“Mommmm, she won’t share.”

“Little Girl, share.”

“No, it’s my turn.”(Scuffling and pushing ensues.)

“Girls, stop it. Big Girl, just let her play with it for another two seconds.”

(Said dramatically) “No, it’s my ball. Besides, I never get to play basketball because you don’t let me come outside by myself and you’re always WORKING!”

Sigh. She pulled the always working card. Sigh. She exaggerates, of course. I am not always working. Yes, I work during the week, but at least I am here at home where I can sneaks bits and bites of time with them. For example, I pick up Little Girl from school and take Big Girl off of the bus when she gets home. Then I spend a nice half hour or so with the girls between when the bus comes and the sitter gets here. I usually stop working around 6 unless I am on a heavy deadline.

Oh, and there are some days where I have no sitter. On those days I take the girls to the park or let them play upstairs together while I do something less concentration-intensive. And then there are the days when I get to be Girl Scout leader or religion teacher. I’m definitely not working then.

Still, I guess an 8-year-old might see my schedule as a busy one. As for the first part of her lament: She’s right. She’s not allowed outside alone. She’s not. Even though I can remember riding around the corner alone at her age, I don’t let either kid out of my sight for more than two seconds. Does that make me a helicopter parent? Maybe. But the alternative makes me too anxious.

I didn’t say anything to her when she said what she said. I waited until I was alone with my husband and I brought it up to him. He sees both sides, he says. But he also says I need to give my kids — at least the big one — a little more trust and freedom.

Today I took Big Girl off the bus and we didn’t event go inside. I took her backpack and told her we were hanging outside. They were so happy. The kids played ball. Big Girl had her basketball. Little Girl had a blow up globe that she got as a birthday party favor. I sat there on the stoop holding the dog’s leash. Periodically, I yelled for the little one to stay away from the street.

The whole time, though, I was thinking. How could I balance my fear of the unknown, of the worst, with wanting to give my children more freedom? Sitting there looking at their young, innocent faces I realized that I have no intention of letting the big one go outside all by herself and play on our front lawn. It’s just too scary for me. Maybe we’ll start in the back.

The sign that sealed my fate.

Running. It’s never been a favorite activity. I have always preferred group fitness classes with music, people, camaraderie, and energy that inspire me to do my best. Running, in my opinion, is monotonous, boring, and hard. And yet this February I embarked on a new running program — something I never thought I would do.

The signs went up at the end of January. I was already in a funk, upset about a March due date that would remind me of the baby we lost. I needed a goal. I needed something that would take me out of my head completely. I needed to give birth to something, even if that something was the idea of me crossing a finish line.

There were two events to train for: a half marathon or 10k. Although I thought I could handle the half aerobically, I wanted to be kind to myself. I didn’t want to be pushing so hard for a goal. (Been there, done that birthing Big Girl.) I wanted it to be as joyful and simple as my labor with Little Girl. It was decided. I would train for the 10k.

The first day I ran was tough. I went outside all by myself and just started running. It was not pretty. I sucked wind. I hated it. I questioned my ability to run two miles much less 6.2. I couldn’t understand why it was so hard given my daily exercise regimen. And yet I decided to reserve judgment until my first group run. Maybe I was doing something wrong. I’m so glad I did.

It was a beautiful 48 degrees on that March morning. I got to the local preserve and was happy to see that the 10k group was comprised of eight people of different ages, sizes, abilities, and shapes. Our trainer told us to start out easy, so we started running the same way a baby starts walking: one step at a time nice and slow. Still, I was really nervous. Was it going to be too hard? Would I be sucking wind, counting the minutes until we hit our goal that day? (A two mile run in the preserve.) I didn’t and wasn’t. Running with a group meant we were moving at a slower pace than what I had done on my own. It was relaxing and surprisingly fun. I got a rush of adrenaline when we hit the one mile marker and turned around. I was completely glowing by the time we got back to our starting mark.

In the months that have followed I have run farther and faster than I ever expected to run. I went out and bought gear — new sneakers, a water belt, and a new hat. I have been sore in places I never expected to hurt. (Why didn’t anyone tell me my obliques would hurt after running?) I have surprised myself, too. My legs don’t ache as much as I expected, and I’m stronger than I expected. So far, running isn’t living up to any of my preconceived notions about it.

