Beautiful Mess

Avery has reached the age of listening and actually paying attention to song lyrics. It is disappointing that I can no longer listen to “Slim Shady” with her, and if a song ever contains the word “stupid”, I’m sure to hear about it from the lyrics police.

“Mom,” she says seriously, “we aren’t supposed to say the word stupid.” I sigh, switching stations, “You’re absolutely right. That was not good at all. I can’t believe they said that!”

Being married to an Iowa boy, I listen to a lot of country music. Clarification: not by choice; but, simply by proxy. As we were road tripping to Georgia, Chad had his country music station blaring.

As we drove up and down the endless hills, the song, “Beautiful Mess”, by Diamond Rio came on. It’s one of my favorite country songs, mostly because it is catchy. The girls were being quiet in the back of the car; I assumed they were either asleep or on the edge of it.

As the song drew to an end, Avery piped up from the back of the car, “Mom, what’s so beautiful about a mess?”

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The question caught me off guard. I fumbled through my answer, the same way I fumbled the first time she asked me how babies get out of tummies.

“Well you know how some things are beautiful but can be messy at the same time?” She nodded, unconvinced, still confused. “It’s like that”, I said, popping my 100th handful of Peanut Butter M&M’s. The most non-answer of non-answers, a great skill I’ve honed as a parent.

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Whether she realized it or not, she asked a profound question. One that I wish I could have answered more eloquently. But, such is life, and heck, she probably wouldn’t have appreciated an eloquent answer.

If I could rewind back to her question, here is what I’d say:

The mess is the crayons strewn across the floor, the beauty is the adorable family portrait you made, meticulously labeling each family member in your endearing, shaky, 5-year-old hand writing.

The mess is the toys and goldfish crumbs inhabiting every room of our house, including bathrooms. It’s the yelling and tantrums, it’s “The Chipmunks” playing on repeat, it’s the sticky handprints covering our windows. The beauty? That our house holds you, my sweet girls.

The mess is the flour covering seemingly every surface of our kitchen, the sink full of dishes, my achy feet. The beauty is the fresh baked caramel pecan rolls.

It’s the baby you get to hold in your arms after a hell of a labor.

It’s the tears you cry after you lose someone you love. The inseparable marriage of love and pain.

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You see doll, beauty and mess travel together. If you avoid the mess, you’re also going to lose some of the beauty.

Although the word “mess” has negative connotations and “beauty” has positive ones, don’t let that trick you.

It’s not black and white. The world isn’t all mess or all beauty. They exist as a pair. Sometimes it seems like one significantly overpowers the other: the beauty of a waterfall; the mess of a destructive storm. But if you look closer, you might see how they balance each other out.

Sure, the waterfall is stunningly beautiful. But for it to form, it had to erode the rocks to create the perfect ledge for water to cascade over. This took time, lots of time. And for the rocks, maybe pain. Trees had to fall to clear way for this majestic force. Nature had to submit to the powerful flow of the water. It’s beautiful, yes, absolutely, but there was definitely some mess involved with creation of the final product.

Storms can cause a lot of damage. They can rip apart seemingly intact structures within seconds. They can be terrifying, earth changing, massive forces of nature. And yet. And yet. And yet.

As the sky begins to lighten, there is an almost eerily peaceful calm. It’s as if the earth takes a collective breath, pausing before resuming life. Storms clear space for new growth and provide necessary nutrients for life. With the destruction comes new life, beauty.

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Sweet girl, I’m telling you this because I want to be absolutely sure that you know not to be frightened by messes.

At multiple points in your life, you will have to make scary decisions that involve both mess and beauty. Don’t let the beauty blindside you; but of equal and almost greater importance, don’t let the mess scare you.

Make the mess. Slog through. Find your beauty.

Love,

Mama

A Letter to the New Mama

My sister just had her first baby; and so, I feel the sisterly need to share a little wisdom.

