Golden sunshine competing with seasonal allergies.
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More missed focus, but you can’t beat Lyte’s expression.
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I don’t like showing photographs I consider a failure. The missed focus, the weird coloring in the trees. I’m a perfectionist. This photo and those cherries share a sour taste, indeed.
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Today I realized it’s been about four and a half years – FOUR AND A HALF YEARS – since I’ve been able to call myself am actual, working photographer. Someone who is using their camera and regularly taking photographs. I’m so rusty it isn’t even funny – at this point I can’t tell what is me being tired and always in a hurry, me being out of practice, or just equipment that needs to be replaced.
This is the summer. My camera is officially living on the highboy by the front door and I’m trying to take photos every day. I’m also trying not to be on social media (no, not trying. I will succeed) so I’m not entirely sure what to do with those photos. I think there’s something important about not just choosing and editing, but curating them somehow. Creating a record of any improvements and triumphant moments captured.
So here’s my space. Here’s my chance. Let’s do it. To make it official, let’s write out the goal, shall we? Choose one photo from each day and minimal editing. I’d like to move away from the filters I’ve been using for the past few years, seeing as I’ve never been truly happy with them. I would also like to ditch the perfection of photoshop, so color/lighting/contrast/cropping tweaks only to push myself to really get it right in the moment.
The kids are already confused by how often the camera is making an appearance.
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The high heat of summer is upon us. Alleyways, once open and bare during winter, crowd on either side with overabundant growth. Neighbors’ compost bins flood with persistently trailing gourd blooms, ivy spreads its clawing tendrils up every back gate, and cheerful blossoms wave friendly faces at each other from every corner. My sunflowers are just beginning to raise their heads to the sun, while droning insects immediately set to work on them.
Exercising in the stuffy basement never seemed as gloomy, so I take to the streets and the alleyways, my iwatch pushing me forward with its steady pedometer. We live in a beautiful old neighborhood, each house boasting at least a hundred years under its belt. Many are tired, with lead paint gatoring on worn siding, wavy windows sealed shut, or sagging porches echoing of distant days. But it’s like they’re hiding under outdated clothing and many are springing out with new energy as families chip away the outdated bits with love to coax out new life. Old siding is being torn away or scraped off, new porches and porte cocheres raised up, and boarded up or painted transom windows resurrected.
The vast majority of the houses began life with the same footprint: a steady foursquare. Now it’s a delight to walk through the alleyways and peep into backyards to see how each home evolved into a different shape. A summer porch here, a new kitchen there. Doors that lead to nowhere as homes backtracked. Garages that collapsed eventually and left behind random landing pads. Additions built onto additions, each floor a slightly differing level and material. As the houses are cleaned up and revitalized, these different additions come together to form a unique and beautiful home. My favorite bits are the gorgeous details that new constructions never see these days. The old octagonal window winking from the attic, teethlike eave brackets lining the roof, metallic roof ornamentations, and carefully preserved stained glass windows.
Our house is an anomaly within the neighborhood in that it lacks many of these details. I haven’t decided yet whether they were stripped off, or never applied. Rumor is that our house was one of the first ones built on our street- sometimes I feel like maybe it was the test run. The first model that laid the foundation for all the fancier houses. Other days, I’m convinced the ugly siding is hiding beautiful aspects of our house’s charming personality. Patience, I tell myself. Peeling away the layers takes insane amounts of patience, especially when my days are occupied by small children. In the meantime, I putter in my garden and lay the groundwork for a beautiful yard.
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No matter how prepared I am to start again, blank walls create an unbelievably difficult hurtle for me. The act of drilling holes, finding screws, deciding where to hang what…I tell myself I’m ready, then the artwork finds itself stacked against the walls for months. I carry pieces from room to room. I consult my mom, my sister, and anyone who walks into the house. I find another place to set the frames aside “until there’s time to pull out the drill.”
That moment I finally make a hole, it becomes real. Hanging it up, trusting the frame fastener to hold up its end of the bargain…suddenly the house begins to feel like a home and walls seem more friendly and connected to the room. Why did I wait so long?
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I’m filled with gratitude that we once again get to live in an area that’s so pretty, whose mountains make my heart skip a beat every time I look at them, whose sky seems so rich and colorful. I missed this.
