Almost thought I’d never make it back here. Miss me?

Hello? Hello? Anybody out there?

A confluence of events necessitated my absence from this, my beloved blog. I love that phrase — confluence of events. Go ahead, say it with me. Confluence of Events. Makes me sound all important and busy. Let me tell you about my confluence and about my events. They’re called “M” “E” “K” and “B” and they’re home for the summer. All day, every day. 24/7. The whole “home all day” thing kind of took me by surprise, well, not really by surprise, but the inability to get anything at all done productively, (anything), that was the surprise. Those four kids, God love ‘em, they got needs. Lots of needs. And it’s my job to fill ‘em by golly. My job.

Instead of making this a big post about everything we’ve been doing and all you’ve missed out on and everywhere we’ve been going and all the visitors we’ve had and the pools and the sprinklers and the chalk and the playgrounds and the popsicles and the tantrums — what? you thought we didn’t have them over the summer? unfortunately we have had one or two — thousand — instead of doing all that big long and boring post, let me just share some photos. Just a teaser, let’s say. There are more posts a-comin’. Funny ones too. I promise.

On a more serious note, what was slowing my posting down was WordPress changed their format to post and more specifically, to post images. (Right about now, someone’s, probably my mom’s, eyes are glazing over…blah, blah, blah, what?) The whole change threw me for a loop. I didn’t like the new way, and I resisted the change. Oh, I tried to conform (that would be the eensy-teensy post below this one), but that tiny little post took hours which, because of my confluence of events, I did not have hours to spare. So, what, you ask, has changed? I did some research and decided to do some of my own coding, updating my CSS sheet, you know, basic computer-geek stuff that I have no business researching, knowing, or improving. But, it had to be done. And now, deep breath, I can post. Again. And my pictures will look all pretty and there will be minimal work involved.

Thank you very much.

And so, I give you, my confluence of events:

I know they look all cute and innocent. Downright huggable and kissable. But, trust me. You do not want to be around when the heads start spinnin’ in all different directions and they start going all Linda Blair on me. Oh wait, maybe that’s me going all Linda Blair on them? Oh, who cares. Let’s just leave it at this — we’re having a great summer, four kids is a lot of work all day every day, and we’ve been busy.

Ah, summertime. So much work. Looks rough, huh?

Another confluence of events is quickly approaching. Do you see it there on the horizon? School starts in twelve days. Count them with me now…1…2…3…. Oh, never mind. I’m not really counting. I’ll miss them all day, every day. No, really, I will. Ok, maybe a very small part of me will be a small bit happy for some peace and quiet and another small part of me will be slightly (just slightly) happy that I don’t have to hear “Can I have a snack?” every fifteen minutes.

Speaking of which, they have a schedule, you know. Worked it out themselves. They’re smart like that. They each ask for a snack once an hour, but, and here’s the kicker, it’s staggered to every 15 minutes. So although each individual child only asks once an hour, I am essentially hounded every 15 minutes by some small person. I have no actual proof of this, of course, but I have my really really strong suspicions.

The one on the end, to the right, she’s the snack-scheduler. Or, maybe it’s the one on the left. She’s got that cheezy grin. Or, better yet, that one in the middle. She looks like she’s too smart for her own good. Oh, heck, who am I kidding. It’s this one:

He’s got ring-leader written all over him.

Thanks to a wonderful post over at the Shutter Sisters, I did some thinking about the hands in my life. From where they come and where they are headed.

Five generations, that’s what we have here. My oldest daughter at 8 months lays her hand on top the generations that come before — her father, her grandmother, her great-grandfather, and her great-great grandfather. Amazingly, though my children’s great-great grandfather has since passed on, they still have four generations on both sides, mine and my husband’s. My kids are being raised knowing their great-grandmothers and their great-grandfathers. For that we are truly blessed.

That 8 month old hand grew, and as it did, we added sisters’ hands for her to hold. And 7 years later, she held the ultrasound photo that told all the girls that this time it was a brother coming.

And in December of that year, she grasped his precious little foot and marveled at his tininess.

This same hand that waved to me in utero:

later held tightly to my thumb and wouldn’t let go:

And seventeen months later, he only wants to let go as I follow him around the playground:

Exploring.

Inspecting.