My original due date passed in March. I was very sad. I cried. I still cry every once in a while when I see a swelling belly or a newborn sitting in a carriage. But the promise of my new due date — the date that I will cross that 10k finish line — pulls me back from the brink of despair. I remember my strength. I remember the joy I feel as my body moves through the air. I picture myself crossing that finish line in May. And since everyone can use a new goal in life, I signed up for another race. It’s a November half marathon.

It’s been pretty well documented that I am, despite the way I act and what I do for a living, a very shy person. For example, it’s still hard for me to ride in the car with someone alone. Even someone I am very, very close to. Weird, I know. Another manifestation of that shyness: I’ve never been able to share a room with someone who isn’t a family member.

This weekend my Brownie troop went away for the weekend. Amazingly, 14 out of 16 girls and their moms made the trek from Long Island up to Woodloch Pines. Almost everyone shared rooms. One room actually had three moms and three girls. I was one of only four moms who dragged along their husband and other kids. While I invited my husband because we really love Woodloch and were getting an amazing Girl Scout rate, the real reason he came along was because I was too afraid to ask any of the moms and kids to room with us.

It’s pretty silly, I know. We’ve been in a troop with these kids and moms for four years. I consider myself very friendly with almost all of them. It’s a great troop. Everyone is involved, sweet, and nice. And yet I couldn’t work up the courage to ask one of the other mom/daughter couples to be our roommates. The part that bothers me the most is that I deprived Big Girl of a really fun, really exciting experience: Doing a sleepover with a child her age.

There’s nothing I can do to fix the situation now. I know that. We went on our trip, we had a good time, and we came home. It’s over. But the experience has made me realize that maybe I still struggle with the image of Karen the Weird. The kid who got made fun of. The kid who no one wanted to be friends with. That kid is so far gone. The person who took her place is a successful, smart, friendly, well-liked individual. Someone who has friends who would drop anything to help her. Someone who people can’t believe is in any way shy. Knowing all that, why does the behavior of the 13-year-old awkward Karen still sneak in sometimes? Why can’t I make it — and her — go away completely?

Just before I left for Woodloch, one of my game night friends (one of three very dear-to-me girls) sent out an email with the following subject line: Overnight Girls’ Getaway. She wanted to know if we were interested in doing an overnight trip without our guys. (A good idea since they all go away without the girls twice each year: Skiing in the winter and a boating Fire Island trip every August.) Already feeling bad about my Woodloch roommate situation, I said I would love to go, adding, “We can do the quadruple occupancy and all stay together.”

One of my friends wrote back: “Karen, you would share a room?  I thought you don’t like to?”

I told them that yes, I would share a room and I meant it. Sure, maybe it will make me uncomfortable at first, but I have to give it a try. I have to get over this silly fear and let myself have fun. Will it be hard? Probably at first, but it’s time to put my childhood behind me for good.

In the past, those what ifs have gotten her kicked out of two dentist chairs. She’s so afraid that something might hurt her that she doesn’t even give the dentist a chance. Granted, the last time she was in a chair she was having a baby tooth pulled, but even that experience is a perfect example of trait one and two taking over. Big Girl wouldn’t let the doctor help her by giving her a needle, and she wouldn’t let me help her relax (until the end). She was also quick to think that it would “really, really hurt,” setting herself up for failure. She shrieked every time the doctor tried to put an instrument in her mouth — even the so-called Mr. Drinker suction tube. (I blogged all about the solution and it’s positive outcome: Me doing Reiki on her while the dentist finally did her stuff. But I digress…)

The tooth pulling was quite a while ago, and since then she’s refused to get her teeth cleaned or checked. Oh, yes, we tried a few months ago, but it just didn’t work. The new dentist wasn’t willing to listen to her hysterics, so we left with dirty teeth (hers) and heavy hearts (mine and hers). Not wanting her teeth to fall out of her head, I recently made another appointment with the old dentist — the one who was Reiki-friendly. Despite the fact, I might add, that the guy who runs her practice charged me an extra $25 for all the Big Girl screaming during the tooth extraction. Why go back to a stupid asshat’s practice? I trust the female associate. I like her. She likes me and trusts me, even agreeing to drill my tooth without Novocaine. (The ability to use meditation instead of medication meant I still felt nothing but I wasn’t numb for hours afterward.) Besides, I don’t ever have to see said asshat again since the female dentist told me to come in on Fridays when she’s the only one in the office. This time, however, we’re going in more prepared.

