due date. As much as I'm physically ready to have this child, I'm actually worried whether I'm ready in every other aspect.

It's a strange feeling because I know I can do it. I've been there before. I've got more than three years of experience on my parenting punch-card, and if Allison is any indication at the job Jerry and I are doing, we're either extremely lucky or we've made a few good moves.

I guess part of the fear is whether I'll have enough to give. Being a mother is by far the most demanding job I'll ever take on in my lifetime. And, for some reason, I know that adding another child to the mix won't just double the responsibilities. I have a feeling going from one to two is exponentially more complicated than that.

I'm worried about guiding Alli through this huge life-altering transition. As much as we've done to prepare her for what's coming, I know there will be bumps in the road as she gets used to not having our undivided attention. I want her to know that she's still just as important as she always has been, but I'll have to make that known while I'm sleep-deprived and working on making sure someone else's needs are constantly met, too.

I'm worried about having those little quiet moments with my son that I cherished with Allison. There are far more responsibilities at home now, and I don't want our son's infancy to pass while I'm distracted by laundry, taking Allison to school and everything else that comes with running a household somewhat smoothly.

I'm worried about finding time to nurture the relationship that started it all. With our demanding jobs and crazy schedules, Jerry and I already have so little time to ourselves. I know we both feel blessed beyond measure to have created a family, but it's so easy to lose sight of each other while we're running around fulfilling our everyday responsibilities.

Despite all of these fears, I wouldn't want it any other way. I know my worries aren't unfounded. In fact, it helps me realize that I'm taking it all seriously.

Plus, I know there will be moments that make all of my fears disappear. I'm really looking forward to the first weekend after our son is born where we're all snuggled in bed -- me, Jerry, Allison, the baby and Toby -- and I know that everything I need at that moment is right there.

And the rest of my insecurities can wait.

A few days to spare!

2011-02-21T15:52:00.004-05:00

Thought some of you would like to see the little man's nursery! Due date is in six days and I'm R-E-A-D-Y.

Incidentally, it's the same room Allison's nursery was in. We moved her into the bigger room. It's amazing to me how different one space can look. Here's a reminder of what it used to look like.

The best of both worlds: Jerryisms AND Alli-isms

2011-02-16T10:54:00.006-05:00

After two consecutive wrong numbers in a row:
"My cell number's on a bathroom stall somewhere."

Responding to Allison, who is obsessed with gender differences at the moment:
"Music is for everyone, honey. There aren't boy songs or girl songs. ... Unless maybe you're listening to Melissa Ethridge, which is kind of a gray area."

Noting Toby's desperation while playing pancake toss games in the kitchen after I made too many for dinner:
"I might as well be juggling steaks in front of starving Ethiopians."

*****************

Explaining the nature of BunnyBear's relationship:
"Bunny and Bear are best friends. ... Best friends for hours."

Looking at the latest cover of Newsweek, featuring a photo of President Obama:

"Mom? Who's that?"

"That's the president. His name is Barack Obama. He's the leader of our country."

"Oh, I thought it was my daddy."

Newspaper column: Sometimes carnations smell better in the garbage

2011-02-14T06:09:00.000-05:00

Although I've always anticipated Valentine's Day on some level because it's a few days away from my birthday, when I think back, more often than not, I shouldn't have.

High school was particularly brutal. I never seemed to be dating anyone in February, unlike the majority of my friends, and my district had an annual fundraiser where students could purchase carnations to be delivered to one another throughout the day with a handwritten note.

The first year, I remember losing sleep fearing I would be the only one in the entire school not to get a carnation from someone. I pictured every girl walking through the hallways with heavy armloads of pink and red -- much like Miss America during her triumphant celebratory saunter after being crowned.

Little did I know the opposite would happen.

During homeroom, I was relieved to find two pink carnations waiting for me on my desk. Sure, one was from my mother, who taught at the school, but no one had to know that but me. The other was from my best friend who I had confided my fear to. I instantly panicked because I hadn't returned the favor, but I knew she'd probably be getting actual roses from her boyfriend, so I figured the scales were even.

The next period, I arrived at my desk to find yet another carnation. This one was from "anonymous," so it immediately spiked my heart rate. How on earth was I supposed to concentrate on algebra after that? The school might have devised a great way to raise money, but I'm guessing someone forgot to factor in the level of distraction it could create for a teenager without a relationship status.

As the day went on, I found more carnations waiting for me at each class. And each time I sank lower and lower into my desk. It appeared that every guy I had ever been nice to in passing decided the dreaded carnation was the best way to ask me out on a date.

The flowers felt like lead weights. I wanted to shred them into pieces, throw them in the trash and run home. They ruined what I thought had been perfectly good casual friendships with guys that I saw throughout my day. Guys I now had to avoid. Pronto.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon ducking into bathrooms, cowering behind friends' lockers, and taking alternate routes. When the final bell rang, I instantly felt the relief wash over me. Who knew a series of shrill beeps could sound like music?

Although I made no mention of the disaster later that night during dinner, preferring instead to assume that ignoring the situation would make it disappear, my mom found the pile of bent carnations in my garbage and inquired.

Apparently I should've burned them to get rid of all the evidence.

So I told her everything. Then she made me call each and every one of them to thank them for the flower and say I'd prefer to remain friends.

It was absolute agony. I hadn't read all of Dante's "Inferno" yet in English class, but I figured his seven rings of hell would be downright pleasant compared to my day.

There was still one silver lining -- the carnation from Mr. Anonymous. But one quick phone call to my best friend to lament about the situation killed that glimmer of hope, too. She said her boyfriend had filled that one out just in case I needed an extra boost, but she figured I'd recognize his handwriting.

A pathetic cherry on top of a disaster Valentine's Day sundae.

Those memories are one of the main reasons I never take for granted being married to my best friend this time of year -- no chocolate, jewelry or carnations required.

GOOOO STEEELERRRS!

2011-02-06T15:19:00.005-05:00

Jerry has been freaking out for two weeks that I would go into labor today and he'd miss watching the Super Bowl.

So I did what any loving wife would do.

I called him at our friend's house, where he's pre-gaming, and told him my water broke. And really sold it with tears and all.

Yes, his reaction was priceless. And, yes, it was as much fun as it sounds.

It's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to

2011-01-24T05:33:00.003-05:00

Exactly seven days ago, I was complaining about how difficult it was to get around with what I'm assuming is going to be a 32-pound newborn and a pulled groin muscle.

Then I fell down the stairs.

The overwhelming first response that everyone has is "Oh my gosh, is the baby alright?" I know I've been a vessel for the past 35 weeks, but never is it more apparent than after an injury. When I respond positively, the matter is seemingly resolved. Nevermind that I required an emergency room visit for myself and am completely unable to care for my daughter, get up a flight of stairs or even shower.

Growing frustrations aside, that, of course, was my first concern, too. In hindsight, it may have been what caused my primary injury. My overwhelming instinct to protect my midsection led me to fall in such a way that contorted my leg. I felt my right heel graze and miss the step, and as I fell, I used all of my strength to grab onto the handrail and wall to prevent myself from going down belly-first.

My right leg ended up bent behind me, and I landed with all of my weight on my ankle over and over again as I bumped down the remaining steps until my other foot hit the floor and stopped the momentum.

It's amazing how much clarity you have after an injury like that -- even at 3 a.m. on only a few hours of very uncomfortable sleep. I'm sure it's the body's natural surge of adrenalin, but I had enough coherence to mentally assess myself and know that the baby was fine before the pain took over.

Fortunately Jerry heard the fall. In any other circumstance, he could without exaggeration sleep through a parade marching through our bedroom. But, as he put it, "The thump woke me up."

Normally I resist seeking medical attention at all cost. My skin could be melting off my face and I'd be holding my lips together long enough to get out the words, "Lets give it a day or two and see if it improves."

But after Jerry helped me limp to the couch in tears and I saw the shape of my ankle, I immediately agreed to go to the hospital with a secondary ulterior motive of demanding an ultrasound if nothing more than for peace of mind.

After my mother-in-law arrived to be there for Allison when she woke up, we made our way to the emergency room in the dark. It wasn't exactly the trip to the hospital that we had been planning on. Strangely, I found myself wishing I was in a completely different type of pain.

The difficulty that my pregnancy posed was immediately obvious. The receptionist didn't know whether to send me to the maternity ward upstairs or admit me into emergency. Ultimiately the maternity staff said they weren't capable of dealing with an ankle injury and agreed to send someone down to run some tests once I was in a room.

Next came the X-ray talk, which left me in tears. Again. Normally it wouldn't be a question. Ankle injuries are apparently very tricky and almost impossible to diagnose without them. But they're also a risk to the fetus because it could lead to increased risk of cancer later in life, which immediately had me shaking my head and refusing to cooperate.

The physician's assistant didn't seemed to be surprised by my response and added that I could always give it a few days and call an orthopedic surgeon if things regressed.

When I asked for a rundown of the worst-case scenario, she said a very bad sprain or break would require surgery in which they would induce labor because I'm almost full-term, allow me to deliver then immediately move me into an operating room to cut open my ankle.

Lets just say I wish I hadn't asked that question.

Nurses came and went with ice packs and orange juice in hopes of getting the baby moving. Another woman wheeled in a computer to record all of my medical coverage information. And eventually a nurse from maternity found a strong fetal heart rate after struggling amidst a wildly warping belly.

When the doctor arrived, she took the ice pack off, gasped and said, "You're getting an X-ray" all in the matter of seconds. When I started to protest, she added, "I have two kids, I completely understand your hesitation, but if your baby was born prematurely right now they'd do an X-ray directly on its chest to see how developed the lungs are."

She continued to explain that the low dose of radiation used for an ankle isn't likely to even be an issue, especially considering it's on the part of my body that's furthest away from my torso.

I conceeded. And requested five of those heavy protective aprons but was happy when I was given two.

The diagnosis was a bad sprain, and at the time I felt a great sense of relief. But after a week of complete inability to put any weight on my right foot at all, zero progress and being confined to a couch when I have about a million things I should be doing ... I'm having second thoughts.

All of the research I've done online leads me to the conclusion that clean breaks heal much more quickly. Stage-three sprains can take up to six weeks to moderately heal (which takes me exactly to my due date) and up to a year or more to fully heal.

Even typing that makes me angry. I'm so mad. I'm mad at myself for not staying in bed. I'm mad at myself for not being able to care for my daughter. I'm mad at myself for causing such an inconvenience to the rest of my family.

I've been on the couch for seven days. Seven entire days. I use crutches to get to the bathroom and back, which even this morning left me in tears from the pain that shoots up my leg and stops mid-calf. And that's from doing nothing. Just holding my foot in the air behind me and lightly resting it on the floor for a few seconds so I can go to the bathroom and hobble my way back to the couch.

The swelling is still pretty ugly even though it has improved a little. The brusing is yellowing, which is about the only positive sign I have at this point. Everything else has me down today. I tried pouring myself a glass of orange juice while Jerry was getting ready for work and ended up sobbing because I couldn't find a way to carry it in my teeth back to the couch.

I hate that I've had to cancel all of my portrait sessions. I hate that I can't get Toby food when he's looking at me and whining to eat. I hate that I have to "take it easy." I hate relying on everyone else for everything.

I just want to go back to waddling around. Desperately.

Jerryisms

2011-01-12T04:45:00.007-05:00

Anyone who gets within five feet of Jerry for more than five minutes knows he wants an iPhone. Ever since I got him an iPod Touch for his birthday two years ago, he's been obsessing, but with the majority of our friends and family on the Verizon network, it just didn't make sense for us to switch for the sole purpose of him getting a particular phone.

In the meantime, he's been stalking online tech talk forums, over-analizing every bit of news to be released from Apple and praying. I won't even get into the whole "if I had a penny" thing because our house would've been crushed from the weight of all that copper.

So when Apple announced yesterday that Verizon would be taking pre-orders for the iPhone in a few weeks, his enthusiasm was, well, full of Jerryisms.

***********

Never mind that my birthday and due date are next month:
"FEBRUARY IS GOING TO BE AWESOME NOW!"

After I reminded him as much:
"Oooh! Maybe it'll come on your birthday, then we can BOTH get presents! ... And mine will be better than yours."

"Right around February 16th, you'll be like 'When's this baby coming?!' and I'll be like, 'WHERE'S MY FRIGGIN' iPHONE?!!!"

newspaper column

2011-01-09T09:31:00.004-05:00

Everyone has a few undesirable moments in life that they're never going to live down, regardless of how much time passes and how many great things they accomplish.

I'm sure Bill Clinton, Martha Stewart and Michael Vick would be nodding their head in agreement.

Fortunately mine all fall into much less severe categories, but every once in awhile, my parents, friends and husband like to remind me of things that make my nose instantly scrunch up in embarrassment. I know they love me and that it's all in good fun, but I wouldn't mind zapping them with a memory obliterator either.

The one that seems to come up most frequently is the time I nearly killed my husband with salmonella poisoning on our third date.

I had invited him over to dinner at my apartment, and because I really liked him, I went all out. I ironed my only tablecloth, Googled how to fold a linen napkin into an impressive shape, and prepared my best chicken recipe with chocolate molten souffle for dessert.

By the time Jerry arrived, my little place looked incredible and the food was ready to be put on the table. When we sat down to eat, everything was going great until he politely said, "Um, I think the chicken is a little undercooked."

Until then, he had been dutifully trying to stomach what was obviously inedible. But when he got to the center and the chicken was completely raw, he spoke up. I hadn't noticed because I was probably too preoccupied making sure all the other details were perfect.

Knowing what I know about him now, it's nothing short of astounding that he didn't spit the chicken out and run to the bathroom gagging. A few years earlier, he was hospitalized when he and his his college roommates ate undercooked chicken from a George Forman grill. Even though it had nothing to do with the product itself, Jerry still gets nauseous just passing them on display at a department store.

Embarrassed and apologetic, I quickly put the chicken back in the oven, and we made the most of the meal by eating the side dishes first. Eventually I pulled the chicken out again, presuming it would be cooked to perfection and reserved it.

Jerry took another bite and I saw his eyes widen. When I checked my piece, it was inexplicably as raw as when I had put it in the second time. Then I discovered that I hadn't remembered to turn the oven back on.

We got a good laugh out of the oversight, and the chicken was finally edible on the third try, but little did I know it would become the standard by which my cooking would be judged.

I have literally made us thousands of meals in the seven years since then, but the infamy of the undercooked chicken lives on. On the bright side, even my worst culinary disasters aren't as bad as "The Salmonella Dish," as we've dubbed it.

Granted, it might be easier to get over if Jerry wasn't a great cook himself, but I think I've more than proved my kitchen prowess.

I suppose if one incidence of undercooked chicken is the worst black mark I have on my record, I should willingly embrace it. Maybe by delicious meal No. 500,000 I'll have outgrown the teasing.

If not, I'll tell him to stick a fork in it. It's done.

Baby Jesus has nothing on my kid

2011-01-05T03:46:00.010-05:00

About a week before Christmas, Allison's nursery school put on a Christmas pageant. I had zero idea what to expect other than probably a laugh, because the only instructions I was given from her teacher included "dress her in red or green and drop her off here at 6."

I tried getting details about the performance out of Alli, but even though she's fully capable of communicating, she's much like a teenager who can't be bothered to pass along any vital information. I expected having to play 20 questions in order to find out about her day when she's 14, but 3? JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU COLORED DURING CIRCLE TIME. Honestly.