Dear Mama,

Yes, you! This is your new name for the rest of your life. At first it will be cute, then it will be annoying, and then it will go back to endearing. No matter what media, society, friends, enemies or anyone else tries to convince you of, you are perfectly capable of your role as a parent.

Regardless of how that baby exits your body, you are a champ. I personally believe they should give out trophies. “A FULL GROWN BABY EXITED MY BODY” will be the inscription. Better yet, a license plate. Instead of, “Save the sea turtles,” it will say, “Save my sanity.”

Parenthood lie #1: “It’s the most natural thing ever! Women have been giving birth since the beginning of time!”

I found this in my photo archives, around the time I had Alice. I have nothing else to say.

I’m here to tell you that there is nothing natural about the birth process and it feels like a very bad idea (see photo above for further proof). This is on my list of things to talk to God about when I croak.

Once the baby is out of your body, society has determined that while a pregnant body is adorable, a postpartum body is not.

This is BS. Your body is amazing. You literally grew this child from one to TWO TRILLION cells. Then you pushed the full grown baby out of a 10cm hole. It is nothing short of a miracle. So, yes, your body might have changed a bit. Maybe irreversibly, but also, beautifully.

Next on the agenda?

Food. Not for you, silly. THE BABY. Remember, everyone has shifted their opinionated focus from your pregnant belly to your child and how you are parenting them.

There are two options. Breast milk & formula. Whiskey is no longer advisable, unfortunately. Both are great AND your kid will turn out fine whichever way you go. The decision you make will not change your greatness as a parent. By the time your kid goes off to kindergarten, no one will know whether your kid was breast fed or formula fed. And quite frankly, no one will care.

Instead of pregnancy horror stories, people will now share breastfeeding horror stories. The time they got a huge golf ball sized clot in their boob that someone had to massage out and it hurt like the dickens. Or the time they filled their freezer with extra breast milk only to learn that their baby refused to drink it. Or when their child grew teeth and literally bit their nipple off. (Just kidding. I don’t know if this one has actually happened but it was my greatest fear. I can’t google it for fear of what I will learn.)

As you’ve noticed, since becoming pregnant, everyone has an opinion about your life as a parent. What parenting style are you going to use? Free Range? Crunchy? Attachment?

I prefer a combination survival of the fittest and leave me alone parenting.

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I could go on and on about all of the dilemmas you will face and be judged over. Cloth diapers or disposable? To work or stay at home? Whether or not to bribe with fruit snacks. How you potty train the kid. To sleep train or not. Co-sleeping?

The great news is that you are now the parent. You get to make the decisions. It’s not up to the opinionated mass of humans who creep their way into the crevices of your brain.

Parenthood lie #2: Everything will be okay because you are the expert on your kid.

WRONG. Whoever coined this phrase couldn’t have been a parent.

According to my five year old, I am NEVER right. As the expert on my children, I cannot explain why they are so weird. I do not know why they do the things they do. I am not an expert, let me assure you.

It is terrifying when you leave the hospital and they load you in the car with your baby, calling, “good luck!” as they slam your door. I wanted to zombie crawl back up to the postpartum floor, plaster my face to the window at the nurses station, and creepily ask, “Can I live here forever?”

After a bit of time, you will learn to read your babies cues. And by this, I mean, you will learn to read their screams. At least that’s what they say. Personally the best I got at cue reading was, “My child is crying. Something must be wrong. What something is, I have no idea.”

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The good news is that even though you have absolutely no clue what you are doing with your baby, you are the expert on YOU. Contrary to popular opinion, you don’t need to be a martyr to be a good parent. Your kid will be happier if YOU are happier.

So if your boobs don’t have it in them to breast feed, don’t. If your house is overtaken by an explosion of baby crap and you don’t have it in you to clean and organize all of it, don’t. Get as much sleep as you can. Find people you trust to give you a break when you need one and watch that cute kid of yours. If people offer help, take it. Find mom friends who are honest- who aren’t going to feed you BS about how perfect their child is and what a clean house they live in.

