A Post About Guilt

{ a photo entirely irrelevant to this post: my sweet pudgy Lucy in her first sink bath }

Here's what I've been thinking about lately:

I still have some guilt in the dusty corners of my heart. Guilt that's been there since Max and Maggie were born and that has lately been rearing its ugly head. Usually I only feel this guilt when I see pictures of babies in the NICU, their too-skinny baby bodies hooked up to monitors and wires and tubes. Even then I don't often recognize it for what it actually is; I only feel it as pain.

When our pediatrician suggested, at Max's 18-month well visit, that Max might need speech therapy, I felt that as pain at first also. I didn't understand why it hurt me; I have truthfully said several times since then {and I'll say it again!} that I'm not worried about Max. I'm not worried about his language skills or any kind of developmental delays. He's a happy, healthy, smart little boy and he makes me so proud and there is nothing about him that concerns me. {Okay, so I get a little concerned that he likes to walk around with his blankie over his head, but only because he always ends up running into something and hurting himself.} It was the phrase "this isn't uncommon for children who were born prematurely" that did it.

Because honestly, it boils down to the fact that I feel guilty that my twins were born seven weeks early. I feel guilty that they had to spend two weeks in the NICU. And oh, so much guilt that I couldn't be there with them every hour for their first two weeks of life. That I couldn't hold them close to me when they needed me so badly. That they were pricked with IVs in their hands and feet and foreheads, and I wasn't even there when it happened to experience the pain with them.

I feel guilty because I was 24 {and an immature 24} when I was pregnant with my twins. I didn't understand yet the responsibility that was being placed on me, and I didn't take seriously enough the care that I already owed my children. When my doctors started giving me physical restrictions to encourage a healthy pregnancy {no sex, no exercise, then bed rest, and eventually continued monitoring and hospitalization}, I stubbornly chafed against rules that I saw as unnecessary. I insisted that I was fine, and I figured my babes were fine. I thought they would be okay if they were born at 32 weeks, and I viewed early labor as being preferable to a four-week-long hospital stay.

I cringe when I remember those thoughts. How could I?

My attitude changed immediately when they were born. I saw them, my tiny four-pound babies, and suddenly my heart was in constant danger of breaking. I was overwhelmed by love, more love than I had ever felt in my life, but it was almost unbearable to see them struggling to survive and adapt. I was proud of my children for being so strong, but I was also so sorry; babies shouldn't have to be strong. I should have been strong for them.

If there's one thing I learned during the two weeks they stayed in the NICU, it's that my life wasn't about me anymore. It's a lesson that I've tried to remember for the past 21 months, those words that ran through my head again and again: it's not about you.

At this point, it's almost irrelevant whether Max's speech abilities are related to his premature birth. I can't blame all of the obstacles my twins will face in their lives on myself, and I can't go back and change what happened.

I'm not really sure how to end this post; I don't have a way to wrap everything up nicely or a message to take away. This post was more about working through my feelings than anything else. Thank you for reading, though, if you're still reading.

Beach Trip 2012

Even though we got home from our beach trip 17 days ago, I'm still going to do a post about it {complete with an over-abundance of pictures, all of which have been posted on Instagram already}. So should you be excited? Probably not.

I guess I feel the need to write this post in part because I feel like I owe it to you all, having asked everyone for their advice two months ago. Also in part because going to the beach was a big deal to me. I'm so glad we got to go, and I want to remember our trip well. And finally, I'm writing this post in part because people are still asking me, "How was your beach trip? Have you blogged about it?" And after this I can just say, "Yes, go read it please." And not that I don't like it when people ask me about our beach trip, but just I'm not good at talking to people in general.



Our trip started out with terrible weather. Driving down it was stormy, but I love stormy roadtrips and sometimes just gloomy weather in general. I was hoping, however, that it would be the worst weather we would encounter while we were gone. {Spoiler alert: it was.}

Maggie and Lucy slept for the first two hours; Max slept for the first 2.5. Lucy woke up hungry {obviously}, and we thought about stopping so I could nurse her, but also we thought it would be worse for Max and Maggie to have to get back in the car for another hour, so we pushed through. Christian and I played the alphabet game to take our minds off our unhappy baby girl.



