Point and Shoot

I'm not a very good photographer. Actually, being a bad taker of pictures is a family trait. We're all pretty much terrible at actually taking pictures and when we do, they don't win awards. Most of my childhood is documented by fuzzy, out of focus shots of me with the thumb or finger of the person behind the camera making an unexpected cameo. It's a curse I tried to escape by taking three photography classes in college, where I learned how to use a manual camera and even develop my own film (!). I was so sure that Hank, our go-teed (can this be a verb?) professor, would cure me of this obvious fault in my DNA. However, Hank's ability could only do so much.

The advent of the digital camera happened sometime in the 90's, but I didn't actually purchase my first one until about 6 years ago. I'm on my second digital camera and it's definitely done its part in remedying some of the earlier issues with my picture taking inability (i.e. one can see immediately in the viewing window that one's thumb made it into the shot and promptly have a re-do).

In addition to my digital camera, I have discovered the magic of photoshop, more specifically the magic of Picnik.com. Here's a few of the recent shots of Sam that have had some re-touching love. I'd like to think that I've come a long way from the disposable cameras my family swore by for the majority of the 80's and 90's.

::Sam just exiting the dryer, which he had just figured out how to crawl into. Don't worry, I was there for this whole adventure.



::Sam getting a haircut whilst enjoying a Blow Pop, which he enthusiastically called "Pop!"



::Sam eating a waffle in his Sunday morning best (we go to church in a barn, if you were wondering about my low standards for his church wardrobe).



::Sam hanging out at a permanent art installation in Coolidge Park in Chattanooga.



::Sam hearing about the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" from his very expressive "dey" (daddy).

Paranoid Activity

I have a few hobbies. The first I like to call laundry, the second involves making dinner and the third has something to do with worrying about what Sam has just picked up off the floor and put into his mouth.

In addition to these thrilling ways to spend my time, I've also ventured into the Art of Paranoia. It's also known as How to Worry About Things that Will Probably Never Happen.


Recently, there have a been a couple things to add to my list of things to be afraid of and I'm doing a sensational job of letting them control my fragile sense of security even as I type this sentence.

The Scorpion:

Maybe I've mentioned before that I'm afraid of spiders. And roaches. And while mice don't actually scare me, I'll still scream like a little girl if I cross paths with one. Matt didn't know the extent of my ridiculousness when it comes to spiders on that fateful day he asked me to be his wife. However, he learned pretty early on that ear-piercing screams (that's a small exaggeration) coming from any room of the house usually (i.e. always) means there's a spider (or it's evil counterpart, the roach). For the most part, he's patient with me, but on occasion I infer that these outbursts of mine regarding arachnids sort of get on his nerves. Not long into our marriage, he also discovered just exactly where I got this particular annoying behavior. It is, apparently, a part of my genetic code, passed directly down from my lovely, southern mama. Conveniently, Matt has my father to commiserate with on this subject, because he's about as big a fan as Matt is of wives' hysteria over small, eight-legged creatures.

Now that you've heard the backstory, I'll share with you my most recent, and perhaps most terrible, experience regarding things with too many legs. (I just emotionally shivered as I typed that). While perusing my vast and enviable wardrobe (i.e. jeans from 2004, a gray pantsuit, and a number of blouses from Target) the other afternoon, I noticed something that looked strangely unlike the normal things one might expect to see in one's closet. I moved in for a closer look and was immediately paralyzed by the sight of a SCORPION chilling on the "Thanks for Your Business" part of a dry cleaning hanger. I eeked out a distress call to Matt, which he mentally noted as sounding slightly more alarming than the normal spider situation. Quick to the rescue, he shooed me out of the room and took care of business. A few days later I noticed him describing to a friend just how big that scorpion was. He'd failed to mention that it was TWO (freaking) INCHES LONG. I have since determined that I may not ever recover from this. Ever.

The Burglar:

Just to clarify, we haven't had a burglar. Yet. But, some friends down the road had one yesterday who pilfered their jewelry, their camera and their silver platters. So, today I've been checking and rechecking and checking some more all the locks and deadbolts in our house. Any little sound outside finds me rushing to the window to confirm whether or not the boogeyman has arrived or, in fact, a chipmunk has just deposited a nut onto our porch. Needless to say, I'm a little jumpy. Luckily, I have a few remedies for this kind of nervousness and they involve baking cookies, watching Shaun the Sheep (with Sam, of course) and generous spoonfuls of Nutella.

So, I'm surviving this somewhat stressful day.

But, just barely.

Here's a couple of things that are helping me survive:

Happy Sam:


The Truth:
Don't worry because I am with you, don't be afraid because I am your God; I will make you strong and will help you. ~Isaiah 41:10

If I Were Your Therapist...