On the night of her pageant, she was very excited to wear her "beauuutiful" new Christmas dress. And because I hadn't taken any photos of her yet for family, which I do every year to give as gifts, we got ready a little early, went up into the studio and played around for a few minutes before we left. She even let me curl her hair for the first time ever, which let me tell you, is like a major culmination of all of the times I played dress up with my dolls as a little girl. My heart nearly burst out of my chest.

And if that wasn't enough, watching her perform with her class turned me into a puddle. I was brimming with tears as I laughed, then I'd get angry because I couldn't see through all the moisture in my eyes.

Because she's in the school's youngest class, they went first. Her teacher escorted them down the aisle to the stage, each of them carrying an instrument and looking a little shell-shocked even though I'm sure they practiced for weeks. Allison lit up when she passed us sitting with her big cousins and Jer's mom, and it was almost as if you could see the switch in her demeanor. She was ready to perform. She beamed, started taking big marching steps and shook her tambourine in rhythm.

When she got on stage, I noticed for the first time that she's literally a head taller than everyone in her class, but what struck me most of all was how overly animated she was. I know she comes from a long line of performers on my side of the family, but it's almost as if she had no nerves at all. It was incredible to see.

They sung a few Christmas carols including "Away in a Manger" and "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" complete with hand gestures. One of her classmates tried stealing baby Jesus out of the cradle in front of them, but Allison carried on as if the distraction wasn't happening, dutifully placing her hands together when she was supposed to and swaying her hips to the music.

When they finished, she basked in the applause -- jumping, squealing and clapping along.

It was honestly the best Christmas present I've ever received. I miss the tiny infant I used to hold in my arms, but watching her grow is nothing short of incredible.

My oh-so classy introvert

2010-12-30T20:56:00.001-05:00

My parents were in town for a few days after Christmas, and one afternoon while my mom and I were on a tear getting the nursery cleared out, my dad entertained Allison with his laptop's video feature. It's obvious that she loved watching herself while it was filming, but it pales in comparison to the joy she got seeing the final product. She watched it so many times that she memorized all of her lines and screamed and laughed so hard she nearly passed out.

Normally a video of Allison would remain permanently in my camcorder for that miraculous day I don't have anything on my agenda. You know, 18 years from now. But because my dad is far less of a procrastinator than I am -- in fact, the mere thought of putting something off for 10 seconds instantly gives him a rash -- the video was e-mailed out to family, uploaded to Facebook and put on YouTube within a few hours.

Ahh, the information age.

Now no one needs to wait to see what a half-masticated raisin looks like in the mouth of a toddler.

30 weeks

2010-12-21T11:24:00.003-05:00

With only 10 weeks left until my due date, I realize I should probably be panicking about how little we have done at this point. The holiday season has been so busy this year it pretty much obliterated any productivity I was making toward getting ready for Bubba. I can't even settle on a paint shade for his room, and that's usually my wheelhouse.

It never escapes me how little I've been able to document this pregnancy. I won't lie, it's been incredibly hard this time around -- mostly for reasons completely independent of my expanding midsection. Besides the horrible ongoing morning sickness, which I'm chalking up to my body's reaction to the male hormones, I've also thrown out my back twice and had a raging case of poison ivy. It led to a lovely secondary rash that spread throughout my entire body and required numerous trips to a skin specialist and nearly hospitalization. I still have large scars all over my legs and probably always will.

So dealing with health issues, an overbooked work schedule, trying to juggle Allison's growing committments at school, Jerry's new responsibilities at work and life in general, time seems to slip away before I can blink sometimes.

And because I know so many families are in the same boat, that's one of the reasons I love my job so much. I love helping them freeze time for just a second. To capture a special moment that will remind them about where they were that year.

It made me realize I wanted that for us. I wanted at least one photo of us as a family during what will very likely be my last pregnancy.

So I made time.

I asked a good friend and photographer to take some photos for us while we were vising my family for Thanksgiving. It was bitterly cold and windy out, but Jerry and Allison knew how important it was to me. So not only did they make the most of it, but we had fun, too. Watery eyes, runny noses and all.

In the end, Scott gave us a bunch of great images I love, but one really captured us exactly. It's already hanging on our wall and if nothing else, I will always have this to remember my baby Bubba before I got to hold him in my arms.

Newspaper column

2010-12-12T05:06:00.001-05:00

Rewind the clock about five years, and my real estate agent was mentioning something about the house my husband and I were touring being located in a flood zone.

I remember asking what the extra insurance might cost annually, but her answer didn't matter. Did you see that gorgeous built-in china cabinet in the dining room? What about the high ceilings? And so much closet space!

According to the seller's disclosure form we were given, the house had only flooded once in the past 11 years, and that was when remnants of hurricane Ivan pretty much washed out the entire region.

And, as luck would have it, the basement was completely redone afterward -- including a brand new furnace. Score!

The first year in our new home, we checked the sump pump every time the forecast called for dew. But after a few storms only produced small puddles in our back yard and not a drop indoors, we relaxed. To be honest, I had almost forgotten about it entirely.

So when my husband called with concern that all of our daughter's Christmas presents were in bags on the basement floor during the heavy rain last week, I nearly dismissed him.

Instead, I indulged his request to check. When I rounded the corner to discend the bottom steps to the basement, I stopped short. There was water throughout the entire space, and it was visibly rising through a small crack in the floor.

I think I managed to mumble, "Oh my God, I have to go" before hanging up the phone and dropping it on the landing.

Unfortunately for Jerry, I had slipped on his brand new sneakers to cover my bare feet during what was presumambly going to be a quick inspection. I tried gingerly stepping in what few dry spaces remained, but it was no use. When I opened the door to check the second room, more water gushed out, covering my feet up to my ankles.

The icy sensation wasn't the most shocking part. Seeing all of our things submerged in water was.

I tried to salvage the presents first and ended up holding up boxes of toys long enough for the water to drain out. Then I looked around to survey the rest of our belongings and I just wanted to cry. All of the things we had been storing for our soon-to-arrive new baby were soaked.

I felt totally helpless.

In a panic, I called Jerry back to tell him the news, which he had deducted on his own after my quick departure. A plumber was on the way.

Turns out the sump pump was working, but it was overwhelmed. The plumber extended pipes away from our house so it could drain to the street rather than recycle it back into our basement.

Then the fire department showed up. A friend apparently called on my behalf, and I couldn't have been more grateful. Three volunteers helped me pick up what remained on the floor, toss some of what couldn't be salvaged and devised a temporary fix for the problem areas. And being in my third trimester, that was an enormous help.

Jerry and a neighbor did the brunt of the work that afternoon, hooking up a second pump and directing the water to increase its effectiveness. Little by little the water started to recede -- taking with it my anxiety.

Now that the mess has been cleaned and the damage assessed, I feel incredibly fortunate. Not only did I learn a valuable lesson about where not to store things I intend to keep, I was overwhelmed by the help and support we received from our friends and community.

From dropped-off dehumidifiers to borrowed pumps and phone calls offering assistance, I spent much of that day just saying thank you. I guess sometimes it takes a small catastrophe to remind you about all of the important things in life.

If I'm ever in a position where I'm left wondering which is which, I'll know that the things I really need are strengthened by a few inches of water. The rest can be replaced.

Alli-isms

2010-11-22T14:06:00.004-05:00

Asking for Special K with Red Berries this morning:
"Mom, I want strawberries and snowflakes for breakfast."

Her attempt at the phrase "driving me crazy":
"Toby, stop it! You're driving all crazy!"

Her way of politely asking me to move:
"Mommmm, your big butt is in my face!"

Trying one of my bras on for size:
"This is too big for MY nippos."

Baby Bubba

2010-11-14T02:54:00.006-05:00

We've been asking Allison from the beginning what we should name the baby, and she came up with lots of great suggestions including recurring favorites "Puppy" and "Blue."

I told her we're not A-list celebrities who partake in such nonsense and asked her to dig a little deeper.

But after our 20-week prenatal visit, which of course comes with the highly anticipated ultrasound and gender revelation, she's settled on a name: Bubba. Which kind of clicked for me because WE'RE HAVING A BOY!

Jerry's response? "I've never been so excited to see a penis in my entire life!"

Yes, right in the doctor's office with the technician, ultrasound wand in hand. After she stopped laughing, he asked her how certain she was. She looked right at him and said, "No labia look like that."

And although we've already come to a consensus on his actual name, we've decided to keep it a secret. So, for now, Baby Bubba it is.

I can't wait to meet him in 15 weeks. (Or 13 if he's really smart and chooses to get a head start on becoming the favorite.)

My almost 3-year-old

2010-10-27T10:15:00.009-04:00

I took Allison out for her birthday photos yesterday. Her big day isn't for another few weeks, but the weather was so warm, I had to take advantage of the perfect fall day.

And, yes, that white dress was totally destroyed when we got home. Shout spray kicks ass. That is all.

(I watermarked them for my business Facebook page and didn't want to redo them, so please overlook!)

Newspaper column

2010-10-24T08:18:00.001-04:00

I know it's fashionable this time of year to indulge in a little horror and gore, but it's fun to allow your imagination to run wild. For many, Halloween means haunted hay rides, scary movie marathons on TV and perhaps giving paranormal activity a little more thought.

At least that's what always seems to happen at our house.

My daughter has just gotten to the age where she has started complaining about ghosts at night, prompting a full and thorough search under her bed, behind her door and in her closet before lights out. But when I'm done reassuring her there aren't any spooky spirits in our house, then I have to convince my husband.

Granted, our house is more than a century old, which gives Jerry's suspicions a little more merit. But I also know that if they were ever confirmed, we'd have a "For Sale" sign in our front yard the very next day. He's just too superstitious.

As someone who spent a year living in an apartment where the radio dial would spin until I asked it to stop, doors would open and close multiple times at random, and personal items would lift off my dresser and suspend in mid-air for a few seconds before dropping to the floor, it takes a lot to convince me of ghosts. I've learned that one weird happenstance is likely just that.

Jerry, however, is determined there is something in our basement. He always points to the fact that the lights come on when no one is down there. But I know he has a tendency to leave them on. In fact, I often follow him around the house, flipping switches when he leaves a room. I'm just not behind him when he's done using his home gym or bringing up a load of laundry.

It makes sense that he only notices it at night when the light is visible from the crack under the basement door, but I suspect that means the bulbs were left on all day -- a real nightmare to our electric bill.

When I was sharing this story with a friend recently, instead of laughing, she got really quiet and eventually whispered, "I think I have a ghost in my house, too."

She only has one instance to rely on, but it was a little more hair-raising than basement light ulbs.

After bringing her baby home from the hospital, she and her husband hooked up their infant monitors. A few days later, when her son was starting to stir from a nap, my friend heard some strange static, loud crackling and then a woman's voice through the device.

"Shh ... shh ... shh ..."

Then the lullaby started. "Hush little baby, don't you cry ..."

My friend said her protective instincts far overrode any fear, so she burst into the room, grabbed her son and ran outside, heart racing. She said she didn't see anything in the nursery, but the air was cold. They have since unplugged the monitors and I'm told he now sleeps in a bassinet in their room at night within arm's reach.

I didn't have much to say other than try my best to reassure her, but if that had happened at our house, I think I would've raced Jerry to the phone to call our real estate agent.

Lightbulbs I can handle. Ghostly electronic devices are best left for sci-fi shows I can turn off when I get spooked.

Newspaper column

2010-09-26T11:43:00.001-04:00

When my brother and I were little, we would get a kick out of checking out old photos of ourselves as babies. Every once in awhile, we'd grab all of the massive albums off the bookshelves, lay them on the carpet and sprawl out beside them, flipping through each page one by one.

As we got older, it became obviously apparent that there were far more photos dedicated to my infancy than my brother's. In fact, my albums outrank his four to one.

This is a fact that my little brother likes to bring up frequently even now in adulthood when there's any inkling of favortism or scales tipping in my favor.

"It's okay," he'll say. "I'm used to it. I know you love Kelly more ... as evidenced by the baby books."

It's typically followed by a roomful of groaning and eye rolling, but my mother knows it's something she'll never hear the end of.

And it's something I'll never forget either.

My husband and I are now expecting our second child, and as much as we're both thrilled about our newest addition, the pace of life with a toddler doesn't leave room for as much planning and doting as there was the first time around.

With my daughter's pregnancy, I documented every weird craving, the first kick and even took weekly profile pictures of my growing belly. As I'm nearing the halfway mark of this pregnancy, I can honestly say I'm just glad we have another 20 weeks to get everything together. We haven't had time to do much more than discuss potential name combinations -- and we're nowhere near a consensus on that decision either.

Being someone who loves to write, in addition to taking on the role of paparazzi to my daughter's development, I also spent hours and hours every month compiling letters to her about her milestones. I detailed the stories of her first words, her first steps and my pride in watching her grow and flourish.

I kept it up for two years. And although I'm disapointed that my ever-busy schedule has prevented me from continuing, I'm no longer worried about the dropped project. Now I'm concerned my youngest will think I love him or her less if I'm somehow unable to find the time to do the same -- which, frankly, seems inevitable when I think about trying to balance life with two little ones.

But I know the guilt of parenthood can rack up quickly. As much as I'll try to protect them from every bump and bruise and avoid any potential fodder that would reqire a psychologist's office visit when they're older, I know I'll make mistakes. I know I'm not perfect.

So even though I can quickly become consumed with remorse for not wrapping myself in this pregnancy like I did with my first, I don't allow myself to wallow in the fear of not having enough love to go around for long.

Because I know your heart can expand instantly. I felt it the second they placed my daughter in my arms for the first time. And I know it will happen again. Parents have an amazing ability to love beyond reason.

Even now, when I'm in the middle of my busiest moment -- my daughter is clammoring for help in the bathroom, the dog needs to go out, the phone is ringing and dinner is threatening to boil over -- I'll feel a tiny little kick and instantly smile.

It's not the photo albums and letters that count. It's the kisses and hugs.

Trying to figure out where the time went

2010-09-08T21:11:00.007-04:00

Today was Allison's first day of preschool. We debated long and hard about the decision, but ultimately we thought she would benefit from a place she could call her own without family around.

Plus, interacting with other kids, having to listen to and respect adults other than her parents, and learning to cooperate are all skills we know she'll learn there that she can't learn at home.

At times, it's a little difficult having a child who is so verbally advanced. Conversationally, she prefers the company of 4- and 5-year-olds because they can communicate back. So when she naturally gravitated toward the older classroom this morning and I had to pull her away and lead her into a room of 2-year-olds who mostly can't speak in complete sentences, it was a little tough.

I mean the girl used the word serindipity the other day. Correctly. Upon discovering marshmallows in the kitchen cabinet among the spices. Insane.

Being an only child who is always at home with at least one of your parents can be wonderful in a lot of aspects -- certainly in the personal attention category -- but Jer and I know it has its limitations. So we're hoping a little time in a classroom will help provide her with a few new skills.

She was so excited to go. When I explained to her how I would come in with her and then say goodbye, she said, "DROP ME OFF NOWWW, MOMMMM!"

I'd say she was ready.

Although she said she wanted me to stay with her as we talked about what her teachers would expect of her on the drive over, I got a quick kiss and she turned and that was it. She was a blur of pink as she ran around the room checking everything out as I left. And, frankly, that's wonderful.