The first thing I wanted to do when we got to our condo was drop everything inside and head straight for the beach. I wanted to see the water, smell the air and feel the sand on my feet. I wanted to take a breath so deep that I could feel it in my soul. This quote, I know, is all over everywhere, but that doesn't make it any less true for me. I've been missing the ocean something fierce lately, and it felt so good to get back.

We just took a walk on the beach that first day, Tuesday afternoon, because it was too chilly and rainy to do anything else. Max and Maggie were both excited when we reached the sand. They just stood in the spot where we put them down and looked around and laughed. Lucy kept gasping {I think the wind was too intense for her}, so I wrapped her in a blanket and held her close.

Wednesday morning we went to the beach again. It wasn't raining anymore, but the sky was still overcast. We had a good couple of hours before naptime. It was then that we learned that Max loved every aspect of the beach -- the wind, the water, the endless expanse of sand, the seagulls that he could chase, and the shells he could chew on. Maggie didn't like how the sand wouldn't wipe off of her hand, and she didn't like being anywhere near the water. What she did like was sitting on a beach chair and slowly eating her way through an entire apple.



I started cataloging what we did every part of every day, but there was too much. I want to remember just every single thing, but I think it would be boring for me to write and boring for anyone else to read. So instead I'm just going to throw out phrases to jog my memory in the future. Consider it an Impressionist word picture, so to speak, of our trip.

Max getting stuck in the mesh bag of beach toys. Taking Max down the waterslide. Those ridiculous inflatable floaties. Watching Oswald on my laptop. The offensive painted fish toilet paper holder. Trying to sleep with Lucy in the room. Having dinner with Elizabeth and the kids. Not fixing my hair, not even once. Rubbing Lucy down with baby powder. Turnover Tuesday. Celebrating 18 months {and four months} with dessert at McDonald's. Nursing Lucy three times every night. Max and Maggie carrying their toothbrushes around the condo. The computer-simulated fish pond at the aquarium. The giant turtle at the aquarium. Lucy in her too-large sunhat. Maggie chasing her ball around the pool yard. Circa 81 and the worst crab cake ever. Riding the train to play putt-putt while the sun set behind us, hitting my ball into the water four times, and coming the closest I ever have to beating Christian. Those doors between us and the beach. Vacation breakfast. Opening the washing machine with a screwdriver. Forgetting our baby carrier. Playing with a very reluctant Max and Maggie on the playground. Changing Lucy's diaper in the stroller. Bringing Elizabeth a garbage bag full of leftover food.



And there you have it.

This Is Not a Goodbye Post

{ image via }
You've probably noticed that I haven't posted on this blog in a month. {If you haven't, go look at the date on my last post. If you're too lazy to look, you'll have to take my word that it's September 4th.} There's a reason I haven't posted in a month, and I've spent the better part of this month trying to figure out what that reason is and how to articulate it. As I write, I'm still trying. Please bear with me.

A lot of it started when I noticed that I was getting traffic from a certain site. Nothing terrible or hurtful was being said about me, but I ended up letting myself get sucked in for a few days nonetheless. I realized {suddenly, starkly, like a slap in the face} how many things I was doing with my blog just because of the thought, everyone else is doing this, therefore I should, too. And why? How the heck does that make sense as a way to function?

I've realized during the past month that I have a kind of love/irritation relationship with blogging. On the positive side, I enjoy blogging. It's been a wonderful emotional outlet for me. I enjoy writing, and I enjoy that others read my writing. I love the relationships I've formed with other bloggers. I love reading blogs; I admire beautiful and well-written blogs, of which there are too many to count. I think blogging is an amazing, inspiring form of media.

