284/365

things I brought home from new orleans:

a pink fan
a stack of polaroids
the envelope that held our room key
the cork from the bottle of champagne we drank on the night of our anniversary
the little gold foil piece too
a napkin from the napoleon house
a patch I bought for ava (but will probably keep for myself)
two woven candy-colored bracelets that called my name
the paper bag that held our leftover beignets
three anniversary photobooth strips

number 20

september third rolled around last year and we realized, hey-- we made it. we made it to twenty. we made it to our twentieth wedding anniversary, which is no small feat because as you know, marriage is hard, marriage is tough, marriage is not for the faint of heart. it's radical and magnificent and it is not to be entered into lightly. full disclosure: there were a few years there I wasn't sure we were going to make it.

but we made it. not without a few bruises, a few tender spots, but we made it. and we celebrated the heck out of it with a road trip, just the two of us, down to new orleans, the city where we honeymooned two decades ago. we celebrated with a room at the same tiny old french quarter hotel we stayed at back in 1994, with the wooden green shutters and the quiet mossy courtyards and gurgling fountains fat with goldfish, the small curvy swimming pool and continental breakfast (which, by the way, is exactly the same as it was twenty years ago: croissants, orange juice, coffee, newspaper). the smell of the place-- something like old wood, powdered sugar and humidity is also, somehow, miraculously the same.

and things were the same in new orleans, but they weren't. just like we're those same two kids, but we aren't. and we celebrated this, the way things stay the same (but they don't) with beignets and bike rides, followed by an afternoon swim followed by a catnap followed by street music followed by po-boys followed by moonlight. and while there wasn't a bottle of champagne waiting for us when we checked in like there was twenty years ago, there was this: a second-line wedding parade that poured out of our hotel the exact moment we arrived. a bride and groom, a cavalcade of big brass horns and people waving white handkerchiefs and paper fans and plastic solo cups and before we could get our luggage out of the car, before we even knew what was happening we were swept up in it. and we marched along side the thing, as if the parade was our parade and the musicians were playing for us. the bride twirled her white cotton parasol and the wedding party drunkenly lifted plastic cups and we thought, well, this was us. twenty years ago, this was us. minus the second-line parade, of course, but teeming with hope, floating along in that completely different plane of existence, the one reserved solely for the newly wed, those perched at the beginning of the beginning, who can so clearly and confidently see years into their spectacular infinite happy forever.

I wanted to pull that bride aside and tell her things. I wanted to tell her all that I know now, that it will be hard. that things might crumble a little bit, things might actually crumble a lot. the floor will feel shaky sometimes and there will be cracks, they will demand your attention. it will be work, real not-kidding-around hard work. you will walk through a little fire, you won't be able get around it. there are no alternate routes, no shortcuts. you'll just have to walk through it and let it melt and shape you, the both of you. but it will be worth it, all of it, and if you're lucky, if you really work at it, you'll make it. and you'll celebrate your twentieth wedding anniversary with a wedding parade that is not exactly in your honor, but you won't care, not really, because you made it. you made it. and you can't wait to celebrate the next one, you can't wait to celebrate again.

and again and again and again.

(number 20 off the list, properly celebrated)

ten years ago today

ten years ago today, I started this blog.

exactly 1,185 posts later and here I am. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know how long this thing would last or where it might take me but I didn't care. I didn't know and I didn't care. I just wanted the space. I needed the space.

ten years ago today, ava was four, ezra was a baby and I was in the trenches of motherhood. knee deep in the place where you weep with exhaustion one minute, are swallowed up with love the next. when you feel at once like you are both drowning and flying, when you are consumed with love, absolutely transformed by it but also sometimes find yourself on all fours beneath the dining room table, scraping peas off a dirty floor at three in the morning. you live for sleep, for freedom but you want them to stay little forever. you can't imagine them any other way, are sick to your stomach at the very thought but dream of the day they become completely self-sufficient beings so you can go on living a normal life, whatever that is. if you are a creative, you struggle to find where your creative self begins and motherhood ends. or, where motherhood begins and your creative self ends. the truth is this: there is no beginning or end. instead, the two things co-exist in a way you previously thought impossible. they run from the same faucet, folks. from slow trickle to gush, depending on the day, the hour, the minute.

and so I was deep in the trenches of motherhood, grappling with said things when I found my way into the blog world. no rules, no schedules, just show up, write, share work. so I did. and almost instantly, I fell in love. it was the one thing in my life at that moment that didn't expect a thing from me. it was just there, exactly when I needed it and not a minute sooner, when maybe a minute was all I had, when I was nursing ezra with one arm and typing with the other, when all I could manage with my free arm was a hunt and peck lowercase situation. no rules, it didn't matter.

and if no one cared, if no one read, that didn't matter either. the having of the space was enough for me. but ten years and 17,959 comments (really, 17, 959!) later and I would be remiss if I did not properly acknowledge just how profound the interaction here has been for me. that people even read, take time to comment, this still surprises me, humbles me. if this is you, has ever been you, thank you. a hundred times over, thank you.

