It’s been very hard for me to ask for help these last three weeks, despite the fact that I truly need it. I mean, I can’t use my hands and walk at the same time, so I’ve had to rely on the kindness of others. They’ve been more than happy to help. Many friends and neighbors have offered their services; everything from childcare to carpool to meal preparation. I’ve been expressing my gratitude by saying thanks, by making a mental inventory of how best to repay everyone who has gone above and beyond. I’ve been saying “Thank you” so often, I sound like Elvis Presley after he finished a set.

1. Thanks to the nurses for excellent care and prep.
2. Thanks to the doctor for repairing my leg and the great Rx that came home with me.
3. Thanks to the Good Samaritans who held the doors open for me as I crutch my way in and out of stores and who offer to load my things into my car while I waited for my ride.
4. Thanks to my husband for truly honoring our vows, because this definitely falls under the “for worse” category.
5. Thanks to my daughters for being so well behaved, for all of the hugs, kisses and get well drawings.
6. Thanks to my mother-in-law for cooking, cleaning, baby bathing, and stimulating conversations.
7. Thanks to my dad for playing chauffeur for me and the kids.
8. Thanks to my mom for coming dusting off her own Superwoman cape and coming to my rescue once again.

My mom is pretty remarkable. I have had a chance this week to really sit back and marvel at it. This is a woman, who after having had double knee replacement surgery last year, has been trucking up and down the stairs daily to get the kids, dress the kids, put away laundry, and make sure I haven’t face-planted on the bathroom floor in my attempts to hop from the bed to the toilet.

This is a woman who put her reluctance (or is is just a case of “I’d-rather-not-thank-you-very-much”) to the side and not only made breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the family, but actually took the time to make faces out of English muffins, bacon and scrambled eggs. When faced with protest, she convinced the girls that they weren’t having peanut butter and jelly for lunch, but were in fact having jelly and peanut butter (big difference). And guess what? They ate it.

My mom simply shook her head when she saw me hopping around on one foot without my crutches, knowing what I hard head I have. While she may have wanted to knock me in the head with the crutch to get me to sit down, she knows how tough it has been for me to sit back and let people take care of things for me. When I said, “Hey, let’s go to Target. I’ll drive!”, she gamely got into the passenger seat and away we went. When I politely declined after she and the clerk suggested I get into one of those motorized carts (uh, no thanks!), she just checked in with me to make sure I wasn’t getting too tired as I hobbled from the shoe department to housewares to health and beauty. I treated her to her favorite Iced Chai Latte at Starbucks and we sat talking like two adult women, not just mother and daughter.

This is my mom’s second week helping out after ankle-gate. The first week found her getting hitting her stride on all things that go on here by Friday (she left on Saturday). One Wednesday, I got up, got myself together and found the house still dark and silent. I knocked on her door, pushed it open with my crutch and she popped up out of bed like an Eggo Waffle – “What?! Who’s that?” I still laugh when I think about it. When I told her it was ten minutes to seven (the girls have to be up and dressed by 6:45), she said, “Crap!” bounced out of bed and got down to business. That afternoon, I was sitting at the table making lists — and we all know how I love a list — when she came to join me.

“Whew,” she said, looking into a mug of long cold coffee. “I am beat! I think I’ll just rest for bit.”

“Uh,” I said, looking at my watch. “You might have to do that after you get Mo. You have to leave for carpool in about two minutes.” She jumped up out of her seat like she’d been stuck with a pin, grabbed all the gear and slid out the door. Impressive.

When she left that Saturday, we joked that she would probably go into hibernation mode until she was called back into service a week later. Well, I was joking; my dad said she got home, got into bed and he didn’t see her for a few days.

The other day, I remarked on how I have had lots of time to reflect and count my blessings. I’m definitely blessed to have my mom. There were times growing up when we go on one another’s nerves, times when I thought “Ugh, she just had me so that she wouldn’t have to empty the dishwasher/fold laundry/vacuum”, and times when I thought she was unreasonably unfair. I’m sure she could say the same for me, how my high maintenance, my talking back, my teenage foolishness and the like was enough to drive her bananas. But despite all that, I’m so thankful that we’ve come full circle. That she can see me parenting (and laugh her buns off when the girls are acting just the way I acted at the exact same age) is priceless. I love that I can now appreciate all of her hard work, her rules, her Classical Music Wednesdays, and all the ways in which she has shaped me into the mother, the wife, the woman that I am now. I love that she can see the fruits of her labor, both literally and figuratively.

