2015

He was brand new and barely 8 pounds, but you trusted me to hold him, my hands to comfort him, and my vision to turn his delicate details into artistry.  

Weeks earlier, though swollen and spent and almost full-term, you relied on me to reveal your beauty amid this swift season of motherhood.

And then, when you feared chaos and crying (because, TODDLERS), you counted on me to connect your crew among your pack of personalities.

Your favorite parts of the past year: PRESERVED. 

By choosing me, you trusted me, and sharing your story frame by frame is a privilege you'll never see me take for granted.  

Thank YOU.

HELLO JOVIE

HOSPITAL SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHER

Little and new at just 19 hours old.  Meet Jovie Dale. 

THE PLANT SHOPPE FAMILY

LIFESTYLE SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND CHILD AND FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER.THE PLANT SHOPPE. 

Starting and sustaining a small business is not for the weak.

Neither is becoming a parent to a premature baby.

Both are so fragile and in need of continuous care.  Absence of attention to any vital detail could be detrimental, sinking the chance of success.

Or survival. 

Sales, expenses, and profits.   Weight, temperature, and heart rate.  Every day, multiple assessments are taken to measure for growth, and every day, you pray for any improvement.  Even the smallest of signs.      

Baby steps.

The toughest part of all? The part you’re convinced just might break you?  Waiting.  You’re forced to be at the mercy of time, and being patient suddenly seems impossible.     

And there’s no one more knowing of all of this than Jen of The Plant Shoppe and Chad of Bent On Creativity. 

When Memphis’ birthday came 10 weeks early, the uncharted waters were rough and dark.  Overwhelming.  The NICU became your new normal while the hours at the shop were unusual and sometimes, unknown.  The shift in priorities was absolutely necessary, but just when your strength started to waver, you became aware that you’re far from alone in this fight.  

Gift by gift, the grace washed in.  Promises of prayers poured in while sympathetic customers or strangers who simply loved succulents offered up good vibes and patient understanding.  Local small shops bared big hearts by joining forces, raising funds and donating sales in support of one of their own in the most selfless style. 

Oklahoma City rallied for your boy, your world, and proved there’s no greater community with compassion more genuine than ours.

So here’s to Jen, Chad, Memphis, and the city founded on fellowship.

This is community.

This is OKC.

And this, a true labor of love.

BABY MERRICK

NEWBORN SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHER

Isn’t life fun(ny)?

After months of anticipation and hours of labor, it takes just one second of seeing your infant to feel a love so deep and heavy it aches. 

During what you’d probably agree to be the happiest season of your life, you find yourself on the edge of every emotion and only a simple mishap away from a full-blown breakdown.

It was in those first days when he was mostly asleep that you felt the deepest deprivation of sleep physically possible.  

And then, before you can say ‘maternity leave', you’re standing in your closet holding your 12-week old and trying, through blurring tears, to see your wardrobe options for your impending return to work. 

How is it fair that the most delicate and sentimental stage is over before you realize it, yet you were barely awake to remember it?

One too many details from those days are buried under a fuzzy fog of forgetfulness.  The difference, though, is every soft touch, tiny sound, and sweet smell are easily recovered when you reminisce through these pictures. 

Your child is young for awhile, a toddler for a fast few years, and somehow, only a newborn for days. DAYS.

 But best off all? He's yours. 

For forever. 

Just like these photos. 

WHAT VACATION LOOKS LIKE

FAMILY VACATION PHOTOS.POPHAM BEACH, MAINE CHILDREN & FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER

And finally, what our summers look like. 

What sweatshirts & sand looks like: 

What cruising the coast of Maine looks like:

What after dinner energy looks like:

What rainy day good behavior treats look like: 

What our mornings look like:

What dessert looks like:

What getting here looks like:

MY SIMPLE HELLO

HOSPITAL SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHER

You'll remember the labor and enduring every level of pain.  But will you remember those simple scenes in the overwhelming hours that follow?

Like the way his yawns unfold all 7lbs into a lengthy, satisfying stretch.  Or how his legs, so long and delicate, fall naturally into place as if he's still nested in your womb.

Please don't ever forget the hesitation behind your toddler's eyes as she approaches you and baby sister, completely unsure but still eager to discover her new role.

And you?

Though worn out and on the mend, you'll never know how beautiful you beam as you look at them, looking at her.

Ticks of time will race by in slow motion.

It's in those first fresh hours you'll be high on happiness, but also, weary with exhaustion, leaving little energy to hold on to those slipping, sweet moments.  So as you're trying to tread above trial and error, will you take the time to pause and preserve these fleeting moments?

New mom on the block?

You do not want to overlook this.

Seasoned in motherhood? 

It's a lively rush of 48 hours, isn't it?

The beginning of your child's story is days away from being born.

Do you want to be both the author and the illustrator?

See more HERE.

WORKING MOM WONDER WOMAN

LIFESTYLE SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER

So much for sitting.

Your chores and to-do's layer on top of each other, multiplying like mice, and just when the folded layers of clothes are finally put away, the dryer buzzes and the oven beeps.

A working mom's work is never finished.

alarm. breakfast. carpool. work. pick up. sports. dinner. homework. bath. bed.

repeat. replay. rerun the world. (Girls? No, MOMS.)

Most of the time, it's about staying afloat, treading through your overscheduled day, doing the best you can and tackling multiple (understatement) tasks at a time.  You and Chad have a system, tag teaming the kid's schedule and tactfully planning practices and school events around his shift at the fire station.

It's not easy.  Ever.

Life rarely allows your undivided attention to anything, let alone the daily shenanigans you're now immune to.  Reese's imagination on a cardboard creation travels across the kitchen, behind the stove where you stand making dinner.  Max hollers that his homework is ready to be checked, so while you're busy with dinner, he works on his 360° Nerf dunks in the foyer.  (Wearing only his briefs, naturally.)

Oh, the guilt.  It has a way of washing over you, grabbing ahold of your delicate mom heart.  Everything you do, you do for them.  Every direction you're pulled, it's to point them the right way.  But being a working mom allows very little down time to devote to their playtime.  You've mastered the juggling roles of being their best friend and responsible disciplinary, but it still saddens you that your complete concentration can't always be them.

Damn those priorities.  Priorities is just an annoying word for demands over pleasure, and who likes to make that choice?

But Moms, this isn't neglect.  You're definitely not failing.  And please don't see it as a sacrifice.  See it for what it is, what you too often forget.  Realize that this is one of the toughest, most trying pieces of parenthood.  And you're doing it every day!  Sometimes, you need to closet cry.  Sometimes, you want to throw a tantrum.  And sometimes, you feel unnoticed.

