Yeehaw.
Just moments before, this sky was so glorious I could barely breathe. I sprinted home, grabbed the camera, and took this picture, all in the space of a minute or two. Perennially late, I only caught the glowing remains of a skywide blaze.
*See the genesis here.
I've had grand plans for a FANCY frugal fancy-pants post, one with glossy poses and airbrushed noses, but, unfortunately, plans are never enough.
The last two months have provided 8 Sundays in which I've worn outfits worthy of this post, outfits which practically begged me to showcase them, but I turned them down in favor of
1. unbuckling children from carseats
2. hauling bags in from the car (why does it feel like I pack for a vacation each time we go to church?)
3. kicking off the ridiculous heels that I wear because I'm vain
4. making popcorn for supper
5. tucking sweaty daughters into bunkbeds
6. flopping down on the couch
and, most importantly
7. staring at the fly that just won't stop buzzing around the room.
I'll try to impress you next time, but for now, please accept this meager offering.
Exhibit A:
Suggestion: Wear this outfit when taking your daughter to the physician for a mysterious lump that refuses to diminish.
It is a certainty.
Here's the rundown.
I don't hear Luci for about five minutes. I leave breakfast cooking on the stove and find her in front of an open unlatched cupboard with an open container of paint that I didn't know was in the cupboard.
She looks cute.
I clean her up.
To keep her from the path of mischief, I set her by my feet. Literally one minute later, I hear a satisfying whooooosh and look down to see her by an open unlatched cupboard with a pile of oatmeal at her feet.
She looks cute.
I clean things up.
Five minutes later. She's awfully quiet. I poke my head around the kitchen island to see her gleefully stuffing marshmallows into her already stuffed mouth. She has finished a quarter of the bag and extends a marshmallow of peace towards me in hopes of avoiding a lecture.
She looks cute.
I take it.
I eat it.
I strap her in a highchair using five feet of mariner's rope.
The End.
I'm pouring butter down buildabelly's throat in an attempt to revive her, and in anticipation of her recovery, I sometimes take pictures of food.
I think it's funny when I occasionally see food blogs in which the food is prettier than me (not that that's saying much, I know- be quiet!), because my method of taking pictures of food for which I post recipes goes something like this.
"Mmmmm. Oh, this smells/looks/tastes so good! Everybody to the table, quickly!"
And then everyone comes, and I sometimes remember to take a picture, grabbing whatever dish/towel/cloth napkin is nearby to throw in the corner of the frame to "enhance" the picture.
I was reminded of my professional photography methodology when I loaded these pictures tonight.
A.
A picture of chicken spiedies, taken to replace the pale and wan picture I posted a couple of years ago:
Snapshot #1.
One morning, I stood in a swathe of tiger lilies and watched them open. One can literally watch them unfold as the sun's rays hit.
A few weeks back, the girls and I had to go to the doctor's office-- a rare occurrence-- and everyone looked presentable, so after the appointment I thought I'd take a picture of them for the McGamma.
The thought's the important part, right? Not the fact that I only realized once we arrived at the doctor's office that Piper had no shoes, and most definitely not the fact that I only realized once she sat down in the waiting room that she also lacked underwear. It was a great day. (The following week, we went to the doctor's AGAIN. That time, Annika left her shoes at home. Thankfully, she was wearing underwear.)
Oh, yes. My failed attempts.
F.A. #1
Pretty Plume, Aguila...things happen. Six unfortunate deaths this summer, several graves dug, and countless flowers plucked from the flowerbeds to give some comfort to grieving girls.
Each time my shovel hits the sod, I'm thankful that their encounters with grief thus far have been so small, and I pray that God gives us courage to face the larger ones to come.
*Johnson children- you know what I mean...
Before I married John, my parents took our family cherry-picking around July 4th of every year. My brothers and sisters and I climbed trees, had cherry fights, ate our weight in cherries, and came home with enough brimful buckets to can for jams and pies and sauces and all manner of winter eating.
This year, John and I took the girls for the second time since we moved from Buffalo, and we continued with all of the above save the cherry-fighting. I run a tight ship. No cherry fighting allowed!
I only took a few pictures because moments after stepping out of the van, cherry juice dripped to my elbows from all the eating picking of cherries and filling of buckets that immediately ensued.