There are so many more examples that I could give of how she’s easily taken the helm of running this household, but this post would never end. So, I’ll share two more little tidbits and call it even. The greatest gift my mom has given me since she’s been here has her appreciation of everything I do to make our family function. On several occasions, she’s just stopped what she’s doing and said, “I don’t know how you do it, Hilary. It’s pretty impressive.” That simple sentence has been the best balm. It has taken the ache out of my ankle, has made my heart swell and my throat tight. Yeah, I got a little verklempt.

Earlier, I said how my mom had been doing some cooking while she was here. We like to joke that my brother and I don’t know how we ate during childhood because we don’t really remember my mom doing any cooking. I mean, she must have, but I don’t remember seeing her at the stove, stirring anything in a pot. Food materialized, we ate, plates were cleared and the dishwasher ran. What I do remember is my mom teaching me how to make a Waldorf Salad. I haven’t had one in years; all I remember is apples, walnuts and mayo on a paper plate as I sat with my feet swinging back and forth at the kitchen table. I snacked on the salad while my mom drank diet Cream Soda Shasta. . .good times.

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Waldorf Salad
(recipe found here)
there are many variations, but this is the one that I remember

Ingredients:
4 medium unpeeled red eating apples, cut into ¼- inch slices
Dash of lemon juice to keep apples from turning brown
3 tablespoons chopped walnuts
1 cup of vanilla (or plain) yogurt
1/4 cup of mayonnaise
2 medium bananas-diced
1/2 cup of seedless grapes (cut lengthwise) 1/2 cup of orange juice

Toss ingredients and enjoy!

Happy Friday, y’all!

IN: recipes ON: September 28, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, fall, feel good, food, funny stuff, growing up, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes, reminiscing BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday

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Today marks the 2nd week since I had my mishap with the trash bag. What a two weeks it has been. My mom spent the first week carting the kids around, making three squares, taking care of me and so on and so forth. My mother-in-law spent the second week doing pretty much the same. Craig and the girls have helped in their own ways, making sure I’ve always had a glass of water, some company, and just checking in to see how I’m doing. It’s been tough not being able to just get up and go, or having to explain to the girls how as much as I’d like to take them to the playground/zoo/paint your own pottery/anywhere but the house, I just can’t right now. It’s hard to explain, especially because they see me getting around on crutches, but don’t see how wiped out I am when I simply go from downstairs to upstairs on my backside.

The silver lining in this whole thing — and believe me, it’s taken me these two weeks to figure out what it is — is that I have in fact slowed down. There were things that needed my attention and I now have the time to focus on them. I’ve been doing my kind of housekeeping. There are the things related to fête{ography} that needed to be handled. There were all types of back to school related paper work, sign-ups, and meetings that had to be addressed. Appointments were made and rescheduled. Articles that I had been meaning to read where actually read. And one of my highlights is that I started writing again. Not that I don’t count what I do here as writing, but I sat down with pen and paper and in a matter of a few hours, I wrote a short story. Several days later, I wrote another one. I didn’t realize I still had the ability to do it so easily. Slowing down has gifted me with the use of a talent that I had been neglecting for want of time. I have been able to take stock of all of the blessings that I have around me. Not that I have been taking them all for granted; maybe to some degree I have. It’s like knowing that you are loved, but it’s always nice to hear someone say it out loud. Does that make sense?

Anyway, I’ve been counting my blessings. I’ve been verbalizing my gratitude for all the things in my life, good and bad. I have the time to do it, so I am.

I spent the afternoon with my dad the other day. We ran (ha, hobbled is more like it) some errands, had lunch, and just got to catch up without interruption. I was so glad for the simplicity of sharing a meal and spending some time with my dad. So, with that in mind, today’s recipe is for blondie’s, a sweet treat that always makes me think of my dad because he taught me how to make them. And when I get back into my kitchen, I’m definitely going to whip some up for him and I to share over a cup of coffee.