But notice this.  Notice the wonder and joy in your daughter's spirit.  See how she sees her world in color, taken from the example you set.

Look at your handsome son who sports the same tender heart as you on his sleeve.  Take pride in his goofy quirks and sweet ways with his sister.

Notice that these aren't just photos of your family.  Look deeper, and you should feel the durability of you and Chad, the trust your children have in you, and the potential of your entire crew.

Even amidst your hourly hectic hustle, it only takes a glimpse at the photos of your animated kids and teammate for life in your loyal husband (and his wicked 'stache) to recognize that you don't want any change.  Attempt to imagine the days a bit calmer, and you can't.

This is your course.

You are the will to their way.

And they are the greatest reason your work will never be done.

WARRENS LIFE WITHIN

IN-HOME LIFESTYLE SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND FAMILY & CHILDREN PHOTOGRAPHER

“We had our second date here," she said. “It was in the bathroom I stared in disbelief at those two little pink lines and then paced these floors while counting contractions.”

“Kate took her first steps here.”

Home.

So many pieces of our lives happen at home, adding up to an entire collection of memories we’ll remember well past our childhood. It’s ultimately the environment where you’ll raise your children and help embed their favorite pastimes of hide-n-seek, blanket forts, and messes that stretch across the entire kitchen.

These memories from home are what live on long even after you’ve moved.

How many years ago was it when you arrived home, sunburnt and happy, to congratulatory cards and wedding gifts piled high on the kitchen table? Sadly and far too quickly, the honeymoon was over, but it felt SO good to finally be home. Together.

Home is where your marriage would begin, blossom, and eventually grow into your family.

What do you remember most about your firstborn?  Is it the song you whispered as you paced the living room floors in the dark hours of night, bouncing her back to sleep in your arms? Or maybe it’s the rocker in the corner of the bedroom where you stared for hours, mesmerized, and memorized every feature of your baby.

Unbeknownst to visitors, the middle couch cushion has been flipped over to hide spilled juice. The walls, which acted as crutches to your teetering one year old, have been repainted in areas to cover those tot-sized fingerprints. Outside, your driveway is a museum of chalk art that will take many rains to fade the rainbow-colored dust.

Your home is your haven for laughter and for tears. It’s your refuge for anger, grief, arguments and make-ups.

Your home is alive with life and growth.

Realize it. Remember it.  Get proof of it. 

Because guess what your kids will relate home with?

You.

Get your very own Life Within session here.

FAMILY OF 7 AT KAISERS

MIDTOWN OKC SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND FAMILY & CHILDREN PHOTOGRAPHER

“Wow. You really have your hands full.” How many times have you heard this not-so-clever comment from the stranger at your favorite restaurant or even in the cereal aisle of Target? (I hear grocery shopping alone happens too rare these days.)  All you wanted was a dish-free evening out with your family or some dang lucky charms (because, MARSHMALLOWS), but not without being noticed first. You’re left awkwardly haha-ing with a stranger, tongue-tied and slightly baffled.

I mean, let’s get real for a minute. Do they expect you to say “I know, right? Who signed me up for this?!” I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt - their intentions are likely harmless - and it's probably just a little slip of innocent honesty.

Oh, how I bet Tyler and Nichole have become so immune to this, though.

The strangers who just can’t help but blurt that opinionated comment apparently don’t have children. Whether you have 1 child or 19, you chose that wonderful path of raising children, just as they probably chose not to.

To each his own, amiright?

Before I give up understanding this for parents everywhere, can anyone tell me what it even means? Does it appear to them that you don’t have it under control? Maybe they missed the moment when you were juggling that hot plate with a sippy cup of chocolate milk and searching for the missing yellow crayon under the table, all while paying attention to your daughter’s day at school. Or maybe the few minutes of disarray and dropped cereal boxes looked chaotic, but what they didn’t see was you in control of that so-called chaos.

Does this sound familiar, Tyler and Nichole? With every “it’s a girl!”, you’ve become well-adjusted to parenthood, so by now you’re experts at family outings and are only reminded of your large brood with kind compliments and curious stares.

Don’t get me wrong. Life with 5 girls probably isn’t always child’s play, but from the outside looking in? I'm all, "sign me up!" because this looks like a whole bunch of fun!

If you ever see these 7 Smith’s out, you’d probably gawk just a bit. Who wouldn’t, when Tyler is outnumbered by 6 beautiful females? How can you not peer into their family dynamic and imagine the fun they have when the array of their daughters begins with a well-mannered teenager all the way to a spunky toddler? On a few occasions, I witnessed the shy middle girls huddled together, giggling in their own little world. I was immediately sent reminiscing to the 90’s, huddled with my own sisters, recording cassette tapes of radio music and braiding friendship bracelets. I already know the bond these sisters create over the years will be undoubtedly tested but unshakably true.

It is so apparent to me that Tyler, Nichole, Taya, Livia, Ella, Liana and Vayda have the coolest kinship. It was obvious in Tyler and Taya’s playful banter, in Nichole’s bond with her baby, in Liana’s full personality and in Livia and Ella’s quick response to hold a hand, console and comfort their little sisters. And then when Mr. and Mrs. Smith had some time alone? Well, just see that for yourself…

Like parents everywhere, they probably have ‘those days’, but full hands?

Of course they’re full. Full of five healthy and bright daughters and all of the wonder and pride that parenthood presents.

THE BEST OF 2014

TOP PHOTOS OF 2014. OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND MATERNITY/NEWBORN/CHILDREN/FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER

How?! How on Earth is it New Years Eve of 2014?

Somehow it is, just like somehow our busy days dragged on while our weekends flew by.

But WHAT.A.YEAR.

The real me wants to get really mushy with you and remind you how much this tiny speck of a business (in the grand scheme of things) means to me and how I can never, EVER thank you enough for hiring me, inquiring about a session, reading my blog, liking a post, hearting an INSTAGRAM photo or heck, even knowing Sunkissed & Free even exists, but even then I don't feel like that's sufficient enough.  Every day, this creative outlet for me continues because of YOU.  I promise you this: you'll never know how appreciative I am to be asked to tell your story.

And now, the best of 2014!

And ending 2014 with two of my favorite of all favorites:

The kids who have my heart and call me Auntie, bellied up to the same ice cream counter where I grew up ordering single scoop sugar cones.

And lastly, the photo I hope to take every few years.  Why?  To see him grow.  To see me grow.