I wish I had the numbers, I wish I'd done the work. number of words written, hours put in here. number of photographs shared, polaroids, photobooth fridays. creative projects started, finished, not finished. number of lists posted, number of collaborations. times I've been right, times I've been wrong. number of shamelessly maudlin posts, number of times I used all caps to yell at the internet, times I've been forced to both explain and defend my lowercase habit. number of posts that mean something to me, number of posts I'd love to delete. number of actual real world jobs landed via this weird little place, number of experiences, adventures, people I would not know in real life were it not for the blog, people I absolutely cannot imagine my life without. from the blog, of all places, the blog.

in the ten years I've been here, my children have nearly grown up. ava's a teenager, for pete's sake. ezra is poised at the very edge of it. we moved to the opposite end of the country, found our way out to the great pacific northwest, to portland, oregon, and then seven years later, found our way back home to the south again. somewhere along the way, an old polaroid SX-70 camera cracked my personal work wide open. my words and photographs have been published in both books and magazines. teaching happened, workshops happened. ward turned forty, I turned forty, our marriage turned twenty years-old. and my mom. I lost my mom.

still, the blog was here, is here, through everything, here. undeniably, the landscape is changing and I am probably not unlike the stubborn little house in the city, dwarfed by high-rise buildings and skyscrapers, sorely out of place. the one who refuses to give up her little plot of land no matter how drastically things continue to change around her. after about a year of blogging I can so clearly remember thinking, how long can this thing go on? I mean, really? how long can we keep this blogging thing going? five years? ten years? surely not. surely we will not all still be blogging ten years from now. I mean... what would that even look like?

well, I guess this is what it looks like. at least, one little piece of it. I still don't know what I'm doing, not really, but I like it here. and I think I'll stick around. probably not for another ten years but you never know, you never really know. so here's to the ever-changing fantastically lovely, undeniably goofy blog world. here's to ten years of the unknown, the unchartered and here's to the future of this here crazy place, whatever it may look like a decade from now.

photobooth friday

19th wedding anniversary, properly celebrated. with pretty drinks and fancy food and a trip to the photobooth. nineteen years. nineteen years. sometimes it feels like we are light years from who we were when we stood together in that church on september 3rd, 1994. and we are. but then sometimes it feels like no time has passed at all.

this time next year? twenty. and we've got big plans. big plans, friends. here's hoping we can pull it off.

seventeen

about a month before our anniversary is when we start in with all the talking. the let's-get-dressed-up-and-go-someplace-really-nice-for-dinner talking. the let's-really-do-this-thing-up-right talking. we go back and forth on the where and the when and we get all excited because surely it will happen this year. surely, one of us will pull it together. and then I think maybe he waits for me to plan it and okay, I sort of I wait for him to plan it and the whole time, we're talking about how epic it will be. both of us thinking the night will somehow magically pull itself together. and then it's the week of our anniversary and we are still just talking. we realize we do not have a plan. we do not have reservations, we do not have a babysitter. most importantly, we do not have a cute anniversary dress. this is also when we realize something else. we are big talkers.

and so this is how we ended up at the coast last weekend for our 17th wedding anniversary. squirrelly kids and giant beach towels and tubes of sunscreen and a whole mess of plastic sand toys in tow. not exactly what we had in mind but this would not be the first time. not that the beach is even remotely any sort of punishment but you know. hello, sweaty sunburnt skin. hello, grouchy over-tired children. hello, sand in unwelcome places. again, not exactly what we'd originally had in mind. but real. and strangely perfect.

so, mexican for dinner, saltwater taffy for dessert. kids playing in the sand while the sun set on the pacific ocean. and us. at the end of the day, us. and if that's how the anniversaries go down from here on out, I'll take it.

magic fifteen

no room service this year. no mysterious fevers either. just a quiet dinner and a little photobooth action afterwards. thus, our 15th wedding anniversary has been properly celebrated. for this, I am thankful.

numbers 18 and 36 (plus room 400)

last saturday, I surprised ward.



(which would be number 36 off the list)





I surprised him with a night at the ace hotel.