Blondie’s
this is a Barefoot Contessa recipe with a few adjustments

Ingredients
½ pound unsalted butter, room temperature
1 c. light brown sugar, lightly packed
½ c. sugar
2 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs, room temperature
2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1 ¼ bags semi-sweet chocolate chunks
1 c. walnuts (optional)

Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees

With mixer, cream butter, brown sugar and sugar until fluffy. Mix in vanilla and eggs (one egg at a time). In another bowl, sift flour, baking soda and salt together. Add dry ingredients to wet ingredients, slowly. Fold in chocolate chunks and walnuts by hand*. Spread into greased 8 ½ x 8 ½ pan and bake for 30 minutes. Insert toothpick to check doneness; it should come out clean. Cool before slicing.

* instead of adding the nuts to the batter, you could sprinkle them on top of the batter before putting the pan in the oven.

Blondie’s (easy version)
Buy this at your specialty food shop.

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Happy Friday, y’all!

IN: recipes ON: September 21, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, daddy-daughter time, fall, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes BY: Hilary

Protection

I can’t believe I forgot to share this with you guys! It was funny when it happened and it’s still funny when I think about it.

So, pre-ankle accident, Viv-o, Co and I were out running errands at — you guess it — Target. I remember we had seven items on the list. This was going to be a quick, fast, and in a hurry type of trip. Because I’m a proper prior planner, we were in the feminine products aisle (pads, tampons, Vagasill, etc.) and I was trying to decode the difference between pearl handled plastic applicator Target brand and the pearl handled plastic applicator Always brand.

Co was wandering up and down the aisle, trailing her fingers along the boxes and packages, aimlessly humming to her herself. She stopped mid aisle, picked up a box and said, “Mom, can I have these?”

“Hmmm,?” I said, holding one turquoise box and one lavender box.

“These,” she intoned, shaking a bedazzled looking pink package in my direction.

Pantyliners. For thong underpants.

Of course.

I put my two boxes back on the shelf and gave her my full attention. “What do you need those for?”

She huffed out a sigh, rolling her little eyes to the top of her skull, a complete “Duh, Mommy,” type expression. “Because,” she said, “sometimes I have drips.”

And I die.

SN: Truth be told, I honestly think she thought they were those kiddie potty training transitional liners (gah! I can’t remember the name of it). . .but then again, I wouldn’t put it past her to know what they are and for whom. I got some smarty smart kids.

IN: ON: September 20, 2012 TAGS: fall, funny stuff, life, my girls BY: Hilary

recipes

Recipe Friday

The past few days while I’ve been laid up in bed, my parents have been kind enough to bring me breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed. It’s been mighty nice, actually. I’m not worried about portion sizes, calories and the rest of it. A plate is placed in front of me, I eat it, the plate is cleared away. This must be what being Mo and Co is like on a daily basis.

I will admit, though, I do miss my kitchen. Like I mentioned before, I’m been spending copious amounts of time on the Internet. Pinterest and I are BFFs again. My board of foods and recipes to try is filling out nicely, hopefully in indirect correlation to my own backside as I prepare to burrow back into bed for another day.

I’ve been wanting some Chipotle for a few days, but then I saw I few articles about spaghetti and meatballs. My brother has been talking about making a chicken pot pie, followed by a shrimp pot pie (I’ll stick with chicken). My stack of magazines has yielded a handful of 5-ingredient-or-less recipes, what-to-do-with-left-overs recipes, 10 ways to prepare chicken recipes and Mmmm-comfort-food recipes.

I’ve been looking out my bedroom window as the sun travels across the sky. I’m struck that in a few weeks, maybe even less, the leaves will fade from a marbled green to mottled gold before jettisoning themselves off the trees. The sun will show it’s face later in the morning, and it will bid the afternoons farewell earlier and earlier. I organized my closet, pulling all of my fall clothes forward, reveling in the jewel tones and textured fabrics that I’d forgotten about in favor of summer linens and sherbets.

I’m ready to get back into the kitchen and I think I want some slow-cooker goodness.

