Softball is a dangerous past time, especially when your pitcher thinks it’s easier to hit you when you’re running to first base than to throw the ball all the way to the first baseman.
Boys are dumb.
Making Small Town Look Good.
On my last hike up to the mountain, I was pulling my camera out of my backpack when it slipped out of my hands and landed lens first on a rock. The clips that hold the lens onto the body shattered, making it impossible to keep the lens attached.
I may have cried a little.
I know this is a stock lens but it is the one I use every single day. It works for me. I like it. It likes me. We make beautiful pictures together. Since a new lens is WAY out of my budget this month, I went with the ghetto way out. When in doubt, grab the duct tape.
Hey- at least it was pretty duct tape.
Is this winter? It doesn’t feel like winter, it feels like late spring. I’m not complaining. Late Spring swings into Summer which makes me giddy. I love Summer.
I’m just saying I can’t remember the last time I sat on my porch in shorts in February. Not since I moved here from Orange County, at the very least.
Two does not sit still. Two climbs all over you when you’re trying to sleep. Two jumps on the bed and then laughs when you say “No jumping on the bed!” Two thinks the world is made of magic and sunshine.
Two is probably the best age ever.
I love Children’s Hospital. Real, honest, Love. Capital L. I truly believe they saved Bright’s arm.
But, I can still say that no matter how great I think they are, I’m tired of seeing them. I’m tired of waiting rooms and doctor’s offices. I’m tired of chicken nugget dinners. I’m tired of driving two hours each way in a sketchy car with no air conditioning. I’d like to be done now, pretty please.
Instead we’re stepping up the appointments again because her scar is getting too thick. They want to watch it closely so they can intervene before it starts to restrict her movements.
I’m grateful for doctors that care. I really am. I’d still like to be done. It’s okay to feel a little bit sorry for ourselves, isn’t it?
It’s been getting into the hundreds ’round these parts during the day, which means if I want to run I have to get up at the ungodly hour of 6:45. I am not happy about this, but I am happy to run. Afterwards I bend my decidedly not-bendy body into all kinds of contortions because I am bordering on old-age (32!) and if I don’t stretch very, very well, I spend the rest of the day hobbling around the house trying to figure out what the heck I did to myself.
This is the only stretch I actually enjoy doing and that’s only because I pretend I am a ballerina whilst I do it. I am not- nor could I ever have been- a ballerina. Mostly because I am probably the least coordinated person on the planet. But for two minutes a day, I get to pretend I am.