2014

2008

SANTA BABY

MATERNITY LIFESTYLE SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND MATERNITY PHOTOGRAPHER

I would lay awake at night, giddy with magical excitement only children experience, straining my ears for hints of jingle bells and wondering when Santa and his reindeer would arrive on the roof. For the most part I thought I was well-behaved, with the exception of one year. I bawled behind the Christmas tree, crying so hard my parents were unable to understand my apology, but they reassured me I indeed was not getting a stocking full of coal. (Shoo! Close call.) Every Christmas Eve, I would fight my heavy eyelids. I would hazily drift off to dreamland with thoughts of remote control cars and soccer cleats, only to bolt awake in panic of missing Santa.  I knew giving in to sleep would make morning come sooner, but the anticipation of every child’s favorite day of the year kept my mind racing.

With only weeks remaining in her pregnancy, sleep is probably evading Reagan, too. Not because of a cheery, bearded man bearing gifts or a hungry, needy newborn (yet), but because of your spinning thoughts and wandering worries knowing labor is nearing. ‘But now is the time to catch up on sleep’, they say. How? When you’re weeks away from meeting your first child, your nervousness causes restlessness. Your mind jumps from thought to thought, rather than sheep to sheep, spinning your emotions into a bundle of excitement, impatience, butterflies and nerves.

Before crawling into bed (just to wrestle sleep), I would carefully choose the perfectly baked ginger cookies and stack them on Santa’s plate while Mom and Dad poured milk into a Welch’s jelly jar my sisters and I used as drinking glasses.  (My favorite one with the purple dinosaurs etched on the side, worn and nearly translucent with years of use.) I would memorize the placement of the cookies and make note of any minimal crumbs so when morning came, I’d know if Santa really did eat the cookies.

With a due date of December 25th, you ignore the negative murmurs of December birthdays and happily imagine the holiday season a year from now.  With one year of parenthood under your belt and a successful 1st birthday party complete, tiny toddler fingers will be 'helping' you hook plush ornaments on the tree and footed Christmas jammies will teeter at your feet while tugging on your flannels. Leftover birthday cake will be left by the fireplace for Santa instead of cookies, and without meaning to, a new tradition will begin.

At days break, I'd shoot up out of a slumber, upset that I fell asleep and slept through Santa's visit AGAIN. Eager to wake up the entire household, I’d start with my sisters who were in twin beds next to my makeshift bunk of carefully stacked couch cushions. It was our sibling tradition to sleep together on Christmas Eve, a memory I didn't fully appreciate until I grew older and recognized that as the baby of our family, my sisters continued the spirit of Santa solely for my sake. (If you ask them, I believed foreverrrrrrrr. Y’all, 12 years isn’t forever. I mean, 6. I totally meant 6.) We’d make our way downstairs as a family, me leading the way, bounding down the steps and skipping as many as physically possible.  I'd round the corner to a twinkling tree, stretched stockings, stripes and plaids and snowmen wrapping paper, and best of all, the unwrapped gift straight from Santa's workshop.  If not for the animated Christmas spirit of my nieces and nephews, I’d have to rely entirely on my own imagination to see the true essence of a child on Christmas morning. It absolutely is the most wonderful time of the year.

Deep down, you know it’s time. Still, you’ll probably time a few more contractions before waking Kyle from his deep slumber. In between the worsening pain, your excitement and fear will be replaced with a mental check list: hospital bag, CHECK; boppy pillow, CHECK; iPhone charger , CHECK; text photographer, CHECK!  Hours of wavering labor, genuine support from the nurses, multiple check-ins from your doctor and endless encouragement from Kyle, the anxiousness to meet your firstborn child is an emotional whirlwind.   It will be forever before you forget your tears of pain and joy and being completely overcome with a feeling that has yet to be defined when the Doctor raises up your baby and gleefully shouts, "It's a -------- !"

...To Be Continued...

WARREN FAMILY PARTY OF FOUR

FAMILY SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND FAMILY/MATERNITY PHOTOGRAPHER

I can't help but wonder what their next chapter will feel like. Things will change, I assume.  Quiet cuddles and coffee will turn to full hands, effectively multi-tasking toddler toys and newborn feedings.

Schedules will be adjusted, bottles will be juggled with sippy cups, and nap times will be nonnegotiable.  Some days,  you'll dominate.  Other days?  When Will walks in from work, you'll having nothing left in you but tears of relief, frustration, weariness and defeat.

The first few weeks will be an emotional blur,  but don't ever forget how fast time flies.

Savor the wait without the rush.  Until it's time to turn the page, keep bottling up the memories of today and tomorrow's party of three.

As for you, Kate?

You're just merely months away from meeting your lifelong best friend.

BABY G

MATERNITY LIFESTYLE SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND MATERNITY PHOTOGRAPHER

Waiting has never tested your patience more than now. And waiting the rest of this out feels beyond the bounds of conceivable.

Speaking of conceiving...

Your heart raced, your bottom lip – chewed - waiting for the test results.

Those two minutes felt as long as a red light in a hurry.  It was clearly positive, but you barely believed it.

The first appointment available to confirm those two lines was weeks out, so you waited.

Surrounded by quiet murmurs, mothers, and antsy, older-sibling toddlers, you waited for your name to be called to see the monochromatic screen of your tiny miracle.

Congratulatory hugs and necessary small talk from the doc only delayed the impending ultrasound you've been anticipating.  It's not denial, nor disbelief.  It's the proof you can stare at, hold, and fall in love with.  You've seen a hundred sonogram photos shared to Facebook and loaded on Instagram, but unless it's your black and white lima bean, it's just another photo.

You waited, your heart beat frozen in time, while the cold wand slowly searched for your baby's heartbeat.

And then, *WOM WOM WOM WOM WOM*

No sound sweeter to your ears, your tears didn't wait to fall.

Nor did the rush of emotions, the reach for your husband's clammy hand, or the relief that amazing muffled sound draped over you.

Now you can cling to the comfort provided by the ultrasound.  YOUR ultrasound.  You finally understand the excitement that comes with sharing the one-dimensional, blurry, cone-shaped photo of your baby.

You knew this chapter of your lives needed to be remembered and savored in the familiar warmth of your home.  Life as you know it with your 3 fur-kids is winding down, and soon, they’ll have a sweet tiny baby brother? sister? to sniff, lick, and most of all, protect.

So before the remaining wait is filled with registries, baby showers and choosing paint swatches for the nursery, photos to share your early Christmas gift must be made.   Years from now, you'll pull one of these Christmas card photos out of a dusty box from the attic and tell your little one, "We knew you were in there and we couldn't wait to tell the world."

You waited to witness your little life.

You waited to floor your families with news of the addition.

You waited to shock your sisterhood of friends.

And now?

You wait to meet your little wonder.

OFFICER RYAN

CHILDREN PHOTOGRAPHY.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND CHILD PHOTOGRAPHER

176. That's the average number of steps a toddler hops - leaps - runs - skips - stumbles per minute.

You guys, 176.  IN ONE MINUTE!