(which would be number 18 off the list)



sort of an unofficial very belated 14th wedding anniversary celebration, if you will. something to make up for the great wall of socks.



yeah, he was surprised.



and yeah, it was pretty fantastic.





that's all I'm going to say.



I do not kiss and tell.

better than everything in the sky

this is not at all what you had in mind, you think. no, this simply will not do.

you spend the afternoon taking care of your sick child. you wait nervously for the high fever to go down. you prepare yourself for the worst, for projectile vomiting or maybe even febrile seizures. you think of febrile seizures because you have a penchant for the dramatic. you haven't always been this way but febrile seizures, they really could happen. naturally, this terrifies you. you don't want to think about things like febrile seizures. not today, or any day for that matter, but especially not today. you take your son's temperature every fifteen minutes, hoping the frequency of your readings will magically bring it down a degree or two. you want results, no matter how irrational the method. you exchange one cool washcloth for another, trade worried glances with your husband though clearly, he is not as worried as you are. in fact, he's perfectly calm. this annoys you. you don't want to feel annoyed with him. not now, not today but it's too late. you are officially annoyed.

finally, the mysterious fever breaks and your son bounces around the room like a giant red ball. he's a brand new person and you are so relieved. deep down, you know it's just the ibuprofen but you don't care. suddenly, you find yourself at the mall. at payless shoes, of all places. you are looking at plastic shoes with your daughter when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. there you are, dirty hair and all. you realize you haven't changed clothes in a couple of days. and you are wearing taupe. taupe. you look like someone's mother. how did this happen? then, before you even know what's happening, you're at old navy looking at socks. you stand under fluorescent lights and contemplate the impressive selection of toddler-sized socks. they're having a sale, eight pairs for ten dollars! yes or no? ezra doesn't really need eight pairs of socks (no one really does) but they're on sale and it goes against everything in you to ignore this. and so you deliberate. this is when it hits you. you are spending your 14th wedding anniversary in old navy in front of a giant wall of socks. this makes you sad.

you wonder what happened. that man you married, does he feel the same way? surely he knows this is not right. you realize that he is also looking at the giant wall of socks. he asks you about colors and sizes, he earnestly wants to help you with this decision. you do nothing but nod blankly. fourteen years ago, you stood together in a church before God and everyone. now you are standing before a large display of socks. you're not sure what happened. you don't know what you expected but you are nowhere near the quiet anniversary celebration you originally had in mind. you long for fancy food on pretty plates, for white linen tablecloths and the flicker of candles. for something, anything. but really, you are in no shape for such an evening. you are a mess. your clothes are a mess, your hair is a mess and you feel old. what you want to feel is radiant, beautiful, luminous. you want to feel like a new bride. instead, you feel old and over.

fourteen years ago today, you were married. you wore important outfits. him, a smart-looking tuxedo and you, a soft white gown, fresh flowers in your hair. late afternoon sunlight filled the sanctuary and you said meaningful things to each other, exchanged rings. there was the sweetness of a kiss. people smiled and congratulated you. people ate fluffy white cake. you were exuberant. the both of you drove through the streets of downtown atlanta in your tiny grey ford festiva, dragging aluminum cans and a rainbow of streamers behind you. he pounded on the horn while you flung your arms wildly out the window. you couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop looking at each other, touching each other. you couldn't believe you'd done it. you got married.

you are home from the mall now and the medicine has worn off. the fever is back, higher than ever. you sit on the couch next to your child and beg him to please drink the water. fluids, you say. you need fluids. every three seconds, you offer him more cold water. you wonder if you should call the advice nurse again, you try to hide how worried you really are. you hold his head in your lap and sing funny little songs to him, songs that he loves. you know you have a long night ahead of you. you are already so tired. you want to feel sorry for yourself, you really do. you want to wallow in this. it feels so good to wallow. plus, you are really good at wallowing. you want to cry and complain because clearly, you have been wronged. you deserve more than this, so much more. you think about all the ways you would have spent your anniversary together and so you wallow a little while longer. you do this until you remember. this is what marriage is. this is why you've managed to make it this far together because deep down, both of you know. this is what marriage is. it's everyday and sometimes it's ugly and boring but also intoxicating and spectacular. it's a million different things and all at once. this thing you have is beyond words, it transcends the sock-buying, the late-night worrying, the high expectations, the disappointments, the ugly days. it's bigger, broader, brighter, deeper. what you have is true.

this has not been an easy year, you think. no, this has not been the best year. the two of you still have such a long way to go but here you both are, fourteen years later. and for that, you are thankful. for the everyday, you are thankful. for marriage, you are thankful. for him, you are so thankful.

the details

alternately titled: I love room service.