We’re renting right now. The search for a house seems interminably long and every few hours I refresh the website, hoping something has come up. In the meantime, this neighborhood brims with interesting nooks and fun crannies. More urban than anything I’ve lived in since leaving Chicago, it offers a coffee shop around the corner, a smoothie bar whose bright signage calls to me, a local grill with deliciously hot brownies for cold nights, and a hip rock climbing gym I wish I had the solo time to utilize. Most importantly, a long greenway with endless running room for the kids, noisy trains chugging by, smooth sidewalks perfect for scootering, a sprawling restaurant with outdoor seating, and a skateboarding wave ramp that delights the boys.
This house is five minutes from my sister’s house – four if you don’t hit traffic – but that seems insanely far away after living across the street for years. The boys don’t understand the concept of not seeing each other every day, multiple times a day, but many days we just can’t manage hauling all the kids back and forth more than once, especially with all the snow clogging the roads. Both my sister and I keep finishing every one of our conversations with “A HOUSE JUST NEEDS TO COME UP FOR SALE RIGHT HERE. RIGHT ON THIS STREET.” Please, God?
Meanwhile, I’m trying to enjoy the slower pace of life that comes along with living in a rental, with only a fraction of our belongings, no DIY home projects to occupy my time, and snow keeping us home more than usual. Vincas is working long hours as he sets up his new office and comes home later than late during the week – usually past midnight, when I’m already buried under a mound of blankets. This means I’ve been spending even more time with the kids than my normal SAHM job description. We’re getting into a good groove. Slowly. But I’m hoping this phase doesn’t last too long. Thankfully, Vincas only works four days a week, so we are getting delightfully long weekends with some together-time. January is ticking by and February holds all my hopes tucked between its paws.
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Crunchy cold underfoot, pink cheeks dry and scabby, socks on and wet socks off, another load of laundry, “I need to pee, Mama!” unzip those snow pants fast, boots upside down to let the ice drain, hot tea and cheese on toast, then back to zipping all the coats for another round of snow. Did I put the wet wash in the dryer? More drenched socks. Another set of dirty footprints. “He threw snow down my coat! Make it stop!” Zip, unzip. Cold wind blowing through the open door and trying to convince small children to come inside finally as lazy snowflakes start to fall again. 
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Once upon a time, I gave birth to a baby. At the baby shower, I was given a small elephant lovey. It was pretty inconsequential – just a cheap animal clutching a blanket, made in a common print. It mostly lived in a small box of toys and never really drew the baby’s attention. THEN Baby 2 was born. I remember trying to transition him from sleeping in the crook of my elbow (something I swore I’d never do with my first) to the big crib in his own room. The transition wasn’t as smooth as with my first child and in desperation, I took that elephant lovey, stuck it under my pillow for a few days to absorb my milky scent, than tossed it into the crib.
I don’t really recall how quickly it happened, but I do remember being startled one day to realize that the lovey was not only adored, but much sucked on. That little gray elephant trunk kept dipping precariously into darker shades of dinge until I’d panic-toss it in the washer (with a hefty spray of shout) and sighed in relief when it looked marginally cleaner. Lovey rapidly graduated from a simple blankey-toy to a real-name-real-cherished Lovey. “WHERE’S LOVEY?!” became a common shout as my second born experimented with leaving him behind books on rarely used bookshelves, stuffing him into tiny garbage trucks, tucking him behind porch pillows, and hiding him in empty linen closet crevices, then howling in angst when he couldn’t be located. After one particularly harrowing search that took over four hours and involved much sobbing and screaming, I sat stewing over the fact that this no-longer-made Lovey was fetching prices of $50 or more on Ebay and my husband kept muttering that he’d insert a GPS tracker in its head.
Time moved on. Lovey continued to be adored. “Surely,” I thought to myself, “he’ll become a thing of the past soon?” A third birthday crept by, a fourth followed, and still Lovey remained tightly clasped in my son’s hand for every book read, movie watched, tantrum cried, and night slumbered. We began to pack for the Big Move. The house was turned upside down, belongings put into storage, children’s lives thrown into chaos. Anxiety crept into a tiny corner of my brain, convinced Lovey would be misplaced in the confusion.
And that’s when I saw it. “$3 for this brand new, never used Lovey,” read the post on the Buy/Sell/Trade group. It was Lovey. Newer, fresher, cleaner, but still Lovey. “Should I…?” I mused. A little hand grabbed my phone, the voice squeaky with excitement. “HEY! That’s MY Lovey!” he chirped, waving his grimy old Lovey in recognition with the other hand. “Why’s my Lovey on your phone?!” Without a second thought, I claimed the lovey and made a note to myself to pick it up from a home just down the road. “It’ll be good to have a backup lovey,” I murmured.
