Y'all a professional photographer I am not. I don't shoot in manual. I don't have the best lens. I make a ton of amateur mistakes. But I've worked alongside some pretty incredible photographers over the years in my old marketing profession, and picked up even more tips from photographer friends that have served me well. I still may not get the right angle and I might miss the golden hour. But one thing I can do like a champ? Edit. Editing photos is not for the faint of heart. Sure, there are . . .
About once a week, our kids eat hot dogs for dinner. Another night, it's grilled cheese sandwiches. Every Friday is pizza for supper. It's not homemade. I tell you this because for the longest time, I wanted my children to be nourished with only the best foods. Curry stews and organic, free-range chicken with a spinach side salad sourced from a local farmer. But guess what? My kids didn't appreciate it like I hoped they would. They didn't gush over my roasted sweet potatoes and steamed ginger . . .
Graham came home one night a few weeks ago and I was done. "I'm going out," I said. "Where?" he asked. "Anywhere but here," I responded. Y'all. There are days when parenting and decision making and disciplining and diaper changing is just too much. Graham knows me so well by now he doesn't really need to ask. "Go," he said. "I'll take care of things here." Ladies, if w'ere going to survive adulting, we need to practice self-care on a regular basis. Take a walk. Read a book. Soak in a bath. Go . . .
Last weekend, I spent the night with a dozen girlfriends in a 170-year-old farmhouse over a few glasses of wine and a roaring fire. I was in my happy place for sure. We cooked for each other, played games, rocked on the front porch at sunset, and talked late into the night. And then I woke up the next day and met my husband and toddler at the pediatrician where she tested positive for Type A flu. Y'all there are going to be mountaintops in life. And there is going to be junk. Our job . . .
One of my dearest friends in the world used to be afraid of flying. Like crazy afraid. We'd prep for weeks before a trip, and one spring break in college, she white knuckled my hand all the way to Florida. Did she overcome her fear by avoiding flights altogether? By only traveling as far as car or train would take her? Nope. She became a flight attendant. Y'all I'm not kidding. My sweet friend flew the friendly skies for several years, on smooth flights and turbulent ones, until she had . . .