Stop beating yourself up for not being enough. You. Are. Plenty.

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When the baby arrives, you will be engulfed in a massive life change. Your life went from doing normal adult things to obsessively tracking how many wet diapers your little genius baby produces. Your life will be dictated by a schedule of when the next feed is due and naps. You’ll find yourself in a dark room, holding a baby who will only go to sleep if you do squats on repeat for 90 minutes. And you’ll wonder, “how did I get here?”

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I can repeatedly tell you how magical and life changing it is once you have that baby in your arms. How one second you’re you and the next you are a completely different person. But until you have that baby in your arms, you won’t get it.

Even if your baby cries all day, at the end of it, you’ll stare at that little terrorist sleeping peacefully in the crib on your chest and nowhere else and wonder how you got so lucky.

Like most rewarding experiences, parenthood is a lot of work. It is draining, never ending, crying on the kitchen floor kind of work. It is exhausting, hair pulling, cringe worthy, down in the trenches kind of work.

It will make you question everything you’ve ever known. Undoubtedly, it will bring you to your knees.

Some days you’ll wonder if you made a mistake. You’ll debate about if you have it in you to put them up for adoption.

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This is the section of the letter when I’m supposed to tell you it’s worth it.

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It’s worth it.

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I wish there was a way to capture accurately why this is. Because as we all know, mathematically it doesn’t add up. If you bring out a balance scale, it might tip heavier on the end of poop explosions and temper tantrums.

One day, your kid will smile at you for the first time. Holidays will regain the magic they held when you were a child. You will witness so many firsts. You will be reminded that life truly is a miracle.

You will sit in awe as you watch them take their first step. Annunciate their first word. String together their first sentence. You will watch their personality blossom. You will learn things about yourself that you never realized until you watch them mirror your phrases and routines.

The days will be long, but the years short.

One day you’ll realize that their cute potbelly disappeared and that they no longer have dimples on their hands. You’ll notice with a start that your “baby” is no longer a baby.

And somehow, just like that, you will have survived the phase of parenting a baby. You will look back and wonder how you did it. You’ll wish you had given yourself a little more grace and a little less beating yourself up over cluttered countertops.

You will have mad respect for your younger, sleep deprived self who kept moving forward because it was the only way to go.

Buckle up, mama. It’s going to be one heck of a ride.

xo,

Laura

Avery Marie 5.0

I remember snippets. It was a cold day. I think there was snow. I hadn’t been feeling quite right. I figured I was fatigued or had a bug. But just to be sure, I stopped at a CVS to pick up a pregnancy test. It was three weeks after Chad and I married and barely a week since we had returned from our honeymoon.

“This will probably be something I laugh about after I take it and it comes back negative,” I thought as I waited in line for the cashier to ring me up.

The next snippet in my brain flashes to watching the pregnancy test turn positive in our apartment bathroom in downtown Minneapolis. I shouted to Chad, “uh… you better come here.”

Instead of thinking, “wow, I’m pregnant,” I thought, “Dang, I must have a brain tumor” (a very rare reason pregnancy tests are positive when in fact the woman is not). Chad of course believed that the pregnancy test couldn’t possibly be right, so we stopped at Target to pick up five pregnancy tests and red Gatorade.

Five positive pregnancy tests and half a Gatorade later, the statistics were clear enough for Chad to be convinced that I was pregnant, and a state of shock set in.

Avery’s pregnancy was not an easy one. It was full of nausea, vomiting, and fainting spells. I lost 10 pounds in the first trimester. I fainted in the heart transplant meeting at work (yes, it is super embarrassing to faint in front of a group of cardiologists).

I fainted on the bathroom floor in front of a very concerned Chad. I insisted I hadn’t fully passed out as he hurried me to the Emergency Department. “Well do you remember when I slapped your face?,” he asked.