Here's what I'd suggest (and I wouldn't even charge you):

1. Always keep the pantry stocked with Nutella. (restock when jar is half-empty)

2. Marry someone whose last name has the same number of syllables as yours. (optional)

3. Skip the last two seasons of Gilmore Girls. (seasons 6 and 7 are totally unnecessary)

4. Don't straighten your hair on rainy days. (only leads to frustration)

5. Avoid skinny jeans unless you have legs like Gisele Bundchen. (note: if you have to think about it, you probably don't)

6. Burn any pair of culottes you may still have hanging in your closet from high school. (i'm talking to you, ACS alumni)

7. Call your friends instead of facebooking them. (they'll facebook you later to tell you how much they appreciated it)

8. Fill your toddler's juice cup with apple instead of grape juice. (your upholstered furniture will thank you)

9. Bake cookies at least once a week. (AT LEAST)

10. Assume that all Kevin Bacon movies will give you bad dreams. (avoid them)

11. Call your grandma more often. (she loves you)

12. Don't watch the news. (it's depressing)

13. Do watch The Office. (approximately 24 minutes of fun)

14. Stop comparing yourself. (you can't compete with photoshop and multiple pairs of Spanx)

15. Confess that you've read the whole Twilight series. (chances are, whoever you're talking to read them last summer. twice)

16. Use your crockpot more often. (it's handy)

17. Try not to obsess over the cheerios in the carpet. (they're only toddlers once)

18. Cancel Netflix. (save that $17 a month and watch Hulu for free)

19. Try a new recipe. (here's one: http://annies-eats.net/2011/03/08/weeknight-bolognese/)

20. Invite somebody over. (they probably know some jokes you haven't heard before)

A Little Lost in Translation

In approximately two months and eight days, my baby will turn TWO. I need to pause here for just a moment to hyperventilate...

Ok, I'm back. So, as I was saying, Sam is almost two years old, and while I realize this means that the black hole of parenting, also known as The Terrible Twos (said in an ominous voiceover that you'll just have to imagine), is about to descend, I cannot help but love this particular season of Sam.

The advent of full-on sentence creating has taken place in my little man's brain and I am in love with the crazy phrases I hear around the house all day. There's plenty I don't understand, but those little bits and pieces of baby conversation that sound vaguely like the English language are seriously the best.

For example, when I went to get Sam up yesterday morning, he looked at me from the edge of his crib and said, very seriously, "Is it Thomas?" (as in, the Train). I wish I knew why this question feels so imperative. He asks it all day long and I haven't devised a satisfactory answer as of yet.

We hear lots of "Where Dey Go?" when Matt has exited the building. (FYI: "dey" is Sam's word for "daddy.") What I'm really loving is when the beginning of a sentence is total gibberish and then ends with a very emphatic "choo choo" or "mama" or the ever popular "tunnel." We're slowly adding "Bob" into the mix now that Bob the Builder is on the scene.

For example, this would sound like, "Ee Yoo Ee Yoo Ee Yoo" (said in rapid succession) followed by "choo choo! or "Bob!"

I think about how much I'll miss this baby talk after it's evolved into full-blown conversations and I wonder if I'll remember all these sweet little phrases and words down the proverbial road. I really, really hope I will. It wears on me a little that so much of what is happening right now will be forgotten by my ever-shrinking brain as the years pass and my little man actually becomes a man.

I know now why mamas don't want their babies to grow up. Sometimes, I kind of wish mine didn't have to.

Sigh.

Observationing and Wordsmithery

Observationing: the art of noticing things; observation with flair; taking note of things without consequence and then writing about them in a public forum.

Wordsmithery: the act of creating words offhandedly with no regard for the rules of language and/or grammar. Example: observationing.

This morning as I headed out the door, unshowered and in somewhat unflattering jeans, I glanced back across the wide expanse of our 953 foot house and I noticed that it looked a bit like a small bomb had exploded or perhaps a compact helicopter had hovered for a few minutes over our den/kitchen/dining combination of a room. I couldn't help but wonder if someone dropping by would conclude that a small child lives here or if they had just stumbled upon a crime scene moments after the bad guy had made his exit. I hope people will just assume that someone small and high on life lives here. The alternative makes me feel stressed.

Earlier, while getting Sam ready this morning (i.e. wrestling him to the ground to get his pants on), I happened to notice the wooden desk (Target, circa 2004) in his room. It's where we keep his books and his piggy bank and a battery-operated dancing monkey. There's also a lamp and a noise machine with sound options like: tropical rainforest (a.k.a. dying parrot, which is what it really sounds like if we're being honest), spring rain, mountain stream, white noise, heartbeat (a la Telltale Heart) and a few others. We're in a bit of a spring rain rut right now, and I'm considering making the switch to mountain stream. Anyway, that's the top of the desk. Under the desk is a basket of toys, a small riding toy with a stuffed moose in its seat, a large frog named Leap and an obnoxious, battery-operated ball-throwing toy that Sam inexplicably loves. I say all this to tell you one thing. I used to sit at that desk when there was nothing on it but a computer, a lamp and a pen. Now I sit at the kitchen table when I feel the need to be quiet and write things down. Sometimes I miss that desk, and I can't help but wonder if it feels a little confused about its current situation.

(Maybe I should have warned you that this post was going to be more random than usual.)