because, 24-hour room service is how you do it. when you are celebrating a wedding anniversary with kids in tow, room service is how you do it. you book a room at a semi-fancy hotel downtown somewhere (seattle) and pay extra for the one with a good view. because it's your 13th wedding anniversary and dang it if you don't deserve a good view. if you're going to do this thing, you're going to do it right.



you check in at three in the afternoon because it's the earliest they'll let you check in. you're paying good money for this room and you plan on milking every last second of it. you thoroughly enjoy the ride up to the 41st floor. you are so happy you don't even notice your kids fighting over the elevator buttons. they always fight over the elevator buttons. you fought over elevator buttons when you were a kid too, as did hundreds of thousands of kids before you and so on and so forth. since the invention of the elevator, kids have been fighting like dogs over who gets to push the button. and who can blame them? sometimes it feels good to push a button.



once inside the room, you allow the kids to take over. they whoop and holler, whip curtains wide open, dump backpacks full of toys and swimsuits all over the floor. you even let them jump on the bed. truth be told, you sort of want to jump on the bed too. they're excited and this excitement, it's contagious. you find yourself ripping back satiny white bed sheets and jumping inside. you giggle and squeal and this is funny because you are not really a giggler. a squealer maybe, but not a giggler. you stare at the floor-to-ceiling windows and oooh and aaah with the kids over the view. the seattle skyline is laid out before you, pedestrians and taxicabs like little wind-up toys below, and you can see the water. you can see the coming and going of ferries and boats. for a second, the room is quiet. you try not to think how quickly this will all be over, you try very hard. but the three other people in the room with you make it nearly impossible to feel anything other than wild excitement. you give in to this and it feels good, really really good. you happily vanquish all thoughts of time and money. you are celebrating. you are on vacation, even if it is only for 24 hours.



you do a little exploring outside the hotel room, out on the streets. you watch people, think about buying flowers from one of the street vendors, you splash in and out of fountains, wander in and out of shops, let the kids touch things and watch drummers perform. you decide to eat someplace nice for dinner but quickly regret this decision. you got cocky. you thought maybe the kids could handle it. you were wrong. someone doesn't like the way the honey sesame chicken tastes and almost bursts into tears when she can't figure out how to use the chopsticks. the other one spends half the dinner standing on his head and the other half poking everyone around him (namely his sister) with said chopsticks. you cannot believe you gave that kid chopsticks. you try to blame that one on the mister but he's wise to your schtick and you back off. then someone says she feels sick and the whole meal is hastily boxed up, check swiftly paid. the long trek back to the hotel begins and you feel the luster of the day begin to fade. but you fight this. you fight to keep it shiny and happy because you are not ready to give up the shiny and happy, not yet. you stop at a drug store and stock up on ginger ale, soda crackers and cookies. just in case.



in situations like this, an indoor swimming pool works special magic. you know what you must do: you must wear them out with all the swimming. problem is, the swimming wears you out too. afterwards, all you want to do is climb into that bed with the super deluxe sheets and the mountain of white pillows and fall into a deep, delicious sleep. then you spy your better half wolfing down the leftovers from dinner. you were hoping maybe after the kids had fallen asleep, the two of you could eat the rest of the chinese food together at the little table by the window. sort of a last ditch effort to salvage your fiasco anniversary dinner. you say something about this to him and instantly, he feels bad. and then you feel bad for making him feel bad. but it's too late. you inhale the rest of your lo mein while watching america's funniest home videos. this is so not the scenario you had originally hoped for but you are exhausted. you don't even care anymore. you slip on the thick white robe that hangs in the closet. it feels so good next to your skin, you think seriously about stealing it. you realize this is probably one of the most unoriginal thoughts you've ever had. everyone wants to steal the hotel bath robes. besides, the hotel would only charge it to your credit card. this would make you feel stupid.



you decide to spend the rest of the evening watching a movie together. sure, meet the robinsons wouldn't have been your first choice but the sick one has spoken and you desperately want her to feel good. she wants to watch meet the robinsons and you are only too happy to comply. the kids snuggle up together in that heavenly bed and the room is dark. surely they will be asleep in minutes, you think. you are confident this is how it will play out. again, you are wrong. you are the one who falls asleep, you fall into a deep, delectable sleep your body has been craving for way too long.