As much as I want her to be my little girl forever, I know I have to let her grow. So I showed her the same respect by not making a big fuss either.

Even though I desperately wanted to.

Someone took a photo of ME for a change!

2010-09-04T22:47:00.006-04:00

Crazy, right?! We celebrated Jerry's birthday today with family, football, my homemade sausage chili, an ice cream cake and (at Alli's insistence) party hats.

Jerry's just lucky I talked her out of the pink Hello Kitty ones.

You should probably be sitting down for this

2010-08-21T13:16:00.005-04:00

It seems like no matter what changes I make, I never seem to find any more free time in my schedule to write. But I'd say there's more than enough going on for a quick update.

Just be sure you're sitting.

* I'm pregnant! I'm due in February, and all three of us are very excited. Allison came with me to my first ultrasound appointment out of necessity, and she was very upset that we didn't bring the baby home with us that afternoon.

* I quit my job at the paper. I am now a full-time photographer. It was a gut-wrenching decision to give up a career I've loved for over a decade, but knowing I'll have weekends to see my children participating in whatever activity they decide to pursue, be home to tuck them in at night, eat dinner together as a family and celebrate holidays without me rushing to get to work, well, I'm sure you can understand why the decision was clear.

* Business is booming. I have been so fortunate to have incredible clients who are thrilled with my work that word-of-mouth has spread to the point that I'm booking two months or more in advance now. I can't stress enough that if you believe in yourself, and you're willing to work hard, you can make a change in your life.

* Because of our pending new addition, we've started looking at bigger houses. "The one" doesn't seem to be out there right now, but I did semi fall in love with an old Victorian on a hill with five bedrooms, original woodwork, two fireplaces, stained glass windows, a master suite, a two-car GARAGE, and a huge walk-up third floor that would double my studio space. I know. Sounds perfect, right? the downside is that the former homeowners put on a weird addition with a modern iron spiral staircase that I'm terrified one of the kids will break something on -- or worse. Plus the yard is a little less than ideal for, well, pretty much anything. Like I said, it's on a hill. So we're still looking.

* Jerry got a promotion at work. He's now program director of his station, which means he's in charge of which songs plays when, scheduling, hiring (and it's not-so-pretty counterpart), promoting concerts and events, devising contests and the guy everyone goes to when shit hits the fan. I didn't think it was possible, but he's even more tethered to his phone these days. I may have to organize an intervention, but I'm so proud of him.

* We had to put Toby on a diet because Allison can't seem to protect her snacks or meals. We now count the cheese sticks and sandwiches he steals as part of his daily food intake, and it works! His new name is Skinny Toby, and he can jump on the bed again, which really saves us from the incessant whining when he couldn't do it in his Fat Toby days. The only downside is that he's even more voracious to get scraps falling from our dinner plates when I'm loading the dishwasher. Then I call him Jaws.

* Allison is an amazing lovable girl. Having a toddler certainly comes with its own sets of challenges every day, and I've definitely had moments where I want to just lose it because she isn't listening. But when she's dancing on the bed, looks and me and says, "I love you, Mommy" for no reason, well, those moments far outweigh the other ones.

* This pregnancy has been completely different in every way imaginable. I've been throwing up constantly, and even puked right in front of a candidate for lieutenant governor on my last night at the paper. (What a way to make an exit, right?) Even weirder? I want red meat ALL. THE. TIME. I think Jerry would move my due date to NEXT February if it meant I would keep requesting steak for dinner on a regular basis.

* Jer and I celebrated our five-year anniversary last month. We took a mini overnight getaway to a beautiful historic resort that has hosted six presidents over the centuries. I've wanted to stay there ever since it reopened after three years of extensive renovations. We walked the grounds, checked out old guest books with Washington's signature, played checkers on a table that is probably older than dirt, took a hike to see some natural springs and celebrated with some sparkling grape juice on our balcony. I bypassed the spa so we could splurge on $40 steaks. Meat can melt in your mouth like butter. Oh yes it can.

Newspaper column

2010-06-27T15:38:00.002-04:00

I am enjoying the best part of my weeklong summer vacation to Myrtle Beach right now -- the glorious anticipation.

It occurred to me when I started thinking about how much work still needs to be done before we even start packing the car that perhaps vacation is better in theory than in reality. We made reservations in January, and knowing that I would have my toes in the sand in July was enough to get me through most of winter.

And now that it's just five weeks away, I can almost taste the oceanside margaritas. I bought a new bathing suit and a thick novel that looks very promising. My husband picked out a bunch of new "beachworthy" shirts, as he calls them. And our daughter is very excited to have her very own bucket of colorful sandcastle-making tools.

You know, the fun stuff.

What we haven't had to worry about yet is packing. We haven't had to debate over what stays and what goes. What we have room for and what we don't. We haven't had the argument about who's driving or which route to take. Or whether we remembered the sunscreen. Not to mention the fun of attempting our first 10-hour car trip with a recently potty-trained toddler.

And every vacation I've ever been on, although mostly filled with wonderful moments, always has at least one huge disaster in there somewhere -- sometimes more.

I took a trip to Cancun, Mexico, with my college roommates for spring break our senior year. The memories that instantly come to mind are getting attacked by an unruly peacock in the courtyard of our hotel, having my watch stolen right off my wrist by a group of boys pretending to sell bracelets and ending up on the back of a jet ski with a man who spoke zero English because mine broke down in the middle of our snorkeling adventure.

For our honeymoon, my husband and I went on a Caribbean cruise. Although I can easily call it the best vacation of my life, there were definitely some moments we could've done without. Like when my husband missed a spot on his upper lip while applying sunscreen and ended up with a giant Hitler-like mustache blister. Or getting lost in Mexico when the cab driver misunderstood our desired destination. Or forgetting our bag filled with our formal wear. We felt like jerks in shorts when other people had on tuxes and ball gowns.

Before we got married, we took a little getaway to Ocean City, Md. We were in heaven until we realized we had forgotten towels. It didn't seem like a big deal because there were a million stores filled with towels of every imaginable design and color. But the ones we picked, when wet, bled bright blue and red dye all over our skin, our clothes and our stuff.

Then there are the little things like when I locked my keys in the car on a road trip in Massachusetts. Or when the border patrol agent in Canada apparently thought I looked suspicious and emptied my entire car, including the contents of every suitcase onto the road. Or when I ended up staying in a gritty, disgusting motel when trying to be spontaneous and not make reservations.

But even though those things were nightmares at the time, looking back I guess that's what vacation is all about. Experiencing something new and having funny stories to tell -- good and bad.

I can't wait to see what this one brings. Just hopefully not a flat.

A little lace

2010-06-23T15:55:00.001-04:00

Thought some of you would want to check out my latest (massively time-consuming) project. I just launched a new division of my photography business called Black Lace Images. Let me know what you think!

Alli-ism

2010-06-23T11:05:00.001-04:00

Singing the alphabet:

"A B C D E F G ... H I J K elbow and a P"

Quick update

2010-06-18T15:44:00.003-04:00

Took Allison out for 2.5-year-old pictures a few days ago. You can see them here.

Business is booming. So much for that "I'll have more free time when I go part-time" stuff.

I'm loving life right now.

Oh! And did a great wedding a few weeks ago. Photos here.

Remember the naysayers? Fear will only hold you back. If you have a dream, chase it.

Miss you all.

Jerryism

2010-06-17T16:00:00.003-04:00

Alli: Daddy, I want something to drink.

Jer: I'm getting iced tea, so you can have a little.

Alli: Yeah! I want tea!

Me: How about some water?

Jer: You know what, Alli? This tea is really strong, so I'm going to add some water to make it taste better. We'll call it Twatter.

Me: TWATTER? Really? ... Didn't think that one through before you opened your mouth, did ya?

Newspaper column: My very own miracle grow

2010-05-24T20:38:00.001-04:00

Right around this time every year, I like to pretend I can garden. But if I’m being honest, it’s more like making a trip to a garden center and filling up a cart with things I’ll never use.

Let’s just say I have an extensive seed collection.

When we bought our house four years ago, I was delighted to see a small portion of the back yard had been designated for a garden. It seemed like the perfect new hobby for a first-time homeowner.

I envisioned growing watermelon-sized zucchini, the ripest tomatoes anyone had ever seen, peppers, garlic, squash — and anything else I could cram in there. Every meal during the summer months would be accompanied by something fresh off the vine.

Instead, I have a hearty crop of weeds and a beautiful lamb’s ear plant that thrives despite being neglected.

I’m just not good with plants. Unfortunately for them, I really love the idea of bringing the outdoors in and have a few in every room.

Only the heartiest survive.

I’m constantly reminded about my ineptitude in the botany department when I visit my parent’s house. Years ago, I purchased two small identical potted plants and gave one to my mom. Hers has quadrupled in size and is now waist-high. Mine leans severely to the right and has a few more leaves than when I bought it.

But I suppose I should consider its relative longevity a major feat in itself.

The latest example of my black thumb is even more embarrassing. I strongly hinted that I would like a hanging basket for Mother’s Day and was thrilled to get a massive specimen with gorgeous purple flowers. The leaves were so hearty and green that they appeared waxy.

I immediately hung it on the back porch and often found myself admiring it when I passed a nearby window or walked outside.

But the love affair was short-lived.

Within a week, the leaves were wilted against the basket and the mass scattering of dead petals on the porch railing looked like a crime scene.

I was at a loss. It had been raining for days, so I assumed it didn’t need water. It was getting plenty of sun. The only reasonable explanation I could come up with was that perhaps it had gotten too cold at night, providing a swift and fatal blow.

So I instantly wrote it off and chalked it up to another unfortunate plant casualty. But I figured I’d give it a few days before I put it out for the garbage collectors to enjoy.

You know, just in case.

Then the most bizarre thing happened. A few days later, it looked rejuvenated. The leaves appeared healthy and the flowers were blooming again.

When my husband came home later that afternoon, I happily pointed out the miracle.

“Yeah, I watered it,” he said, laughing. “You have to do that from time to time.”

Oh. Right. I guess it might not have gotten all the rain I thought it had being under the porch and all.

I don’t think he knew it at the time, but by saving my plant, he has now assumed full responsibility for its livelihood.

And I think I might hand him that huge collection of seeds I’ve been amassing, too. Maybe we’ll have homemade zucchini casserole this summer after all.

Free desktop picture and Allison hilarity

2010-05-01T12:16:00.002-04:00

Thought some of you would enjoy this on the photo blog.

I'm working on Allison's back-logged letters now. Hoping to have them up this week.

Newspaper column

2010-04-25T07:22:00.002-04:00

Who knew that potty training would be harder than childbirth?

At this point, I'd gladly go through 22 hours of labor if it meant a difinitive end to this horrible drawn-out battle of wills with my toddler and the toilet. I never thought I would be this obsessed with someone else's bodily functions. Ever.

When Allison was 19-months-old, I thought I had it made. She was successfully asking to use the bathroom on a semi-regular basis. Then it came to an abrupt halt. For the last nine months, I've tried everything from bribery to nonchalance. From Pull-Ups to pulling my hair out. And everything in between.

And everyone tells me girls are easier.

Granted, it hasn't been all bad. There have been a few moments worth celebrating -- however brief.

I came to the conclusion that she'll consistantly go on the toilet if she's not wearing a diaper, so most of her days at home are spent in the buff from the waist down. I felt like a complete genious until I covered her with a blanket while she was watching a TV show. That little bit of fabric somehow encouraged her to pee all over the couch.

Unfortunately, expressing my disappointment was far outweighed by the fun new toy revealed when I removed the cushion for cleaning.

Springs!

Yes, the couch transforms into a toddler trampoline. And if that isn't incentive to keep peeing on the cusions, I don't know what is.

A few days later, her bare butt raised an eyebrow when a neighbor stopped by to ask if we'd like some leftover manure for our yard. I politely declined with the explanation that we had enough fecal matter to worry about at our house. We certainly didn't need any more.

There have also been a few moments that I had to just step back and laugh.

Allison asked to use the bathroom during our most recent weekly playgroup outing, and I couldn't have gotten her to the toilet faster. Knowing that time is of the essence, I practically jumped off the floor before she completed the request.

When the trip proved successful, I summoned my inner cheerleader, as usual, but this time it apparently wasn't enough.

"I want to go tell the guys!" she said, and proceeded to waddle to the door with her pants around her ankles, open it with surprising ease and announce to a room of shocked faces at her lack of clothes that she had, indeed, gone potty.

And because her audience was full of understanding moms going through the same difficult phase with their children, she got exactly what she was looking for -- an eruption of applause and cheers.

At that moment, it was great. But how do I follow that? Next time she'll expect a marching band.

She doesn't seem to care about collecting M&Ms, stickers or toys. She doesn't care if her pants (and socks) are soaked -- it doesn't phase her one bit.

When she wants to, she does. When she doesn't feel like it, she doesn't.

I think this is one battle she's going to have to tackle without me. My husband and I have done all that we can.

I can think of a thousand metaphors that would be appropriate in this case, but I've come up with my own.

You can lead a toddler to the toilet, but you can't force them to pee.

2 years, 5 months (photos coming)

2010-04-21T00:46:00.003-04:00

Dear Alli,

My gosh I'm up to my eyeballs! I've never worked so hard in my entire life, but I think I'm really on the cusp of a total life transformation, and I have you to thank because you're one of the biggest inspirations behind it.

I just need to find time to keep up with these letters! I'll kick myself so hard in 10 years if I don't. These are just as much for me as they are for you.

Anyway, after one year of being in business, I'm ridiculously proud to say that I'm going part-time at the newspaper. This was not without major sacrifices on all of our parts. Our schedules are absolutely crazy right now, but I know there will be a huge payoff when you're in school. You might not think so because you'll always have a parent at home to prevent you from getting away with things you shouldn't, but for me, it's indescribably amazing to know that I'll be around most nights of the week to tuck you into bed.

Just writing that makes my day.

You might not completely grasp what it is I'm doing, but clearly you know that taking pictures is my thing. Any camera in the world is "Mommy's camera." And, frankly, I kind of wish that was the case.

You often help me set up my studio before clients arrive by piling all of the props into the center of the backdrops and ask me to take your picture.

"Eee take my picture, Mommy? ... Eee get your camera?"

I just laugh and ask you to put things in certain places and cross my fingers that you don't knock over any of my light stands, although you're pretty respectful of the items I tell you are off-limits. But even though you're a crazy hurricane up there, it's much more fun than doing it by myself.

The other draw of the studio space for you is my candy jar filled with lollipops. Sometimes you just walk past the door to the third floor and mess with the handle — presumably hoping you'll one day hit the jackpot and gain unrestricted access to all of that sugar.

I'm not sure what I'll do when that day happens. Maybe buy a deadbolt.

*************

You regularly see me editing photos of other children, and it intrigues you to no end. You ask to sit on my lap and want to know their names and where you might have seen or met them before. It amazes me that you retain the information, too. Weeks or months later, you can see a photo of someone on my blog or Facebook page and say, "Oh! That's Anna!"

You just amaze me.

In the mornings, we sit at the dining room table so I can get a little work done, and you use your giant bucket of crayons and markers to draw until your arms threaten to fall off. We've probably gone through an entire ream of computer paper this month alone.

You might not have mastered total control of your markers, but you always tell me what you're drawing. Just this morning, a random shape resembled a boat. When you said so, I reached over and added a sail and some water. I love that you can see things in your creations.

What we're doing isn't too different. We're both making art.