Driving.

More driving.

Repairing. He found this stick on the ground and tried so hard to reach it up to the tree above from which it came.

Hands. They are so important in life. Holding. Grasping. Caressing. Caring. Holding steady. Leaning on. Letting go.

What are the hands in your life doing?

There is only one thing that B loves more than baseball/softball, and that is:

You got it. Cute fuzzy wanna-hug-them pandas.

Big furry lovable pandas. This is a different shot. His head is raised higher. To get a better view of me and my little boy I think. Smile for the camera.

Here he comes. Isn’t he cute?

But, did you know that they have really really big teeth? They are bears you know.

It’s a good thing we were over here:

But, boy oh boy, was my little boy oh so happy to be in the presence of a real live moving panda. He waved to them; he jumped for joy; he stomped his feet; he kissed the glass. He was in his own little boy heaven.

Then it was on to other big things:

And this is what he thought about that:

We saw this guy hangin’ around:

Lovely pose, don’t cha’ think? It was better than the aerial relief of bodily fluids that I also happened to capture. I’ll spare you the photo.

B marched around all day — big man on campus.

But, he’s still a little boy at heart, and while others just walked on by, he stopped to marvel in the simple things. Like puddles.

Four kids at the zoo is a lot to keep an eye on, so it’s a good thing B has some big sisters that are willing to lend a hand.

(You may note the pants change. A few spilled drinks and an over-filled diaper. Nothing a change of pants can’t fix. B, not big sister M. Just so we’re clear on that.)

She also shared some of her great intelligence about various zoo animals:

He was enthralled.

We paused for a few all-together shots. B was simply too busy to join us.

And contrary to what you may be thinking, my kids (M & E) do have other clothes. On their own, separately, before they saw what the other was wearing, they dressed this way. They both ignored the clothes I had put out for them the night before (which was not the Johnny Cupcakes shirts). K also ignored the clothes I put out for her, but that’s to be expected.

Back to the zoo.

Sometimes you just happen to be in the right place at the right time with your camera up and your finger already on the shutter. And then that all happens and the stars are aligned, you can get a photo like this:

The same magic needs to occur if I try to get a shot of all four of my kids together. This was the best I could do today:

Which seems appropriate because when we were at the farm animal section of the zoo, he was perpetually in this position:

He had a contest with this guy to see who would blink first.

We had to leave so we’ll never know who would’ve won. Though I suspect that Mr. I-can’t-sit-still-always-moving would have had some difficulty. B, not the bovine. Just so we’re clear on that.

It seemed only appropriate that after studying Genesis 9-11 (the story of Noah) with the girls and discussing promises and covenants that we should see a rainbow in the sky after the rains this afternoon. Look closely at the treeline. And then look back again, and go a little bit further up in the sky, above the red maple, and there you see it, another rainbow. What fortune for everyone to see. A double rainbow. An extra promise. Another reminder.

The last time I saw a double rainbow was in 2000, several weeks after I miscarried who would have been our second child. It was a sad time, and one night after S got home, I just needed to get out of the house on my own. I drove. Stopped to get myself a coffee. As I emerged from the coffee shop, I walked looking down, watching my steps, lost in my thoughts. Something caused me to look up, and there it was in the distance, a bright and beautiful double rainbow. In the darkness, I knew there was hope. Everything was going to be okay.

And you’re gone. It’s hard for me to believe that Tim Russert is gone. That he has been taken from this life and will no longer come into my home on Sunday mornings. I so enjoyed his visits. I’ve seen less of him lately, but there was a time when he was a faithful visitor. Meet the Press, Tim Russert, Sunday paper, cup of coffee — sounds like a wonderful morning.

In light of my post yesterday, it’s hard not to ask “Why?” Why was he taken at such a young age? Why is a son left behind? Why is a father left behind? Why is his wife left lonesome? Why? Why? Why? Why on Father’s Day weekend? Exactly why?

Especially this weekend. Tim Russert is all about politics, but he’s also all about Dads. His own dad, and the role of fathers. His own role as a father. His books tell us so. I’ve read both of them. It was harder for me to read Wisdom of Our Fathers because it’s filled with essays of great father-daughter and father-son relationships. And I didn’t have that. So sometimes to read about how others are blessed with great fathers hurts. But I know in the future my daughters and son will be able to fill books with stories of their wonderful father and that somehow makes it a bit better.