Since our last visit Big Girl has been seeing a behavioral therapist who — using the pack of tools the nice dentist gave me to “practice” at home with — is helping to minimize Big Girl’s anxiety and acting out. She’s hitting the problem from all sides. First, she actually donned sterile gloves and played dentist with my daughter. She showed her what it would feel like to have the polishing tool touch her teeth and gums. She practiced putting the suction tube under her tongue. She talked about what the instruments would feel like. Then they found relaxation techniques to help with anxiety. They listened to classical music, and the therapist created a ten-minute guided relaxation. She even burned the music and the spoken relaxation onto a CD so we could put it on Big Girl’s iPod and bring it along on D Day. (Dentist Day, of course.) Finally, she encouraged Big Girl to let me give her Reiki as soon as she sits down in the chair since it relaxes and calms her. So far, the plan is on track to work. Even Big Girl is feeling positive about the upcoming appointment. She bounced out of the therapist’s office the other day looking and feeling confident.

The dentist is still a few weeks away, but I feel confident, too, that this proactive, behavioral-based plan is going to help us make it through a cleaning  and check-up with little screaming and crying. After all, Big Girl also inherited my strong willpower and imagination — the same characteristics that got me through two labors using meditation alone. I know she’s got it in her to tackle a little dental work.

Are you afraid of the dentist? How about your kids? How do you handle the anxiety and fear? I’d like to know.

Growing up, my family’s tree was what you might call eclectic. A mish-mash of glass balls, tinsel, twinkling lights, train-shaped light covers, aluminum reflectors, foam gingerbread houses, and what some might dub kitsch. Even the nativity scene was unique. My dad, who was somewhat of a handyman-in-businessman’s-clothing, had drilled a hole in the back of the wooden creche, poking a single Christmas bulb through so the holy family could be bathed with yellowish light. I loved that nativity scene. I loved that tree. In fact, some of my favorite Christmas memories involve sitting in the darkened livingroom around 3 a.m. staring at the tree, freezing feet tucked up and under my Hello Kitty nightgown.

I think it has a lot to do with my dad. He loved Christmas, and every ornament, it seems, has a story that relates to him like the nativity scene he fashioned or those foam gingerbread men and houses. They, for instance, came from Sears when I was just a baby. He had misplaced our box of ornaments so, on Christmas Eve, he went out and bought what he could find. Or the beautiful hand-blown ornaments from Germany that he and my mom bought their first year of marriage. Seeing those ornaments as well as the ones my mother collected over the years brings me back to my childhood livingroom, to a time when I was someone’s little girl. The light of someone’s life, being hoisted onto shoulders to place the pretty hanging glass onto the tree.

I guess that feeling is why I started collecting my own kitsch when I was 12 or 13 and why today, I have a closet full of ornaments. I have so many that I can’t even put all of them on my tree. I end up making decisions every year: what comes out, and what stays behind. Every single one has a story and a memory. The ones from my Jewish friends — the Swarovski crystal snowflake from S. The ornate enameled bear from L. The lightbulb-turned-snowman from J. There are the ones we picked up along the way — the buffalo from Buffalo that I got when I was pregnant with Big Girl. The pink sand-filled orb from our honeymoon in the Bahamas. The homemade ornaments from preschool. The bright parrot I bought in the Slone-Kettering gift shop the day my brother went home from his bone transplant surgery. The strange cowbell that my husband brought home from his month-long trip to Germany. The more recent acquisitions like the Hershey kiss from our trip with the game night friends. Some, however, are duplicates of the ones I grew up with that, over the course of the past decade, I tracked and won on eBay. Yes, those especially are the ones that always make me smile, remembering my dad. They are my own treasured reminders of the man who first inspired my always-growing collection.

It wasn’t easy locating and buying years worth of Christmas ornaments. After all, the gingerbread ornaments purchased at Sears in the 1970s didn’t have any markings. (I think I searched “vintage foam gingerbread houses.”) The giant glass balls from the 60s — when my parents were first married — certainly didn’t have a manufacturer inscribed on the bottom. (Again, I went with a really descriptive “vintage extra large blown glass balls.”) Neither did the plastic train-shaped lightcovers from the late 60s or early 70s. I think it took me about two or three months of slogging through thousands of listings before I found the right ones. The one exception was the silver and felt choir singers from the 60s. Those, at least, were marked “Made in Japan,” but they were still hard to find. It wasn’t until I added “spun cotton” to my search term that I found them.