Which means I can easily tack on another reason Ryan is a rockstar toddler.  As sweaty and tired as I was playing with him, there's no way he sprints less than 500 steps a minute, with no two steps heading in the same direction. (My knees wanted to point that out.)

You think I'm kidding?

At 2.25 years old, Ryan's inquisitive nature and adventurous spirit flood his parent's heart with both love and exhaustion.

I've witnessed his momma's deep sighs of patience when every daily task begins with "no, I do it."  His giant yellow labs must miss the days of being fed instantly by mommy instead of tiny morsels-at-a-time by Ryan.

And anyone with talkative, carseat-age children can relate to their little one's stubborn hands insistent on clasping the carseat buckle first before you are allowed to tighten it.  The days of newborn bottles and bags delaying your daily errands slyly turns into self-dressing, shoes on the wrong feet, absentmindly crawling into the backseat, and becoming easily distracted by stale goldfish and a folded sticker that HAS TO BE unfolded, all while asking never ending questions.

Sometimes, you're really crunched for time (because, aren't we always? But then there's *those* days) and with your composure crumbling, you'd rather risk a fiery fit then waste an hour letting him attempt tasks he watches you do daily.

Mostly though,  you're amazed.  You're amazed that you used to cradle him in your arms.  The same baby who spewed mashed green beans at you is now putting words into sentences, and actually making sense.  You can carry on a conversation with your little buddy, and sometimes, it's not until he repeats a naughty word that you realize (after you look away and laugh) the world is his to learn, and you're his teacher.

So, on *those* days, the ones we're all allowed to claim, when he's right at your feet, pushing your buttons and persistent with curiosity, sometimes a deep breath isn't enough.  You're tired of the time outs.  You catch yourself checking the clock every hour, wishing for bedtime.  But then you're rocking him and remembering the time when his entire body fit perfectly across your chest, and even after a day full of battles that beat you down, you have nothing but a heart full of the deepest love you'll ever know, all to give to your little boy.

Stank eye!  This kid.

NEWBORN MASON

NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHY.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHER

Second child?

BRING IT.

I imagine with your first child, you knew the exact week of gestation you were in, detailed to the very day. You first knew him as a blueberry, and later, an avocado. Even though at week 30 you may have been craving salty chips coated in warm, melted cheese, you knew your baby boy was the size of a head of lettuce. This time around? Your days are filled chasing your pant-less son down the hallway, pleading with him to exchange his toy truck for a lunch plate of crustless PB&J, halved grapes and a sippy cup half full of leftover morning milk.  Both of their due dates are concreted in your pregnancy brain, but this go around, your previous answer to "how far along are you?" is accidentally altered from "23 weeks, 3 days" to "ummmm, 25ish weeks…I think?"

It's more of a joy ride this time.  A roller coaster you've ridden before, knowing to brace yourself for the expected dips and turns.

Remember the overwhelming confusion you felt standing in the middle of Babies R Us 24 weeks into your first pregnancy? Holding the registry wand, the feeling of confinement sweeps over you as your eyes bulge at the white linoleum aisles stocked high with thousands of baby items, labeled in bright colors and recognizable (but the best?) name brands. All you knew is that you needed blue stuff with cars and trucks printed on it.

Call it the second baby syndrome, call it a greater knowledge of the true necessities, or call it confidence from experience, but with child #2 chillin’ in your belly? Registering was a breeze! You remember what worked, what didn’t, and awaiting a sibling at home are Hesston’s gently used big-ticket items. Besides the few things you can never have enough of (DIAPERS), being fully prepared with the necessities gives you time to peruse the shades of tiny, pink clothes in Target’s baby section. Pulling a 0-3 month smocked dress adorned in stitched flowers from the rack releases your second squeal of excitement. (The first escaped at your 20-week sonogram appointment – IT’S A GIRL!)

Her kicks and multiple rounds of hiccups may be familiar, but the curiosities of her characteristics still nibble at your daily thoughts. Will she be another miniature Daddy, a replica of her big brother, but in pink? Or will your daughter resemble you?  The rare quiet times at home (read: when Hesston is napping, amiright?) allow your mind to finally wander to your rounding belly (which, you noticed, made its appearance much sooner and quicker), wondering of her and awaiting her arrival, just as anxiously as your first child, but this time, versed in motherhood.

After 9 months of comparing your pregnancies, you became a mother for the second time. It was August 18th when you were finally able to see that yes, she looks just like you. Beautiful.

It wasn’t until close family and friends gathered in your room, whispering compliments on her full cheeks and perfect lips that you started to see similarities and find differences in Mason’s newborn face compared to Hesston’s, just a mere 2 years earlier. You can't help but see so much of Hesston in her almond-shaped eyes.

From her birth day on, her milestones will be marked. You’ll often catch yourself saying, “Remember the way Hesston first rolled over?” or “Hesston used to make that same, hilarious face!”

And so it begins, the joys of having two children.

But first, Mason’s paci just fell on the floor. Wash it thoroughly like you did Hesston’s?

Eh. A quick wipe with the corner of your t-shirt will do, right?

FINEST FOURSOME

FAMILY SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND FAMILY & CHILDREN PHOTOGRAPHER

So you’ve scheduled family pictures.

Maybe for the first time, in, oh… (an exaggerated) FOREVER?!

You have nerves.

For good reason?

“I hope the weather is perfect. Will these outfits coordinate correctly? What if the kids are crazy loons and behave like wild animals?”

"WHAT IF MY FACE MELTS OFF BECAUSE IT’S 99% HUMIDITY OUT?!"

(Don’t fret. You’ll see shortly that none of their pretty faces melted off.)

Though I wish I could, I can’t always set the sun in a perfect, water-colored evening sky. (Or carry around an earth-sized humidifier, but that could be super useful.)

Is it necessary to shop store to store, exhausting every idea in search of that perfect Pinterest outfit you pinned 2 years ago? No. Now, pleated khaki pants and matching white tops are a thing of the 90’s (along with music videos, pagers, and my crush on every NSYNC band member), so for those who ask, I am eager to share recommendations regarding your wardrobe. But, honestly? The best outfits are those that complement each extraordinary personality of your crew (wild animals and all).

If I promised you there is no such thing as your child misbehaving with me, would you believe me?

Well, I promise.

Your biggest worry is my creative kindle.

I’m sorry Beyoncé, but in my world, kids run it. From the second their feet jump from the backseat on to the dusty gravel drive and look up at me, I’m anticipating their temperament. Will they be shy like Sloane, clinging to Daddy’s pants and peeking around his leg, measuring me from a safe distance? Or will I hear a tiny voice before the car door is even shut, like Harper’s free spirit and candid chatter?