When I picked it up, I laughed to see how new this toy looked. Fluffy and impossibly clean and bright. Little elephant trunk perfectly coiled. I tucked it into my closet, determined to wash it several times before seeing if I could swap it unnoticed. Later, dumping the fresh laundry onto my bed, I forgot the new lovey was in there. My thirdborn, always following her big brothers around, grew wide-eyed at the discovery of unattended Lovey abandoned on my bed, her observation skills obviously lacking enough to miss their blatant differences. She curled up with him, completely delighted to have company as she watched tv. I tried bargaining, I tried commanding, but she wouldn’t let go. Finally, I had to snag it away at a quick moment of distraction and then she wandered the house looking for him, completely befuddled when she spotted her brother holding his Lovey in the other room. “Lovey?” she lisped, understandably confused and disappointed how the animal had crept from her arms to his so quickly. I hid the toy away to await its further need.
The opportunity came quickly. We couldn’t find Lovey and his master was anxious. After a thorough search, I slyly tossed him the new lovey. “Oh look, here he is. He just came out of the wash machine!” My child frowned. He looked down to examine what lay in his arms. His eyebrows wrinkled in bemusement. He gave a slow, experimental stroke of the animal against his cheek, then burst into delighted giggles. “But Mama, this isn’t MY lovey! Where did this come from? Who is he?”
“What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance. “How is that not your Lovey?” His giggles became full-on belly laughs. “This is NOT my Lovey. But he’s nice! I like him! But he’s not my Lovey.” He gave a final laugh and then dropped the lovey on the floor with disinterest. Five seconds later, he found his Lovey buried under a pillow. (I swore I examined that entire room multiple times) At the discovery of HIS Lovey, the two were put side by side and examined with more laughter. Siblings were consulted. Lovey and lovey were introduced to each other. Backup Lovey was officially christened then discarded. For maybe five seconds.
My daughter’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. She grabbed him and hugged him close. My son’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not your lovey,” he frowned, but she growled when he tried to take it. “Just let her hold him,” I advised, figuring she’d return to her favorite doll quickly. He shrugged and walked away, enthusiastically hugging his own Lovey. I figured I’d tuck Backup Lovey away and just pull him out when needed. I assumed he’d be mostly a failure, but better than nothing. I didn’t anticipate my daughter staunchly claiming him for her own. Forget the cute bunny I had bought her, forget the funny-looking doll she had dragged around the past six months, forget the multitude of other stuffed animals spilling out from the kids’ rooms. NOW SHE HAD A LOVEY JUST LIKE HER BIG BROTHER.
Two almost-exact Loveys to keep track of in one house. Two.
Why do I even try?
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Consume less, create more. If I keep any sort of New Year’s resolution in 2022, this one rings true to what I most crave. Consume less, create more. One could argue that in the last, almost-six years of parenthood (holy cannoli, has it been that long?) I’ve done plenty of creating. Four tousle-headed, mini me’s who have a tendency to talk at the highest pitch possible while simultaneously kicking or pinching whichever sibling is the closest. While motherhood in of itself is quite the creative endeavor, right now I need something for myself. I need to use my hands, stretch my mind, and escape all the dishes and diapers for just long enough to find my way back to where I can hear myself think. So here’s to putting aside the chaos of daily life for even just ten minutes a day to create, whether that’s words on a page, scribblings in a sketchbook, or careful stitches in fabric.
Consuming less. This one is a bit obvious. Less screens, less scrolling, less blanching when my phone informs me that I’ve spent an average of 6.5 hours a day staring into its abyss. I reluctantly acknowledge that while avidly following my college friend’s father’s neighbor’s quest for a new dog might produce a good laugh, this time drain lacks value, leaving me consistently drained, anxious, and irritated. I don’t want to know everyone’s kooky beliefs and wild opinions. I especially don’t want a constant reminder of how those opinions bleed into real life consequences. Social media often leaves me struggling to like or love people as a whole. This isn’t good.
All of last year, I desperately missed my blog. I missed writing. I missed having a space to think. I journaled, but somehow it wasn’t the same. I’m not good at journaling on paper. I need a backspace button to help me gather my thoughts. But I kept putting off creating a new blog because I was worried it would just feed into my need to consume and be near screens. It took me a year of thought to realize I don’t think this will be the case. I love having friends follow along my blog, but to me a blog is so different than social media. You can’t just toss a “like” reaction and go. You’re clicking in, giving it time, committing to reading it. It creates a relationship, even if you don’t comment (but gosh I love when people comment).
So here I am. New year, new resolutions. Will I last long? Let’s dive in and see.
A Pattern of Words 