(source)

Slow Cooker White Bean Soup with Andouille Sausage and Collards
Recipe Courtesy of Real Simple Magazine

Ingredients

1 pound dried white beans (such as cannellini or great Northern)
1/2 pound andouille sausage links, halved lengthwise and sliced crosswise
1 large onion, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
4 sprigs fresh thyme
8 cups low-sodium chicken broth
1 bunch collard greens, stems discarded and leaves cut into bite-size pieces (about 8 cups)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
kosher salt and black pepper
olive oil and bread sticks, for serving

Directions

In a 4- to 6-quart slow cooker, combine the beans, sausage, onion, celery, and thyme. Add the broth and stir to combine.
Cover and cook until the beans are tender, on low for 7 to 8 hours or on high for 4 to 5 hours (this will shorten total cooking time).
Twenty minutes before serving, discard the thyme stems, add the collard greens, cover, and cook until the greens are tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Add the vinegar and ½ teaspoon each salt and pepper.
Drizzle with the olive oil and serve with the bread sticks.

IN: recipes ON: September 14, 2012 TAGS: baking, cooking, fall, food, om nom nom, pinterest, recipes BY: Hilary

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

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Since I’ve been laid up with this ankle issue, I’ve created a mini command center at the kitchen table. There are piles of paper, my computer, my phone, my briefcase, my camera bag, stacks of magazines that I can finally read, pages of the aforementioned magazines ripped out for recipes to save and so forth. With all this time to just sit and organize all of my favorite things, I’ve also been able to make lists (and you know I love a list). On the top of one of the many lists I have in rotation is “To Blog” and underneath that is “Tumblr?”. I’ve been wanting to write; I’ve definitely got the time to do so now. I’ve also wanted to explore Tumblr a little more.

I think I’m in love.

For the remaining three people who live under a rock, Tumblr is micro-blogging. It’s like Blogger or WordPress got together with Insta.gram and Pinterest and *poof*!

Awesome-sauce.

There are times when I don’t know who read this blog, and so in the interest of keeping things PG (at the very least), I find myself doing some serious editing. I’m careful with my word choice, the images I put up, the topics I discuss. With the Tumblr, I’m not going to do that. If I want to put up a picture of a half naked male model, drop a few f-bombs, string together some texts or chats that have no cohesiveness other than that fact that I wrote them, so be it. I’m going to do it. That West End Hoe that’s driving me nuts in carpool? She’s going on blast on the Tumblr. The off color things my kids say (hello, cotton balls?), that’s going up. I’m looking at Blogger like my Ego and Tumblr like my Id.

And yes, for as much as I enjoy hearing people say that they’ve read my blog, that they like my writing, I think I’m going to keep this piece of the blogosphere close to the vest for a little while longer. I wouldn’t want everyone’s perceived notion of my immense perfectionism to combust in one fell-swoop and create a giant wormhole in the space time continuum.

I have to admit, I’m pretty disgusted with myself for the amount of time I’ve spent connected to the Internet over the past few days. I’ve been texting, ~~twatting~~ tweeting, blogging, updating my webpage, shopping on Etsy, skulking around on Facebook, Insta.gramming and Pinterest-ing. I mean, what choice do I have, really? My leg is wrapped up mummy-style from the knee down. My leg is throbbing like it’s the baseline beat for a Maroon 5 song. Ever since I tripped over that trash bag, my ability to do much beyond put in my contact lenses by myself has been severely limited. I can’t exercise. I can’t cook. I can’t walk without crutches, which means, I can’t carry stuff from room to room as I go about my daily business. I’m on pain pills, which means I can’t drive, which means no random trips to Target (they sent me a get well soon card) or trips to Loft to return clothes that looked better on me in the dressing room. I’ve passed carpool duties off to my dad and some very kind neighbors. My mom dusted off her Donna Reed skills and has been running the household with her own unique brand of efficiency and verve. I honestly think my dad is falling in love with her again, seeing her take care of Mo, Co, Vivi and me. It’s like they’re having a second chance to do the parenting thing with me.

Yesterday, I laid up in bed all day watching CSI and texting, giving my breakfast/lunch/dinner requests to my parents. Vivi is keeping me company and we actually have the same nap schedule. Sitting abed all day is hard and this is only day two. My mother-in-law called me last night to check in and when I told her how I had spent the day, she said, “Oh! Oh! It must really be painful if you spent the day in bed!” I guess my go-go-go lifestyle is another one of my defining features along with my hair. If I had a dollar for every time someone has said, “Well, you really needed to slow down,” in response to hearing about my accident, I’d be able to treat myself to lunch at Chipotle (mmmm, chicken fajita bowl) and have enough left over for the on-line shopping I plan to do this afternoon.