The M&M candy bribe you charmed them with is our little secret enticement. I know Gram and Gramps have probably requested a family photo to share proudly on their wall. The one showing perfect posture, hands gently folded and everyone smiling their best smile. (Thanks to the M&M’s?) And I’ll get this shot for you. If not for this ordinary shot, my parents wouldn’t have the hilarious family photo from the 90’s to showcase my permed mullet. The perfect pose could be your new profile photo or the fresh update your office walls need. It’s necessary to your shoot and to your growing assortment of nostalgia.

But what I really love to gift you? Is WHO your child is. Children may be little, but their personalities are grand, and that combination is essential to my inspiration. Every child expresses a unique personality, owning it fully and parading it with no reason to restrict. (Are you smiling right now, imagining your child’s quiet wonder with weedy flowers or the way her eyes smile first?) She makes expressions that mimic her mommy and shares similar mannerisms with her Daddy. Isn’t their individual identity the best part of your children? The part of them that pushes your patience and melts your heart in the span of 2 minutes is what I cherish to give you.

See for yourself, but this family nailed it.  Nerves?

What nerves?

THE SUN CHASER

ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND MATERNITY/NEWBORN/CHILDREN/FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER

I still eat string cheese the only way that's right: pull by pull.

At inconvenient times, a sudden urge to burst out in hysterical laughter bubbles up to my cheeks, and it takes all I have to behave.

My age and the bills addressed to me are proof I'm an adult, but all this time spent maturing to a life full of dependability and responsibility never stole the playful part of me.   Life is too swift, too fleeting, to do anything for the last time.  I refuse to be too old to play hide and seek.  I'll always drown my fro yo in sugary toppings, though I must report my visits to the fro yo bar are moderate. (I owe my health and the importance to keep it to my dual degree in kinesiology.)  And as long as it doesn't make my hands sticky (*shudder*), you can find me right in the mix of making mud pies, hunting for roly poly's, or packing a pail for a princess sand castle.

Among my nicknames and titles, the beloved of the bunch is "Auntie."

My fascination for photography stems not only from the art, but to remember what it feels like to lose all cares of today and tomorrow and explore the world from a child's perspective.  I love to be on their level, in their world, tip toeing right alongside their tyke-sized footsteps.  To create pieces of their nostalgia only deepens every sense of my own.

Your child is my sidekick, your kinship is my inspiration, and together, we're Sunkissed & Free. 

SAWYER'S DEBUT

NEWBORN SESSION.OKLAHOMA CITY/EDMOND NEWBORN PHOTOGRAPHER

July 7th came and went like morning sickness in the first trimester, so I texted her: “still pregnant?”

“yes…still pregnant!”

Almost a week later and after multiple jaunts out to the garden to harvest in the heavy heat of July, Lindsay found herself timing contractions.

She’s retelling Sawyer’s birthday to me from the rocking chair, only occasionally yawning. I couldn’t help but notice how relaxed she was, as if in her arms was her fourth child rather than her first.

His arrival was shared and Facebook family and friends exclaimed their congratulations, including myself. I finally get to meet my newest client!  Sawyer’s proud Daddy posted the first photos of Lindsay and Sawyer, him on her chest, her hospital gown bunching around his tiny body.

The iPhone snap halts time with her beaming down at her son for the first time, soaking him in, but I know that instant remained for nearly eternity.  She studied his every feature, unable to peel her eyes away from his eyes.

Eyes which are an exact replica of his daddy's.

As I clicked through Tyler's Facebook album dated July 13th (now a day that will never be just another day in his family), views of Lindsay and Sawyer fill the screen, along with a hospital scale documenting 7 lb 5 oz and nurse's in the background smiling as they check vitals and monitor the new mom.  I passed through the album, stopping with a smile at Sawyer's first selfie with his Dad, asleep and cradled snug against his pearl snap shirt.

I imagine Lindsay was once again enamored with her husband, this time in a new way.

Fifteen days later, I sat in their living room and gently positioned the little cowboy with his Momma by my side.  I couldn't help but think back to their maternity session, when they could only imagine whose genes would be undoubtedly duplicated.

Now they finally know.

MAINE: ONE PHOTO

FAMILY VACATION PHOTOS.POPHAM BEACH, MAINE CHILDREN & FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHER

ONE PHOTO, OUR FINAL DAY, DAY 18.

The days of no agendas, never knowing the time, and alarm-free mornings have come to an end.

I just needed one final glance at daybreak.

So ironically enough, I set my alarm for 4:50 a.m. Bundled in a blanket, steaming coffee in one hand, camera in the other, I walked down the beach path for the final time in 2014. (Bizarre how the *bang bang* of an alarm on vacation sounds more like twinkling wind chimes.)

It's back to the life we live that gets us here every year.

Schedules, deadlines, errands, chores, and sadly, an absence of ice cream linger in the heat for us back home.

Fourteen people is a lot of mouths to feed, dishes to do, clutter to control, and personalities to please. You might wonder how we manage to end our 18-day vacation on speaking terms after sleeping under one roof (with no ceilings), sharing one shower (that’s never without sand), and one bathroom. (“I WAS NEXT!”)

It’s easy.

These are my people. The foundation of who I am.

And that century old wooden cottage we bunk in night after night?

Is rooted in sand off the coast of Maine. How could we not get along?!

Locked away in my childhood memory bank are our Popham goodbyes. Leaning on my luggage, jaw aching, and my eyes to the ground to avoid losing what little composure I had left, I didn’t want it to be another year before I saw my Nanny and Papa, my Aunts and Uncles, and that front porch view. Tears falling, we’d slowly bump down the dirt road, always turning to see the pair of gray heads and matching khaki pants waving and wiping their cheeks.

20 and more years later, our final farewell feels the exact same way.

The other thing that still feels the same?

Is the gratefulness we hold onto knowing that we’ll be right back next year, bumping back up the old dirt road.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 17.

My knees are bruised and scarred, my right index finger cramped and tired.

I have chased and crawled all over the sand and spoken in voices only dogs can hear.  I've exhausted every trick and tool in my bag I know when it comes to photographing children.  I've reported from every angle of a princess  sandcastle.  I've thrown a frisbee with my left hand, fiercely swinging my camera into my right to freeze the disc before landing in child-sized hands.  I've dodged waves, flying sand, and the crust of their peanut butter and honey sandwich before being gulped in one swift seagull swallow.

