The Penultimate Kotrba Family Summer

Lucky me to teach these dolls at MacPhail

Lucky Mary to learn from Fay

Mr. Red Pants was amazing as always

I started this blog in 2011. Calvin was ten. Mary was seven. For better or worse it's been a family journal. Before that, I used to scrapbook. I took Bill's precious photos and cut and pasted them with pretty papers and coordinating stickers and a few glasses of wine later I had something physical I could hold and touch and turn the pages of. After my dad died, and my grandma, and Bill's grandma--I guess I stalled out. I couldn't hold the people and I guess I didn't want to hold the photos either. I picked up blogging.

Tonight I went back and read a few early blog entries. I think I used to be funnier. Life with littles has a certain laugh or cry moment to moment mentality.

Since January I've been using the bullet journal system for my planner. I've always used a blank notebook for my position as C.O.O. of the Kotrba household. That is. . . chief operating officer. But before the Leuchtturm 1917 (the most highly recommended "bullet" journal) it was messy. I was a Moleskine girl. But. . . alas, the Leuchtturm has numbered pages and an index, making it easier to look up my notes from the SAM workshop in 2014. The little dots force you to write neater. I have my dad's left-handwriting.

August 

A week in the life

I have the old Moleskines in a shoebox. It may not surprise you that I can look back and tell you the menu and grocery list for each and every birthday party we've had, every Christmas and Easter dinner, and well--pretty much anything I've done ever. Every event I've planned. It's all there in seasonal colored ink. I guess I'm a hopeless historian. Handwriting and O.C.D. get better more refined with age.

What's happened in eight years? My kids grew up. A year from now Calvin will be leaving for college and Mary will be starting high school. Nothing puts the fear of God (i.e. being in the present moment) in me more than that. We seem to all be growing into pretty good friends. Calvin especially is mostly cooked. I try to make sure there is food in the house for him and I stay up later than I'd like to chit chat when he gets home from marching band cause well. . . I've got a teen who wants to chit chat with me. By God you better drop everything and chit chat. Mary has become very particular about her room, reminding me not to project every developmental stage into a hoarder's intervention. If I was gonna get a tattoo it would have said, "This Too Shall Pass." And it did. It all mostly does.

Speaking of growing up. . . ten inches of hair cut off and donated

I've been reading two most excellent books this summer. One is more contemplation and one is more action. I'm still working my way through The Book of Joy by Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu. And I started The One Thing by Gary Keller. I picked up the latter in the Calgary airport because it looked like a corollary to Dr. Suzuki's one point lesson. I was right. It's an excellent book. Life changing I might say. I can't make decisions all at once, but it's flushing out some ideas little by little.

Wayne Barrington, my esteemed French Horn teacher from UT used to say, "Gerber. They make baby food. They do one thing and they do it right." He didn't like me playing piano and jazz piano and playing in a rock band. Well. R.I.P. jerk. Turns out all the things we do, and all the things we love are woven into the fabric of our lives and ultimately make up the complex and interesting people we hope to be. Including the experience of studying with mean French horn teachers.

There is a price to pay. There is a meme floating on Facebook that says, "Spread yourself thick." Excellence does not come in moderation. Sooner or later we have to narrow our focus.

What is my one thing? Child of God? Wife? Mother? Daughter? Sister? Friend? Piano teacher? Homemaker? Gardener? Teacher trainer? Accompanist? Leader of Music teacher organizations? Pianist? Writer? Traveler? Cabin host?

That was exhausting to write and it's even more exhausting to live. There are some changes coming.
But! At the moment I'm filled with JOY! Everything I did this summer brought me joy. Piano camps, travel, entertaining at the cabin (more recital photos to come) and a little time at home teaching. Time in the garden--Bill tells me we are allowed to have a a hobby--and a couple weekends, like this, alone at home. My myself.

Years ago people like Doris Harrel and Chris Liccardo would tell me--'ya got great kids. I believed them, but all I saw was what needed fixing. More discipline, more practice, better table manners, less iPad etc. etc. etc. Now, I see parents of littles doing the same thing. Kids are kids. It all looks a little clearer through the rear view mirror. Now that my kids have turned out mostly amazing (they are not 100% angels. . .and they read this blog so I don't want any big heads ) I've got so many reflections to write about. Things we did right. Things we crashed on. Time I wasted. Things we are still working on. But--turns out all these parental experiments ultimately help make up the complex and interesting people we hope our children will be. We don't have to be perfect to successful. In fact probably our failures help our children to be resilient. That's another blog. I don't have all the answers. I only love the questions.