And even though I spend more time working on photos of other kids now, I want you to know that you're still my absolute favorite person, place or thing in the world to take photos of.

And you probably always will be.

*****************

I could write forever about you and your crazy antics, but my fingers would fall off describing them in detail, so instead, I'll see what little blurbs I can come up with.

Witnessing your imagination is so incredible. This morning you encountered my shirt that Toby lovingly dragged to the middle of the hallway, stopped, looked up and yelled, "WAIT! I have to jump ober the alligator!"
Music is still the glue that holds your days together. You sing constantly. You expect us to sing constantly. Meals often include serenading and clapping. Plus, thanks to satellite radio, you have no patience for commercials. Any talking in between the music is intolerable. "I WANT ANOTHER SONG, MOMMY!"
Speaking of which, you scream everything. If your voice was being recorded by a stenographer in a court room, she would use all caps. You are the loudest child on the planet.
Toby has become your best friend. You still harass the shit out of him, but then you'll say things like, "Hey, that's my friend Toby. Aww. He's a good boy." The two of you chase each other, you now share your toys with him and every morning you get a treat for him and help me pour his food for the day.
You are becoming quite the fashonista. I can't just pick out an outfit for you anymore, it has to meet your approval. You won't allow me to choose matching hair clips, either. If you want orange, we go with orange. Who cares that the rest of your clothes are green, right?
What you call me depends on your mood. When you're hurt, it's "I want my Mommy." When you're excited, it's "MOMMY!" When you're being silly it's "Mommer or Momila." Sometimes we spend 10 minutes just repeating each other's names in a funny way using different sounds and mimicking the other's inflections. I love it.

*******************

You're growing like a weed, and I can't stop saying things like "She's just such a KID!" all the time.

The biggest change is that you no longer want or need help for most things, and you're very clear about that. Everything is "BY MYSELF."

Move over Kelly Clarkson. You are the new Miss Independent.

You want to make your own lunch, get into the car on your own, walk not ride in the stroller and pull up your own pants. If only socks were easier, you'd probably throw a fit about those, too.

And I don't even THINK about getting the remote control. When it's time for a show, YOU must be the one to grab it. That is of utmost importance. Even though you simply pick it up off the table and hand it to me, that little exchange is an unspoken, nonnegotiable ritual.

I am only given access to it because you don't know which buttons to push to access the DVR yet. If I wasn't the gatekeeper to your cartoon world, I'm pretty sure you'd have no use for me at all at this point.

Well, that and pouring your milk.

I guess I'm still good for something!

Hey, I'm learning to step back kiddo, but I imagine I'll be fighting the instinct to do things for you as long as I live. I know it's important to let you try and master things on your own, but you'll always be my little girl. No matter how hard you try, you'll never outgrow that.

Love,
Momer, Mommy, Momma, Momila

The places his brain goes is beyond me sometimes

2010-04-20T20:44:00.002-04:00

During a walk, we stopped at the candy store to get something for a friend, and while we were there, I told Allison to pick out three pieces from the display case as a treat for us. Here's the conversation that followed after we rejoined Jerry and Toby who were waiting outside:

"I can't believe three bite-sized pieces of chocolate costs 2 bucks! It's worth it once in awhile, but still!"

"Eh. Don't worry about it. Think of all the money I'm saving."

"What?"

"Well I save a ton of money by not having a crack addiction. That's like 500 bucks a month!"

"You're not right."

"And I don't hire hookers! Spitzer was paying $3,500 every weekend. So I've saved ... $10,500 already this month!"

...

"Seriously. The next time I want something, I'm just going to use the money I didn't spend on hookers."

Sucks when your team is named after a cute animal and you have a toddler in the house

2010-04-16T20:23:00.005-04:00

Jer: Hey, Allison, do you want to watch the Penguins tonight?!

Alli: YEAH! I LOVE PENGUINS!

Me: Um, you do realize you're thinking hockey and she's thinking "Happy Feet," right?

(Allison starts waddling like a penguin.)

Jer: Oh, God. ... Let me try that again. Hey, Allison, do you want to watch hockey tonight?

Alli: No! PENGUINNNS!

Me: Yep. You're screwed.

Linking instead of reposting

2010-04-03T22:08:00.002-04:00

I'm running a huge contest on Facebook right now, so I've been concentrating on keeping the content on my fan page and photo blog fresh. The newest post is one I think some of you will enjoy. Check it out here.

I'll be back here as soon as I can catch my breath!

BUFF THE WOOD

2010-03-26T23:57:00.004-04:00

I'm visiting my family with Alli this weekend, and man do I need this. I need a break from all of the usual, although I brought a ton of work with me.

Starting with the newspaper column I SHOULD be writing instead of the wayyy overdue monthly letter I WANT to be writing.

Or better? Sleeping.

Speaking of which, I forgot a T-shirt to sleep in, so I went through my old drawers and dug up something that hasn't seen the light of day in more than a decade. It has a bit of a musty smell to it, but the memory attached to it slammed me in the face when I opened it up and I nearly fell over laughing.

It's a shirt my team made for Senior Week in high school. I know the slogan is a movie reference, and don't ask me which movie or what it was about (I'm sure we would probably all come up with the same guess), but I can see my friends fighting over our shirt slogan and settling on this:

BUFF THE WOOD.

I'm willing to bet any team would've gotten disqualified if they tried to pull that now. Ahh, we had it so good. That was before high school shootings and all of the inevitable crap that followed.

So, yes, I'm wearing a bright purple shirt with the neck hem cut out with those ugly ass felt letters in all caps. And the back reads: Kels-Buff.

It's good to be home.

New photo blog

2010-03-15T19:40:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the short personal posts here, but I've been sweating over a blog redesign for my photography business. Not to mention editing photos from two shoots last weekend, hammering out all of the details for a launch contest and preparing for a festival I'm going to be a vendor at on Saturday. Then another shoot on Sunday.

Phew!

The template I purchased allows me to use it in two places, so when I have a minute to catch my breath, I'm thinking about doing a redesign here, too. It'll take a little work because it's Wordpress supported, but I think I can do it.

It's definitely time for a little sprucing up. I mentioned earlier that I like change, right?

If you'd like to check out the site, here's the link. Feel free to leave a comment. It should be pretty user-friendly because you won't have to keep retyping your info. It'll remember it for you.

Let me know what you think!

Just in time for St. Patrick's Day Jerryism

2010-03-14T14:31:00.004-04:00

After handing him a bunch of coupons for a trip to Target, among them a buck off Irish Spring, which I asked if he wanted to try:

"When I think of Ireland, I think of potatoes, cabbage and drunks ... none of which I want to smell like."

Feels a lot like discovering I have a superpower

2010-03-11T08:27:00.013-05:00

I wish I had figured out how to upload MP3 files to YouTube AGES ago. I'm really not that technologically challenged, but most of the Google searches related to those two topics result in instructions in the opposite direction -- converting a video into a music file.

Anywho, now that I've found MP32Tube.com, you'll be getting an occasional sound clip from Jerry. But, you know, deal with it. HE'S FUNNY.

Yesterday he called from work to tell us to eat lunch without him because he was working on wrapping up a special project for his morning show. He sent me the clip and I laughed so hard, I couldn't wait to share it.

For those who don't follow off-season football chaos, Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger has been charged with sexual assaulting a woman in a bathroom during a recent trip to Georgia.

Here's Jerry's take on the situation.

*****************

UPDATE: Somehow this got to Pittsburgh, and the producer of the morning show at KDKA loved it so much that the show aired it and interviewed Jerry afterward! Pass the link along!

UPDATE #2: Apparently the phones blew up so much after KDKA played it that the producer decided to run it on all four CBS-owned stations in Pittsburgh tomorrow. Go Jer!

UPDATE #3: It's gone national! Radio stations across the country are playing it, and it's among YouTube's list of most popular videos.

Thanks kid

2010-03-09T12:57:00.003-05:00

"Alli, are you my favorite girl in the whole world?"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"I thought so. ... Who's your favorite girl in the whole world?"

"Uhhh, DADDY!"

Either the best or worst decision I'll make this decade

2010-03-05T08:15:00.004-05:00

As someone who loves change, one of the things I've found hardest to adapt to in adulthood is actually the stability.

Yes, there were lots of times in my life when I had crashed with friends in a dumpy apartment that was barely fit for human habitation where I fell asleep at night dreaming about a home that I could make my own.

There were also times while I was bartending, listening to overly inebriated men berate me for refusing to serve them another shot of whisky that I would duck down, take a few breaths and remind myself that there would come a day when I would have a desk in an office where my job performance was judged in a completely different way.

And, of course, every bad date and heartbreak was always accompanied with dreams of finding someone I could share my life with.

Although my life has been far from dull the past few years -- I've gone through a major milestone with every new calendar since 2003 -- most of the constants in the last five have been very steady, and sometimes I dream of a little change.

Which I'm about to get. Big time.

I didn't plan this next move. In fact, it terrifies me. But I think it's going to be instrumental in how I want to shape my life while raising Allison.

I'm going part-time at the paper.

It shocks me just to write it. I asked my bosses about the possibility earlier this week, and I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around it. Fortunately, I have a few months to get used to the idea because it likely won't be until May or June 1.

To be honest, I suppose I hoped the business would one day enable me this flexibility, but I had no presumptions of it happening this fast. Ideally I would like to be able to balance both a little longer, but because I work nights and weekends, it quickly became an "either or" situation.

When I was faced with the likelihood of working every single weekend from May through November, it made the decision a little more obvious. Clearly I needed something to change, but that doesn't make it any less intimidating.

Metaphorically speaking, it feels like I just jumped off a building, and I'm hoping I built my parachute strong enough to support me. (And my family, a mortgage, two car payments, utility bills, food, clothing and the niceties in life that keep you sane.)

The fear, of course, is failure. Failure to live up to my own expectations.

But I can't afford to fail. It's not an option. There's too much on the line -- and not just the security and dental and eye benefits I'll be leaving behind.

Here goes everything.

A little crossover

2010-02-26T08:13:00.004-05:00

I realize promotions and marketing usually isn't something most of you would be interested in, but I'm guessing this time will be different.

Here's my latest radio ad that will be running next week on a few stations.

I wrote it. Jerry recorded it.

Enjoy!

What 16-year-old's dreams are made of

2010-02-25T08:59:00.006-05:00

We are in technology heaven over here: I upgraded to a full-frame sensor camera, and Jerry and I bought our first-ever brand new car.

I just want to drop everything and drive someplace I've never been while taking pictures out the window. I don't think they've passed a law against that yet.

Normally I'd rave about the camera first, but since I'm still waiting for my honkin' compact flash memory card, I haven't really been able to open 'er up yet. But the temporary demo displays on the viewfinder are so gorgeous they kind of make me want to pee a little.

The car, on the other hand? I'm in loooove. Heart-fluttering teenage love where I want to stay up until 2 a.m. talking on the phone with it, telling it how happy I am when we're together.

Rewind a few months ago, and I was pumped -- PUMPED -- when Jerry came home cheering that our old car was finally paid off. Despite the fact that it had over 100,000 miles on it, I figured we'd drive it until it fell apart, which would probably be another 100,000 miles because it was a Honda.

But when it started shaking uncontrollably on the highway to the point that the driver's seat could've doubled as a vibrating massage chair, I knew it was over. Jerry took it in, and the mechanic initiated the conversation by asking, "How long do you plan on keeping the car?"

The repairs cost half of what it was worth, and frankly, having a two-door sport coupe is a gigantic pain in the ass when you're trying to get a toddler into a car seat. I'd rather try to squeeze a queen-sized boxspring mattress into a dishwasher.

Then there were the other issues. Like the fact that the seatbelt never properly retracted anymore, leaving me struggling to wrangle it into place like a wild horse every time I got in and out. Plus the key fob died ages ago, forcing us to (gasp!) manually lock and unlock it rather than conveniently click a little button on the way to and from our destination. Deal breakers.

Nevermind that we replaced all four tires less than a month ago when I had a horrible blowout on the highway doing 70 mph on my way to work. That was fun.

Needless to say, I didn't want to reintroduce another monthly payment to the household expenses, but the pros of a new car made it more than bearable of a thought. All I wanted was four doors, keyless entry and a seatbelt that retracted properly. Those were the only requirements I gave Jerry. I left the rest up to him.

I shouldn't have been surprised when Jer did his homework, but I can't rave enough about how he tackled the task. Personally, the thought of buying a new car makes me want to run and jump into an active volcano. There is NOTHING I enjoy about the process.

Sure, Jerry has something most customer's don't: a radio morning show and local name recognition. Which, I'm not gonna lie, totally helped us in the deal department. But all jobs have perks, right? Ours just came in the form of great customer service at a car dealership.

We wanted a mid-size sedan, so he checked out all makes and models, well, other than Toyota for obvious reasons. When a top-ranking official admits that a worldwide recall may not "totally" solve all of the accelerator problems, it kind of makes you reluctant to invest in that product.

Long story short, he fell in love with the Ford Fusion. He test-drove a used one, but we ended up being able to buy new for almost the same price. Five-star crash test rating. 2010 Motortrend car of the year. President's Day sale. An extra $1,000 cash back when you trade in a Honda.

Who were we to ignore the stars aligning like that?

And although I would've been happy with the fact that it has four doors, keyless entry and retracting seatbelts, all of its fancy features made me fall in loooove. Like our satellite radio is now built into the dash instead of suction-cupped on top. And it has an iPod dock. And a place for a thumbdrive full of music. And voice-activation Bluetooth calling synched up to our cell phones. And a digital display for text messages. And electronic seat adjustments. And that new-car smell.

Excuse me while I go make out with it.

You guys were right: No-merge Jerryisms

2010-02-21T16:33:00.005-05:00

After I mentioned that tying a tie looks complicated:
"See? And women complain about childbirth."

After I told him dinner would be ready in two shakes:
"Of what? A lambs tail? Or of my pecker after I pee?"

2 years, 3 months

2010-02-18T08:03:00.009-05:00

Dear Alli,

Your personality is forming at a rapid pace right now, and I'm really trying to take in all of the little nuances before they change.

Two of my portrait clients -- a couple I did holiday photos of a few months ago -- started reminiscing about their son when they found out I had a little one. We shared lots of stories, and despite the decades that separate us, we found we had a lot in common when it comes to experiences raising a child.

But one thing in particular stuck with me. They said age 3 was their mutual favorite because he was really starting to communicate, and they found the things he had to say nothing short of hilarious.

I know you just turned 2, but I think you're at that stage now, and I couldn't agree more.

You say the craziest things sometimes, sentences that leave me wondering where in the hell you got a particular idea, but it's so great getting a glimpse into that head of yours.

While Dad and I were manning our booth at a bridal expo last weekend, we got a text from Aunt Amy, who had taken you to church. During the children's message, the pastor asked each kid what they do to honor their mother and father. When she got to you, I'm told you said, "I DON'T HIT."

I laughed so hard because I instantly pictured you with your right hand up, index finger extended, punctuating each word with the gesture I often use to drive home a point.

Hilarious.

One of the things I look forward to most is the first thing you'll tell me in the morning. More often than not, I say goodbye to you at 4 p.m. when I walk out the door for work, and I don't see you again until whenever you decide to wake me up the next morning. The rest of the night you spend with Dad, who often takes you to friend's houses, running errands or shopping because he needs to get out -- especially in the winter.