Today, I have one of almost every single vintage item that adorns my mother’s tree. The strangest part is that I don’t hang many of them. Instead, I take them out, stare at them for a bit, and put them back into the boxes until next year. Oh, maybe I’ll put a single gingerbread house up and one of the large blown glass balls, but for the most part my current family memories — and after all, that’s really what my ornaments are — overwhelm my childhood family’s memories. Still, it’s nice having those memories in tangible form. It’s nice, as I did tonight, to be able to take out a memory, show it to my kids, and tell them all about the grandpa they never met.

My husband and I were looking at my busting-at-the-boughs tree the other night, talking about whether or not my girls will decorate like their mommy or go for a more cultured Christmas tree look. I hope they follow in my footsteps and go the cluttered route. There’s something to be said for having so many memories within arm’s reach.

The urge for stuff is so strong that, about a week ago, I sat down and made a list of a few things that I tell myself would enrich my life. Silly stuff, really. A stainless steel coffee grinder. Some spin shoes. Tiny speakers for my iPod. An eco-friendly large coffee mug for my morning joe. A 33-ounce French press so I can make coffee for friends. A solar watch. (The band on my old watch broke and I don’t trust any jewelers enough to leave it anywhere.) A small stainless steel strainer. Nothing that expensive, really. Just things that, at this moment in time, I covet.

I have to admit it feels weird to want stuff, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. It’s been a long time since I made a Christmas list of more than one or two things. I tend to avoid asking for specific items, preferring to find what I need (I never really want things) at thrift stores or on sale. I have been so resolute in my no-stuff goal that I end up bringing back most of the stuff people buy me, which tends to make people mad, but I digress. I got so used to going without, I guess, that it’s really hard for me to spend money on myself — or allow anyone else to spend it on me. It’s so weird and foreign to me that here I am, writing a blog about it.

I’m wondering if it’s because I finally feel like I am worthy of presents? Or maybe my obsessive fear of being poor again is waning. Or maybe it’s just that I see everyone else in my spin class with clip on shoes and I want to feel that same rush of speed. I really don’t know. But what I do know? I’ve got some cleaning to do to make room for my new stuff because if my family doesn’t come through I’ll be shopping for myself on December 26th.

The whos, hows, and whys don’t matter. What matters is my thought process. In one case someone, in my opinion, was clearly goading me to fight. Rather than getting caught up in the drama, I consciously decided to do the opposite of what it seemed like the person seemed to want me to do. You know what? The encounter ended really well. I walked away feeling good about myself. No malice or anger in my heart. I was relaxed and happy because, by choosing not to right a perceived wrong, everything went well. And the other person started behaving better, too.

The second experience had to do with someone asking for advice. An acquaintance asked a question in a group. Many of the group members gave what I consider bad advice. Advice that flew in the face of what I would have said. Again, I thought it through and realized the person asking for advice didn’t really want advice. She wanted validation of what she was already doing. I opted out of giving my own advice, staying silent. Again, I avoided a confrontation. No one got hurt. It was a wonderful thing.

The third experience was an encounter with an employee of a public organization. (I’ll give a few more details since she is unlikely to ever read or see herself in this post.) She was nasty and unkind to me and my kids. Instead of saying something to her about her behavior, I walked away. It’s not like she was calling names or anything. Her demeanor and tone were sharp and she was dismissive when Big Girl asked her a question. (Just an aside: My Big Girl said please and thank you anyway even though she didn’t get an answer.) In that case, after walking away for a moment, I decided to go back to her desk, smile, and make small talk. After a minute or two of chatting, the woman got up on her own and went to get the answer we were looking for without me having to ask again. Her exact words when I told her not to go through so much trouble: “It’s no trouble. It’s a slow night and I’d be happy to help.” Score another one for kindness.

I don’t know where this new wisdom is coming from. I wish I had it in me years ago, however, because I am loving the end results. Oh, if I had the self-control and insight even a year ago to swallow my pride and my opinions life might be a little different over this way. The strange thing is I’ve been following the keep-my-mouth shut mission forever when it comes to work. I’ve always believed in putting out a “customer is always right” vibe even when I know in my heart they are wrong — or behaving badly.