It's the penultimate Kotrba family summer. It's been a good one. God bless you all upon the last week before Minnesota school starts.

Emerald Lake

Sisters? 

Top Five Travel Moments

Look Who is Eighty

Rocky Mountain High

Growth Mindset Continued. . .

That's a big smile for a 55 second piece. . . 

Calvin and Brianne tied for first place in the Chopin competition

We are wrapping up ten days of Paul Wirth's Young Artist World Piano Festival. Thank you to Paul Wirth and Olivia Young for organizing this festival--I believe this is their 29th year, but only the second year for Calvin.

He had a big week. The students audition for events on the first day. Calvin's twenty minute program of Beethoven's Op. 90, Chopin Scherzo No. 3, Chopin Butterfly Etude, and Debussy's Prelude from Pour le Piano earned him a masterclass with Andrew Staupe, a private lesson with Seymour Bernstein, a masterclass with Mr. Bernstein, and a spot on the senior honors recital.

It was such an amazing week and I set aside as much time as I could to observe the events. The students and their families become a community. I felt a genuine sense of affection and good will from everyone! The hugs and photo ops after the recital confirm this. Tristan, one of the stars of the group took time to ask Mary what repertoire she was working on and how it was going. Truly.

That's not to say that the teachers/clinicians don't have some important and possibly difficult messages to impart. Nobody is blowing hot air up anyone's skirt. Mr. Bernstein said some things to Calvin that really made him think. And the different styles of teaching masterclasses were readily visible. I'm sure there were some tears along the way. Musicians are by nature sensitive creatures and that's what we love about them. Can we ask them to be less sensitive? I told Calvin to write it all down, all the positive and any constructive criticism, remembering that teachers are human and say inconsistent things and that we can all at once trust what they say and dismiss it. We can hold it all without judgment.

To me, it all comes down to the lynch pin of the growth mindset. Mr. Bernstein kept asking the Doris Harrel questions. . . why do we do this? Why do we practice and work so hard? Why music? Why piano?

Side note--I'm in love. It's been a lovely 20 year marriage with Bill, but I'll be going back to New York with Mr. Bernstein. Seymour doesn't really know it yet. . . he might have other commitments. But, I can live in his little studio apartment in New York and make my coffee on his hot plate and water his plants or whatever he needs help with.

If that doesn't work out I'll just watch the documentary about him a few more times. And I ordered all his books to read. Books about the integration of the emotional, intellectual, and physical worlds. Life influences art. But. . . as Dr. Suzuki also made a mantra. . . our art influences our lives. What we learn at our instrument carries over into our personalities and our relationships. Don't I know it.

"It's not always about me." Parents, tattoo this on one wrist. On the other wrist tattoo "this too shall pass."  I've had the presence of mind a couple times in my life. . . when things aren't going so well at a practice session, to ask my child, "what's going on?" Instead of limping through the practice where we obviously are in a funk.  Many times I've said or done something that I didn't even really know was offensive. I need to apologize and do some contemplation. But most of the time? It's something else. He said/she said/he did/she did. It was not even about me.

Seymour said we "do this" to integrate art with our personality through the emotional, intellectual and physical . To play life more beautifully. (I'm waiting at the door for Amazon to deliver his book with that title.)

I would add that we do this for the love of learning, the love of music, and the love of the person making the music. Not necessarily in that order.

Parents, what you work through at the piano with your child. . . is what you work through in life with your child. It's the same. Praise God for the opportunity to know my children in this way. To not shut down. To never walk away.

The growth mindset. We are not fixed points. Our talent is not fixed. I learned SO much this week at the Young Artist World Piano Festival. I can't wait to practice and teach! And I learned a lot at the piano with my child and my students.

Congrats to Brianne and Calvin. Mr. Bernstein took it upon himself to grant a tie for the Chopin competition. And he brought in Ben, for a second prize player. Competitions suck until you win, right? I tell you, there is no thinking you are hot stuff in this crowd. The playing was at such an incredible level by kids from 10-17 years old. Kids who live and breath piano. You better not think about it too much. You better love the learning, love the music and love your friends.

