Other People's Young'uns

Readers,

I took a photography class last March, and ever since then, as my husband will tell you, I've taken an obnoxious number of pictures. On an average day, I take at least 50 and edit about 10. On a day with some kind of event (party, etc), I take about 300, and edit about 75. I went to another birthday party at the gymnastics place last weekend, and I took 400 photos. I came home with a right middle finger that was so sore, it hurt to bend it (that's the finger that helps hold the weight of the camera body while my index finger is busy clicking).

I am not a great photographer. Some days, I'm not even a good photographer. I am not on the verge of opening a business and putting up a facebook page, although I have photographer friends who have done so and deserve to, because they generate consistently good work. Brooke notices the natural world in ways that constantly surprise, Meghan takes the cutest pictures of babies ever, and Jen has this one picture in particular that I'm obsessed with.

But I want to be better than I am, so I practice. And practice. And practice. And study other people's photos that I admire and wonder, "How did they do that?" And I fill up a hard drive with my trial and error. And this is why it makes me bonkers, BONKERS, I tell you, when someone asks, "You take the cutest pictures! What kind of camera do you have?" The question implies that the camera itself is responsible for the image, and can be separated from the talent and effort of the shooter.

Because I can only take so many (thousands of) pictures of my own children, I look for opportunities to take pictures of other subjects. Since Christmas alone, I've volunteered to shoot senior portraits, kids' birthday pictures, portraits of the teachers at Laney's school for the school directory, etc. My work isn't always consistent, but it's consistently free.

This is the kind of stuff I'm shooting when I'm not taking pictures of my kids:

Mariah, senior photo

Kassedy

Sisters

2 year old on her birthday

Alex, running. I took about 60 photos of her running in circles until I could get my camera to move at the same speed as a two year-old runs, so just her upper body would be in focus while everyone else was a blur.

Mariah, Senior portrait 2

Izzy makes a wish

Miss Sam

Downtown Missoula service station. It was snowing, and Thor and I had just come out of the pizza place across the street where we'd split a bottle of wine when I saw this station under the streetlight and insisted on getting the camera out of the car and taking this picture. I did not add a texture to this in Photoshop - that diagonal linen look is actually falling snow.

I can tell a difference between photos I took a year ago and the ones I'm taking today, and hopefully, I'll be able to take another step forward over the next year. In the meantime, thank you to everyone who volunteers to be my subject, and everyone who doesn't complain that I take (and post) too many pictures. 

And it's a 12 year-old Nikon that you can buy on ebay for $149, if you're still wondering. 

-Brooke

Letters With Laney

Dear Laney,

Southerners are pretty serious about their thank-you notes. If you asked an older more mature southern woman which statement is worse, "My son robbed a convenience store," or "My son never sends thank-you notes," she'd probably have some follow-up questions, like, "Did he just rob the store the one time?"

Also, I have noticed that these same women, after sending a gift, can take the suspense for about five business days before they have to call and ask, "Did you get my present?" The trick is to always get your note in during this window, because if you get the phone call, you're too late. 

When my grandmother Mama Lee died in 2004, my aunt Melanie kept an extensive list of the bereavement gifts and food, so she'd be able to write specific thank-you notes. Thank you for the squash casserole with the cheddar/Ritz topping. Thank you for the Orange Delite congealed salad with the pecans. The list was in such detail that I took a picture of it. A few years later, I needed to make a dessert for a dinner party, and I remembered a blueberry cheesecake thing I'd had after Mama Lee's service, so I pulled up that picture, zoomed in on who made it, called my aunt Sandra, and said, "Get me the recipe." 

Southern women as a whole are excellent bookkeepers, manipulative to a fault, and quick to hold a grudge; I'd say we were well-suited for organized crime, but not a one of us can keep a secret. Did you hear Velma done shot somebody and buried him under her azaleas? And that would be the end of our Cosa Nostra.

Anyway, thank-you notes are an important gesture of gratitude and something we're not going to skip in this house. We got a late start on our Christmas thank you's this year, because January was so rough, but I finally sat down a few nights ago to write some cards. You sat down next to me to help write letters to thank your grandparents and friends for all the great holiday gifts they brought or sent:

Signed, sealed, licked, licked, licked, licked, delivered, I'm yours.

