The girls' first wedding.

Our friends, Sarah and Justin, were married over the weekend on a spectacularly sunny and warm day. It was a lovely ceremony and the reception was (thankfully) chock-filled with small children for Sonja and Haven to play with.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves, but will add one comment: Ladies, if you find yourself getting married while pregnant, please take a note from this beautiful bride; her dress was perfect and she was stunning. 

Dandelion.

Just when I think I couldn't possibly get another original shot of Sonja walking in the park behind our house, she puts on her shades, picks a dandelion and proves me wrong.

Eighteen years.

Eighteen years is a full-grown person, graduated from high school and ready go off to college, spend a year tripping around Europe, or working some shitty job, wondering what's next. 


Eighteen years is a lifetime of memories: albums stuffed with photographs, closets full of childhood art projects, boxes of old stuff in the attic. 


Eighteen years is the leaping-off point, the moment you are ready and expected to go out and taste life, which generally means you will fuck up royally, live to tell the tale and hopefully be better for the experience.


Eighteen years is feeling like you've lived and not yet knowing that you haven't.


Eighteen years is eighteen long years ago, but is also right behind my eyelids. I swear if I'm quiet enough I can hear your voice. 


Eighteen years is the reminder that they will never know you and I will never know you beyond the ridiculously young man that you were.


Eighteen years is the age I was when you died and now I'm looking back, wondering how it's possible that I'm a thirty-six year old woman who hasn't seen her brother in eighteen years.


Eighteen years is not enough time to be used to the fact that you are gone. 

I didn't say a word.

I had absolutely no input and I didn't say a word; I just kept 

pressing the shutter and this is what happened.

The captions were my idea; Sonja was not actually trying to pose, she was

 just talking to herself and playing with Peter's hat.

Time lapse: approximately two minutes...

The "top o' the mornin'."

The "no pictures, please."

The "pay your respects."

The "of course, silly me!"

The "whaddidyousay?"

The "do you like seafood?"

The "woe is me."

The "back off, it's mine."

The "OK, enough of this."

The "give me a minute while I think of some more."

The only "real" girl.

When I was small, I was sure that I was alone in the world, because I knew in my bones that everyone around me was wearing a mask; they were not who they appeared to be. If I could go back in time, I would find out when I first saw the film Planet of the Apes, because I was convinced that underneath their fleshy facades, everyone except me was an ape-like creature.


When I say everyone, I mean everyone; even my Mom and the rest of my immediate family. Similarly to how some kids believed that their toys came alive when they left the room (yes, that notion existed before Toy Story), I sincerely believed that when I exited a room, all the apes shed their strange costumes. I distinctly remember rushing into rooms that I had left seconds before, trying to catch these beasts by surprise before they could finish squeezing back into their disguises.


The interesting thing to note is that I was not afraid of being surrounded by bizarre ape-slash-humanoids. In fact, I don't recall being distressed that I was the only "real" girl in the world, I was merely certain of the fact and amused that everyone was so diligent in keeping up the charade. It became a game: I would try my hardest to catch them uncloaked and they would do their best to keep from being found out. It was almost ridiculous that they didn't realize I already knew their secret; they were working tirelessly for nothing. The question is how did I find out in the first place? If I had to guess, I would say the entire concept came to me in a dream, one that should likely have been a nightmare, but was softened and de-villainized in the expanses of my young, imaginative brain. I'd like to say "you can't make this stuff up", but in this case...


The last time I remember living with the ape-people, I was around five-years old. I think this is significant, because it coincides with my entrance into Kindergarten. I'm pretty sure that once I started school, my mind was stimulated enough to switch gears and start focusing on the realities in my world, rather than the things I merely believed in; the ape-people were entertainment and school, social games and real life were serious business. Interesting that once I saw other people as "real" people, I began to learn what masks truly were.


I often think back to being four- or five-years old, so convinced that I was the sole human in a world of impostors. Shouldn't I have been the one trying to hide and disguise myself from them? Why were they so afraid to show themselves? And what would the answers to these questions say about the kid I was and the woman I am now? Truthfully, I don't want to know; any attempt at explanation would just ruin a fond, if admittedly weird, childhood memory.

Photo essay: Little painter.

Hold my hand and we'll look at the fish.

Sonja and Ana: bestest friends. 

Also known as: cutest thing ever.