I was incredulous. “No. Why would you do that?”

“To wake you up.” This is what happens when you put an actuary in a medical situation.

Needless to say, I was anxious to give birth by my due date. But consistent with her feisty and stubborn personality, Avery arrived nine days late.

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As I lay laboring in the hospital bed, I wondered out loud, “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom. What if the baby hates me?” My midwife looked down and smiled, “You will be a great mom. Your baby will love you and you will love her, just wait and see.”

I had assumed that once Avery popped out, I would be filled with eternal joy and everything would make sense, and we would live happily ever after. I expected her birth would be peaceful. There would be soft lighting, classical music and tears of joy.

Instead, I lay writhing on a hospital bed, buck naked, while a team of 2 doctors, a midwife, the entire c-section team, neonatologist, and NICU team watched, aided by very fluorescent lights for their optimal viewing pleasure.

I added to the zen by glaring directly at the doctors and loudly asking, “Why is there a finger up my butt hole?” To which the doctor apologized, “Sorry ma’am, I’m trying to prevent you from tearing.” What a chivalrous guy. Classical music and soft lighting my a**.

I was told that the baby was in trouble and I had one last shot to push her out before they were going to rush me to c-section. I somehow mustered enough strength and was soon greeted by a very blue creature.

In my nurse brain, I classified the situation as bad. I watched as they attempted to intubate her three times, with her sats dropping into the 50’s. Fourth time was the charm, and they sped her out of the room with Chad following closely behind.

After I was stitched up, the room cleared. It was just me and my postpartum belly which was disappointingly not flat at all. A timid aide poked her head in the door to ask if she could get me some toast.

I was pretty sure I was a mom now, but I didn’t see a cute, cuddly baby anywhere in sight. Toast in this moment didn’t make sense. I wanted my baby, not toast. So I declined.

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Two hours later I was wheeled to the special care unit to meet Avery. Luckily her intubation was short lived and she was able to breath on her own once they suctioned a mucus plug out of her lungs.

They wheeled me up to an incubator and informed me that this was my baby. I peered inside. I saw a chunky, beat-up baby, with adorable fuzzy hair.

Cute, but blonde. Couldn’t be my kid.

The kind NICU nurse tried to teach me how to breastfeed. But, Avery just wanted to sleep and so did I. After an hour of futile latching attempts, Chad wheeled me back to our room, leaving fuzzy blondie behind. “See you in 2 hours!,” the NICU nurse called behind us. What a joke, I thought as I shook my head, I push out a baby and I don’t even get to sleep to recover?

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Parenthood wasn’t what I expected. For me, there wasn’t an immediate joy or love.

It was around 3 months when Avery started smiling and interacting more, when my heart melted and I fell in love.

She patiently taught me that kids are resilient. That I don’t need to be a perfectionist to be a good parent. That formula isn’t the devil, and in fact worked just fine.

She taught me that peek-a-boo is hilarious (because the adult looks like an idiot), and to giggle like a maniac. She reminded me that it’s okay to cry when you’re sad, and to scream in delight with excitement.

The emotions of kids haven’t been dulled by societal norms. In fact, nothing about kids is really bound by norms. They march to the beat of their own drums. And that, is admirable.

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We are coming up on Avery’s FIFTH birthday. She starts preschool on Monday.

She is no longer a pot-bellied toddler. Her legs are long and browned by the sun. Her sentences are no longer 3 words strung together, she speaks in rivers of words, effortlessly constructing stories (or bossing us around). Thank goodness she has maintained the same deep and infectious giggle of babyhood.

She has definitely acquired the first child personality. She stands with her hand on her hip and bosses us all around, while carrying on a conversation over her play cell phone.

She is sweet and gorgeous, courageous and cautious. She can negotiate like a terrorist. She’s firey. She’s stubborn in the best and worst way. The girl will go places, mark my words.