Love,
Mom

Polar Bear

Stuff You're Into This Month

Dear Hagen,

At one year and one month, these are the things you really seem to dig:

1) Books with flaps and buttons that make a noise. Heck, any time you can press some kind of electronic button and make something happen, it delights you to no end. When you grab the TV remote and turn the cable box off so the TV starts blaring snow and static at volume 90, I can tell from your face you think it's a win.

2) Hiking.

3) String Cheese.

4) Hiking, while eating string cheese.

5) "Pulling a Hagen" - This is a move you've pulled so often that I've decided to just name it after you. Here's how it goes: As I sit on the ground, minding my own business, you waddle toward me and face plant into my lap. That's when I'm expected to scratch your back until you fall asleep or get bored with it and waddle away again. I think you accidentally fell into my lap once and I made the mistake of giving you a massage, and now you think it's a thing.

6) Yogurt. Most mornings, I give you a container of Chobani yogurt (Chobani, partly because it's yummy, but mostly because that brand comes in a flat wide container so I can give it to you right in the package and don't even have to put it in a separate bowl). You're able to consume an adult serving with a side of graham crackers for dipping, so it's a pretty turnkey situation. Normally what I do is put you in the high chair naked, give you the yogurt and a spoon, and while you're eating, I fill up the bathtub. When you're done, I pluck you out of the high chair and dunk you directly into the tub. Some women in LA will pay a spa good money for the restorative properties of a milk bath. You get it for free four days a week, 'cause your mama's a big fan of shortcuts.

7) Being held. I know, I know. ALL babies love to be held. But not like this. Laney would occasionally want to be put down so she could go eat Play Doh, or memorize the Backyardigans theme song in peace, but not you. At any given moment of the day, I'm either holding you, looking for a place to put you down, listening to you cry because you've been put down, or being chased by you as you do The Frankenstein, demanding to be held.

This cycle can fill a 14-hour day.

Electronics. Dairy Products. Back rubs. Snuggles.

Yep, that pretty much sums it up.

Love,
Mom

Toss 'Em In The Pile

Hey y'all, 

Last weekend when we went to Jude's party, I mentioned to The Other Brooke how nice it is to have a grandparent living in town who can watch your kids while you go to dinner once in a while and attempt to have an adult conversation. As it was leaving my mouth, I realized that Brooke and Todd don't have such a person nearby. Later that night, after Grandma Sue watched you guys while your dad and I went out for some of that sparkling adult conversation I mentioned (ex: "I don't know...should be get the chicken wings?" "I don't know. I guess if you want 'em..." etc), we called Brooke and Todd and volunteered to babysit Cedar and Fisher the following day. 

"Why not?" I asked Brooke, "We'll just toss 'em in the pile with the other young'uns."

And truth be told - and I can't believe I'm saying this, either - four children was no more trouble than two. Everyone got along and played blocks together.

Laney and Cedar got on the couch, where Laney "read" Cedar a book she'd memorized:

Then, Hagen took a nap while the rest of us went out to play in the snow:

We all had burritos for dinner, so the babies had some mandatory bath time.

The girls decided they were sick of their brothers touching their stuff, so they asked if they could go upstairs to my room to play with their Dora dollhouse in peace. As a result, the boys staged themselves at the bottom of the stairs, demanding to be let in. Or, as I described it to Brooke, "They clutched the gate and wailed like the zombies on 'The Walking Dead.'"

In the end, the boys went to sleep and the girls stayed up to drink hot chocolate and watch cartoons on Laney's iPad.

All in all, a perfectly pleasant experience.

Love,

Mom

License and Registration, Please

Close, But No Maraca

Dear Laney,

There's a lot to like about your montessori preschool. For starters, they really stress table manners. Before you guys eat lunch, you all sit down at the table together and sing this ditty, to the tune of "If You're Happy And You Know It":

Put your napkin in your lap, in your lap.
Put your napkin in your lap, in your lap.

Put your napkin in your lap. Put your napkin in your lap.

Put your napkin in your lap, in your lap.

Then, your teacher says, "Bon Appetit! Now you may eat!"