So every morning when I come into your room, I can't wait to hear what you'll blurt out. Sometimes it's simple: "DAD AND I PLAY TRAINS!" Other times you give me a glimpse of what you got in trouble for: "I CAN'T HIT TOBY." Or whose house you went to: "I SHARE WITH EMMA."

Either way, it always gives me such joy that you're able to share the parts of your day with me that I'm not around to spend with you.

You've also honed your singing skills. Or maybe just your memorization skills. I'd say what you do can be loosely described as singing because it's rhythmic and sometimes even melodic, but more often than not, I'd describe it as shrieking.

You ask to sing lullabies constantly, but your favorites are Twinkle, Twinkle and the Itsy Bitsy Spider.

You've gotten so good at Twinkle, Twinkle that you can sing almost the entire song. I've memorized your rendition:

Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up the world so high
Like a dime in the sky

Wash, rinse, repeat. It's turned into your own version of The Song That Never Ends.

I hope to someday see a likeness of Franklin Deleno Roosevelt's profile in the stars. That's the closest one would get to looking like a dime.

One afternoon when we were making lunch, you started screaming something about wanting a microphone over a conversation Dad and I were trying to have. I'm sure most people would've thought you were crazy, but somehow my motherly instincts told me to look around.

Then I spotted it.

And handed you the turkey baster.

You thanked me and proceeded to dance around and sing. Now when you ask for the microphone I know it means, "Please hand me the turkey baster, Mom, and I'll entertain you while you make sandwiches."

One of the hardest parts of your developing language skills is when you master a word that you previously misspoke or had a cute nickname for.

Dad and I have discussed this at length. Of course we want you to speak properly. We don't want to pat ourselves on the back too much, but one of the things we're most proud of is that you talk circles around other kids your age. I'm sure a lot of it is just that you're incredibly bright, but we work very hard prompting you to ask for things in a complete sentence, and phonetically break down words until you can put all of the syllables together on your own.

But at lunch a few weeks ago, you asked me to cut you another strawberry.

I looked up from my plate to see my exact expression mirrored on Dad's face.

You've always said "strawbee." We loved strawbee.

And just like that, it was gone.

Later that week, Dad dropped you off at Aunt Amy's house, and you ran in to greet Emily saying her entire name instead of just Emy. It shocked everyone in the room, including you. But you're so proud of your new skill that you've added "ily" to the end of everything.

Everything.

Momily. Dadily. Tobily. BunilyBearily. Gramily. Phoneily. Blanketily. Chairily. Milkily. Jumpily. Lightily. Couchily.

Thanks for giving us fun new additions to balance out the loss of the old ones.

But perhaps my favorite verbal change this month is the way you answer a yes or no question.

Instead of "mmm hmm" or "uh huh," you've added a third syllable so it becomes "mmm hmm hmm" and "uh huh huh."

I'm sure most people wouldn't notice even if I alerted them to it because it's so subtle, but it's so consistent and you, that I can't help but smile every time you do it.

It's those unique things that make this experience of parenting so absolutely incredible.

When your dad and I were recently engaged, I remember stopping over at Grandma's house on my way to work to drop something off. It was summer, and she was down at the pool with your cousins Nate and Ben.

When I opened the pool gate, their entire demeanors changed. I knew the boys fairly well at that point, but it struck me so intensely that they sat up from their relaxed lounging on the swing. I wasn't a part of their inner circle yet.

And for that exact reason, I feel so privileged to be among the few people who get to see the real you every day.

Mmm hmm hmms and all.

Love,
Momily

Re-evaluating a few things in my life at the moment

2010-02-17T20:13:00.008-05:00

A few months ago, I signed up for Google Analytics so I could track traffic to my photography site, and while I was there, it gave me the option to “add another website.”

I’ve been tracking my blog hits for years, but I thought, what the heck? It might give me some different information, so I added it.

Then I promptly forgot about the entire thing.

It wasn’t until just a few days ago that I wanted to see how many hits I was getting. A few photographers I've befriended revamped their photo blogs recently, and I questioned the monthly hosting cost and whether they really thought it was worth it.

When they explained that their blog was getting about as much traffic as their main flash site, the host of which the three of us all have in common, I started to reevaluate mine. The dump I call a photo blog.

It’s pathetic.

To give you an idea of how pathetic, I update it even less than I update this one these days.

Yes, that bad.

But I’m a firm believer that social networking online is better than any paid advertising. I’ve gotten more business from my Facebook fan page than almost all of my advertising dollars combined. And I spent almost a grand on that in the last few months with both bridal expos.

So then I started to take a harder look at my business’ web presence. And my personal web presence, too. And I remembered that analytics account.

I’m happy to say that my photography site’s hits are up more than 200 percent, but that still pales in comparison to the traffic I get here, which is up, too.

Then I started comparing things like time spent on each site, referring sites and bounce rate. It all looked pretty basic.

Then I clicked on “countries.”

In the past few months, I’ve gotten regular hits from Poland, Iceland, Ireland, Indonesia, South Africa, Chili, Venezuela, Columbia, Saudi Arabia, Spain, Russia, Portugal, the Philippines, Australia, New Zealand, Germany, the Netherlands, Canada, Pakistan, India, Malaysia and, of course, the U.S. Because I know my mom reads.

That floored me.

Then the internal debate started.

I wondered what the hell I was doing trying to half-ass another blog when I already have the most awesome readers on the entire planet. A site I’ve spent years and years pouring my heart and soul into.

On the other hand, do I really want to mix my personal site with my business site? I already feel somewhat limited in what I can write because I value my newspaper job, I want my family to respect me and I want to maintain my husband’s and my daughter’s privacy. Do I really want to add another layer of personal censorship?

I’m an open book in a lot of ways, but there are some things I wouldn’t want to share with my clients. And I might feel the need to keep it perpetually perky.

Which I’m not.

This is my outlet when I’m working through some difficult emotions. That doesn’t seem to mix with a sneak peek of my latest photo sessions.

Speaking of that, if I combined the two, that would mean you’d have to read about my studio specials and promotions. Not to mention the difficult decision of whether to keep novelle360, which has become a part of me, or get rid of it because it might confuse clients.

I could add an explainer in the “about me” section, but that just seems like a mess.

But I also know that I need my professional blog to be relatable, to tell a little bit about me, to reflect who I am — not just talk about how much an 8 x 10 costs.

So this is my quandary for the moment. To merge or not to merge.

On the pro side, it would likely mean more frequent updates until my schedule miraculously lightens. It would also feel great to have a one-stop spot, rather than feeling twice the guilt if I haven’t updated both in awhile.

I mean, it’s a lot to maintain a personal blog, a professional blog, a personal Facebook page, a professional Facebook fan page, three personal e-mail accounts (don’t ask), a professional e-mail account AND a professional website.

Not to mention my family, my full-time job and corresponding with clients.

And then I wonder why my house is a mess.

So I guess I’m looking for advice. I’d like to know what you think. You rarely steer me wrong. And this time it may affect what, how and where you read me.

Mom, there's one without a watermark for your desktop

2010-02-11T09:28:00.002-05:00

Conveniently, my two days off this week fell during the second coming of Snowmageddon. It was nice not to have to travel, but occupying Allison for hours on end without being able to even make a quick run to the store left me searching for activities.

We colored and built forts. We ate popcorn and watched movies. We made gigantic block towers and smashed them until they scattered. Then we'd do it again.

But after awhile, I think both of us just got bored. And, frankly, the thought of tugging on snowpants and the ensuing wet kitchen floor and runny noses from playing in the snow weren't all that appealing.

So what's a girl to do?

Play dress up and take pictures, that's what!

As usual, I had to bribe her with a green lollipop! We were all done,
and I was about to put my camera away, but I turned around to see this.
Some of the best moments happen at the very end when everyone relaxes.

Just about as random a post as you can get

2010-02-07T10:16:00.003-05:00

Because I'm long overdue for an update, I don't know where to start. The bridal expo was incredible. It was a ton of work and definitely triggered a massive meltdown complete with uncontrollable sobbing, but I still say it was worth it. Most of the stress came from trying to do too much in too short of a time span on very little sleep, but I was very proud of our booth and the response we got. I booked two weddings on the spot, two more the following day and have a lot more pending.

I'm going to do it all over again this Saturday in the other city in my area. But this time I won't be rushing to finalize last-minute details. Everything is done and ready to go.

I also just wrapped up all of my January portrait sessions and don't have any more scheduled until March, so I took advantage of the downtime and cleaned my house. I can't express to you the level of gross that had been lurking in the corners. I didn't notice because it's hard to see past all of the kid clutter. But when I got on my hands and knees with the vacuum and started dusting the floorboards? Well, lets just say I needed to take allergy medication for the following three days. The dust gorillas put up a good fight.

Once I was on a roll, I just went with it. By the time I was done, I had moved every major piece of furniture. I should've taken a picture of what I found under the couch. It was a three-course meal and toy graveyard. Allison cheered like a drunk football fan when she saw all the loot. Blocks. Cards. Balls. Crayons. Stickers. Jumbo Rice Krispies. Craisins. Petrified grapes. Nasty.

To say I needed the week off from the photo business is an understatement.

But yesterday I took photos just for us. I didn't use my fancy camera or flash. I didn't worry about shooting in RAW or what my ISO settings were on. I just took pictures.

We got hit by the storm Obama jokingly titled "Snowmaggedon." The National Weather Service said it was the worst on record for our city. It closed malls and dumped more than 24 inches in some spots of the county, but man did we have fun at our house.

Wishing we had a snowblower.

Bombs away!

Next it was Alli's turn.

Then Jer's.

Toby couldn't contain himself.

He would completely disappear in the deepest parts.

Later we got out the sled and took a walk.

Hey ... wait a minute ...

THAT'S MYYYYY SLED!

And all is right with the world.

Newspaper column: Trip to Haiti as a teenager filled with life lessons

2010-01-24T05:31:00.002-05:00

My first impression of Haiti was how incredibly poor it was.

I was only in Port-au-Prince briefly as part of a beach day cruise stop with my parents when I was in junior high, but the visit left a lasting impression on me. I had never seen so many people in the streets working so hard to sell their wares for so little.

Women shoved straw hats and decorative clay bowls in my hands as we passed, small children sitting on blankets at their feet. I remember the women held up their hands, refusing to take their items back when I tried to politely decline a purchase. It broke my heart to set the items down. I just wanted to hand them what little money I had in my bag.

Getting a head full of braids and beads suddenly didn’t seem all that important.

At the time, the country was in a civil war. We had been given strict instructions by the cruise line not to stray too far — otherwise they couldn’t guarantee our safety.

That part didn’t matter to me. Although I was curious, I was more than content sitting on a gorgeous beach with the bluest water I had ever seen.

The area was breathtakingly beautiful, but it fell in sharp contrast to the broken benches and crumbling concrete homes we passed.

I left feeling incredibly greatful for everything I have.

So when news of the earthquake broke a little more than a week ago, I immediately thought of those small homes I had seen. I knew they wouldn’t withstand much.

I waited to see how the story would develop. After reading the ongoing updates, a coworker turned to me and said, “A calamity of this magnitude is going to hit home. Local people will be affected.”

Boy was she right.

As much as gripping photos of children crying over lost loved ones and detailed accounts of suffering in makeshift hospitals equipped only with aspirin connect us to the plight of those an ocean away, it’s easy to forget.

We have our own daily battles, although nowhere near as dire, to distract us. And, let’s face it, getting swept up in their reality is heartbreaking. Sometimes we need the luxury of being able to turn our attention to something else and laugh.

Like me, I’m sure most people felt the urge to help. Sure, dropping change into a collection can at a restaurant, donating at the grocery store checkout or joining a Facebook group that promises to give $1 for each member feels like we’re at least doing something. But there’s still a disconnect.

That’s why stories of survivors with local ties are so important. It places the disaster at our doorstep. It makes us realize that despite an earthquake being more than a thousand miles away, the aftershocks were felt around the world — including here.

We can find hope in the story of the former Tyrone-area woman who managed to escape after a four-story apartment building crumbled around her. Her fortitude to crawl through a crack a little more than a foot wide despite a broken back is nothing short of astounding.

We can find solace in the story about the Huntingdon church pastor who described helping other survivors remove the concrete from their hair on his annual outreach trip to his twin parish.

We can find courage in the face of adversity in the stories of three doctors with local ties who volunteered their time and skills to help retrieve orphans or take part in a medical relief mission.
It also helps to remember that in the midst of all the pain and suffering, there are tens of thousands of stories of strength, tenacity and compassion emerging from the rubble every day.

And because the odds are slim that I’ll ever return, I’m glad I ended up going back to buy that clay bowl.

2 years, 2 months

2010-01-22T01:41:00.003-05:00

Dear Alli,

I was just about to give up writing this month’s letter. Let’s face it: I’m already a week late.

I have been so busy getting ready for two major bridal expos in the next two weeks that if I had a moment to actually stop and catch my breath, I think I might just start sobbing.

It’s not easy trying to make a killer first impression for your business, particularly when you work another full-time job, overbooked yourself with portrait sessions this month and have an amazing little girl you desperately want to snuggle with on the couch.

I knew building a business would be a major commitment for me, but I didn’t realize how much it would affect everyone else in the house. I want you to know that your dad has picked up a ton of the slack at home without so much as a peep. Last weekend, he did six loads of laundry in one afternoon, and tonight he made an amazing chicken dinner while I was corresponding with clients and designing my brochure.

It’s been a monster team effort.

But yesterday I think you and I just needed a break. We needed to get out of the house, leave the photos and e-mails and phone calls behind and spend a little time together.

It was our inaugural Mother Daughter Day.

When you got up, I asked, “Hey, do you want to go have some fun today?”

Your eyes got wide, then you screamed, “YEAH! TOYS!”

After I got done laughing, I asked where you’d like to go. Even though I had a specific destination in mind, I wanted to see what you’d come up with. You ticked through a predictable list of relative’s and friend’s houses, then asked to go to the bank. It’s those damn free lollipops.

Instead, I took you to Slinky Action Zone — a crazy kid activity area filled with tubes, slides, punching bags, a ball crawl and ramps. Actually, it reminds me of a gigantic hamster cage. For kids.

Knowing how crazy you are at home jumping and climbing and running and otherwise constantly going at full speed, I expected to feel a rush of air as you passed me yelling, “BE BACK MAMA!”

Instead, you looked at me, held out your hand and asked, “Eee comin’ Mama?”

I spent the next two hours 20 feet in the air in plastic tubes as other impatient toddlers tried to squeeze past my butt. And, you know what? I loved every second.

So what if all of the other moms were sitting at tables in the eating area? So what if I hit my head every single time you wanted to go down the twisty slide in my lap? So what if it took us 20 minutes to crawl across the rope mesh? We did it all together.

We didn't go out to lunch afterward like I had planned because you were conked out before we even made it out of the parking lot, but the afternoon rejuvenated me in more ways than you’ll ever know.

As always, I had been thinking for days about all the things I wanted to document this month. That was two weeks ago. Now I don’t remember any of it. There’s nothing left in my brain space besides what I need to do tomorrow. If I allow anything else in, I’ll make a major gaffe that I can’t afford to.

Instead I'll write what comes to mind. This does, however, come with a disclaimer. I worked all afternoon on the business, then I went to the paper for 9 hours and dealt with a late-breaking hostage situation that required me to rip up and resend a page minutes before deadline, and it's now 1 a.m. and counting, so it could very well end up all over the place. But this feels important. I promised myself I would do this for you. And after two years, I'm not about to stop now.