My Amazon wish list is Ah-May-Zing right now. I may have to upload it to Tumblr, sit back and admire my handiwork. And if I do break-up with Blogger. . .well, I’ll be kind about it. Like ripping off a band-aid.

IN: ON: September 14, 2012 TAGS: blogging, fall, pinterest BY: Hilary

From the Archives

Honeymoon

Madrid, Barcelona, Paris

September 10 -20, 2001

Restaurant Botin, Madrid

La Casa Milia of Antonio Gaudi

Barcelona

La Tour Eiffel, Paris

Eleven years ago. My goodness, we were young and green! DH, in his mysterious ways, culled together a honeymoon trip that was out of the pages of Fodor’s. When I think back to our trip to Europe for those 10 days, it’s with mixed emotions — happiness, excitement, and a little anxiety.

Happiness, to be surely attributed to really starting our lives together as a married couple. At that point, we’d been married a three months, but had delayed going away until we both had some time to really enjoy it. Happiness for sure to be in Europe, traveling to places familiar and new with someone I loved. While I’d already been to Barcelona and Paris, it was a first for DH and I was excited to show him what I remembered. Las Ramblas, the Sagrada Familia and Casa Milia of Antonio Gaudi, and the Christopher Columbus Monument. The Erotic Museum of Barcelona. We were on our honeymoon, afterall.

I was excited to break out my “frenglish”, especially when we got caught in a nasty bout of cloudy and windy days and DH was without a jacket. Going to La Galleries Lafayette, just browsing and then buying (even if it was for DH). Visiting Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Winged Victory (always awe-inspiring), and the food! Oh, the food. *le sigh*

The anxiety, though stems from what happened on the first full day of our trip. We left DC on September 10, 2001. We arrived in Madrid, checked into our hotel, explored a bit before jet lag gave us the one-two punch.

September 11th, 2001. How we spent our morning is kind of hazy to me. I’m sure we ate breakfast or lunch and planned our day. What I remember was walking around, window shopping. In one of the many squares that are laid out throughout the city, there was a giant video screen, similar to the one in Times Square. Tons of people were crowded around it. It must have been close to 1pm local time, but the crowds were thick. On the video screen, GW Bush was talking, in Spanish. DH and I figured it was some kind of news report and we kept walking. It was siesta time for us, so we headed back to the hotel.

Once in our room, DH excused himself to the bathroom while I flipped through the TV stations as I dozed. Everything was in Spanish, except for one channel that was showing airplanes flying through the sky, buildings on fire, sheets of paper fluttering to the ground like leaves off of autumn trees. “What movie is this?” I thought. So, I kept watching, thinking once I saw some actors, I’d figure it out.

DH came out of the bathroom, asked me what I was watching. “I don’t know,” I said as someone launched themselves from the top floor of a skyscraper. “I thought it was a movie, but then the news ticker started running across the bottom.”

And in minutes, everything became painfully clear. Hijackers. Airplanes. Twin Towers. We were watching it live. We were transfixed. We were watching when the second plane flew into the tower. News centers had no idea what was going on, the magnitude of it all, so nothing was edited. Nothing. The cameras showed those who managed to escape, staggering about, soot and grime covered, bleeding, crying. The boom mikes picked up soft whumping sounds, which we later discovered were people falling from the sky.

We watched. We waited. We thought, “What in the world are we doing here?!”

We went to the nearest Internet cafe we could find and started banging off emails to family and friends in New York, begging them to respond to let us know they were okay. We called our parents who reassured us that they were alright. They said that we might not be able to even get home, so try to enjoy our trip as best we could. It was probably safer where we were, they said. We sat in the hotel lobby, striking up conversations with other English speaking travelers about what in the holy hell had just happened.

One couple, who had planned to leave Madrid that day anyway, was waiting to get an all clear sign from the airport. They’d been gone from Beaumont, Texas two weeks on a golfing trip and were tired of living out of suitcases. The husband said, they’d gotten to the airport, then got turned back to the hotel. Then they’d gotten the call to come back to the airport. They went back, got on a plane, then got turned back. They’d gotten another call to the airport, got on the plane, got as far as Canadian airspace, and were turned back. To Madrid.