Anyway, I’m including this on the blog because I think part of natural-as-possible parenting is being willing to keep learning and growing. I’m trying every single day, although I know I falter every once in a while. That said, would love to hear about how you handle conflict. Sometimes the best way to learn is to follow someone’s (better) example, right?

Hallmark meant she cared...

I got a card in the mail today from a neighborhood woman. I told her about the miscarriage when she called to ask me to send out an email for a local organization. At the time, she was so sweet, telling me how sorry she was for our loss. We got off the phone and I felt comforted. Like she really got it. She meant what she was saying, and truly hurt for me.

The card itself was really sweet, too.

“Thoughts of you are gently wrapped in little prayers for heaven to smile on you, angels to watch over you, and happiness to fill your heart again.”

This was not the only act of kindness in my life. Today, for instance, I got a call from the mom of one of my religion kids. She apologized for taking so long to call, and wanted to know how I was feeling. I was so touched. My friends have been rallying around me, too. Calling, emailing, texting. “Just thinking of U today, Ka. Hope you are doing well.” I got that text around 7 p.m. this evening from an old, old friend.

In the past — when people I knew battled adversity — I always felt bad that I wasn’t doing MORE for them. What could a card do? What could a call do? Would my baked ziti really change anyone’s  life? I should have thought back to my first miscarriage in July 2005. (That baby, due January 2006, would be six right now.) Right after I miscarried there was a knock on the door. One of the people I consider a “bestie” was standing there holding a pint of Ralph’s Italian ices. Jelly ring flavor, which is a favorite. She looked really uncomfortable and told me she didn’t need to be invited in, but she wanted to do something to show me she was thinking of me. Later on, I ate those ices and cried over the baby I had lost. It sounds morbid, but I’ve never forgotten that small, kind act. I don’t think I ever will.

Anyway, the point of this rather depressing blog post is that yes, small acts of kindness and heartfelt sympathy really mean something. I feel more whole knowing there are, for instance, super-busy people who will drop everything in their Manhattan office, asking me where they can call me. And people who email me constantly, checking in and making sure I am okay. And I can’t forget my entire GROUP of writer friends who sent me their phone numbers and commiserated with me. Those who shared their own stories of loss and grief to let me know that they understood. That I am not alone. And what about the woman who only knows me through our kids — and hadn’t spoken to me for more than a year –  but offered to come over and help me clean up my yard so I could just sit and rest because I NEEDED my rest? How could I forget her? Or family member who texted me four simple words, “I am so sorry,” making me feel warm inside even while tears streamed down my face. (That one was especially meaningful since that particular family member has many, many more never-born babies than I do.) I was equally as humbled by the friend who constantly told me to drop off my kids or said she would come and pick them up as well as her husband, who knows how I feel about hugs but still wrapped his arms around me to tell me that he cares. Or my brother, who actually CAME to my house and hung out, which is something he rarely does. And my mom, who stopped nagging and just took care of me, bringing me meals and watching my kids. My in-laws, too, who raced to the hospital at 4 a.m. to bring my kids home and have been attentive and worried during the whole process.

Yes, this entire experience has sucked really, really bad, but it definitely brought me clarity. It shows me how many amazing people I have around me — more than I realized. It also showed me who I should care about, and who I needed to remove from my life. Finally, it reminded me that an act of kindness, however seemingly small, can be huge to the person on the receiving end. And for that I am glad. It was a true silver lining on what was really a hurricane-sized thunder cloud.

Facebook isn’t the only thing that’s making me cry. I tear up when I drive up my street and see two new moms pushing strollers. I almost lost it in Children’s Place when I passed by the piles of newborn clothing. I even got all misty when I put Little Girl to bed last night. I feel so horrible and guilty that my kids have suffered through these last three weeks of summer. Instead of fun day trips and visits to our beach club my kids have sat around while I’ve gone to doctors appointments and emergency room visits. They’ve watched me lying on the couch unable to get up. My poor kids.