I've become a part of their pattern.  Carlee wants her sandwich whole.  Averee insists on 4 triangles.  Carlee's perfect day on the beach is building sandcastles by mommy's feet.  Just past where Carlee's sandy suit sits, Averee can be seen jumping waves, her pig tails flying in the breeze as she shrieks with joy.  On the other end of the 'fun spectrum', Carlee's fits come during her nighttime routine.  I was concerned for her life one time before quickly realizing she was only getting her teeth brushed.  Averee's fits?  Well, there's no telling when the foot will stomp, arms will cross, and 'hmph!' will be exclaimed, but when it does happen, it's quite cute.  (To Auntie at least, not so much to Mommy and Daddy.)

This summer, I lived vicariously through their vacation behind my camera.  It was imperative.  I needed to, and I couldn't stop.  Each adventure their tiny, tan feet went on, I've been on.  Year after year after year. For 27 years.  Now, it's time for me to gift these kids their summers in Maine.

With photos like this.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 16. (Day 16!  Blessed.)

Apparently R's aren't always necessary in certain words around here. "Cheeyahs!"  "Suppah."

Our family from Boston arrived today.  A home run derby during low tide, multiple games of washers in the sand, and dinner right off the grill filled our evening (minus the letter R).

Our second to last day couldn't have been better.  What will I miss the most?

Waking up to the seagulls squawking and waves crashing?   Or the hot mug of coffee in my hand, the sun rising out front while the tide rolls in?

Maybe strolling, hand in hand, swatting mosquitos and discussing which flavor ice cream cone we'll have tonight.  It could be the day-long boat ride in and around the bays and coves the coast of Maine has to offer.

You may realize by now that it may be hard for me to pick.

Except it isn't.

Truth be told, no matter the ocean view, the island adventures, or the lack of responsibilities vacation provides, the thing I'll miss the most?

Isn't a thing.

It's my family.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 15.

My hands still reek of its juices, the cracked shells sending it squirting in every direction.

Tonight was our annual lobster feast.  It's a family tradition, not just because you can't leave Vacationland without tasting Maine lobster, but because of the entire experience.  In years past, it was Papa who placed the lobster order directly with the lobsterman who hauled in their daily catch to the general store.  Now, Dad hauls the paper bag of hardshell lobsters down the porch steps to the lobster pot, but not before calling me over to photograph all the kids holding the squirmy sea creatures, swiping their banded claws and flipping their barnacled bodies.  Empty pots are scattered across the porch to catch broken shells and empty claws.  I cracked and picked like my Papa taught me, savoring each bite, all the while imagining him securing his napkin bib in the back of his collar while wiping the splashed juices from his beard.

With only a few sunrises and sets remaining in Vacationland, we're left to squeeze in any adventures we've yet to chase (which, in my book, is a never-ending list I'll be checking off for eternity).  With minutes left before the sun kissed the horizon, and help from my family, I loaded my Aunt's kayak in the car, waded into the tide, and set off for a rendezvous in the bay.   The waters lapped at the sides of the sunny yellow kayak as I paddled against the current, taking in the scenery I love so much.

Just me, the sea, and a backdrop I bottled up for safekeeping.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 14.

We squeezed out every last drop of the sun today.  It had only been shining bright for a mere 2 hours before I was down on the beach building a princess club house for all the girls.  We filled our day with sand pails, seagulls, and chasing the frisbee into the ice cold waves.  Sunscreen was applied for a second and third time, boogie boards rolled with the waves, and the pages of our books turned in between breaks in conversation.  Our sun-soaked skin was relieved by early evening to allow the 10 of us to rotate around a single shower.  Our usual 'grab a paper plate and head to the porch' dinner was traded in for an evening out to celebrate my sisters birthday -- an occasion we love to celebrate here at the beach!

Today, I could have chosen a photo of the princesses in their beach club house, or a set of tiny pigtails running away toward the waves.  We also managed to squeeze in family photos, wearing actual clothes, shoes, and clean hair free of sand and salt.  Instead, I chose warm, homemade blueberry pie, savored with my loved ones surrounding the table.  Behind me, boats bob in the calm water, mirroring the setting sun.  The kids, excusing themselves to join the nearby whiffle ball game, take turns racing back to the table for gulps of lemonade and chocolate milk.

Tonight?

100% MAINE.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 13.

She twirled and giggled just as much as she worried about dirtying her new, flowing dress.  With each giggle, her button-nose crinkled between her eyes, drawing my attention to the freckles painted across her cheeks.

This girl is SO much fun.

Tonight, we set out in search of sand dollars and sunsets, but it wasn't long before Hannah Bear was in a pile of drift wood, picking the perfect washed-up stick to adorn the top of a sandcastle.

The sandcastle we'll build tomorrow.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 12.

"                                                                      ."

Silent with wonder.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 11.

Day 11 of vacation brought us 8 new family faces to the cottage.  Weary from travel and anxious to relax on the beach, we did just that.  All day.

Spaghetti dinner for 20 was a team effort by all (the cooking part AND the devouring part), and the evening ended in our usual style:  ice cream cones at the General Store.

More than half of us have been tucked in tight for bed.  I'm not far from crawling under the covers and drifting off to dreamland.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 10.

You may have heard this story before.

The one about me seeing his face and that tow-head of hair light up the screen on the back of my first digital camera.  I marched over to my sister, leading with the back of my camera.  "Look!  I need to send this into GAP Kids!"

That photo, taken nearly 6 years ago on the same sand as you see in many of these photos, sparked the hunger in me to learn this craft.

His hair is still blonde (nearing white, now that we're ten days into our vacation), but now, at almost 8 years old, he's quickly approaching my height, inquisitive about everything ("but why?"), and swiftly before my eyes becoming a young adult.  He might say "I know" as a response too many times, but this kid is on his way to big things.

Tonight, our adventure took us up the beach to climb rocks, down the dock to check out the boats, rickety ladders, and discuss what sea creatures lurked under the dark water.  We ended the evening at the general store, taking our time deciding on which flavor ice cream to choose.  At the counter, he turned to me, with his exhausted, bloodshot eyes fixed to mine and asked, "Auntie?  Can you buy me that really cool wooden airplane kit I've been wanting?"

Tomorrow, we'll be building a really cool wooden airplane.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 9.

Directly in front of me, the sky fades from pink, to purple, to dusk.  I'm exhausted.

The sand and sunscreen has been showered off, dinner dishes have been washed and put away, and s'mores have been savored.  The kids barely make it up the stairs and under the covers before their bloodshot, exhausted eyes become too heavy to fight, closing peacefully until morning.

Our day started early with tiny whispers heard over the cottage's wooden partitions (here, there are no ceilings, so every toss, turn, and snore is heard), coffee in front of The Today Show, and recalling the tide chart to confirm the time for low tide.  The few miles of beach widen during low tide, allowing us to extend our walks and adventure across the sand bar to Fox Island.  By 9:30, swimsuits were on, sunscreen was applied, and the 10 of us trekked down the path, to the beach, and off to Fox Island.