I remember sitting on the yellow and ivory striped sofas of the lobby, listening to the soft whirring of the elevators, the gentle clicks of the keyboard as people were checked in and out. I remember listening to the southern drawl of Mr. Beaumont, Texas and wondering when we’d hear from DH’s brother, who was living in the city. We wondered about DH’s fraternity brother who worked not far from the towers, and my good friend who lived in Manhattan. How could we possibly continue on a honeymoon? It seemed so foolish. And yet, what choice did we have? Could we even get home? And once we did, then what?

We stayed.

We heard from Brandon, Billy, and Tanja.

We enjoyed the rest of Madrid, inhaling the history, the culture and the people. We went to bullfights, tapas restaurants and flamenco dancing performances. We traveled to Barcelona, rubbing our fingers along the walls of Picasso’s house. The aquarium, Las Ramblas, and Pans restaurant, which seemed to be the only place to get some lettuce in your sandwich. We traveled to Paris. We dined on escargot, zoomed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and walked, walked, walked all over the city.

We readied ourselves to go home and when we did, witnessed the marked difference in airline security. The new normal, as it come to be.

Every generation has a turning point that defines them. The “where-were-you-when” scenario that connects one person to another. Most assuredly, this is mine.

IN: ON: September 11, 2012 TAGS: fall, honesty, reminiscing, sharing BY: Hilary

Proper Prior Planning. . .

Because Mo and Co are two years and three weeks apart in age, I decided that we’d only have birthday parties on big number birthdays. Otherwise, there’d be two parties over the span of two weeks. I know my girls; they aren’t going to have any of this “sharing a party” business. So, Co turned five on Saturday and we had a party to celebrate.

I’ve been planning this party since March, no joke. I knew that having a baby a few months before the party was going to be a challenge, so I did as much as I could ahead of time, once Co decided on a theme. A mermaid themed party had lots of hits on Google, Pinterest and Etsy, so I started my due dilignece there. Certainly, there was a lot from which to choose. Some parties went all out on the theme: mermaid tails for guests to wear, sand imported from the beach for guests to play in, and all manner of sushi, star-fish shaped sandwiches, rock candy and swedish fish floating in jell-o molds as table top decor, and netting strewn with seashells, casually and artfully draped around the house. I’m no Martha Stewart, but I do try my hand at some crafts that are within the realm of my capabilities. I kept it simple, but concentrated the craftiness on things that I thought would have big impact — invites, thank-yous, and the sweet treats. The rest was pretty basic 5 year old birthday fodder — pizza, goldfish, juice boxes and games. It’s a good thing, too, because the night before the party, I ended up in the ER.

Seriously. Co and I share a birthday, so talk about kicking off another year in a big way.

Earlier in the day, I had broken a glass pitcher while making some iced tea. I didn’t wrap it up and dispose of it right away, like I should have. Later on the in the evening, I was running around, per usual, and needed some kitchen counter space. I threw the pitcher in a plastic bag, dropped it in a second plastic bag, and then put it in the trash bag that had been leaning against the kitchen counter. On my next circuit through the kitchen, I tripped over the trash bag, and my leg connected with the pitcher. It hurt like the devil and as I looked down to see what I’d done, I noticed that I was bleeding, a nice deep, dark red. Not good. Fast forward to everyone hopping to: my in-laws got the girls squared away (they’d been in the kitchen and saw the whole thing –> freak out), Craig got a tourniquet around my leg and carried me fireman style to the car. ER, registration, wheel-chair, waiting. . .waiting. . .waiting. .until I’m finally seen. I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice it to say,
I’ve got some tendon damage, stitches, a soft cast, and crutches. I have to see an orthopedist in the coming week to figure out the next steps. *sigh* It’s always something with me, isn’t it.

And mind you, this is Friday night at 8pm. Co’s party was at 11am the next day. The show must go on! And go on it did! We had a great time, friends and family pitched in and enjoyed the nosh, the games, and the treats. So even though I get a hard time for being type A/anal/overachieving/etc., I’m certainly glad for those tendencies in this case. Things went off seamlessly, the birthday girl was overjoyed, the family was involved, the friends were entertained, and I got to sit back with my feet up, literally. Which is exactly what a girl likes to do on her birthday!

Here are some photos from the main event!
(all pictures courtesy of fête{ography})