The midwife was right. I love Avery and she loves me. Maybe we followed a non-traditional path to get there. She patiently and stubbornly taught me who she is, and in learning who she is, I fell deep in love.

Happy Birthday, Aves!

Love,

Mama

Hitting Pause

I’ve never had any desire to pause, rewind, or re-live any part of my life. However; recently, I’ve been wishing for a pause button.

I have hit a sweet spot in life. All of the change that has taken place over the years has slowly but surely fit all of the puzzle pieces into a beautiful picture.

It is scary to acknowledge that life is at a peak right now. I know that life isn’t all peaks, and eventually we will encounter a valley. But I’m soaking in this sweet spot.

When I stopped working to stay at home with the girls, I feared that I would become less. I wouldn’t be as valuable since I was no longer bringing in a paycheck. I would be stupider since I wasn’t interacting with patients and providers on a daily basis. And what was I going to say when people asked what I do?

Sure, some of it is true. I can’t rattle off oncology drugs like I used to be able to. I am not bringing home a paycheck. And people frequently ask what I do. The answer? “A helluva lot more than when I worked.”

Here’s the thing though: I’ve never been happier.

Our days feel endless- sometimes in a good way, and sometimes in a bad way. They are filled with unprovoked dance parties, singing the same three songs over and over, and stopping to watch the ants.

We have entered the stage of exploring the world while sunlight streams through the trees. We experience wonder on a minute by minute basis, stopping at any moment to admire whatever nature treasure we find.

We take care of baby (doll), read an endless stack of books, and try to find answers to life’s biggest questions: Where can we find a butterfly to catch? How can you tell if a woman has a baby in her tummy vs food? <important life skill for survival> How can we go to Minnesota?

Sure, our days are peppered with skinned knees, the occasional tantrum, and slivers from climbing the slanty palm tree with bare feet. While the joy we experience is beautifully un-masked, the sadness, anger and pain also remain un-hidden. We cry about bonked heads because, dang it, they hurt!

There is dirt under our fingernails. Our house isn’t Pinterest perfect clean. Heck, it isn’t clean… period. And we haven’t quite nailed down social norms.

We are working on keeping our dresses down at dinner, because although tempting, the restaurant is not an appropriate place to compare tummy size. Church isn’t really a spot for yelling. And sadly, comparing poop sizes really isn’t ever appropriate.

Our days end with family prayers in bed. Our little people have big prayers, and nothing makes my mama heart happier than hearing them.

Because, what I’ve learned from my kids is this: life is beautiful.

Somewhere in my adult years, I forgot to look at the world with wonder.

But these little people have patiently taught me to pause and watch the meticulous choreography of an ant colony, to watch in awe as the sky turns pinks and purples after its last rays have dipped below the horizon, and to always, without fail, accept gifts of smashed flowers from little dimply hands.

They taught me that life isn’t about climbing the career ladder. That joy isn’t derived from a paycheck. And that love wins, always.

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I was able to sneak home for a little less than 24 hours this past weekend for a surprise birthday party for one of my friends.

I wasn’t sure how a 24 hour trip would go, but given that I was able to travel without kids (thank you, Chad & in-laws), I was able to enjoy beautiful, uninterrupted conversations with my family. I left Minnesota refreshed, and so happy to have been able to squeeze the people I love.

In other news, we are all well.

Coronavirus is slowly but surely beginning to impact us, first and foremost through the toilet paper shortage we are experiencing. Luckily I stocked up a while back, so we should be set for a few months. And I’m not below using diaper wipes if necessary. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Sending love to all back home,

Laura

“You’re doing good”

We walked out of the clinic into the bright sunlight. By “walked”, I mean, Avery and Alice ran like maniacs while I power walked behind them with my mom-ly muffin top jiggling, yelling things like “Red light!” or “slow down” or “don’t let a car squish you!”

All of a sudden, the girls came to a halt. I knew it couldn’t be that they were actually listening to my pleads from behind, so I looked ahead.