I love my kids. I love music. I love my friends. And I love Seymour Bernstein. But. . . I'm sticking with Bill after all. It's the right thing to do. But I might get a pretty lamp for my piano, that will remind me of Seymour when I play and teach. And I might frame this picture.  Thanks again to Paul and Olivia. What a gift you have given us all.

Calvin and Seymour Bernstein after the Masterclass on Op. 90

The Joys of Summer

🎵🎵🎵 “I can tell you my love for you will still be strong, after the joys of summer have gone.  . . . “  Oh, wait. . . that’s not how it goes, exactly.  My next-door neighbor has a new habit of listening to his radio in his garage while he goes out of town for the weekend. The station has a limited repertoire, Don Henley’s Boys of Summer, J. Geils Band’s Angel is a Centerfold, and Bob Segar’s Old Time Rock and Roll seem to be the mainstays. Pick one for your ear worm, any will do.  

One of my family’s dear ones has a bad cancer.  Enough with the cancer, right? And one glance at the news or Facebook will set you back a little too. Thank God we got the boys out of the cave. I say we, because weren’t we all on the same team for a moment in time? 

Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the second time in two weeks. The fun visual field test (the lady said I had excellent concentration, by the way) revealed what Dr. Flirt had suspected. Turns out he didn’t just want to see my smiling face again. . . my peripheral vision is dying. He showed me the little picture of the areas where blind spots are developing, spots where the pressure in my eyes has irreparably damaged the optic nerves. Cue lifetime glaucoma treatment. Thank God for that, right? What would Grandma Gene have given to put drops in twice a day for a few decades to preserve his vision? I’m gonna be fine. Anyways, there is a kid who shows up at my studio every week with a contagious grin on his face and tells me about the joys in his life and he can’t see a darn thing. He’s off to sleep-a-way camp next week so I think I can put some drops in my eyes. 

Last night I started reading a timely book, The Book of Joy, by his holiness the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu, the Archbishop Emeritus of Southern Africa.  I love me a good book co-written by a Catholic and a Buddhist. They are quick to mention that of the seven billion people on the planet one billion are neither Lutheran or Buddhist (go figure) and apparently those people can achieve joy and deserve joy in spite of their agnostic state. What can these two symbols of exile and apartheid possibly have to say about joy? Well, the elephant in their rooms is that it is not contingent upon political satisfaction or social justice. 

My kids and Bill and I talk a lot about joy. Joy versus fun. Fun is a new American Girl doll, joy is passing it on to another little girl.  Fun is a trip to Nickelodeon Universe. Joy is getting selected to play in master classes  and private lessons with Seymour Bernstein and Andrew Staupe, getting to play a Chopin Etude on an honors recital and being a finalist in a Chopin contest. Congrats to Calvin on those achievements from his audition at the Young Artist’s World Piano Festival yesterday--because he kept practicing in the summer--instead of achieving the next virtual level on your video game.  Or maybe in addition to--we are human. 

Joy is sharing your cabin with your friends. Mary’s school friends are here this weekend and they played board games in the car on the drive in the pouring rain instead of vegging out to a video. They helped me unload the car in mosquito land. 

I put on my new glasses this morning and looked out the cabin bathroom window while I brushed my teeth. The loon family of mama and daddy and the two adolescents swam by. The babies are almost as big as the grown ups. How ironic. How big do the babies have to be before the eagles can’t scoop them up for dessert? When can those loon parents ever relax? When can those babies drive to band camp in Duluth all by themselves? I don’t know.  If I worry about every screech in the night I will never enjoy the loon family. That is the price we pay for having Eagles. 

I’m only fifty. It’s a great time to commit to being joyful. I have great mentors. My dad never complained about dying from cancer. My mom and my in-laws never complain about pushing eighty. Here’s a great quote from another great religion, “the challenges we face, are simply not the making of God.” 

How much time do we waste making up stuff to worry about or worrying about things we have absolutely no control over. How do Desmond Tutu and Dalai Lama hold the world in compassion without going to the dark side?  The first chapter of the book is titled, “Why Are You Not Morose?”  Apparently you can care about the suffering of the world and still have a good day.  Not that I have achieved this.  I’m still working on having a good day with 4-5 hours of sleep. 