Two days ago was Sunday and on Sundays my husband and I take ourselves and the little guy down to our lovely church in a barn on the back of the mountain. It's probably not what you're imagining, but it does have large barn doors and zero air conditioning along with the occasional dog wandering through the service. I love it and I'm not sure I can ever go back to the usual way of doing Sunday mornings in a perfectly climate-controlled church building that doesn't have twinkle lights strung up in the rafters. I noticed something this particular Sunday (prepare yourself to be disappointed by the fact that I am not about to reveal an uber-spiritual revelation that will make you wish you could come to my church instead of yours). I found myself observing that nearly every man I happened to vaguely notice was wearing a wrinkled sweater and something in my writer's heart loved the image in my mind of people digging into the back of their closets and drawers that morning to essentially welcome fall back into their wardrobe by slipping into sweaters that haven't seen the light of day for approximately seven months. There are no words to express how glad I am that Fall finally arrived. Good riddance, Summer. I might take this sentiment back if we have eight inches of snow in our front yard again this year. But, probably not.

(Just for the record, I did pay attention at church on Sunday despite what you may be assuming. I heard an excellent sermon on life calling and sang songs that I love and was happy to take communion with my church family. I just occasionally get distracted, and wrinkled sweaters - and their heralding of my favorite season - just happened to be the subject of my distractions this particular Sunday.)

Someone just woke up from his nap so, that's it for this edition of Observationing and Wordsmithery. Until next time, when I share about the nuances of my relationship with my Kitchenaid mixer and maybe ramble a bit about the laundry. I know you'll be sitting by the computer with great anticipation, and I don't blame you.

My Deep South Grandma

This weekend was a rather bittersweet one. We got to spend two whole days with my extended family in South GA (read: the land of gnats, sweet tea, and peanuts). It was 85 degrees there, while up on our mountain it was probably more like 68. But, we adjusted to that. My hair, however, did not. But, I digress. Back to the somewhat bitter part of this sweet weekend of aunts and uncles and cousins and sweet tea. I think this may warrant a new paragraph.

My eighty-five year old grandma Margie was placed in ICU on Thursday night and around 2:30am we almost lost her. The next day, the doctor on duty proclaimed her a "miracle" and commented that there must have been some serious praying going on (yep). As my parents were driving through the night to get there in time to say what they thought would be goodbye, I was having to bide my time up here on this mountain and found myself remembering all kinds of things about my grandma that I hadn't thought about in a while. The heavy weight of believing that I would probably never hear her gloriously southern voice again made my throat tight and my nose stuffy. I don't cry much, but Thursday night was a tearful one.

So, in honor of Marge, as my uncle affectionately calls her, I thought I'd mention a few things about my grandma that I find endearing and wonderful. Here goes:

My grandma is a whopping 4'11 and shrinking. But, what she doesn't have in height, she makes up for in being feisty. She's a serious (and I mean serious) Braves fan. She knows what Chipper Jones is having for breakfast on his off days. Grandma has lived in the same part of GA for 85 years, but she's been to every state in the Union (including the ones that aren't contiguous). She's also been to Europe. I find it incredible that a woman who didn't have indoor plumbing at different times in her life has seen more of the country/world than most of us who've moved 23 times.

My grandma has the best southern accent you've ever heard. She also has endearing ways of saying certain words, for instance, nauseating becomes noiseating. Grandma makes the sweetest tea you've ever tasted and on its second day in the fridge, you can use it for syrup on your pancakes. Yum. She can also cook up a "mess" of salmon (she'll pronounce the "l") patties, mashed potatoes, collard greens, hoecake, creamed corn, turkey dressing and giblet gravy. You'll have to loosen your belt after that one.

Grandma loves bacon and Hardee's and her "girls" who she goes to water aerobics with. If you've spent any time with her, you know that she's usually got a diet Dr. Pepper and a bag of Cheetos in her purse. She's extra-extraverted and loves being the center of attention, which works out well because she's got a quick sense of humor.

She sends a card at every birthday, the kind of card that has about four pages of very poetic, very Helen Steiner Rice, sentiments. But, they always feel personal and you know that she stood in the card section of Rite-Aid for about 20 minutes picking out the perfect card for you.

My grandma loves Jesus. She's at church every time the doors are open. She sings alto in the choir and loves her Pastor Dan. On Thursday night, when they thought she was almost gone, my aunts and uncles and my parents (who made it there in the middle of the night) all stood around her bed and sang "Amazing Grace." She sang too with the little bit of voice she had left and a tear running down her cheek. I'm sure she was starting to wonder what it was going to be like to see Jesus and maybe give my sweet grandaddy a long-awaited hug.

My grandma is my last grandparent. I'm thankful that at 33 I still have one of those. I could hardly hold it together last Saturday morning when I went to visit her at the hospital and realized an answer to prayer was happening when she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I hadn't thought I'd hear that voice again on this earth. It was so incredibly good to hear it again.

She's still in the hospital, but she's getting more and more of her spirit (i.e. feisty) back. They're hoping she'll get to go home tomorrow. I'm wishing I was going to be there to see her walk back into that familiar house and maybe turn on the Braves game and settle into her chair with a new crossword puzzle.

I won't ever forget this past weekend and what it felt like to see and hear her again when I thought I'd lost her. I'm more than grateful for a little more time with my Braves-loving Margie.