There it was, the golf cart. You see, in Florida, not only do we have PLENTY of parking, which is a stark contrast to my Minneapolis upbringing, but Florida is gloriously set up for old people. And so, despite the fact that we only parked about 20 steps from the clinic doors, they have a golf cart shuttle that brings you from the front door to your car.

Yes, I know. It’s fantastic. The potential for laziness here is incredible. It’s why I have a muffin top.

The girls always insist we take a golf cart ride to our car, so we push all the old people with walkers and wheelchairs out of the way, and climb aboard.

Just kidding, we don’t do that. I mean, we don’t do the pushing the old people part. We do ride the golf cart though.

The golf cart is always driven by a 60+ year old, typically wearing a golf shirt and visor. I’m not sure if you needed to know this, but I’m just sharing the deets.

This particular ride was a good one. It wasn’t your typical boring ride. It started with the golf cart guy leaning back and whispering to the girls, “it’s my first day on the job, sorry if the ride is crazy.” He preceded to swerve through the parking lot while the girls giggled up a storm.

Was it an act? Or was it truly his first day, and had he indulged in a few cocktails prior? I will never know. Either way, it was brilliant of him.

As he screeched to a stop in front of our car approximately 15 seconds later, the girls hopped out and thanked him after I reminded them to say thank you. (I’ve noticed that 85% of my sentences as a parent are, “Say thank you!”, with forced cheeriness.)

As I mentally prepared for the arduous task of buckling two kids into car seats (car seats are the worst), golf cart man drove off, turning back to yell, “You’re doing good, mom!” And my heart melted.

I truly believe these are some of the kindest and best words a parent can hear, even better if they come from a total stranger. Best, if they are spoken after a totally ordinary moment, not when I’m being a show-off parent and drilling my kid on the ABC’s in the grocery store line.

We were at the doctor because I was pretty sure Alice had an ear infection. Sure enough, she did. And for bonus points, she also had the flu.

The flu was a surprising diagnosis because she wasn’t really acting sick enough to have the flu. The resilience of kids is mind boggling. When I have the flu, I am on deaths door.

Being the good citizen that I am, I cancelled all of our plans for the next few days and quarantined the kids.

But quarantine is boring and we were recently stuck inside after Avery’s ear surgery, so the thought of spending all my time inside with the kids was daunting.

In one of my brightest moments of all parenting time, I made the decision to combine flu quarantine with potty training for Alice. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?

Right.

The method of potty training we chose is called “The Naked Method”: you let your kid run around naked from waist down and pray for the best. I like to call it the “Naked and Afraid Method” .

Golf cart man’s kind words echoed in my head as I cleaned up pee off the floor the first two times and I nodded. “Yes, I am doing good,” I agreed, pleased with myself.

The third time I was cleaning pee off the floor, his words once again echoed in my head, and I thought to myself, “I really am a good mom, look at me, not losing it after cleaning pee up all day!”

After this thought crossed my brain, a child who shall not be named knocked a bowl of soggy wheaties off the table, then got up and tracked the soggy wheaties across our entire living space.

It was then that I lost it and decided that I must not be a good mom after all. It’s funny how things can turn so quickly.

The great news is that after peeing on the floor 6 times in one day, Alice woke up the next morning and was basically potty trained. By “basically” I mean, she hasn’t had any accidents except for the one time she peed while she was in the shower, but some people do that on purpose, so… I cannot judge her intentions. Maybe it wasn’t an accident.

In other news, we celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday on 2/17.

Approximately 2 days after I mailed out Christmas cards this year, I received a call from my father-in-law, Doug at 9pm. He wanted to discuss the Christmas card I had sent out.

Yes, he liked the pictures, but he was distraught that I hadn’t included in our note on that back of the card that we are able to spend endless time with Doug and Nancy given that our FL home is 7 minutes from their Florida home.