But I digress as always. I can’t do anything about random stroller mommies or time that I can’t get back, but I can do something about Facebook. It’s actually important that I do something about Facebook. You see, I am starting to feel better physically. I’m also back to feeling like myself when I am working. (Place me in front of the computer — even cramping and bleeding — and I become Ms. Editor or Ms. Writer on a mission to suss out the right grammar and turn the perfect phrase.) Work has been my salvation these past few weeks. I am myself when I am in front of this PC except when Facebook is sitting on my screen. And so, since I can’t be sure how long this darkness covering my soul will be sticking around, I am taking myself out of the Facebook world. The world where everyone is doing FAN-TABULOUS, and having a freakin’ ball. Where everyone’s life is perfect except mine. (And another super-brave, amazing friend’s life. She happens to be going through cancer on Facebook, but she’s just a much stronger, much better person than I am.) Sure, I know that much of what gets posted on social networks like Facebook is an exaggeration, but I don’t have the clarity to separate fact from fiction right now, so I just need to make it all go away.

And that is why on Tuesday I am going to update my status with the following: Taking a self-imposed one-month leave of absence from Facebook. See you in October.

Once I make that announcement, I’m transferring ownership of the NaturalAsPossibleMom.com Facebook page to my hubby (I’ll email things to update it on a daily basis), and deleting my account. Since Facebook NEVER really deletes anything, I’ll be able to go back online if I want to — and if I’m ready to– in October. Who knows, maybe I won’t even want to. But until then, I’m sticking to Twitter and Google +.

Hope you’re having a wonderful weekend. I’m getting ready to go get a facial in a bit. I am in desperate need to be touched in a way that’s not painful or too claustrophobic or the cause of heavy bleeding. That’s not too much to ask, right?

Even the content of the books is different. There are calendar pages interspersed throughout Big Girl’s book. I used them to chronicle milestones in her life — her first step, her first words, her first haircut, and every little illness and cute thing she said. I started filling out the same pages for Little Girl, too, but somewhere around July, 2009 I let it lapse. I was too busy. My husband’s business wasn’t doing great and he had a bunch of medical issues. All I did, truly, was work and worry. Not wanting Little Girl to feel bad in 20 years when she saw the difference in the books, I decided I would fudge…errr…create those calendar pages now by looking at my Facebook page and reading emails sent to and from friends and relatives to pull out cute stories, special dates, and events.

It worked pretty well until I got to February 2010. I remember that month. My husband went in for yet another operation. By that time, he wasn’t working at all. It was all on me. I was able to pull a few cute things off my Facebook wall, but my emails…well, let’s just say they were depressing. I barely emailed a single friend. My emails to my husband were usually a few words written all in caps. “SHUT THEM UP.” Or just as sweet, “I AM INTERVIEWING.” And the exciting, “BUS IS HERE. GET HER.” But those were the minority. The majority of my emails were about work. Lots and lots of queries — writer-speak for ideas pitched to editors in the hopes of an assignment. February was my worst month, and I was trying to drum up more business, which I eventually did since March’s total was three times February’s.

While the point is I didn’t get many cute bon mots, I also realized that — as I read my emails and Facebook wall — I feel very, very sorry for that person. (I say, ‘that person,’ because the person was so unlike who I normally am, she seems like a stranger.) She was so obviously miserable and struggling and unhappy. She also missed out on lots of fun and excitement with her kids.

I don’t make that mistake anymore. Of course, I had to learn the hard way. I truly feel like I missed out on months of life — our life. MY life. My kids’ lives. I was so fixated on making money and being miserable about my situation. Now, however, I realize that even in the face of adversity those kids are truly incredible. Huggable, loveable balls of positive energy that make me laugh.

Scrapbooking aside, this week could very easily be a repeat of February 2010. I am dealing with something very sad and depressing right now, but I am not letting it affect the joy that my kids provide. Take yesterday, for example. I took them to the Long Island Children’s Museum. We played. We saw a concert. We laughed a lot. Once we got home Little Girl kept me and Big Girl in stitches. At one point she sat on her sister’s lap pretending not to see her there. Then, she drove home the joke by saying, “Gee, this is a funny chair.” Later, when we were waiting for my husband to come home Little Girl passed gas. She looked back at us, smiled, and said, “Did you hear that? Someone farted. I wonder who farted?” Big Girl and I were rolling on the floor. Those two anecdotes went into Little Girl’s book. I hope they mean as much to her as they do to me. (Hey, fart jokes are funny…)

I finished an entire scrapbook since I started my project — June 2008 through June 2009. I’m already halfway through a second book. I just started scrapping February 2009. Sure, I know I’ve got a ways to go, but more important: Look how very far I’ve come.