However, I feel irritated when I see bloggers who seem insincere, blogging solely for the purpose of gaining money and popularity. I won't expand any more on those feelings - they're ugly and I'm trying to do better about just being my best self without judging others. {And maybe I need to stop pretending to know what motivates others. Please know that I'm not trying to insult anyone; I think it's amazing when bloggers can make money doing what they love.}

More to the point than all that mess I just typed, during my unintentional month-long blogging hiatus, I found that I've been happier. I've had less stress in my life, and I've been able to accomplish more. {I've made dinner more often in the past three weeks than I have since Christian and I were first married four and a half years ago.} I sometimes find myself in a position where can either blog or... fill in the blank, and whatever fills in the blank always seems to take priority. Especially if it's letting Lucy stay sleeping on my chest, because that's just the best way to spend time ever.

And so I feel conflicted. I want to promise myself to let my little blog be its own thing, and not to feel pressure to do anything a certain way, but I honestly don't know if I can do that. I want to let go of the negative feelings I have towards others, but I don't know if I can do that either. And if I can't do either of those things, then what I'm giving up to blog {my time, which is more precious to me now than it's ever been} seems better spent on something else.

By now it seems that there's only one logical conclusion to this post: stop blogging, move on, just live my life. But that's not the conclusion I've reached.

Here's why: Tuesday afternoon was rainy. I had had thoughts earlier in the day about going to the park, but we were stuck at home. To stave off restlessness, I got out a little jar of bubbles and started blowing them in our living room. The ceiling fan was on and the bubbles practically danced around the room. My children were incredibly, adorably delighted. Max and Maggie laughed and waved their arms around. Maggie fell backward more than once, trying to reach a bubble floating over her head. Lucy cackled from her seat in the Bumbo; I don't know if she found the bubbles themselves or the general air of excitement more hilarious. Max came over and tried to blow some bubbles by himself; he got the idea of what he was supposed to do, but wouldn't blow unless the wand was touching his mouth. I looked around at my happy kids and I thought, I want to do this forever. It was a perfectly perfect moment. And even though I told myself I would always remember that moment, chances are that if I didn't just write it down, I would have eventually forgotten.

This blog is my journal right now, and I can't bear to forget all the moments. I can't capture every memory - there are too many, and some are just for my heart alone - but I can keep enough that when I re-read these posts, I can feel a little of the essence of how our lives used to be seeping out. Like hugging a sweater that's been packed away and getting a whiff of the smell that's still inside it.

I have to keep trying, I have to keep going. I have to learn to be myself and not worry about others, make time to record memories and still cherish the moments I'm in. It's a little cheesy maybe, and certainly nothing ground-breaking, but this has been my thought process over the past month. And heaven help me, I'm glad it's finally out.

On Breastfeeding & Closeness

Here's what I have to say:

I tried breastfeeding Max and Maggie. I really did. In the hours after they were born, I was so disappointed that I couldn't nurse them right away, but I understood that that's what happens when your babes are born seven weeks early and then get rushed off to the NICU before you can even get a good look at them. I was also excited and happy to provide them with breast milk, and proud when what I pumped nourished their tiny bodies so well.

We tried breastfeeding in the two weeks they stayed in the hospital, but our opportunities for nursing were scarce, and I wasn't brave enough to ask the nurses to help me often. My little babes were oh so fragile, and I was still cautious when I held them.

After we brought them home, we tried again. We visited a lactation consultant and made a plan for how to wean them off bottles. But nursing hurt like fire, like nothing I had ever experienced, and I cried and cried until I couldn't take it anymore and I pulled my babies away from me. I worried about not knowing exactly how much food they were getting. When we were so concerned with every little bit of weight gain, not being able to measure their intake was troublesome. And I was so tired. I felt like I couldn't try to do any more than I was doing. I could only survive.

Eventually we switched to formula. Christian said it was my decision, and I prayed to know what was right. What was best for us, as a family. I felt that I received the answer: formula is a good choice.



After hearing all that, you may not believe me when I say that I have strong feelings about breastfeeding. My mother taught me that breastfeeding is important, that breast milk is best for babies. I never doubted her; I had an incredibly hard time overcoming the guilt that came with my decision to give Max and Maggie formula. I knew that when the next baby came, we would try breastfeeding again.