I've never had lunch at your school, but I know this is what happens, because you make us recreate it at home before every meal, with you playing the role of the teacher. Your dad and I haven't had a hot meal in months.

They're teaching you all sorts of fun subject matter and concepts that would never occur to me to share with you, and sometimes the information comes a little too fast and furious, which results in amazing conversations like this one we had in the car yesterday:

Laney: Mom?
Mom: Yes?
Laney: Mom? Mom!
Mom: Yes, Laney, what?
Laney: We live on Earth.
Mom: Wow, Laney. That's exactly right!
Laney: So, if there are other people out there, they must live on other planets.
Mom: Well...yeah...I guess that could be true.
Laney: Like South America.
Mom: Mmm, no. But you had me 'til then.

Nanu-nanu, amigos,

Love,
Mom

Thor's Id

Hey y'all -

I'm too lazy to look it up, but I'm pretty sure it was Freud who coined the term "id" and described it as  the part of your personality that is all primal instinct and base reactions... the thing that turns your brain into an unsupervised playground. Our inner wild monkey. To understand this concept, you need look no further than the nearest 3 year-old boy.

In particular, you need look no further than Jude, a boy who has been in Laney's class since she first started going to school over a year ago. Your dad is endlessly fascinated and entertained by Jude, and every time they're at the same event, your dad watches him with a dopey grin on his face, thinking, "If it weren't for societal convention, and the fact that I'm looking down the barrel at 40, I too would be beating the hell out of that tree with a racquet because MAN! That looks like fun!"

Last weekend was Jude's birthday, and we all went to the gymnastics place to celebrate.

Cedar was invited to the party, too, which meant that we got to play with her and her mom:

And Thor got to watch Jude beat stuff with a racquet, until the racquet was taken away:

At one point, Jude came up to me with one of his birthday balloons and said, "Here, pop this." "Why?" I asked. He looked at me like I had just asked the lamest question in the world. "Because," Thor answered for their team, "It'll be loud and AWESOME, that's why."

When Thor is poised at the top of a mountain on his skis, looking down at trees and obstacles and a dog that wants to pull him 15 miles an hour, I imagine it's Jude's voice he hears in his ear saying. "Do it! Do it!"

You can always tell how cool a kid's party is by how dramatic the goodbyes are. In this case, Laney and Cedar clung to each other, and then each had to be pulled out of the facility, kicking and screaming.

A+ party.

Love,

Mom

Hagen's First Day

Dear Hagen,

Your grandfather Philip has been teasing me a little lately, because when Laney started walking, it resulted in multiple blog posts and videos and excited telephone calls to our kin. When you started walking, it rated a P.S. on our Christmas card. 

You're walking like a pro, by the way.  I'm especially fond of this photo of you at the hotel in Spokane, where you and your dad walked all the way to the pool together in your swimsuits, and your dad yelled, "It's like March of the Penguins out here!"

Last week, we hit another important milestone when you had your first day at Laney's school (not in the same class, obviously).  I dropped you off in the morning, and then walked back to Grandma Sue's house and sat on her couch and cried because I missed you so much. I had phantom pains on the calf you usually cling to.

Just a few hours later, your teacher called and told me you had a fever, and I needed to go right back and get you. And that was the start of your recent bout with roseola. I got so distracted by the illness that I forgot to report on the milestone. 

You went back on Friday, where your teacher reported you had a, "very relaxing day," having dragged a pillow onto a mat and laid down to watch all the other kids play. On your daily take-home note, she also wrote, "HE ATE SO MUCH LUNCH!!"  If we're not getting our money's worth in activities, we're by God going to take it out in turkey wraps. 

These are pictures of our walk to school this morning, although with that hat of Dad's you're wearing, it looks like I'm taking you to work the swing shift on the docks. 