As a kid, we loved long walks on the beach.  One of the sandbars that formed during low tide granted us access to a private island, known as Wood Island, home to a single, two-story vacant home with grey siding, crisp-white double doors at the entrance, and 9 windows stretching across the front.  I daydreamed about living there, arriving by helicopter or boat and walking up the dock under the 'NO TRESPASSING' sign.

This morning, our walk took us beyond Wood Island, around the sandy bend, and on to Fox Island.  The island is made of layers of rock, some covered in slippery seaweed, barnacles, or porous boulders, worn smooth in places by constant sea water splashing with the current.  Our bare feet, finally accustomed to walking here and there with no shoes, climbed the rocks toward the top, anxious to see the view of the ant-sized people in the distance following in our footsteps, nearby lighthouses, and a horizon spanning the background, so vivid it looks like you could fall right off the earth.  I watch the kids take in the island, their tiny footsteps carefully climbing to the top, curious of it's creation and in awe of the perspective of the beach from that point of view.

As kids, we always flocked to Aunt Susan.  Each summer, she'd have new toys for us to play with, never before seen adventures to take us on, and rainy day activities to occupy our boredom and give our parents a break.  Even now, we drive past the local playground, newly renovated, and laugh at the memories (and splinters) we made with her there.  Or the time we spent the night in her basement, giggling uncontrollably until I decided to jump down the stairs and crack my head on the wooden beam I failed to notice.

The day my first nephew was born, I was ready to be the Aunt Susan of our family.  Playful, full of youth, and eager to be a kid again.  To this day, Aunt Susan continues to have a following of tiny bare feet, this time, the next generation.

When I'm not in the thick of all the laughs, I sit back and take notes, because I want to be remembered just like I'll remember Aunt Susan...

...As their #1 Auntie.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 8.

They tossed my arms around their shoulders and heaved my legs off the sand, careful not to drag my bleeding foot.  I wailed the entire ½-mile trek back to the cottage.

Roughly 20 years ago, we had been running wild on the beach, barefoot and free, when I stepped on a broken clam shell, slicing the arch of my foot.  Back at the cottage, my Papa, hearing the commotion coming up the path, raced to the tub room to grab his medical bag, the same bag he carried in the dark of night up the front steps of his patients’ homes. As a child, my mom used to tag along with him to his house calls. Then, in the 1960's, an office visit to seek Dr. Hill’s medical advice would cost you an even $5.00.  Later, he increased his prices to $8.00.

Years ago, take a seat next to Dr. William Hill, Jr. and you would be lectured (in a good way) the importance of your health, hear stories from his extended years of schooling (including the interruption for the draft of WWII), and be in awe of the nights he crept out of their Naugatuck, Connecticut home to visit those who urgently needed him at any hour of the night.

At 80 years old, he was sharp as a tack, sure to check our blood pressure each year, and quick to spread his grand smile when he reminisced of his profession he was so passionately proud of.

As he assessed my foot and shhh’d me calm, I trusted his hands as he cleaned, bandaged, gauzed, and wrapped my foot, with instructions to allow him to clean it daily. Thankfully, he allowed sand play and believed the salt water would help it heal.

Papa, known around town as “Doc”, lived a full life after retiring from the medical field.   He boated us down East in his beloved lobster-styled boat named 'Persephone', putzed around the cottage, and just when we thought he’d never sit to enjoy the scenery, he’d take a seat on the porch, grab the binoculars and admiringly gaze at the boats passing by.

He was a loveable Papa who'd let us comb his white, wiry beard, a cancer survivor, and had a heart of gold, never leaving our Nanny's side as she quickly faded from this life.  He carried her obituary in his breast pocket until the day he joined her.  Cause of death?  Heartache.

Earlier today, I slipped into my Nanny's rain coat and set off on the beach for a damp, drizzly run*, soaking in my surroundings in admiration of this place, thinking of him, and the time he doctored my foot to good health. The tiny beach town we know forwards and backwards is our second home, buried in nostalgia of growing up here with our Nanny and Papa.

Still today, I have a scar, tightened across the arch of my foot. Every time I feel it, I think of Papa.

And I smile.

* When the rain continues up the coast all day long, there's time to work with my camera and try new things, like the auto-timer.  :)

ONE PHOTO, DAY 7.

Each summer, we pack our suitcases full of bathing suits, shorts, tanks, tees, and what we call "winter clothes."

Winter clothes are meant for days when the fog rolls in, the wind blows directly off the Atlantic, the temps drop, and we deem it a "let's-go-to-town day."  While we love days full of sand and sun, a cool, foggy day trip into town is always admired by all.  Where we are (population 2,100), the closest grocery store is a 20-mile stretch of curves, pines, inlets, bays, and ponds.  Trekking into town to visit the local 'Made In Maine' shops, delicious cafe's, candy stores, and a stop into the grocery store is planned every year when the future forecast calls for foghorns and drizzly days.

Today, we woke to the lighthouse foghorn blaring in the distance, rain rapping on the roof, and an overall damp, dark day.  In other words, a perfect day to shop the town. We threw on our sweatshirts, begged the kids to behave for Uncle James, took the scenic route to town and arrived by lunch to walk the quaint streets of Brunswick.  We perused with the locals, gossiped during a relaxing pedicure, and wrapped up our girls day patio side for lunch.

Back at the cottage, the kids greeted us with snacks in each hand, remnants of ice cream left on the corners of their mouths, endless amounts of energy, and stories of their day spent with Uncle James.  Before we could ask him his side of the story, he had disappeared, leaving us with 4 kids packed with pent-up energy, sugar highs, and accidental chatter about the four cookies they each savored at lunch because "we told Uncle James that's how many we were allowed to have"

Yes, he believed them.

Needless to say, we took them for a gloomy, damp walk to free their energy (and save our sanity).

Here they are on our 'venture, climbing boulders down by the dock.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 6.

Chasing the green disc towards the ocean, I hope to catch it before my feet plunge into the cold ocean, splashing and dodging what feels like flying ice cubes.  Over the ocean waves, I hear Carson giggling uncontrollably at my expense.  In my world, a playful game of frisbee is the ultimate beach pastime. Threading it between strolling beach-goers and the vast ocean, I aim for Carson, who chases it in one direction until the wind snatches it and carries it in the opposite direction.  At 7, he already has an arm for the big leagues.  (And, oh my word, an appetite to match!)  At times, I'm happy as a clam in my beach chair, lost in a book, and remorsefully decline his begging to play catch, paddleball, or whiffle ball.  Mostly though, I'm eager to jump in, rewind to age 7, play equally as hard, and crash even harder at bedtime.