When Lucy was born, she was fat. She was healthy, strong, and eager to eat. So much about her birth, the normalcy of her arrival and the sweet plumpness of her existence, healed the pain that was left in my heart after the experience of Max and Maggie's birth. She excelled at nursing instantly. The lactation consultants who visited our hospital room exclaimed over how well she did. I was happy. It was easy. We snuggled together in our hospital room and I smelled her fuzzy head when she slept on me.

I feel so lucky, so blessed that breastfeeding has been almost effortless for Lucy and me. It was painful at first {after one 40-minute feeding she left me bleeding}, and we're still working on discreet public nursing, but trying to breastfeed Max and Maggie felt like trying to run with my ankles tied together. Breastfeeding Lucy feels like flying.



So here it is, what I really want to say:

When we visited the lactation consultant for help with Max and Maggie, she gave us all kinds of literature. One pamphlet I remember was printed on yellow paper; it advocated the benefits of breastfeeding. I remember that pamphlet specifically because certain parts of it haunted me as I tried to make my decision about how to feed my first two children.

There was a quote in that pamphlet from a woman who said that she had breastfed some of her children and bottle-fed others. Because of the bonding that occurs during breastfeeding, she claimed she felt closer to the breastfed children than to the bottle-fed children.

Maybe you can understand why that would upset me, as a new mother. One who is trying to do what's best for her children and exhausting herself with the effort. I felt like I had failed. I was worried that I had permanently damaged my relationship with my Max and Maggie. I was worried that if I had more children, I would love them more.

But now I know for myself. I have breastfed a child and I have bottle-fed children and I can tell you because I know, I know that how you choose to feed your baby does not determine your relationship with them. I know because I look at Max and Maggie, my wonderful darling one-year-olds, and the love that I feel for them is unrestrained. After what the three of us have been through together, nothing could diminish our relationship.

Breastfeeding has brought Lucy and me closer, I know that, too. I'm grateful for that blessing.

But I think of that pamphlet now, and it seriously pisses me off.

Lucy's Birth Story, Vlogged

I know I never posted anything about Max and Maggie's birth story -- it was such a crazy experience, so exciting and scary and mind-blowing and painful and wonderful and heart-breaking that I could never really get it out in a way that satisfied me. I still may write about it, some day, when it's farther away and easier to think about. But Lucy's story is so perfectly amazing and happy, I'd love to share it with you.

I realized a few days ago that I'd never have the time to write Lucy's birth story {again, in a way that satisfied me}, so I decided to vlog it. And because I'm incredibly self-conscious, I feel the need to say that it's unrehearsed and therefore pretty awkward. I also feel the need to add these notes:

It's almost fifteen minutes long. I stumble over my words and repeat myself constantly. My hair wasn't actually as tall as it looks. The first time I mention the date, I say that it was June 19th -- it wasn't. It was May 19th, der. I don't know what I'm doing with my hands at any point. There's one part when I tuck my hair behind my ear, decide I don't like how it looks, and pull it back out. Watch for that. I get emotional near the end and my nose gets runny and it's gross.

I almost scrapped the whole thing and started over, but when I watched it back, despite all the aspects that jumped out at me as being weird, it also felt more honest that way, like this is the way I would tell you if we were face-to-face. And I like that about it. So... enjoy!



And, because I forgot and then couldn't figure out how to put them together in the same video:

Needing Time & Being Grateful

Last night after dinner, Christian asked me if I wanted to empty the dishwasher or watch the babies while he cleaned up the kitchen. Almost before he had finished speaking, I broke in and said "Dishwasher!" Because it was one of those nights when I needed a break. I started working on our messy kitchen, and I enjoyed having that quiet time to clean so much. I wondered if, at that moment, there was any chore that I wouldn't have volunteered to do as an alternative to watching children. Wash a sinkful of greasy dishes by hand? Clean all the toilets? Scrub out the garbage can? Check, check, and check -- I would have been up for any of those.

