I’ve got nothing. As much as I try to come up with something super creative and interesting, my thoughts always come back to my little munchkin. And why shouldn’t they? I spend pretty much every one of her waking hours with her; that combined with her quirkiness and passionate personality are bound to give me plenty of material to work with. I find her fascinating, but I sometimes hesitate to write every single personal post about her because, well, I fear I might bore some of you. And, maybe I do. But, what I’ve come to realize is that this is my life, and I love it. If I’m honest, I used to be so adamant that I wouldn’t be one of “those” moms, who only could talk about their kids, whose discussions centered on which diapers they liked best and how nap time has become such a battle. What I didn’t realize was that “those” moms could talk about other things, they certainly had the capacity to do so.  They, and now I, just choose to talk about our kids because they are who we love and who we spend countless hours watching, caring, loving, praying, laughing, worrying, and thinking over. There are more faces to me than being a mother. But, this aspect has so enriched my life. Motherhood brings out the best, and yes, even the worst, of so many of the other facets of my life. It’s only natural for me to spend so much of my energy concentrating on the little person who has bettered my life in so many ways.

I won’t lie to you though, I’m not necessarily this lovey-dovey everyday. That’s why I have to write these things down, so I can remember that I do love being a mommy, no matter how many times today I’ve applied diaper rash cream to her poor, red little bum. More times than not we find ourselves bored, and I don’t know what to do to entertain her. I feel like she is always hungry and never satisfied with what I give her to eat. Surprisingly, a fallback nowadays is my home-made guacamole, which is pretty bangin’ if I do say so myself. I don’t know if avocados are a fruit or a vegetable, but I know it’s good for you so I’m happy she will eat it. You see? This is the mundaneness of my life. Guacamole and raw butts. But again, why I must write to remind myself. I’d rather have mundane than stress. I try and remember every day that I have to be grateful that I have a healthy daughter, that I have a daughter at all. So much can go wrong, and yet so much has gone right in my life. What have I done to deserve this? To be so blessed? Nothing…funny that this post about nothing has actually turned into something. That’s usually what happens when I stop trying so hard

Happy Monday!

She probably won’t like me for this when she’s older, but how could I resist?!

Archiving some of my favorite posts here on my new blog from my old one…originally posted on May 21, 2010.

At the risk of sounding incredibly boring or lame, I have to admit that one of my favorite things to do is go and get the mail. Although snail mail is kinda outdated, there is just something special about receiving a hand written letter or package in the mail.

When Evelyn was really itty bitty, and getting up super early, we got into the routine of taking very early morning walks. We’d be out there by 6am, cup of coffee in one hand, the other steering her stroller, eyes slowly adjusting to the direct rays of the waking sun. I’d purposely not get the mail the afternoon before so that it would leave us somewhere to walk and something to do at the crack of dawn the next morning. And so, it became our ritual. The mail became our “thing.” Now, as Evelyn is only months older in numbers, but so much older in what she can do and say, the mail still remains a part of our day, though, thankfully, not at 6 in the morning. Now we saunter out there around 4pm, stopping on the way to inspect every ant and flower and crack in the sidewalk. When she is done with whatever she is curiously exploring, she’ll look up at me, give me a little grin, and dart off in the other direction, imploring me to chase her with her little giggles, which get louder and louder as she can hear me getting closer and closer.

There are days when there is nothing in the mail box, there are others when there are only bills. But, on some days, I’ll peer into our tiny square box and find a letter, a card, a notice of a package received. On one particular day not too long ago, I reached for the mail and immediately recognized the handwriting addressed to me. It was written by none other than my dad. He had recently come across a poem, written by me, about him, from the second grade. Saving the original, as it had undoubtedly been a gift or father’s day surprise from me, he had photocopied it and sent it to me. This is what it said:

“Wednesday is like heaven to me

Being with my Dad

Going anywhere

Sharing a happy feeling

Being alone with him

Having a marvelous time

Feeling his love

Being my Dad.”

As I re-read the simple words of a second grader, that I wrote nearly 20 years ago, I can’t help but hope that Evelyn might feel towards me as I felt towards my Dad. As I feel towards my Dad. I can’t wait to read her words and look at her drawings, so that I can again see the world through the unfiltered eyes of a second grader. Perhaps our mail outings will make it into her poems, as my Wednesdays made it into mine.

Archiving some of my favorite posts here on my new blog from my old one…originally posted on May 13, 2010.

Growing up, I wanted to be something different every week. A teacher. A cop. A writer. A firefighter. Funny story with that idea. But I’ll save that for another post. In all of these different career paths, I’d have these grand, fabulous, exciting scenarios in my head of how my life would play out were I to follow that particular path. I’d picture myself walking down the street of NYC with my hair pulled back like Charlize Theron in “The Italian Job,” Starbucks in one hand, laptop in the other, designer frames, killer heels, on my way to a meeting to discuss the upcoming issue of Vogue, of which, naturally, I was the editor-in-chief. Seriously, I really would conjure these up. Of course, I was missing all of the w-o-r-k that it would take to get to such a point. Those daydreams were all about fluff. Dreaming and having  high aspirations and goals is one thing; but having weekly renditions of the former scenarios, and voicing them, kinda made me look like the boy that cried wolf. I don’t think my family or friends thought less of me or even viewed me as the wolf crier, I just think they knew that I didn’t know what I wanted.

I don’t confess to having it all figured out at this point. Far from it. But my dreams and ambitions of becoming a photographer are a lot more real, more grounded, than the ‘Devil Wears Prada’ story line I had running through my mind. I’m writing this more for myself than for anyone who may read this, because, I still have to convince myself that this is attainable. That sounds terrible, and I know it is, because if I don’t believe I can do it, surely no one else will. But, conquering this fear of failure, and all of the doubts and reasons why I can’t, are all apart of the process. Which is partly what this blog is for, documenting my process. My dreams of fluff were fun for awhile, but that’s definitely not how I want to present myself, or even see myself. I’d rather have a palpable, discernible goal that I can believe in.

“Believe in your own instincts, and sell your idea. If you don’t, who will?…All too often, we are the greatest obstacles to our own success. It’s easy to get stuck in a mindset that prevents us from taking a fresh look at our work…Practice expressing yourself in ways that will benefit you. If you deride your own work in front of others, they’ll do it, too. If you’re constantly self-deprecating, people will see you as uncertain of yourself. You have a lot of power to shape the public perception of yourself. Why not do it in a way that makes you look good?” (Basic Black, 51, 63-64).