I knew I was going to write about our day. The rest? Well, here goes.

Santa brought you a gigantic princess tent for Christmas. When we got back from spending the holiday in Rochester, I wasn't exactly sure where it was going to fit in our house. First we had it in the office upstairs, but it severely restricted, oh, breathing in that room. So once the Christmas tree came down, we parked it in the living room.

You love that tent. Right this very second it is filled to the brim with shit. Your kitchen is in there, your doodle pad, blocks, plastic food, your kitchen, a wooden train and probably at least four miniature Kai Lan figurines in various outfits and hairstyles.

We sit in that tent together every afternoon reading books or doing just about anything. You love it in there.

Surprisingly enough, I don't hate it. In fact, one of my most cherished memories of that tent will be New Year's Eve 2010. All three of us were really sick this year, so instead of going to a friend's party like we had planned, we stayed home.

After a very bland dinner and passing around some medicine, you, me, Dad and Toby spent hours hanging out in your tent. Dad hooked up his iPod dock, and we listened to music while playing with your new toys. It was so hot, there were tissues everywhere, and the only thing flowing freely was snot instead of champagne, but it was wonderful.

There wasn't anywhere in the world I would've rather been.

This afternoon while we were eating lunch, you turned to Dad and asked, "Daddy, eee sing the spider song?"

You phrase all your questions that way: Mommy, eee do it? Daddy, eee comin'? Mommy, eee get BunnyBear? Daddy, eee havin' a drink?

I know someday you're going to speak clearly and I'll struggle to remember all of your cute attempts at learning a language. In fact, just a few days ago you said "lemon" correctly. I knew it was the first time you had gotten in right, but then I couldn't remember how you've been saying it up until now and it broke my heart. I think it was "menen" or something like that, but I hate that I'm not sure.

Anyway, so you asked Dad to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider. You know almost all of the verses now, you just have a hard time remembering which one comes next. Sometimes the sun dries up all the rain and then the spider washes down the spout, but whatever. We love it.

This time, when Dad got through the first verse, he made this weird noise with his mouth and you went into absolute hysterics. You laughed so hard and long, your eyes were just so alive. I didn't have my camera, so I hope the mental picture I took lasts a lifetime.

It continued like that after each verse. Dad would bust out that weird noise and you would freak out, looking at me like, "Hey, isn't this the greatest thing you've ever seen in your ENTIRE LIFE?"

When I looked at Dad quizzically, he just said, "I screwed up the song last night and made that sound before starting over. She laughed like crazy, so I did it again."

We spent the rest of our lunch making blubbery noises in between bites while you laughed and laughed and laughed.

I don't remember what we did to entertain ourselves before you came into our lives, but surely it wasn't half as fun.

You are still at a very difficult stage as far as tantrums and needing instant gratification. You specify which color cup you want your drink in and expect things to be a certain way.

But there are other times that I remember how far we've come with you. How much you've grown.

Last Saturday morning, Dad's radio station sponsored a free showing of Loony Toons at a historic theater downtown. He had been planning on taking you himself, allowing me time to work on photos, but then he said something in passing that instantly changed my mind.

"I can't wait to see her face when she sees a movie screen for the first time."

That's all it took. I threw on clothes so fast that I think I broke a personal record. I went from pajamas to ready to walk out the door in less than 10 minutes.

And I couldn't have been more glad. Not only did you sit on my lap the entire time, you helped Dad introduce the show. You've gotten so familiar with microphones from hanging out at his radio station a few times that when the theater manager handed Dad the equipment, you begged and pleaded to hold the "mike.ro.phone." You pronounce all three syllables like they're separate words that are each worthy of their own distinct attention.

When the two of you walked on stage, I felt my heart expand. Once you saw the crowd, you covered your eyes. Then Dad explained that it was your first time in front of a group and asked them to say hello. As the whole auditorium yelled, "Hi, Allison!" you put your hands down and beamed. And just like we had practiced in the car on the way there, you leaned into the mic and said, "HI KIDS!"

And then my heart expanded again.

You finished by attempting to pronounce the names of the business sponsors when Dad prompted you to, then you waved on your way back to your seat.

Needless to say, you guys got the biggest cheer from me.

As for your first glimpse at a movie screen? It earned a long "Oooooh" in between bites of popcorn. And, impressively, we made it through the entire series of shows.

There were lots of little moments like this that are eluding me at the moment. But mostly because I'm exhausted. Not because I've forgotten them.

I guess I just want you to know how incredible you are. When I'm stressed to the max and feel I can't hold one more thing on my plate, you are my antidote. Your perfectly simple world where utter joy comes in the form of a funny sound. And the biggest hurdle to overcome is figuring out where Bunny disappeared to.

Remember how I said starting this business was a team effort?

You're a big part of it, too.

Love,
Mama

Smooth operator Jerryism

2010-01-16T16:49:00.001-05:00

"You look great."

"Really? I feel like I was run over by a truck."

"A truck full of beauty products!"

Like talking to a tape recorder

2010-01-14T06:31:00.007-05:00

Conversation I had with Allison when she woke up this morning:

"Mom, I want to go downstairs."

"Okay, but I need to change your pants first."

"I want to go downstairs."

"I know. But we can't do that until you have a new diaper."

"I want to go downstairs."

"We have to change your pants."

"I want to go downstairs."

"Allison, I have to change your pants."

"I want to go downstairs."

"I want to go to Europe."

(Pause)

"I want to go downstairs."

"Well, feel free to go by yourself. It's dark down there, though."

(Stomps feet)

"I'll go with you after we change your pants."

"I want to go downstairs."

"Okay, well, I'm going back to bed. Wake me up when you're ready to get your pants changed."

"Mom, I want to change pants."

Wanted: One blowtorch

2010-01-08T07:05:00.003-05:00

There are about a million great reasons to have children, but one of the changes I've had trouble dealing with lately is wondering where my beautiful, organized home went.

Jerry and I spent almost a year getting our house to look the way we wanted it. We removed drop ceilings, horrid wallpaper, bought upwards of 20 gallons of paint, and I scoured every store and website for the perfect decorative touches. After all our hard work, it was a great source of pride.

But now it's filled with kid clutter that just doesn't seem to dissipate no matter how much I keep after it or how many baskets and bins I dedicate to containing it. At any given time, there is guaranteed to be something underfoot and out of place -- blocks, train track parts, books, tiny plastic characters and the random scenes they came with, board game pieces and the always-AWOL stuffed animals.

To top it off, Allison is in that awesome destructive stage. She wants to write on walls, purposely spill her drink to see where the liquid will go and throw things just to hear them hit the floor. In the past few weeks, I've sadly discovered that the Magic Eraser does have its limits. Mr. Clean can't remove pen from the back of a white door -- no matter how hard you scrub. It can, however, remove pen from placemats. And chalk from wood floor.

Every time I think I've found a somewhat acceptable place to contain her kid crap, it multiplies. I swear her things come alive at night just to procreate and take over the house. I just hope the 911 operator who answers my inevitable call about being suffocated by stuffed animals has kids so she'll understand that it's a genuine emergency.

The sad thing is, we used to have empty rooms. I remember when we first moved in, I put the desk at an angle in the office because it was the only piece of furniture in there. Now everything is crammed against a wall, not an inch of space between the bed, end table, rocking chair, bookshelf, toybox and desk.

And the center of the room is always filled with stuff that should be in the toybox.

It feels like we're bursting at the seams.

I'll know it's time to move to a bigger house when I come home to find a white flag out waiving out of the chimney.

Acknowledging what I've refused to

2010-01-07T07:05:00.008-05:00

A close friend of mine once said I was "one of those annoying people who is good at everything."

Lovingly, of course.

I wouldn't say I even touch the hem of Martha Stewart's apron, but I do like to consider myself multi-talented when it comes to using the right side of my brain. The only problem is that it has become painfully clear that my creative juices only flow in one direction at a time. I can't portion it off, even when I want to.

A few nights ago when I didn't have any photos to edit, orders to place or sessions to book, I sat down and started reading through some of my old blog posts. I don't do it often, but when I do, it's everything I had intended it to be when I started on this venture five years ago.

It can make me laugh and cry. It can make my heart dance and break all in a few little clicks. I hadn't ever been successful at keeping a journal in my lifetime, but the daily pressure of providing something for other people to read inspired me and kept me at it. And I couldn't be more grateful.

So it probably goes without saying that I'm angry at myself for failing to document the past few months as well since starting my business. This has been one of the most interesting and demanding times of my life, and I have very little to show for it personally. I do, of course, have an incredible portfolio of images that can't be overlooked and met some really fantastic people along the way.

But lost in the mix is my writing. I thought having a baby was demanding on my personal time. Try raising a business. It requires about the same lack of sleep.

I do miss it. And I know I'm going to miss reading about Allison's daily adventures when I'm older and desperate to remember her little nuances at this age. Like how she has to say goodnight to the entire house before laying down to bed. And still hasn't completely mastered the pronunciation of certain words, so she says things like "packpack" instead of backpack and calls anything in a container that is designed to sprinkle it's contents onto food "sparkers."

As in, "I want MORE SPARKERS!" while I was topping my pasta with parmesan last night.

Then, when I added some to her bowl of noodles, she just dipped her finger repeatedly into the sparkers and licked it clean, eventually leading to the declaration, "Mmm. Cheese."

I'm not going to say I'm resolving to write more this year, because those kinds of statements are made to be broken, but I can say that the desire is there.

I have some big goals for 2010, personally and professionally, and this seems like a good start.

Newspaper column

2010-01-03T06:57:00.002-05:00

I think most parents like to believe that their children are smart, talented and advanced for their age.

When, really, it’s probably a genetic predisposition to ensure the preservation of our species. Otherwise, we might not keep them around on days filled with temper tantrums, hitting and pen marks on the couch.

Despite all that, I’m guilty of raving about my daughter’s advancements just like all moms. I have Allison’s most adorable pictures displayed on my desk at work and can’t wait to talk about her latest antics if the opportunity presents itself.

But a recent parenting adventure had me lamenting her smarts, not celebrating them.

Ever since we brought her home from the hospital, Allison has loved the water. Now, as a 2-year-old, she would spend all day in the tub if we and her skin would allow it.

It’s partially my fault.

Once, probably out of habit, I accidentally turned on the shower while getting her bath ready. It was a huge hit. I transformed an otherwise enjoyable activity into an addiction.

She suddenly thought our bathroom was a waterpark.

From then on, we’ve had a hard time explaining that she doesn’t need six showers a day. Occassionally I would give in just to stop the incessant begging, but that came to a screeching halt when our monthly water bill resembled a car payment.

After that, she started going to great lengths to convince us she needed a shower. Sometimes she throws her hands into the air announcing, “YAY! SHOWER TIME!” hoping we forget that it’s actually time for her nap.

Other times she declares that her toys are dirty, tosses them in the tub and says they need a shower. And, oh, by the way? You might as well toss me in there, too, Mom.

But my favorite tactic so far is one I wasn’t even around to witness.

Apparently she was begging and pleading with my husband for a shower, but when the answer was always no, she decided to change her approach.

“Juice, Daddy?”

Whether he felt badly for making her wait for her nightly bath or he really thought she wanted something to drink, I’m not sure.

All I know is that in the time it took him to put the cap back on the juice container and return it to the the fridge, she was getting the best of him.

He turned around to see her dumping the juice out of her sippy cup all over her head.

When he took it away from her and demanded an explanation, she simply put her hands down and looked at him sweetly.

“Shower, Daddy?”

If that’s what she’s doing at 2, I shudder to think about what she’ll be capable of at 14.

To me, that’s an extraordinary cognative connection for a 25-month-old, but unknowingly being outsmarted by a toddler is certainly nothing we’re bragging about.

One thing’s for sure: Parents really do need eyes in the back of their heads. Maybe that would ensure the preservation of our species even better.

SANTA PRESENTS!

2009-12-29T06:20:00.001-05:00

To say I had been looking forward to this Christmas is probably about as big of an understatement as you can make. It felt like it was two years in the making

I think it's easy for new parents to look into the eyes of their newborn and bubble over with warm thoughts of the future. First word. First steps. First time they show signs of understanding the concept of Santa and presents.

Or, in Alli's case, she just calls him "Santa Presents."

My mom bought us this absolutely gorgeous advent calendar to hang on our wall. It's shaped like a Christmas tree and has little decorative felt pockets for each day. Instead of filling them with candy, I bought a Santa ornament, and we moved him closer to the Santa pocket each afternoon as a family. And every day we asked Allison, "Who's coming on Christmas?!" And she would yell, "SANTA PRESENTS!"

She certainly didn't disappoint. I positioned myself in a good spot in the living room to take video of when she came downstairs Christmas morning. Jerry runs in first so he can get a good vantage point, too, and Alli follows closely behind in a sprint, BunnyBear in each arm. She sees her gigantic pink princess castle that Santa left, pauses a moment as an "Oh" escapes her mouth, drops Bear as her one arm goes limp, regains composure and picks him up, then beelines in the tent and starts playing with the other toys inside.

It was one of those moments of parenthood that I wish I could relive forever.

But, really, the entire weekend was a blast.

My sister Lisa spent much of Christmas Eve in the
laundry room because Allison wanted to play in there

Stealing great-grandma's Chex mix.

When I went upstairs to grab my camera, I just had to take this shot.

Playing "bubbles" with grandma.

I think she was doing her best Santa Claus impersonation.

Christmas Eve was a bounty of salmon and crab legs.

She would yell "PAP!" when she bubbled Jer's face.

We tried to get a photo of all the siblings and significant others, dogs and Alli.

By the time we got Alli, the dogs dispersed.

I think Jer was just as excited as she was.

My brother Sean had a lot of responsibility Christmas morning.
Like playing music and putting her figurines in the swing again and again.

Dave taught her to cheers.

Hilarious.

Hanging out in the princess tent. I had to draw balloons, Bunnies and Bears.

Believe it or not, this was after we gathered the wrapping paper.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T08:07:00.002-05:00

I'm savoring the fact that my little one is savoring each present. No tossed paper chaos here this year. Each gift is getting played with and loved before moving onto the next.

I hope everyone has a wonderful day with family.

2 years, 1 month

2009-12-16T07:28:00.004-05:00

Dear Alli,

So this is what the terrible twos are, huh? Demanding declarations. Temper tantrums when you don't get your way. Crying fits for little to no reason. Screaming "NO!" when I ask you a question. Refusing to eat. Throwing things in a rage. Spitting on the floor when you're mad.

Daddy calls you Kim Jong Allison.

(To help you get that reference years from now, Kim Jong Il is the nuclear power-obsessed, attention-seeking dictator of North Korea. Trust me, the comparison is hilarious.)

We're in a battle royal right now. A test of wills, patience and sometimes even strength.

You're trying to break us. You're trying to get us to give up and feed you nothing but string cheese and fruit snacks while you run around in a diaper and a hat, bouncing on the bed watching cartoons in a loop.

Some days I'd love to take the easy road and just give in to your demands. Allow you to write on the walls, throw mashed potatoes on the floor, not make you pick up your toys or treat Toby with compassion.

But then I think how horrible the world would be if Kim Jong Il was left completely unchecked. If he was able to do whatever, whenever without other leading nations attempting to keep his crazy reigned in.