Some nights I find myself in this mood where I get irritated with everyone, and everything I think about is stressful. I have five projects that I started but haven't been able to finish, I need to get my hair cut because it's getting ratty on the ends, our yard is a mess of weeds, some room {or more often, all the rooms} in our house needs cleaning, and I haven't come close to accomplishing anything because I've had babies climbing on me all day. I start thinking, if everyone would just LEAVE ME ALONE and STAY OUT OF MY FACE, then I could get some work done. {They are such adorable babes, and I love them so so much, but I think all mothers get to the point where they need to not be touched for a little while.}

And then I think back to the time when I was free to get things done, the time between babysitting my niece and getting pregnant, and how I spent most of my day on the computer anyway. I found all of the potentially productive hours of each day of intimidating. I was lonely, and I felt empty with the constant heartache of infertility, and those hours stretched in front of me, looming, daring me to fill them. I was afraid to get things done, because what would happen when all the tasks were accomplished and all the chores were completed? Would I fold in on myself, a useless husk of a woman?

Maybe if I were a better person, a stronger and more confident version of myself, I would be better able to give my own life purpose. Even when I was alone. Even when the thing I wanted most felt like it would never come. Instead, I doubted my worth as an individual. My daily work at that time seemed so petty and inconsequential; I didn't feel needed. I dreaded the moment in the evening when Christian would ask what I had done during the day, but also if he didn't ask I felt like it was because he knew I hadn't done anything.

Just thinking about that time, how lost I felt and how I struggled to be happy even though I had so much, it gets me down. So I'm going to stop thinking about it now.

I'm grateful that my life is filled with people now, filled with babies who need me almost more than I can give. I'm grateful that my everyday work is to help them, to care for them and enrich their lives. I'm also grateful for the moments that I have to myself, to mentally relax and be in peace. I'm grateful to have a husband who loves me like crazy and takes care of me, and tries to be sympathetic with what I'm feeling even if he doesn't get it. I'm so grateful for my life right now.

*image from The Glow

The Grossest

I have to say, I'm not surprised that having kids has brought along a few messy moments. I just would have guessed, before Max and Maggie were born, that the grossest experiences of motherhood would include dirty diapers. But in my overall experience, that hasn't been the case. {Maybe because we lucked into buying the most blowout-proof diapers ever? We love our Pampers Swaddlers.} Other than the occasional Max-pees-on-something-with-his-diaper-off incident {once hitting his own face}, the gross memories that come to mind have to do with spit up. Two, in particular, are terribly memorable:

- Before I got too pregnant, I used to play a game with my babies where I would lay on my back, position them on my legs, and then lift them into the air, holding them tight under the arms. I did it with a "one, two, THREE!" that went super high. I know I'm not describing this game very well, but just try and picture it anyway, okay? One evening in January I was playing with Max, and he was being so adorable that I added in a part after the "THREE!" where I brought him down and kissed him on the mouth. After playing for a few minutes, I brought him down for a kiss, and he laughed, and then spit up. In my mouth. My first reaction was to sit up and spit it right back out, at which point it went straight down my shirt. And, you know, all around in there. Thinking about it still makes me feel a little queasy.

- One day last week I quickly ran upstairs while the babies were happily occupied so I could get dressed. After throwing on jeans and a v-neck tee {my go-to pregnant outfit, always}, I heard a thunk and then Max started crying. It wasn't a big deal; Max loves to explore, but always has a hard time when he inevitably loses his balance and falls. I helped him recover, and then... found Maggie on her tummy in the kitchen, licking up a puddle of spit up. She also had it all over her face. I assume it was hers, since it wasn't anywhere near Max, but that's still only marginally better than if it had been her brother's. I had to act quickly to keep her from getting it all over her pants as well as she saw me, turned and started scooting toward me.

What are the most disgusting things that have happened to you or that you've witnessed, kid-wise? Can you top my stories? I'd love to hear them!

*image via frames of reading road
If you know the original source of this image, please let me know. THANKS SO MUCH!

One of My Favorites

I absolutely love getting to see Christian being a father; it's one of the things I've enjoyed most about having children. Seeing him give Maggie her bedtime bottle is just the sweetest. He cuddles her close and rests his mouth against her little peach-fuzz-covered head. He sings her songs -- "Rocket Man," "Hallelujah," "Hotel California," and "Yellow Submarine." I like to stay quiet and listen because it's so beautiful to me.