I got a new phone case that says Choose Joy with some pretty flowers. Flowers bring me great joy--flowers in the yard, flowers on my shoes. Flowers on shirts. Flowers on my phone case. The problem with the phone case is only that when I’m on my phone, or checking email and Facebook I can’t see the Choose Joy part, it’s on the back of the phone, the part you see when it’s face down on the table.  Note to self. . . 

The girls are in the boat-house. They will be waking up in a minute and we are off to pick raspberries at the Wallin Farm.  Between worrying about the girls and the loons and the eagles I didn’t get much sleep last night, but at least for today, I’m choosing joy.  Whip cream and fresh berries for lunch won’t hurt the joy meter either. 

I hope you are finding your own joys of summer. 

Sara 🎶🎶

Scrapbooks. . . Part One

Making Scale Blocks

Summer Lessons

Battle of the Books Winner

End of Year Purge

Before. . . 

During. . . 

After. . . 

Banana Boating

Studio Spark of Joy

Mary Picked Strawberries and Made Jam

Ladybug Land

A Great Day's Work

I'm on a four day staycation. At home alone in my own house. Don't hate me.

It was a long road to here and now.

Yesterday I listened to the Eagles while cleaning out the upstairs bathrooms. How is it that I have neosporin that expired in 2012? Along came "Desperado." Time alone can take you back. Back to a first "date" when Sixto Sanchez dropped by my Austin upstairs garage apartment unannounced at 10:30 on a Thursday night with a six pack of Michelob Golden Light. He was the lead singer in the country band I had been subbing with for the last three weekends and it was looking like maybe they liked me and I had the gig. I guess this was my initiation. He had a voice like velvet. I only smooched him once but we sat at the piano and I played Desperado while he sang, which to me was better than what he probably had in mind when he stopped by. I played every song I knew and muddled through a bunch he wanted to sing that I didn't know. It was magical.

That little Thursday night interchange earned me an invitation to the band leaders office the next night after the gig. Dave Ramos's office was the passenger seat of a big old diesel truck, which he ran 24/7. He sat in the drivers seat and noodled on his guitar while casually quizzing me about the "date." I was 26. He was 30. Sixto was 24, or so he told me. It didn't take very long for Dave to explain that did I realize Sixto was really only 19. . . and to debunk a plethora of other lies Six had managed over three beers, one smooch and a couple hours at the piano. At 24 I had never been lied to before.

Really.

It didn't take much time for Six to find some other women to lie to date. In five years and 825 gigs Dave Ramos never made a pass at me. Or lied. I guess there's two kinds of country singers. I still get Christmas cards from Dave's wife.

In between cleaning the bathrooms and the linen closet, time alone tempts you to pick up the baby books and the scrap books. You see, I'm trying to decide if I should finish Calvin's scrapbook before he graduates or actually just spend some time with him this year. Not sure if I can do both. Bill's taken 50,000 photos. There are another 13,000 recital and concert programs. I'm currently up to 4th grade.

What's the kicker of the baby books? My dad. My dad with the babies. He's holding the babies and toddlers like they were lovers. Seems like Calvin and Mary are always almost naked--usually in their diapers. Always eye contact and always hands on. Always his hands holding theirs, or their little fingers wrapped around one of his big fingers. Innocent and sensual all at once. We don't have any pictures of him like that with me. Times were different then.

I'm leaning toward skipping the scrapbook marathon.

It's the summer before Calvin's senior year. I won't blame you if you don't read any blog entries this year. Calvin already told me he's mentally preparing for my "last this and that" drama.

It started today when I ran an errand to Bed Bath and Beyond. They have lists of the stuff kids are supposed to take to college. Too soon.  Calvin will always be sleeping under his Great Northern Railway bedspread in the red bead board bed we bought when he turned three. He does still love trains.

I talked to Casey and shared with her that he's thinking about the University of Iowa and she started to cry 1200 miles away. Heaven help us.

The last ten weeks have been something else. I don't know what to say except that I kinda overdid it, culminating one particularly big meltdown. My goal this summer, on these low key days of solitude, these luxurious times, is to come up with a sustainable routine. To figure out how to be with the people I want to be with and do the things I want to do, and the things that need to be done. . . without losing it. Prayers are welcome.

It's that balance between equilibrium and disequilibrium. The calendar is not a coloring book to fill in. Filling every hour of every day is not sustainable. I've only got five more years with kids at home, one with Calvin. I'd like to do it right.