Well, our house would be much the same. The chaos would be palpable.

So whenever you're tensing your entire body against me as I try my hardest to get you in your car seat, I just tell you that I know you're mad, but I'm doing it because I love you.

And it's a good thing, too. Because otherwise we would have sold you on the black market weeks ago.

Perhaps we have it harder than some parents because you're so smart.

The example that comes to mind requires a bit of background.

I've written regularly about how much you love water, but we didn't realize just how much until we got our bills the last few months. Our water use spiked so high that we assumed a pipe had burst. It was triple what we had been averaging, and when we told both of your Grandmas about it, they said we had more than filled a swimming pool. Every month.

But none of the ceilings had collapsed. The walls weren't dripping with water. The basement was dry.

We went down to the borough water authority and demanded they inspect our water meter. Surely it must be broken, we thought.

But when the rep arrived and said it wasn't spinning wildly out of control and we were on track for a similarly high bill, it forced us to take a long and hard look at our water habits.

Sure, adding you to the household has necessitated more laundry and more frequent dishwasher runs, but a swimming pool's worth? On a regular basis?

Then I remembered that you've been taking two baths a day -- with the shower running because you think it's a water park. Yes, I got joy out of watching you dance around in the tub, but not if it's going to cost more than a car payment.

So we started restricting your baths, which was very hard on you. (Think smoker trying to kick the habit.)

You took to desperate measures. You tried announcing, "SHOWER TIME! YAYYYY!" instead of asking. When we changed your diaper, you'd sprint naked to the tub. And sometimes you'd throw your toys in there and tell us they were dirty.

One night when Dad told you it wasn't time yet after you asked repeatedly for a shower over and over, you got very quiet, thought a moment and changed your tactic.

"Juice, Daddy?"

He told me that in the time it took him to recap the juice and put it in the fridge, he turned around to see you dumping the liquid all over your head.

When he angrily asked what you were doing, you put the cup down and smiled.

"Shower, Daddy?"

Oh, you're smart alright.

here are very few things you like more than water, so getting you out of the tub is like trying to get a pebble out of concrete. You twist, you turn, you resist. Plus, you're slippery.

So one night a few weeks ago, Dad had a brilliant idea. He turned on your favorite song.

For months, he has been playing Owl City's "Fireflies" for you. It wasn't anything special at first, but then it turned into a game. You bounce on the bed, and when the hook hits, he swings you back and forth in the air. Over. And over. And over again.

Now it's an obsession. You ask for the "fire song." You know the lyrics. You sing "Planet Earth turns slowlyyyyy."

And even right now as I write this, you've asked "more fire songs, Mommy?" every time it comes to an end. I have to play it because we're in that room. Just our mere presence upstairs necessitates the fire song. By the time I'm done writing this, I'm sure I'll have listened to it upwards of 50 times.

So when we need you to get out of the tub, we turn on the fire song, listen to you squeal and then Dad swings you dry.

I thought having one song on incessant repeat was more than enough, so I have been very cautious not to play any one album too frequently when you're around. But lightning does strike twice. No matter how many precautions you take.

You and I drove to meet Dad for lunch a few days ago, and because it's frigid out, I had the car running before I put you in your seat. I didn't realize it at the time, but the song "Party Hard" was running from Weezer's new album.

You fell in love instantly.

Now when we're in the car, you want "the party song." Over. And over. And over again.

As much as the first few notes of those two songs makes my brain want to turn into liquid and ooze out of my ears, I love seeing the ridiculous joy it gives you. You light up when you hear them. Your entire body responds in such a way that I can't help but feel it, too.

Everyone should have a song that makes them feel that good.

Other than baths and dancing, I'd say your favorite activity is drawing. Grandma and Grandpa got you a craft table and chairs for your birthday, so I dug out a huge box of crayons and dumped it into a big plastic container and put it next to your coloring books.

That was a hit for a little while, but you much prefer blank paper and a pen.

I can't remember exactly how you got the pen, but I'm pretty sure you grabbed it off the dining room table, which has morphed into my work space where I run my business.

Dad and I have argued about the pen situation. He thinks under no circumstance should you have a tool that has such high potential to cause damage. I think you should have open access to something that encourages you to be creative.

Basically it boils down to I let you have a pen and Dad confiscates it when he comes home.

He won a few "I told you so" moments when you drew all over the couch and your pajamas, but thankfully I was able to get the marks out, giving my stance a little more ground.

Bottom line, you could spend hours drawing. You filled an entire ream of paper on both sides with swirls and circles. The concentration you pour into your creations is astounding to watch.

But once you're done with your drawing, you're done. You don't want to add one more line to it. When you had gone through all of the paper in the house, including envelopes from bill companies and the inside of cereal boxes that I had ripped open out of desperation, I suggested you go back and fill in some of the blank spaces.

It was like I had insulted your artistic integrity. I might as well have told Leonardo da Vinci to give the Mona Lisa a more intense smirk.

Being out of paper with you in the house was worse than being stranded in a desert without water. I posted a desperate plea on Facebook, and your father came home a few hours later with a huge stack of computer paper like my knight in shining armor. Screw a dozen roses. I couldn't have loved him more at that moment.

When I was relaying the story to a few coworkers at the paper that night, they suggested I take home one of the rolls of blank newsprint. When the rolls get too low to use on the presses, the guys put them in a gigantic bin near one of the loading docks to be recycled.

That morning when you woke up, I told you I had a surprise. We went downstairs, followed our usual routine of milk and one of your favorite shows, then I rolled out the newsprint and cut it to fit the size of the entire table.

Your eyes grew so wide, you just stared as if you were envisioning all of the possibilities.

"THANKS FOR THE PAPER, MOMMA!"

Those are the little moments that make life exceptional.

But despite your being very strong-willed at the moment, I still think 2 gets a bad rap.

You are so fun right now. We're communicating better than ever before, you can occupy yourself for long stretches at a time, you love to help and you're finding your independence.

Dad routinely calls to say goodnight when I'm at work, and just this month I started asking to talk to you, too. Up until now it was kind of pointless. You couldn't really carry on your half of the conversation.

But now you're getting there. Just last night when I asked what you and Dad were doing, I never could've anticipated your answer.

"Daddy clippin' the toenails."

Apparently dad was clipping his toenails. I definitely needed to know that. The randomness of the information and the clarity with which you told me had me laughing so hard, I had to set the phone down for a second.

We talked about what you ate for dinner, how you were playing with your train set and wrapped up with lots of good nights and I lub yous.

So even though there are times I want to lock myself in a closet just to steal a quiet moment for myself away from the barrage of demands and questions and chaos that is our house filled with toys of many parts, I wouldn't ever give it up. Not one second.

Not the tantrums, the hitting or even the spitting.

You're coming into your own. The path is never easy, but the journey is what counts.

Remember that.

Lub,
Momma

Bri

2009-12-12T09:05:00.000-05:00

Tyra Banks would be proud. As I took Bri's senior photos, I kept thinking, "This girl's look is FIERCE!"

Aiden & Maddelyn

2009-12-12T09:03:00.001-05:00

These two adorable little ones are the children of a longtime friend. When oohing at my things, they reminded me that life is full of wonderment.

Kim

2009-12-12T09:01:00.001-05:00

I recently did a headshot session for Kim, who plans to use them in a variety of ways to promote herself and her dance business. Not surprisingly, she had absolutely perfect posture!

The Clippingers

2009-12-12T08:57:00.000-05:00

This family was tremendous fun. Sometimes I have to jump through hoops to get a kiddo to smile, but not these two! They were just full of great expressions.

Lindsey

2009-12-12T08:52:00.000-05:00

If this girl doesn't win Best Eyes for senior supurlatives, I'll know the vote was rigged! They just pop in every photo. Here are some of my favorites from Lindsey's senior photo shoot.

Alexis

2009-12-12T08:37:00.004-05:00

I had a blast with this 3-year-old. I first met Alexis at the expo I did at the mall in late August, and her mom called me to schedule a full session for her birthday. One benefit of being born in November is being able to do a birthday and holiday session in one!

Bennett

2009-12-12T08:33:00.001-05:00

I photographed this little guy a few months ago. For their most recent holiday session, we did family shots, too.

The reasons behind my lack of posting

2009-12-12T08:31:00.001-05:00

A huge crop of photo posts are forthcoming. Hope you enjoy!

Running tally

2009-12-07T20:04:00.004-05:00

The Christmas decoration casualty count at this point is as follows:

Allison: 6 colored balls, 1 window candle, 1 snow globe
Jerry: 1 colored ball
Me: 1 headache

Nothing works like fear to improve bad behavior

2009-12-04T12:29:00.004-05:00

Conversation I overheard at the bank between a mother and her 4-year-old.

Mom: Don't touch the tree, sweetie. Just look.

...

Mom: Lexie, honey, don't touch it.

Lexie: WOW, MOMMY! LOOK! A BUTTERFLY!

Mom: Yes, I see it. It's a very pretty ornament. But remember, it's just to look at.

...

Mom: Lexie. No touching. I mean it.

Lexie: (after being yanked from the tree) I WANT TO SEE IT!

Mom: I told you no touching.

Lexie: I WANT TO ... what's that? Is that a jail? (pointing to the vault a bank teller was opening)

Mom: Yes. That's where they put all the kids who touch the tree.

Because all good stories start with, "So I was on the toilet"

2009-11-30T08:55:00.003-05:00

So I was on the toilet, and Allison is encroaching my personal space, as usual. Actually, there is no such thing as personal space anymore. Sometimes I can't even pull on a pair of pants without repeatedly prying tiny hands from my thighs.

This time, I was using the downstairs bathroom, which currently has one of our car seats in a small space in the wall, waiting to be taken outside. Allison loves this setup. She sits in there by herself sometimes, like we were being so thoughtful to have a cushy chair just for her in what otherwise is a fairly boring room.

She has also discovered that it's fun to jump from the seat to the floor, but isn't able to do so without assistance.

So whenever I need to use the bathroom, she sees it as TIME FOR GYMNASTICS.

The toilet's proximity to the car seat is close enough that she expects me to hold out one arm so she can steady herself in whatever antics she prefers for the day. And getting my arm back so I can do more necessary things like wipe, flush and pull up my pants is no easy feat.

Well, today my lovely daughter got bored with the Using My Mom as a Jungle Gym While She's on the Toilet game, and decided to spin rapidly in circles. When she got dizzy and needed to steady herself, she ended up planting her freezing hands on my leg.

They were so cold that it made me jump.

"Your hands are FREEZING, Allison!"

And what did my sweet little girl proceed to do? She spent my subsequent time on the toilet trying to put both hands on my bare skin and laughing when I flinched.

Oh, and would you look at that? All of her cartoons are allllll gone for the morning.

Weird.

This year, I am thankful for ...

2009-11-26T07:54:00.005-05:00

my amazingly supportive and loving family -- the one I was born into and the one I married into, my equally supportive and loving friends, Grandma Ople's Apple Pie recipe, my health (and health insurance), the people who believed in me enough to book a portrait session before I had a portfolio, BunnyBear because they take one for the team on a daily basis, chocolate, the fact that I can wear my hair curly or straight without too much effort either way, Dove bar soap, all of my appliances that do the work for me, but especially my dishwasher, cartoons and the absolute household peace that comes with them, MY DVR for being able to play said cartoons instantly, Jerry's hugs because they can erase any worry for at least a moment, the fact that almost everyone I know and care about is employed, all of our great neighbors who have become great friends, my can-hold-almost-anything-I-toss-it's-way purse, my speed-dial three, which reaches my mom in an instant, the crazy women at our local grocery store deli who provide endless entertainment, getting to spend an entire day on a movie set with Denzel Washington -- something that would've been on my Bucket List had I even thought it possible, having the guts to take a huge leap of faith and start my own business, Wendy's for bringing back it's bacon cheeseburger with BETTER bacon, the things I take for granted almost every day like clean water, an abundance of food, heat, two vehicles and owning my own beautiful home, that I can uncharacteristically let it go and not go back and interject semi-colons where they should go now, and above all else, my neurotic and snuggly dog, my crazy fun daughter and the joy she brings us on a daily basis, and Jerry. He's my husband, my partner in life, my sounding board, my cheerleader and my best friend.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Jerryism

2009-11-25T13:41:00.001-05:00

Trying to pick up the 100-piece set of miniature plastic food that Allison dumped on the floor:

"This food is like glitter at a strip club. It's just everywhere!"

Getting to be a movie extra an unstoppable experience

2009-11-24T17:53:00.004-05:00

When news spread about the major motion picture “Unstoppable” filming in my hometown, I won’t lie, I had visions of stardom.

I pictured myself running alongside Denzel Washington toward the runaway train, hopping aboard and saving the day. Of course the director would immediately spot me in the crowd, notice my potential and order the screenwriter to add me to the script.

That said, I wasn’t among those who mulled whether or not they would attend the open casting call for extras. My husband and I printed out giant 8 x 10 headshots and were in line an hour before they were even supposed to start accepting applications.

Afterward, we went to breakfast and celebrated the casing director writing “COP” on Jerry’s form.

We figured we were in for sure.

So when almost everyone we knew got called and we didn’t, it was hard not to be a little disappointed. OK, a lot disappointed.

Conversations of sitting in the front row on opening night and buying the movie on Blu-ray turned to discussions of boycotts.

We tried to be excited for our friends, enjoy the helicopters flying over our house and listen to tales of explosions, but deep down, we knew we were missing out.

The next day, the phone rang.

Our home caller ID read: UNSTOPPABLE.

I couldn’t answer it. I nervously handed it over and listened intently as my husband’s half of the conversation got more and more detailed.

We were in!

They wanted me to be a TV news reporter and Jerry to be my cameraman. They could have told us to dress in our underwear and hold a toilet plunger, and I think we would have agreed.

We were asked to bring four outfits each so someone from wardrobe could select something appropriate, and be at the designated meeting location at 6 a.m. Normally I would cringe at having to get up at 4:30 a.m. in order to account for showers and travel time, but in this case, I wasn’t sleeping anyway.

The experience was everything I thought it would be. Sure, there was a lot of waiting and even some confusion at times, but I loved every second of it.

I signed a form agreeing not to give any details about the scene we shot that day, and because I value my freedom, I’ll stick to it.

But I can say it was exhilarating.

After a hot breakfast and stops at tractor-trailers and tents posing as wardrobe, props, and hair and makeup, we were bused over to the set and given a brief explantion of the scene we would be shooting for the day.

I didn’t get to run alongside Denzel, but he stood about 15 paces from me the entire day. It took all of my restraint not to geek out and ask if he would pose for a picture with me, but I took a cue from everyone around me and respected his personal space.

The good news is that it’s the final scene of the movie, so it won’t end up on the cutting-room floor.

The bad news is that it’s the final scene of the movie, so I’ll be fidgeting and wishing I had a fast-forward button while I’m sitting in the front row on opening night.

I’m not ready to quit my job and run off to Hollywood just yet, but if Denzel calls asking me to hold a toilet plunger in his next movie, I’ll do it.

Proof she's probably going to be as anal as I am

2009-11-23T09:05:00.000-05:00

The joys of trying to reason with a 2-year-old

2009-11-22T11:33:00.007-05:00

While I was trying to get dressed this morning, Allison needed a little hands-on attention, so I didn't have time to toss on a shirt and ended up changing her diaper in my bra.

"Nice suit, Mommy!"

"What?"