My Valentine

Christian and I aren't doing anything for Valentine's Day this year. Or, more accurately, we aren't doing anything on Valentine's Day this year. No cards, no flowers, no gifts, no heart-shaped anything.


*photo by Steffanie Ling

Our very first Valentine's Day together, we were engaged. Christian took me out to eat at the Cheesecake Factory, which is where we had our very first date. We ended up having a miserable evening and at one point during dinner he thought I was going to call everything off. {I didn't.} I couldn't eat anything. We patched things up in that way where there was nothing left to say about what happened, but neither of us felt quite back to normal. Then as we were driving back to his apartment, he gave me a pink iPod nano, and I loved it. I loved that it was pink. I loved him.

I dislike the idea that Valentine's Day should be a big deal, that my man should get me gifts and make romantic Plans {with a capital P, no less}. If it's really about celebrating our relationship, the love that we share, and the fact that we so enjoy being together, then shouldn't we just enjoy being together?

Last Saturday Christian and I had a stay-at-home date night. After we put the babies to bed, we sat on the couch and watched a movie. Christian let me pick the movie, and we watched The Family Stone, because I love it and I didn't get the chance to see it over Christmas. We ate the Entenmann's coffee cake and Krispy Kreme doughnuts we bought from Harris Teeter when we were supposed to be just dropping off plastic bags for recycling. {I ate four fifths of that coffee cake by myself, and in less than fifteen minutes. I blame newbaby.} Towards the end he cleared off the space between us, came close, and laid his head in my lap. It was perfect.


*photo by meriiram

I should mention, in all honesty, that we do have Plans this week -- Plans that we would have made regardless of their proximity to Valentine's Day. We're going to see Les Miserables on Thursday and I.am.so.excited.

Do you have any big plans for today? This week? Any Valentine's Day memories or strong opinions on Valentine's Day observance you'd like to share? I'd love to hear all about them!

On Babies Growing Up

Christian and I play a game wherein we pretend that March 20th is never going to happen again. Our babies will be eleven months and 28 days old on March 19th, and then the world will stop. Time will no longer move forward, and our babies will never be one year old. How could they? It was just weeks ago that we brought them home from the hospital.



In my heart I've already resigned myself to the inevitable. Refusing to acknowledge how old they are doesn't keep me from seeing how big they've gotten. Or how much they've learned. Or the growing up they've done.

Maggiebaby is finally taking an interest in crawling. She loves to scoot around on the floor like an inchworm; I think she realizes that sometimes the only way to get what she wants is to get it for herself. For example, I'm never going to hand her dust bunnies to eat. That's gross. But when she's on her belly she can move around and pick up all the little fuzz balls she wants, and she seems to want all of them. She can even stick them in her mouth when I'm not looking. Sneaky Maggie. {Sneaky like Buddy.}



Max got his first haircut today. I put him in a polo shirt and saw {to my horror!} that he had a little mullet peeking over the collar. Since I happen to know that mullets aren't Max's style, and since I wouldn't trust anyone else with scissors near my son's head, I sat him in his booster seat and trimmed those shaggy hairs away. I admit it, it broke my heart. I almost cried when the first lock of my baby's hair fell to the floor. Then when we were done I changed him into two-piece pajamas. He is turning into just the biggest boy.



What happened to my tiny little grasshopper babies?

Christian Plautz Plays Softball

I finally remembered to bring my camera to one of Christian's softball games.  At least, I thought I remembered to bring my camera to one of Christian's softball games, and then I heard that the team Biogen was playing had to forfeit, which means that they didn't play a real game.  They played a scrimmage.  The only scrimmage that Biogen has had to play in the past 1.5 seasons, and it happens on the day that I bring my camera.  Nevertheless, I took plenty of pictures of Christian playing softball in his scrimmage.  I feel like it's important, because one day when I remember all of the incredibly hot hours I spent faithfully watching Christian play softball, I'm going to want to look at some pictures.

{top to bottom: Christian warming up, random pictures of Christian standing around, Christian pitching in the game, Christian getting ready for some action at third base, Christian at bat, Christian sitting on the bench}

Today I'm Grateful For...

