idontbelieveingrammar

One of my favorite traditions for almost a decade has been to sit down and try to write a REAL Christmas letter.  Not just the highlights, but a few honest moments as well. It started as a joke with one of my friends, thinking how refreshing it be for people to share more than just their perfect lives that we are used to seeing on Facebook and Instagram. It would be way more honest and a whole lot more entertaining. Now, every year I look forward to sitting down and reflecting on what I have learned, what is still a struggle, what is funny and of course the things that still make my heart want to burst in the best and worst ways. I even tried to reflect that in my Christmas card this year (well....the ones I was together enough to get out). The front is a tight shot of my family looking oh so cute on the couch....but zoom out and ...well. Truth. Laundry to hang, empty cups and of course...pajamas. It is meant to be funny, but there is also some perspective here. We usually only see...

I do the math on my hand. This is my 5th end of the year dance recital and you think by now I’d know to remember to pack hair spray and snacks. Someone hands my daughter a bag of chips and I want to hug her. I want to tell her that I am not a total failure, that we did not lose the wristbands, we wore the right color tights and that I do at least have a few bobby pins in my pocket. I can not handle the crazy that is backstage. It is a whirlwind of squealing girls in sequins, lycra and tulle. Moms wielding curling hours and more eye makeup than the entire MAC counter, I start to sweat in my ponytail. I quickly look away as an entire row of dancers peel off EVERYTHING for a quick costume change. I was not made for this. I unashamedly let an eight-year-old I have never met teach me how to get my daughter’s hair in place and I make the fastest exit I can. We sit in the balcony. Where we have been for hours. Dance recital day is all consuming. Rehersal, hair and finding the right ti...

No one would ever mistake me for a dance mom.  Most men these days can do a better bun than me and I can’t tell the difference between a leotard and a swimsuit. Tess has been in dance for over four years now and I’d still rather vacuum than help her put on tights (which is saying ALOT). Her debut was at a Junior League Christmas shopping event where they had squeezed a stage in the corner and invited local dance studios to perform while women shopped for all things Santa and rhinestone. Tess was barely out of pull ups. I didn’t want to start her that young, but….if she heard music ….she danced.  In the aisle at the grocery store. In restaurants, she would “perform” while waiters dodged her dancing between tables. Occasionally she even got applause. The check-out clerks at Target would tell me, the table next to us eating would tell me and even my parents told me, “Get that girl in dance”. So finally I bought the tiniest of ballet slippers and the most annoying tap shoes an...

The first time I posted this wasn't on mother's day or even close....but it seems to fit today. I have written a ton lately....but none of it seems ready for public consumption just yet. So --instead there is this: My Favorite Scar When I was ten I fell on a piece of glass and sliced open my left hand. The scar is thick and a little lumpy because I waited too long to get stitches. On my other hand is larger white scrappy scar from a bike injury. The involved me trying to beat the boys. My knees are thick with scars. More bikes, tennis courts and plain old clumsy. My son has a few already and he gladly shows them off. They are a testament to his toughness.  The one on his back shows that he did in fact survive jumping (and falling off the bed). There is one on his chin that the ER doctors glued shut – we no longer practice diving in the bathtub. And a little one on his hairline that received a few staples. Scars show us what we have survived and we have healed. But I ...

I like to do things fast. Knock them out quickly. Before I get scared or tired or bored or distracted. (What was I talking about again??) This morning, in need of some reliable wifi and peace to work on homework, I drove into Taos. It was only 24 miles but took me a good 45 minutes. You have to move slower when the road winds and twists and turns and the other side is a steep drop off. Down a giant mountain. Most of the drive is a no passing zone. You can’t see down the road far enough to get out ahead. You are just stuck. Winding and turning. And following the advised speed limit or the car in front of you. Occasionally feeling your stomach lurch with another turn. It is easy to not care about the time because it is so damn beautiful. My husband is all about the mountains. He breathes easier in this thin air. I am a water girl. Give me a beach or a paddle board and I am in my happy place. Even if I have to put on a swimsuit. But I get it. I get how much easier it ...

My friend Rhonda spent months and all her creative energy shooting 12 beautiful women who also happened to be victims of domestic violence. On the night of the big reveal of their photos, I couldn’t wait to see these amazing photos and real life women. Almost all models were present and we sat in folding chairs in her backyard and watched the photos roll across the screen as the wind threatened to blow us all away. Each woman was stunning. Each shoot seemed to show something different. Strength. Beauty. Fragility. Fun. Resilience.  The photographer really  saw them and wanted to make sure everyone else did too. Instead of talking about struggle and the past, we were looking at picture after picture of penetrating beauty. These portraits show that these women are to be admired not for where they have been or what they have survived, but for the courageous women that they are right now. Every one of these women had a different story, past and present. But they all had ...

I have the best people. I have people that save me seats at church, places at yoga and cupcakes. I have people to work out with, not work at work with, talk Netflix with and not talk at all with. I have people to drink coffee with, to drink tea with and to drink wine with. I have people to eat sushi with, pie with and lunch after church with. I have people to laugh with until my stomach hurts and people I can call when I want to cry. Usually they are the same people. I have people that have seen my in my yoga pants, my pajama pants and even a select few who have seen me in a swimsuit. I have people that I share good music with, good books with and good food with. I have people to go on adventures with and people to do absolutely nothing with. I have people I can count on — to show up, to bring coffee or to always be late. I get to live with three of my favorite humans ever (except when they are fighting or snoring). I could go on…but I think at this point I am ...

Every February I host a Valentine’s brunch where I ask my guests to show up, eat my favorite baked goods and bring something in return for a women’s shelter: nail polish, makeup, socks, lotion, conditioner – any beauty item they choose. And not leftovers or things they do not like, but things that could make someone feel new and pretty again. It is a simple thing – emails to my friends and co-workers but it is one thing I look forward to hosting every year and almost do not mind picking up my house for. I certainly don’t mind buying 4 kinds of creamer, bacon and every kind of scone. There are no committees or sponsors or stress.   It is totally unofficial, I have simply dropped off the items afterwards.    People come. They bring their daughters.   There is no speech or sales pitch or request for money, we just eat and laugh and our kids play outside. It has sparked conversation after conversation and it amazes me how people want to help and do things and donate but...