________________________

Here's the other bit of news I haven't shared 'til now: Your dad has been gone for the past week to Oregon, where he's been attending the Forest Service's Snow School. If you rolled your eyes after reading that, rest assured I rolled my eyes while typing it. I've been a single parent for the past week while your dad was learning how to dig snow caves and measure snow and pack the ultimate  survival kit and do something or other in re: avalanches. I just thought - as a safety issue - I wouldn't advertise on the internet that I was a woman alone in the boonies with two children. Our guard dog is usually laying in front of the fire in a macaroni and cheese coma, and I do not own a gun. Nor do I want to. I always imagined if I had one, it would go a little like this:

Dad comes home this afternoon, and I couldn't be more thrilled. In addition to all the normal work and parenting stuff this week, I've been doing all the stuff that he normally does, like building fires to keep the house warm, shoveling snow so we can get to the car, that kind of thing. With apologies to Waylon, I've been working on a country song in my head all week called, "Don't You Think This Pioneer Bit's Done Got Out Of Hand?"

I can't wait to pick you up from school today, hear about how many pounds of Corn Flakes you put away, and then take you home to your dad.

Love,

Mom

On Pen Pals and Tacos

Hey y'all -

I swear, I've been experiencing a ten-day version of what my great-grandmother would have called, "a sinking spell." Illness, fatigue, work stuff, the day-to-day mess that can drag you down, especially when you're in the middle of that three-month period of every year when the sun doesn't shine on your house. You start to question your abilities as a parent, and wonder if anyone around you is having any fun.

Then, last Saturday, I told Laney that I would take her shopping with me for groceries. She was an absolute peach at Costco, and as we were loading the car with our purchases, she said:

Laney: Mom, I'd like to go to a restaurant.
Mom: Ha, ok. What kind of restaurant?
Laney: A restaurant that sells tacos.

Every week, my grandmother - Granny Jack - sends Laney a card with a sheet of stickers and two one-dollar bills, one for Laney and one for Hagen. Our mailbox is a mile and a half from our house, so when I check the mail and see a letter from Jack, I hand it back to Laney and keep driving. By the time we've gotten home and everyone's climbed out of the car, I've already forgotten about Jack's card. Such is the short-term memory loss that comes with motherhood.

So last Saturday, I pulled into Taco Bell, figuring I would get Laney a taco and be on our way. As we parked, I looked into my wallet.

Mom: Uh-oh, Laney. I'm so sorry, but I don't have any cash with me (and I sure wasn't going to charge an 89 cent taco). We can't go to the taco restaurant today, but maybe we can go another time when I have money.
Laney: Oh, I have dollars.

She reached into the side compartment of her car seat and pulled out a wad of one-dollar bills, weeks of Granny Jack pen pal money.

Mom: Okay, then... and you're sure you want to spend your money on tacos?
Laney: Yes, but I want to eat inside the restaurant.
Mom: Well, if you're buying...

We went inside Taco Bell, where Laney bought us both lunch. As we were sitting at our table, she took a sip of her lemonade and said,

Laney: I wonder what's going on at Target?
Mom: I don't know, Pegge, let's go see.

...So we went to Target, where Laney spent the last five dollars of her secret stash on paint. It was a great afternoon on the town with my favorite girl, and it reminded me that even just a few years from now, I won't remember the stupid work project, but I will remember Laney looking at the man behind the Taco Bell counter and saying, "He's a good man." "How can you tell Laney?" "Because he fixed my lunch."

If I am even remotely responsible for how cool you're turning out to be, I'm accomplishing great things, indeed.

Love,
Mom

I Roll And I Tumble

Dear Laney,

You started gymnastics classes last week. Your teacher came and collected all of the 3 year-old "Fireflies," and swept you off into a world of slides and somersaults and trampolines. You were way on the other side of the gym from the parent holding pen upstairs, but from what I could see, you really enjoyed yourself.

The highlight for me, though, was watching Hagen watch you.

He pressed his head in between the bars and kept an eye on you as your class moved from one activity station to another.

Then, he decided to make his way around the viewing area, introducing himself to all the parent and sibling gymnastics fans by first hanging on to their pant leg, then smiling and lifting his shirt to show off his belly. "Put it away," I had to say, "Everybody's seen it." 

What this taught me: Dudes needing to take off their shirts at sporting events to show their support for their favorite athletes is a primal force that can't be stopped. Doesn't matter if they're rooting on The Pack, or the Fireflies. 

Must be nice to have your own (semi-nude) cheering section. 

Love,

Mom