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What a week

Last week was such a blur.

I could talk about so many things.

I could talk about the fact that my little girl, the baby, the one I can never picture getting bigger, is doing just that and proceeded to go ahead and turn five without asking anyone first. I spent most of the day remembering how it felt to be so HUGELY pregnant, remembering going into the hospital with a bag full of little dresses and blankets (I took a bunch because I just didn’t know which one would be her style). Remembering looking at the ten fingers and toes, the sweet fuzzy head.

I remembered all that, and I counted my blessings.

I could also talk about the fact that as my daughter was turning five, my marriage turned three. We remember every year how maybe, in hindsight, it wasn’t such a GREAT idea to get married on Ava’s birthday, but that day wouldn’t have been the same any other way. I love him more today than I did that day three years ago. I’m grateful that I have my husband.

I could also talk about American Idol. I could argue about talent vs. entertainment vs. possibly gay vs. who cares vs. face contortionist vs. tonsil show, but I wasn’t happy with the outcome. So maybe I won’t talk about American Idol.

And no, just because I included a reality show in a list with my daughter’s birthday and my marriage does NOT mean…

Well, maybe it does a little.

How was your week?


In my pocket

I realized today that my dad used to carry around pictures of my sister and me in his wallet. My mom did, too.

School pictures, snapshots. Olan Mills family portraits taken for church directories.

If most of what I own wasn’t locked up in storage and stuck on indefinite pause, I’d show you.

I also realized that I don’t do that. I keep the people I love most closest to me always, but I don’t do it on photo paper.

I don’t have one picture (or many) of my kids in a tiny purse album, a slick column of cellophane wallet insert windows.

I meet people, I rave about my kids, and I’ll yank out my phone to show them pictures.

The only problem is that instead of getting Max or Ava at their spit-and-polished best, in a stiff school photo and a “Look here, sporty,” smile, they get…well…100_4271

photo (3)

Which, you know, aren’t bad. But aren’t the same.

Do you keep paper pictures? What’s the difference? Is something lost and something gained?

I want, I need, I must have.

So, I read this blog called This is Reverb, written by a pastor named Ryan with a really pretty wife and a really cute little girl (named Ava!). I found his blog through The Pioneer Woman’s site, which I read because it makes me drool for cooking and living on a ranch. Neither of which are things I’d ever be able to do on a daily basis.

Anyway, back to the pastor’s blog. His post today was about things that you want. Not in a spiritual, Miss America-I-wish-for-world-peace kind of way, but in a completely me-centered, what do you want just to have? kind of way. So I started to answer, and then I realized that this was the kind of thing I should be writing about HERE, in my space of my own, so I am.

That, children, is what we call a writing prompt.

What do I want? I really always think of myself as a non-wanty kind of girl. When people ask me what I want for Christmas or birthdays I never really have an answer, and now that I’ve really thought about it, I think I know why.

It’s not because I don’t want anything.

It’s because I want big expensive things.

It means that all along, I’ve been lying to myself.


I want a house. A house that would feel like home, you know? One where I could mark the kids’ heights and paint their favorite colors on the walls. One where we could plant some trees in the yard because we knew we would be there to watch them grow.

A new laptop would be nice. The need for it to be gold plated is minimal. gold-plated-macbook-pro-5_48

I think I’ve mentioned lately that I think a loom would be amazing. AMAZING.


And then, of course, there’s always more yarn. Squishy, amazing yarn. I will never have enough. It’s become somewhat of an addiction. Except, if I can admit it, it’s not an addiction, right?

My photos. My life.


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