(pointing) "Suit. Mommy swimmin'."

"Noooo, this is a bra. Not a suit. It's November. Too cold to swim."

"I want to swim."

"Honey, all the pools are closed. It's too cold to swim. Trust me, you wouldn't have any fun even if we could find a pool that still had water in it."

"MOMMY SWIMMING! I WANT TO SWIM!"

"It's un-der-wear, Allison. Do you understand that? It's called that because you wear it under your clothes. I just need to put a shirt on, okay?"

"Yes. ... Then we go swimmin'."

Sad, but true

2009-11-21T12:11:00.003-05:00

Conversation with Jerry this morning while we were cleaning the house for my portrait sessions today and tomorrow:

Jer: "Oh, come ON Allison! I JUST put those books away!"

Me: (laughing) "I wonder how much of this we'll have to redo tomorrow morning."

Jer: "I wonder how much of this we'll have to redo in 20 minutes."

Bowling party goodness

2009-11-17T08:39:00.001-05:00

Allison showing my cousn Deitrich something of utmost importance.

My aunt Glrrr decorating Allison's cake before the party.

When I asked Jer if he had snuck any, he said, "Nope."

When my grandma asked which color flower Alli wanted to
eat first, she said, "Blue. No pink. No yellow. No purple ..."

Playing a game at the bowling alley before guests arrived.

All set up and ready to party!

Bowling!

Is it my turn yet?

Allison won her game, but only because
I got her three spares in a row.

Playing with the hand dryer.

Pizza!

The Cake in all of its awesome Wubbzy glory.

Realizing she's the center of attention.

A frosting flower and a forkful of cake.

That kitty makes a crying sound, so Allison always announces it's sad.

Her four Wubbzy plush dolls from us.

Present C-R-A-Z-Y.

Because a pile of gifts weren't enough.
She wanted to be a Big Winner, too.

Nicholas gave bunny ears in every photo he was in.

Back at home in assembly mode.

Which one isn't stuffed?

The end of the night in jammies, three skirts, Elmo slippers and
butterfly wings surrounded by new toys while watching Ni How Kai Lan.

2 years

2009-11-15T12:15:00.011-05:00

Dear Alli,

Today is your second birthday! To celebrate, we had a bowling party. Yes, a bowling party. Not typical for a 2-year-old girl, sure, but it was awesome. (And not just because I didn't have to stress about cleaning the house. Although, I'm not gonna lie, that was a MAJOR plus.)

Two weeks ago, Dad and I realized we had an entire Saturday afternoon free. No photo shoots, no radio broadcasts, no orders to process, no phone calls to make, no plans, no responsibilities, nothing. It was blissful. So we starting brainstorming things we could do together as a family, and one of us suggested bowling.

We figured it was a bit of a risk because we didn't know whether you'd be able to handle it, but not only did you tolerate it, you LOVED it. You loved pushing the ball down the ramp they had for kids, watching it knock over the pins and announcing whose turn it was. And just when you thought it couldn't get any better, they turned off the overhead lights, fired up the disco lights and started blasting music.

You squealed, you laughed, you danced, and we put down a deposit for your party.

We spent the week before your birthday in Rochester with Grandma and Grandpa. While I was there, I had a bunch of holiday photo shoots, which included mock Christmas presents.

Those presents taunted you. You wanted to open them so badly, even though I explained repeatedly that they were empty and that you would have real presents in a matter of days. But you couldn't give it up. You begged for those presents. You wanted to arrange them and carry them and rip off the bows.

So when it came time for actual! presents! ... you had shell shock. All of your cousins and friends at your party were ready to rip and tear. In fact, I had to hold them back from doing so on more than one occasion. But in the midst of all the crazy, you kept quietly turning to me and asking, "Momma open?"

I got them started, prompted you to help, and tried to take in your reaction as you discovered what was inside.

Mostly it was a whirlwind of tissue paper, shrieks and little pointing fingers, but when you got to the toys Dad picked out for you, the world stopped.

I have to preface this by saying your father is addicted to his iPod and all of his damn apps -- one of which offers a single product every day and when it's gone, it's gone. Every afternoon he shoves that thing in my face to show me the fantastic item that's going to change our lives, and every day I tell him if he does it the next day, I'm going to shove it up his ass.

But when the product of the day happened to be four plush dolls from your favorite TV show, I conceded. I agreed it would change our lives. Yes, that app was indeed useful. One. Time.

Because although your show is popular, it hasn't quite made it to mainstream status yet. "Wow Wow Wubbzy" is mostly relegated to online specialty retailers. I couldn't find a single Wubbzy party hat or plate in any store. We had to print ghetto invitations from the official online site. And the only thing that made your party anything close to being Wubbzy related was the amazing three-tiered kickity kickball cake your great-aunt Glrrr made.

So when you saw a miniature Wubbzy, Walden, Widget and Daisy for your very own, you just gasped. You got very quiet, pulled each of them from the bag and hugged all four in your arms so tightly, I had to pry them free in order for you to finish opening the rest of your presents.

That moment almost made listening to the Wubbzy theme song every day for the past month tolerable.

Almost.

I'm not sure if I've written about this yet, but one of the most enjoyable things to experience with you hasn't been tangible. Watching you learn to use a spoon or figure out how to jump or master a new task has been incredible, but in the past few months, I've watched your imagination develop.

You no longer need to play with an exact replica of something to envision it. You can pretend that rocks are cookies or bring your stuffed animals to life by giving them emotions and actions. You replicate the sound of a train as you push it around the track and use toys in ways other than they were intended because you can imagine them as something else.

This is perhaps your biggest milestone in my opinion. It's one thing to watch your physical development, but to experience your mental and cognitive growth is astounding as a parent.

People still constantly remark about your advanced language skills, but now I just expect it. I expect you to use the correct tense and place an adjective before a noun instead of the other way around. I expect you to ask for something in a complete sentence.

One of the experts who came to speak at your play group said that 90 percent of a child's brain is developed by age 5. When my jaw returned to its normal closed position, I leaned to the mom next to me and whispered, "But no pressure, right?"

You are so eager to learn and do and try right now. I want you to know that we're all just trying to keep up.

Bunny and Bear, your favorite companions, have become BunnyBear. As in, "Where BunnyBear?" or "BunnyBear stuck" or "Wait! Get BunnyBear!" They are now one entity. And they rank in that order.

When you were less mobile, we would leave them in your crib. Every morning after changing your diaper, I would ask you to toss them in bed before we went downstairs. Eventually, once we made our way back upstairs to play, you'd pry them from between the bars of your crib or scream for help when you couldn't.

This came in handy when it was naptime because you couldn't fall asleep without them. At least we wouldn't be frantic looking through the entire house, just a few rooms. And there was never a fear of leaving them somewhere, because they weren't allowed out of the house.

Now that you're big enough to walk upstairs to get them yourself, I've given up. They are your sidekicks. Where you go, they go. But I've demanded that they stay in the car when we get to our destination. The potential for disaster is just too great.

I say this because they don't sell them anymore. I can't just go to Super Everything Mart and buy four backups. Besides, I want you to have the originals. As someone who still has her childhood bear, I know how special that is.

But after two years of you sucking on Bunny's tail, the unthinkable happened this month. The tail's little hole became a big hole. And all the stuffing came out. Then the entire thing fell off.

"OH NO! MOMMY! BUNNY BUTT! ALL GONE! ... Momma fix? Momma fix? Momma fix?"

It was beyond repair. Bunny's entire rear end is gray from saliva and who knows what else. Dad and I had been joking for months that she has irritable bowel syndrome. The last thing I wanted to do was reattach what was left of the tail.

So I gave in to Dad's pleading and paid a ridiculous amount for another one on eBay. I lost sleep over what was going to happen and how we were going to make the swap, but Dad looked at me and said, "Go with it."

He held you in his arms, told you to toss Bunny to me, then I ran into the kitchen, made the switch and tossed the new one back to you.

You looked at it suspiciously at first, and I could see you knew something wasn't right. Then, just as I thought you were ready to reject it, I flipped it over, pointed out that the tail was miraculously fixed, and you shouted, "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!"

Then you hugged it, and spent the rest of the day remarking "Bunny softy" because this one still has all its plush goodness.

So now the new Bunny goes on your daily adventures. She stirs pasta. She flies from one end of your bedroom to the other. She rides Toby like a horse. She reads books. She dances. She plays dress up. All with her best bud Bear.

But I promise that the original Bunny will be ready to play with you again when you're old enough to understand how special she is.

I have a million other things to write about, but mostly I want you to know what a tremendous little girl you are. You smile freely. You can't pass anyone on a walk without shouting hello. If I'm not blocking you into a booth at a restaurant, you will instantly jump down in attempt to visit all of the tables and see who will talk to you.

You love milk, cheese, chocolate chip ice cream, pomegranate seeds, craisins and any kind of fruit cup, but especially mandarin oranges. You love pasta or "noonles," and you always drag your chair to the counter to help me cook dinner.

You like to run at full speed, lean to one side like you're losing your balance, scream "WOA! WOA! WOA!" and purposely fall to your knees.

You like to collect sticks on our walks and throw them in the river when we get to the bridge. You also ask to sit in the gazebo near the train station to watch for them, but always run to me and cover your ears when one passes.

You like to ride the arms of the couch like a horse. You often take all of the decorate bowls and candles off the shelves in the dining room and pile them on the coffee table.

You love showers and scream to take a bath every time we change your clothes. You think that if you're naked, you ought to be in the water.

You love pop-up books, but you desperately want to pull them apart to see how they work. A shark took one for the team when I wasn't looking this month.

You love playing dress up and piled on three skirts, butterfly wings and a princess hat last night, but you also grab bugs, get dirty and play rough.

You love animals, when Dad swings you as high as he can, getting lollipops at the bank, putting your blankets over your head when I lay you down to sleep and giving high-fives and kisses.

You love making faces at yourself in the mirror and want to eat lotion, soap or anything else that has no nutritional value and would cause you to vomit if I didn't stop you. In fact, when I tell you not to eat my lotion, you just close your eyes and continue as if I can't see you anymore.

You stuff your mouth so full of food sometimes that you can't swallow. Then you walk over to me, I hold out my hand, and you spit everything out in a half-chewed mass. And sometimes, if I'm not fast enough, you'll pick part of it back up and shove it into your mouth. My parenthood badge keeps me from dry heaving.

You often call me "Momer," and I couldn't figure out where you had come up with that until I realized I like to call Toby "Tober."

You asked for an apple in Chinese this month after watching an episode of "Ni How Kai Lan." I nearly ripped my hair out trying to figure out what the hell you were talking about.

You pooped in the toilet tonight, looked between your legs into the water and screamed, "LOOK MOM! FISHIES!"

You never say please on your own, but when prompted, you drag it out as long as possible as if the extra emphasis makes up for the fact that you didn't think to say it the first time.

You've gotten so good at saying thank you that everyone comments how polite you are. But I know that you like to announce every time you fart. And laugh like it's the funniest sound you could possibly make.

As usual, there are lots of memorable moments from this month, but one in particular stands out in my mind.

We were all eating together at the table, and you announced, "I love you, Mommy."

It was the first time you told anyone that, so Dad and I kind of froze. He broke the silence with a big "Awww! Did you hear that?" and I just nodded. It took me a minute to tell you that I loved you back because I was busy storing the moment into my brain's filing cabinet.

Since then, you have told lots of other people that you love them, but you don't use that word freely, so we know you really mean it.

I could have easily reminisced throughout this entire letter about the beautiful baby I brought home two years ago and tell you how nostalgic I get when looking at your old photos.

A few weeks ago I found this amazing frame in a discount bin with six identical spaces for photos. I spent days finding the perfect spot to hang it and even longer deciding which pictures to fill it with.

But as I went through my files trying to get a few good shots of everyone in the family, the perfect idea suddenly occurred to me. I hung it vertically and put a progression of photos of you starting with one I took when you were 2-days-old.

Allison, I love looking at that frame. I marvel at the changes you have gone through in the past two years, and I feel so privileged to have been able to experience them with you. If I stop and think about where we're going to be two years from now, I start to lose my breath. I want to put you in a bag, hook it up to our food vacuum sealer and preserve you in the freezer.

But I know you have so much more growing to do. More milestones. More birthdays. More farts, more shoe sizes, more sticks to throw into the river. And lots of things you haven't even tried yet.

I remember looking at your sweet little face as you slept for hours in my arms. I remember smelling your head, feeling your warmth and weight on my chest and wondering who you would become. What you would be like. What your voice would sound like. How your features would change.

Now I look at you, and I can't believe I didn't know it all along. I can't imagine you any other way.

I love you,
Momer

The Gardners

2009-11-10T23:32:00.000-05:00

I had an outdoor session a few days ago with this wonderful family. At the end, Morgan ran up, gave me a huge hug and announced, "I really like you, Kelly." As if giving people beautiful photographs of themselves wasn't rewarding enough.

Kara & Katie

2009-11-10T23:31:00.001-05:00

I had the pleasure of photographing these adorable sisters this summer. I couldn't believe how much they changed in a few months when they came back for holiday portraits!

Austin

2009-11-10T23:29:00.000-05:00

This adorable little 3-month-old was so content cuddling with mom.

Dustin & Kylie

2009-11-10T23:27:00.001-05:00

I am shooting this couple's wedding next September. For their complimentary engagement session, we had fun with blocks!

Zach

2009-11-10T23:24:00.001-05:00

I just did a senior portrait session with Zach, who brought his guitar. I loved having live music in the studio so much, I want to hire him to play for all of my sessions!

Jake & Jess

2009-11-10T23:17:00.002-05:00

I recently did a portrait session with a couple to celebrate their five-year anniversary. They just got back from spending a few months in Germany and had lots of interesting stories to share. I can't say it enough: I love love!

Interestingly enough, it snowed a few days after these photos were taken. We were all relieved Mother Nature cooperated for our shoot.

Ketchup

2009-11-10T23:15:00.003-05:00

No, not the Heinz kind.

More as in, holy hell, I have a bunch of photo blog posts to add, and I better do it now before I get so far behind it's not even funny.

Ready? Set? Go!

For my mom, who is apparently in desperate need of a new desktop picture

2009-11-08T23:07:00.001-05:00

It took all of my restraint not to geek out

2009-11-06T22:56:00.002-05:00

Denzel. was. FEET. from. me. today.

Jerry and I are in the final scene of the movie.

Helicopters. An uber famous directer who said fuck freely on a megaphone. Wardrobe. Hair and makeup. Props. Free food. And we got paid.

IT WAS AWESOME.

UNSTOPPABLE

2009-11-05T19:42:00.004-05:00

So remember that Denzel Washington movie Jerry and I auditioned to be extras in a month or so ago? We got called!

I will be a TV news reporter, and he's going to be one of my camera guys!

We have to be on the set at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning at some industrial warehouse for a full day of shooting, and rumors have it they're going to blow something up. Can't wait.

Not sure if Denzel is going to be there or not, but he and Chris Pine were shooting one street over from our house yesterday. By proximity, I am now one-degree of separation from both of them. WE PRACTICALLY LIVE TOGETHER.

Jerry says he's going to rent a tux for opening night.

A slight difference of opinion

2009-10-31T09:06:00.004-04:00

"The only thing wrong with this buy-one, get-one-free bacon is that it's thick."

"So what's the problem?"

"Well, one slice is like four regular slices."

"I ask you again, so what's the problem?"