Like childbirth and the death of a parent, everyone seems to pretty much survive their kids growing up. But, like childbirth and the death of a parent, it's different when it's YOU and not some acquaintance's Facebook photos of dropping their kid, who probably doesn't even like trains that much, at some college in some other state.

I better get off to bed before I'm tempted to pull out the stack of photo albums I spent God knows how many hours on with Linda, Tammy and Michelle. In those days, moms needed breaks from their kids on Friday nights so they went over to friends to put pictures of those same kids in scrapbooks, which we will grab on the way out the door in case of fire. I'm a hopeless historian. Hence blogging about the kids on a Saturday night when they are at the cabin.

I'll probably finish the scrapbooks.

Praying for Computers

Native Flowers to Plant--from my senior Solomon

Closest Thing to Texas

Weeds. . be gone with thee

A Fancy Peony from My Neighbor Down the Street in the House without a roof

These remind me of Beaver Creek

After threat of removal she did bloom this year

And. . . these are from some birds or something as I never had this kind before on the property

Busy Bee

Bonica? Maybe. . . or Hansa? I have no idea. 

The other kind. Bonica or Hansa.  This one from my grandma's farm 

I'm jamming to Barry Manilow's "Look's Like We Made It. . . . "
We made it through May.

I've been sneaking out to the garden and showing up for recitals with dirt under my fingernails and I can't wear sandals because my feet are dirty and I have no pedicure.

There are highlights I could talk about.
This was a biggy. . . Calvin with the Eastview High School Wind Ensemble.  . . Click for Link
This was a biggy. . . Mary's Recital. . . . Click for Link

I may not have been my very best self a few times in the last eight weeks. Shhhh. Sleep deprivation.

Highs and lows. . . note that I'm barely speaking in complete sentences.

Having Caroline Fraser visit my studio for master classes, teacher training, group classes and a parent lecture was an absolute dream come true. It's been on my list for years. The planets aligned between Peru and Minneapolis. We went straight from there to the conference. Six days of conference. About enough to kill a large horse.

Our session was on the last day. Adrianna, Conor and I presented "From Twinkles to Concertos, Developing a Chamber Music Program in Your Suzuki Piano Studio."

I've been to every conference since the dawn of conferences. I've seen a lot of presentations. I've seen a lot of failed AV. So when I started compiling videos and photos for our power point this was foremost on my mind. Will it work? Will I have the right cables?

Bill assured me that I had all the right adapters.
Grey stripe shirt AV man assured me that I had all the right adapters. Five days ahead.
Can you see this coming from a mile away?

There is a purpose to the story of my almost failed power point presentation to a conference room of piano teachers whom I idolize from around the country. Also my local friends were there.

The purpose of the story is to proclaim that I witnessed a miracle from God on Monday morning at 8:26 a.m.

Here's the timeline. . . in case the Catholic church needs it to grant sainthood to grey stripe shirt AV man.

Sunday Night
10:00 p.m. Test power point and hook it up to every TV in the house just to check different scenarios.
Yeah! It's perfect.  All the little children are playing chamber music on all the videos. . . from, well, as the title suggests, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star right up to Bach concerti.

Monday Morning
7:30 a.m. I arrive at the conference room and fire up computer
7:35 Power point will not play the slide show--option to play the slide show is greyed out. . . gremlins came in the night. Computer gremlins.
7:40 Eat a banana to reduce heart rate and try not to panic
7:45 O'Briens show up and begin to set up and warm up for their performance
7:55 Power point has crashed 35 times and still will not play the slide show
8:00 Grey stripe shirt man and also the AV expert from the Hilton, forever labeled as AV gal, take over my computer
8:01 I wake up Bill at the cabin, he tries to guess what could be wrong from 200 miles away
8:03 The projector is randomly showing a picture of my family at Christmas time in front of the cabin, presumably from the bowels of my computer.
8:10 A black box is on my screen where power point should be.
8:15 Grey stripe shirt man is sweating. I lay hands on him, on his shoulders, and say a silent prayer. I ask God, in all three forms, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, to please let him press the right buttons on my computer and make the power point, which I spent upwards of 50 hours putting together. . . appear on the big screen in front of the people who are starting to gather. Amen. Let it be so.
8:20 Grey shirt man ping pongs back and forth between system preferences and power point hoopla. He does things to my computer that I will never understand. AV gal works from the projector side. My computer is increasingly goofed up, though I imagine more specific language at the moment. . . it looks like a computer from 1970. Everything is all big.
8:22 I start to wonder what we will talk about for an hour since I have no notes, and no outline and Conor and Adrianna also gave me all their notes and well, all the notes are in the power point. It's a high wire with no net.
8:26 Grey shirt man presses something and the power point COMES UP ON THE SCREEN in front my esteemed colleagues who have gathered in the room. We do not touch anything. Or breathe.
8:30 The host introduces us and we give our sessions to the lovely people. The sessions goes pretty well I think, we run out of time and there are many questions and people stay after to look at our collection of music and hopefully some of the teachers will go home and have some fresh ideas for their own chamber music programs.
11:00 We load up the car and head to Hell's Kitchen for a glass of champagne and lunch. Can you eat at Hell's Kitchen after experiencing divine intervention? Well. Heart rate returns to safe level.