...my family.

I'm grateful for my great big whole family: the ones I get to see often, the ones I get to see not-so-often, and the one wonderful one I get to see every day; the family that I was lucky enough to enter into at birth, and the family that I was lucky enough to enter into at marriage.  I'm grateful that my favorite people in the world are the people to whom I'm related, because even if I annoy them, they still love me.  I'm grateful for the Restored Gospel on the earth, and for the sealing powers of the temple, because I know that I can be with my family forever.  That man sleeping on my couch right now?  The one who's taking a nap in the middle of the day because I possibly gave him food poisoning last night?  I get to be married to that man for eternity, and nothing in the world can ever separate us, and I'm so grateful.  I'm grateful for a Heavenly Father who knew to organize the billions of people who would inhabit the earth into families.  I'm grateful for the joy that my family brings into my life.

I'm especially grateful for my knowledge of God's plan right now.

{I'm also grateful for old family pictures -- I love this one of me and my two older sisters.  I just noticed today that Alice has her arms wrapped around me in it.  Could anything be sweeter?}

Snapshot of July 1987

My mother let me borrow a bunch of old pictures recently because Christian wanted to see Baby Me.  I have yet to return them, partly because they've gone into hiding in our second bedroom.  {Our second bedroom is where Christian keeps his clothes, his memorabilia, and his hideously uncomfortable twin bed.  It also often becomes the refuge of junk that we aren't ready to throw away, and random items that don't have a home in any other part of the house.  We tend to put things in the corners of the room and leave them there until it seems normal.}  I looked through these today and fell in love with them; not only am I adorable, but my family all looks healthy and happy, the colors in these pictures are beautiful, and right now I'm looking forward to the bright, sunny days of summer.

As the title of this post indicates, these pictures were taken in July of 1987 {or they were at least developed then -- they could have been taken earlier that year}.  I would have been fifteen months old; Laura would have been three; Alice was ten; Aaron was thirteen; my mother was 37, and Dad was 41.  We were in California visiting both sets of my grandparents.  You can see my Grandma Webb and my Aunt Kathy in one of the pictures with my mom, and all three of them had permed hair.  You can also see my Grandpa Cunningham, reading outside while I attempted to ingest the hose.  {You can even see a swollen diaper peeking out of the snaps in my red overalls.}

I look at these pictures and I miss things.  I miss California and gardenias and the dry hotness of summer.  I miss the cold water of pools and the smell of cut grass baking in the sun.  I miss my family being all together; I miss my brother, and I miss my mom's family.  I miss old wooden fences crowded with flowers, and I miss houses that my family has lived in for so long.  I miss sweet old men in baggy clothes.  And I really didn't intend on becoming so nostalgic; contemplating old pictures brings it out of me, I guess.

Pink Toe*

Lara and I took some time today and painted her toes a lovely shade of pink {her choice}:

 

When I tried to take a picture, however, she would not hold still, and since I refuse to use our camera's flash, every picture came out blurry.  "You have to hold perfectly still," I said, about fifteen times.  I would even demonstrate for her, holding my hands on my knees, my fingers extended and motionless.  "You have to hold still.  You can't move at all.  The pictures are blurry right now."  "I want to see blurly," she said.  But showing her the unfocused pictures I'd already taken had no impact.

I think maybe she couldn't comprehend holding perfectly still.  I think she felt the attention on her and squirmed to relieve the sense of pressure, because her toes, especially, were in constant motion.  I tried holding them down, even, while snapping the picture, but anything less than painful force {I'm guessing} was insufficient to keep her still.  Finally, I found a position that worked for us:

*The title of this post refers to an inside joke that Laura {my little Lara's mother} and I shared when we were both little.  We had these phrases that we could say, at any moment, and for any length of time, and it would make the other laugh hysterically.  Phrases like "pink toe," "Telly," and "elbow" {pronounced "el-a-bow"}.  It's a phenomenon that remains, to this day, completely inexplicable.  My three-year-old self would give you the same answer as my 23-year-old self, which is that we just thought they sounded funny.