And so, given that this is his Birthday Month, I’d like to spell out my gratitude for Doug Onstot, especially now that we live so close to each other.

When I first met Doug, I was a nervous girlfriend, trying my best to impress Chad’s parents. I was a city girl, through and through.

Doug, being Doug, decided to welcome me to Iowa (and the family) by taking Chad and I for a ride in his new ranger.

As he whipped up and down ditches and across empty cornfields, I saw my life flash before my eyes. I was sandwiched between Doug and Chad and there wasn’t a whole lot of room.

Doug was clearly pleased with his new ranger and his driving abilities, as he calmly smiled and kept glancing over at Chad and I, probably enjoying the look of pure terror in our eyes. My terror was rooted in my hate for speed, Chad’s terror was likely rooted in the fact that he knew exactly what his father was capable of (and didn’t want to lose such a catch of a girlfriend).

On first impression, I gathered that Doug liked going fast, he was loud and the life of the party, and everyone in Indianola, Iowa knew him.

After 5 years of marriage into the Onstot family, I can attest that all of the above first impressions are true. But I will also say that over time, my understanding of Doug has evolved.

When Avery was born, I got to experience the Papa in him. I watched as this loud man with big hands held my sweet girls when they were babies, rocking them to sleep in his recliner.

Doug watches Mickey Mouse Clubhouse with the girls on Saturday mornings. He teaches them about combines and tractors, but has also acquired a knowledge of Disney Princesses and the Paw Patrol.

What I’m trying to say here is that underneath his tough facade, he has the sweetest soft spot for his grandkids.

The other thing I like about Doug? I never have to guess what he’s thinking. He is filter free, generally speaking… and in this politically correct culture that shies away from offending anybody, I find it refreshing.

“Remember how big your ass got when you were pregnant?” Yes, Doug, I remember.

I think I will end my post on those words. Sending love to all back home,

Laura

Reporting Live from: FL

Hi All,

Whenever I write these posts, I have to sift through the pictures from the last week to remind myself what we’ve been up to. Call it mom brain or dementia, but I have very short term memory. Avery asked me the other day, “Mom, why do you always forget things?” Uhhhh, probably because your list of demands is super long.

Ok, I’m not seeing anything too exciting in the pictures. It looks like we went to the beach to watch the sunset last Monday- that was a gorgeous night and the ocean was as calm as a lake. The waves lapped against the shore covered in sea shells, producing the most beautiful sound. Chad found a perfect sea shell and I was jealous. He wasn’t even looking & I’m always psycho Eagle Eyes walking around like a mad woman in search of the perfect shell.

Next, I see we went to the farmers market. It was a much cooler day than the last time we went, so we greatly appreciated that. I made the mistake of giving Alice a sugar cinnamon pretzel, which, kept her quiet the whole time, but resulted in a huge mess.

On further review of pictures, I note that one of the girls stole my phone and documented me, looking fine as wine, eating a cookie. Don’t judge the mess. Or my appearance. I have kids, okay?

Do you like my middle of day wardrobe choice? Bathrobe layered on top of sweats.

A glamorous shot of me telling the kid to put the phone down. I’m still not sure which kid but I’m guessing Avery.

Friday was our 5th wedding anniversary- woot woot! We celebrated with a family dinner followed by ice cream. We missed the sunset as it sets so early now 😦 But made up for it…

On Saturday we went to the beach and watched a stormy and beautiful sunset. We were a bit under-dressed as the wind whipped around and the waves gave us a show. When the sun peeked out for a minute, we had a beautiful view.

A Stormy Sunset

I spent a big chunk of the week working on an article for my Parenting and Travel blog on “Parental Burnout”. I felt pretty burned out from the article by the end, but thankfully posted it last night, so it is officially off my plate. You can read it here.

That’s about all I have to report. Chad’s parents are due to arrive in FL later this week and we could not be more excited!

Sending love,

Laura