Peonies are one of my absolute favorite flowers, and these are shared from my parents’ garden.

I’m a member of a Facebook page or two where photographers can invite other professionals to critique their work. One guy recently complained about how some folks don’t have a Facebook page for their business, so how can you see their work and then determine if their critique bears any merit or not? It’s a fair question in a way. For sure I take advice from photographers who’s work I admire and weed out the stuff I deem uninteresting or simply not skilled. Then again, I don’t have a Facebook business page either so what do I know?! (Said tongue in cheek. An online portfolio is in the works. The cobbler’s children have no shoes, you know what I mean.)

What I do know is this: clients should hire photographers based on their work. Peruse a Facebook page, a blog, a professional portfolio. Look at what they do and then hire them if you like it. If you don’t like it, don’t hire them.

What we all like is so subjective. I know what I like and I shoot that. When I start shooting what I do not like, I lose my creative spark and passion for my art. I am finding more and more photographers who are slaves to trends—and I find that pretty boring. I won’t be shooting sexy senior portraits or Anne Geddes baby images or engaged couples in positions that would make our grandmothers blush. Instead I will shoot families that love each other. I will shoot a mother looking adoringly into her newborn’s face. I will capture a quirky toddler laughing and doing his own thing and holding up dirty fingers for my camera. I will capture real moments. Life-giving moments. Real world experiences and memories for a lifetime. I want to be there, documenting the gritty moments as well as the posed ones that look kind of nice on the mantle in the living room.

I love photography. I love people. I love sunlight. Critique is helpful in moving forward as an artist and someone else’s opinion bears merit if I let it. But I have my own eye, my own perspective, and I aim to use it.

Livia and I had dinner last night at a park we hadn’t visited in, oh, seven years or so. Recalling our fun visit with friends, I had her sit on the tunnel where I recalled a photo opp a long time ago. Here she is at age ten, and below is the shot from age two (almost three).

The learning curve on gerbils is interesting. It’s definitely not rocket science here, rather it’s a learn-as-you-go process. For example, these little guys like to tunnel, which means they’ll kick up all their bedding and we’ll inevitably have cardboard chips or paper pieces outside their cage (and on table or floor or whatever). I bought bedding with lavender bits because, ooh!, it smells nice! But then what I earned in positive odors got replaced by messiness. This bedding shoots straight through the bars of their cage and, ugh, is ending up everywhere. The gerbils also seem to like to pee on the upper levels of their house, not so much on the bedding. I refuse to be a gerbil pee-wiper (in addition to my other shall we say “low” tasks as in the home) so I think this simply means we’ll have to clean their cage more often.

But look at these pics! Livia learned to clean the cage last weekend and life already seems sweeter. She puts Shiloh in his kennel (Shiloh REALLY REALLY loves the gerbils if you know what I mean), Vice in the ball and Whiskers in his wheel car, and then we collaborated to make a new home for the rodents.

In the past few days I have laughed more than once as I fed the fish—after hollering, “Has anyone fed the fish today?”—or refilled Shiloh’s water dish or dropped a handful of hay pellets into the gerbils’ cage. This is not exactly the mothering I envisioned for my life, but you know what? I don’t mind it. I like taking care of little beings and if God hasn’t given us more human chilluns to love at the moment, then I can tend to these little beasts in my home.

Fair warning, Whiskers and Vice, you are collectively the low man on the totem pole in this house. If/when respite or foster or adoptive or bio kids show up, you’ll need to start speaking out loud to get any attention from me.

My big brother very sweetly bought me a card and a little pot of tulips for Mother’s Day. On Sunday the buds were so tightly closed that I couldn’t tell what color they’d be, but they opened up charmingly by my kitchen window within a few days. (Thank you, Adam! This gift is making me very happy.)

I’m ridiculously in awe of spring this year. Or is it every year, I can’t tell. Jeremy is frequently subjected to my exclamations of appreciation for all the GREEN. One tree out front appears much larger and more shade-providing than last year and I can’t get enough of the way sunlight filters through its branches all day long, casting flickering shadows on my living room carpet while I work in the next room. And there’s another tree in the back yard whose green branches fill up my view as I walk into the kitchen. I don’t feel like I live on the plains this spring. With a little imagination I live in the rolling hills of California or Georgia and my acreage—just dreaming here—is covered with trees. Livia is even getting in on the gushing action. We drive through an area called Wilderness Park frequently and I often draw her attention to the way the trees are changing and filling out as the seasons change. The last time we drove this path I was distracted by texting and from the backseat I hear a voice that perfectly echoed my own thoughts. If nothing else I hope I’ve given her an eye that utterly delights in God’s handiwork.

Thank you, God, for warm weather once more and a world that is changing in color all around us. Thank you that I now have something new to photograph. Thank you for not leaving us in the cold deadness of winter. Thank you for spring and the anticipation of summer. Thank you that school is almost out and the pace of our days will change. Thank you for rest. Thank you for this season of renewal. Thank you for your constancy and goodness and love, for every good and perfect gift comes from you.

Despite the fact there has been very little gender-stereotyping in this household, our daughter loves pink. It’s her self-proclaimed favorite color at the moment and she just can’t get enough of it. Requested: a pink heart-shaped birthday cake with red ladybugs on top. Delivered: a pink heart-shaped birthday cake with red ladybugs on top.

May is a month that takes me by surprise every single year. I’m starting to at least attempt to watch out for it with all its celebrations, and yet, still I am stunned by the madness. When you only have one child for ten years, her birthday becomes something of an intense time. Oh forget it, anyone who knows me knows that I enjoy celebrating birthdays. Even if I had five kids I bet I’d still make a big deal out of them! So there’s Liv’s birthday followed very quickly by Mother’s Day. We have lots of beloved mothers around here, including Livia’s birthmom and birthgrandma. I recently learned the Saturday before Mother’s Day Sunday is called Birthmother’s Day, but really? I can’t compete in all this. It’s so much! Because we love Liv’s first family we’ve always send them photos this time of year anyhow—see, celebrated! And then there’s Mother’s Day. And then there’s the Monday after Mother’s Day which is…

Silence.

Ah.

School is still in session. I can get out my bible and sit in the quiet of the morning, all by myself. Eventually I move on to the computer and the dog and the gerbils and greet my husband, too. Monday after Mother’s Day? I like you a lot.

We were having a serious moment yesterday. One where I took Liv by the hand and apologized for some of my poor behavior. It was like I was having two conversations at once, though. There was the intentional and outward dialogue with Livia and there was another internal voice that was in awe of how beautiful she looked. Her hazel eyes reflected the smallest amount of sunlight streaming into my office and she was just amazing to look at. We wrapped up our talk, with Liv, as always, being more gracious in forgiveness than I deserve, and I pulled out my camera.

The images above are not from that moment, but they illustrate so much of this time in our lives, these fleeting moments of being nine years old and all that entails. I’m starting to understand the term “tween” because we are so so close the the maturity and adventure of the teen years and yet so far away at the same time. We vacillate between the pull of growing up and the desire to stay little and close to mom’s side. For days on end I will be amazed at the growth and quick “yes ma’ams” and the way this or that chore gets done right away, and then I’ll be a little stunned by an outburst reminiscent of what we saw at age three. Are we “in between” right now? Yes, for sure. And no, not so much. Nine has been incredible. This age is fantastic and life is more fun than ever. Ten? Bring it on. I can’t wait to see what another year brings.

Oh my goodness, these Morehead kids! When I come across a shot like this in the archives I can’t help but post it, snotty nose and all. Young Ian, I love you and your sweet heart.