and then, around three in the morning, someone gently nudges you awake. this person, he whispers sweet anniversary wishes in your ear. there's talk of room service and you feel strangely refreshed. you wrap yourself up in sheets and follow this person to the little spot on the floor right next to the large window that looks out over the city. you realize you would follow this person pretty much anywhere in the world. the thought of this makes you happy. room service comes and the whole set up is such a delight, so perfect you don't even want to touch it. white linen napkins, neatly folded, goblets heavy with water. dark chocolate cake scribbled with raspberry sauce, pretty sliced strawberries on the side. you sit close together and you eat the cake. you eat slowly, with intention. and you talk. about the first time you met. about what if you never met? about how you were sure you weren't his type. you talk about your wedding day, about life before kids, after kids. about how this has been the craziest year yet. what will the next thirteen years be like? thirteen years from now, you'll celebrate your 26th wedding anniversary and ava will be 20! ezra will be 16! you can't imagine this. you hear the sounds of them breathing, they are sleeping hard. in this moment, you are filled with so much love for them, you almost want to wake them up. almost. they will be sorry they missed the chocolate cake. which is why they must never, ever know about it. you must immediately hide the evidence.



he lets you have the last bite because, love. and he figures the last bite of the molten chocolate cake (with the sexy raspberry sauce on the side) would be the next best thing to the handmade cards you usually make for each other (but didn't this year) and he would be right. you return the favor by leaving him the last of the ice cream because, love. and where would you be without him? it's the least you can do. you look out at the city together. the lights, the water, the few cars that are out at four in the morning and you feel something that can't really be articulated. you sit there and you feel it (this wonderful thing, whatever it is) and you soak it in for as long as you possibly can because soon the sun will be up and the kids will be up and the fourteenth year of marriage will begin.



in this moment, you are thankful for many, many things but mostly, you are thankful for room service. and for the man who thought to order room service for you in the first place.

(for more of the big anniversary weekend, take a look at this. also, many, many thanks to all who've left such sweet anniversary wishes for us here)

all you need is

yesterday, the mister and I celebrated thirteen years of marriage. as it turns out, the number thirteen is a fairly lucky number. at least, it has been for us. details to come.

the loveliest sound

"put the broom down," he said.

agitated and sweaty, I let the broom drop.

"what? what? what are you doing? what's wrong?"

he had a strange look on his face, one I could not read. and then he got down on one knee.

"will you marry me?"

he was smiling now, laughing as he opened his hand to reveal the engagement ring I'd lost weeks before. my wedding band escaped tragedy but the engagement ring-- well, I thought it was lost forever. we turned the old house upside down but I quickly resigned myself to the loss. and so when he moved the couch and heard the delightful tinny sound of something small hitting the floor, he immediately investigated. not really believing that it would be the lost ring, the one that we picked out together at an antique store in rome, georgia so many years ago. white gold and circa 1940s, I have always been crazy about it. I must also confess that it was a replacement ring. yes yes yes, I lost the first one he gave me and I am still sick about it. ah, another long story and one of the great mysteries of the universe, really. absolutely amazing that this ring survived the move, even if it was just a short truck ride around the corner. that sunday, that big moving day-- also happened to be our 12th wedding anniversary. I knew there would be no night out, no tiny candlelit booth tucked away in the corner of some impossibly romantic italian restaurant, no time to reflect and really celebrate. but at least there was that moment. and the flowers he gave me which were lovingly placed in my favorite souvenir glasses in the window above the kitchen sink. they are happy there, I think.

I am happy here, I think.

photobooth friday

(my parents, jim and gussy, sometime around 1967, eastern illinois university-- the last one is my all-time favorite photo of the two of them)

I watched my parents in the dark of the car last night. we were all packed in there, packed in tight-- me and the kids in the back seat, my mom and dad and the two dogs in the front. the windows were slightly cracked and I could hear the hum of the engine, the passing traffic. soothed by the darkness, the kids finally (FINALLY) succumbed to sleep. we weren't making great time-- midnight was approaching and we had a ridiculous amount of mileage left to cover. I slipped my headphones on and let my head fall awkwardly back. there was no getting comfortable on that hump, no matter how much I wiggled and shifted. finally, I slung my legs over the front seat. I could see my parents were in the middle of a conversation. I wondered what they were talking about and turned down the volume to eavesdrop. and it was nothing really, but small talk. still, I was taken by the kindnesses that continue to pass between the two of them. something about the way he thanked her for the coffee she handed him, something about the way they still look at each other.

I realize how lucky I am, to have been witness to this marriage for all of my life. I'm painfully aware of how rare this is, how extraordinary. not that their marriage is a flawless one-- I could write a book on all the quirks. at the same time, I could probably write ten books on why the quirks work in their favor. this past wednesday, they celebrated 37 years of marriage. love, love, love. and something more than love, I think.

(happy anniversary, mom and dad)

the photobooth friday love continues:

jesC
the whole self
lovegreendog
scrumdillyumscious
woofnanny