Tuesday Night
9:00 p.m. I haven't been able to look at my computer all day. I hate it. I want to throw it in the dumpster. I have no love left for the machine who betrayed me. Bill, however is curious about what went wrong. He wants to load up power point and SEE. . .
9:10 It won't load. Completely mixed up. Note my nice language. My restraint. It's completely KAPUT.

So, I'm calling it a miracle. Grey striped shirt man resurrected "From Twinkles to Concertos" from the dead. Power point rallied for one last slide show and then my 2009 version crashed into an abyss of resolution errors coupled with mirroring failures and an inability to ever repair.

At that moment, four minutes before our presentation, I hugged grey striped shirt man. He wiped his brow and went on to fix someone else's AV problem and I never saw him again. God bless him, his family and their future generations. Also bless AV gal, though I'm not sure of her role, she may have just been a supportive angel.

Are there miracles I would rather have? Of course. But, I'm taking this one for today.
Things are still tough between my computer and me--this blog is the first step--it's gonna take some time.
Thanks for reading.

Happy June to you.
Sara

Excitement is the New Stress

Be Gone With Thee Winter Hair

Bill Taking A Picture of His New Vintage Camera

The First of the End of Year Graduation Recitals

Congrats to Calvin! Mama, get out the calendar. . . 

For better or for worse, she got her mother's eyes. Time for new glasses, again!

Calvin's Opening Night of Bravo Handiwork 

A few days ago I posted a meme on Facebook, "I have a lot of excitement in my life. I used to call it stress but I feel much better now that I call it excitement."

I've been thinking about that and laughing a little, but it's really true. Might get a tattoo that says that.

In my younger days there were occasional episodes of risky behavior. Maybe I drove too fast, or dated a bad boy or stayed out too late doing who knows what. What a thrill.

Those days are long, long gone. For over 20 years I've been married to a good boy and for the last almost 17, we've had these two not so little people anymore, to take care of.

This week in Minnesota has been surreal. Tulips are coming up next to banks of snow. Ducks and geese are swimming on partially thawed ponds. The sun is shining and everybody is skipping out of work and getting outside. It's like the entire state is high. A natural and wonderful high. We earned it man.

Blogging is great because you can see the patterns in your life. My cousin Robin sent me a funny video. "It's gonna be May." I'm not sure if non-Facebook folks can see it, but just in case. . . . check it out https://www.facebook.com/TheHoldernessfamily/videos/2083258415246758/

I guess the truth is I'm not going to change. May is always going to be May. Christmas will always be Christmas. I'm not some crazy person who habitually overbooks us, I'm a highly productive person. Having every weekend booked from here to June is not stressful. . . it's exciting. The high I get from this is different than those college days that's for sure. . . but the challenge of keeping everyone fed and having black concert clothes clean everyday and making it through May is. . .my grown up risky behavior.  Might I say, it's a much better thrill.  Playing for the choral service and helping Calvin and Mary meet their potential, pushing the piano kids just a little bit harder. . . and squeezing in 20 minutes a day in the garden--I might be at my very best self in May. I can do all things, when there is no snow in the yard. Especially since I got my hair cut and highlighted.

I think the kicker is backing off those things that don't bring you joy. So, I'm lucky I guess--I'm getting better at that. This May the calendar looks full of joy to me.

So to all the moms and dads and teachers and kids! Excitement is the new stress!
Sending love to everyone. Happy May.

Sara