It doesn't take long for me to realize I can't keep up with his unlimited endurance, but trying to will only keep me young at heart.

Laundry day.ONE PHOTO, DAY 5.

The styles, sizes, and owners may have changed over the years, but since 1924, the laundry that has hung on this line has been of the same generation.  Inside the cottage, scribbled on the walls of the wooden partitions between bedrooms are names and dates of those who have bunked here.  The builders, a family from New Hampshire, initialed in bold white in the back bedroom, way back in 1894.  It's clear my grandfather's brother had recently learned to write when scrawling BOB, as each letter is shakily written in various sizes, too large to be completely hidden by the photos hanging on the same living room wall.  Above his name, written in lead in small, cursive penmanship is a clump of various cottage visitors, only 'J.M.' and '1921' being legible.

I would say "if these walls could talk" but thankfully each generation is talking, telling the stories so we'll never forget.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 4.

The days of him being 79 are dwindling down, yet he's eager to brag about 80. 

14 years ago, he decided he would build a 40' boat. Newly retired and nothing for his working hands to do but steer across America on an RV journey, hopping from capital to capital with his partner-in-crime of 28 years, the moon to his tide, the Rand McNally to his life adventures.  

So in 1999, he laced up his work boots, swooped up his brown bag lunch and headed into his new office - the boatyard.  Some days, it was only the AM/FM radio, tinkering of tools, and the young bruisers sharing the shop that soundtracked his work day.  Other days, Aunt Susan tagged along and he doled out tasks for her to tackle, like varnishing the hand rails or painting the hull the cleanest shade of white you'll see slice through water.

By 2004, it had a name, thanks to Aunt Susan.  "Fred, what a brilliant idea to build a boat" she said, dripping with sarcasm.  Brilliant.  It was perfect.    

Every summer we'd arrive, anxious to witness the latest.  We'd walk the gravel road to the barn, swatting off mosquitos, and find Uncle Fred deep in the bow, surrounded by power drills and tiny parts.  He'd describe in detail the obvious progress and the minor setbacks.  I'd watch his hands as he'd describe from the beginning, starting with an extensive hull mold, all the way down to the details, angles, and design, chronicling it all as he grasped an oil soaked rag with his seasoned hands, never without a black and blue bruised fingernail.

Did I mention he does all this with one leg?  I sometimes forget, as he's never once used it as an excuse.   

Satisfaction, exhaustion, pride, and 10 full years later, it was launching day.  A crowd formed, unsurprising to us as everyone is a friend of Fred.  Brilliant was hoisted and gently placed into the rippled navy waters of Robinhood Marina.  Uncle Fred stood back with his arms casually crossed, supervising the launch and most likely, reminiscing back on every day of the past 10 years.

Fast forward 5 years and the FOR SALE sign that once glared at me in the window has been taken down.  We're granted another summer ride up the coast, this time taking us up close to a lighthouse, a stop for a seaside dinner, and a scenic route home, leaving us splattered with salt water and smiles.

How do I even put today into words?

Oh wait...

It was brilliant.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 3.

Cousins: the exclusive kinship only some are grateful to know.  Some grow up only to see theirs at intermittent family reunions, with too many years apart to become anything more than forced friends for the day.  Others are fortunate enough at the chance to love like sisters, fight like best friends, and age together through mischief and adventure.

They may not see this gift until they've grown old, but these girls have it.

I hope they keep it.

ONE PHOTO, DAY 2.

25 years ago, this was me and my sisters.  All that's missing is the overworked Slush Puppie machine swirling cherry Icee's on the countertop.

To single out my favorite memory of our summers in Maine is like asking me to pick a favorite parent, sister, or niece or nephew: it's out of the question.  But walking to the general store after dinner for a hand-packed ice cream cone ranks high on my list.  If you're aware of every sense of a memory, like the repeated clang of the wood door opening and closing, the smell of seaside diner food wafting through the aisles of beer, wine, and essential beach-day snacks, the cool concrete floor on your sandy bare feet, and the familiar faces buzzing behind the countertop, it's deep-seated permanently.  To sit back and watch these kids walk in our sandy footsteps is like getting to do it all over again.

Only better.  

ONE PHOTO, DAY 1.

One 4:20am hotel wake up call, two talkative toddlers and two sleepy toddlers, four adults, three Dunkin' Donut large coffees, two long plane rides, one (very) short layover, zero naps, six suckers, four packages of princess gummies, four over-packed pieces of luggage, one overjoyed Nanny Lou, one delighted great-Aunt and Uncle, one delicious seaside dinner (with an unknown number of thoroughly enjoyed adult beverages), one family, one cottage, and two words: "we're here."

SAWYER

Before long, the world will know.

Until then, we all wonder...

"Will dimples like hers dent each cheek of his, framing his first smile and each one thereafter?"

"Maybe his eyes will be the color of the caribbean ocean, just like his daddy's."

Lindsay's thoughts are consumed with intense curiosities and worries as she rounds the last curve of her maternity.

"Did I register for the best-rated sippy cups, toddler-tested for spill proof?"

"Am I prepared for my labor & delivery?"

"Was that a contraction?!"

Patiently, Lindsay describes (in her friendly Oklahoma drawl) passing the time waiting for Sawyer's arrival by picking squash and tomatoes from their backyard garden, mastering the maneuver around her belly to pull the sparse weeds between the rows of tomorrow's dinner.

By now in her pregnancy, she's learned to accept with a smile every tip, trick, and two-cents from friends and strangers alike who either have a baby, know a baby, or whose sisters' cousin's best friend just had a baby and deem it necessary to offer their own personal insight.  Smiling and nodding, the sometimes unsolicited guidance is either stored for safekeeping or left to forget, because if there's one thing she's learned in preparation for Sawyer, is that there's roughly 973 million ways to raise their child, with none being more right than the other.

"It's imperative you pack your hospital bag, like, yesterday!"

On it.

"You must sleep when your baby sleeps!"

Will do.

"Be sure to examine every poopy diaper like you're a guest star playing the lead investigator on CSI Miami!"

WAIT, WHAT?!

Some days, if not for his kicks and flips, you could almost forget you're carrying a real, live human inside of you.  He's growing, developing, and taking your traits, all from your growing bump.

At times, it doesn't feel real.  You easily confuse exhilaration with being terrified, often unsure of how you should feel, until euphoria hits:  You're going to be a Mommy!

Soon, your wailing, big (I've seen his sonograms - he's going to be a big'n!) baby boy will be in your arms.

I didn't have to ask Lindsay and Tyler if they are ready for their role.

It's obvious that these two?  Are so eager to raise their little cowboy.

So saddle up, relish the ride, and remember: life's a dance, and stumbling is allowed!