My heart goes out to the Russert family. A long time ago I was an attorney working for a big firm in downtown D.C. I saw Tim Russert on at least one occasion. The time that sticks in my head though is seeing him getting out of a car outside of my building. His son Luke, who was about 9 at the time, was with him. It is such a small vignette into their lives, but it was clear that Luke was, in Mr. Russert’s eyes, the best thing in the world. Smiles and laughs. I remember him calling out his son’s name to get his attention. And more laughs.

Tim Russert. He will be missed greatly.  By many.  I loved Matt Lauer’s thoughts that Tim must be lining up the interviews up there in heaven.  So many greats for him to talk to.  Heaven’s Green Room is buzzing.

It’s easy to get caught up on the little things in life. The lots of little things. In doing this, it’s easy to lose sight of the important stuff. I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on the important stuff and all the little things in my life that often take precedence over the important stuff. Perhaps precedence isn’t the right word. I find that there can be so many little things, that oops, my time is filled, and oh no, I haven’t left any time for that important stuff. This bothers me. And causes me to reflect. Which can sometimes take time, because, well, I don’t have all that much “free” time that allows for much reflection, but I’m ranking this up there with “important stuff” so I’ve tried to make time to do some reflecting. And I’m trying to keep my eyes on the ball.

I can probably trace my blog absence to this reflecting. I find that blogging takes up time, and more time and more time. I can become obsessive about it — what will I write next, oh let me take this picture for the blog, how are my stats, who is looking at my blog, how many subscribers are there, what about my flickr account , are there any comments, etc… You get the idea. It results in constant checking. And a waste of my precious “free” time. It leaves me with not much to show for it.

I’ve tried to figure out what’s important to me (outside of my family, of course). Where are my interests? Where do I want to devote that extra time I have? I kind of laugh at “extra” because it’s so not what it seems. I have a history of over-extending, doing too much at once, grazing the surface, but only have time to graze the surface because I have too many other things I’m trying to do. I want to stop that. I was thinking I need to pick one or two “things,” maybe three (but that’s probably too much) and focus there, and not accept any more.

I’ve been on this road for a while now. And I’ve come up with a few things. I love to read. I don’t do as much of it as I’d like. I love photography, but I have a lot of learning to do in that area. I would like to read more and work on improving my photography (learning my camera more, experimenting, exploring greater post-processing). Those are two things for me that need more time. Oh, and I forgot - writing. At some point in my life, and it doesn’t have to be now, I’d really like to focus more on writing. There are ideas up there in my little head, just no sufficient time for release.

But first things first, and some other things need attention first.

I came across this post on Mother’s Day, and it really made me think about my job as a mother and whether or not I was doing my job the way I want to do my job. Please, go ahead and read it now. I’ll wait.

I think back on the ideals I thought before I got pregnant, before anyone ever uttered “Mama” in reference to me, and I realize that I’m not necessarily where I want to be, doing what I want to do with my children. Like the reflections I’ve had with myself and about myself, I find myself getting too caught up in those little things with the kids. Maybe not seeing the big picture through all the rants and whines. After a weekend, I find that we, as parents, feel wiped out, not lifted up. Quite honestly, there is not enough joy; there is too much frustration and exasperation. A different perspective may be necessary.

Lately, well, over the past couple of years, I’ve been doing some thinking about faith and God and the role that He does or does not play in my life and more importantly, in my family’s life. What is faith, and do I have it? Do we, as a family, have faith? If so, how are we living out our lives of faith? I find comfort in my friends who are sure of their faith, who live it, who love it. I want to learn more from them and how they have reached that point.

Prayer.

Do you pray? I don’t. Nope, never. Don’t know how. Isn’t that funny? I really don’t think God says there is “right” way to pray and a “wrong” way to pray, but for some reason, I don’t think that I do it “right” and well, so I just don’t do it. There you have it — I am not living a life of faith. Because I truly believe that a life of faith requires prayer.

I’ve tried in the past — tried prayer, the quintessential Catholic prayer — the Rosary. But I always get confused on which mystery I’m supposed to focus on which day of the week or decade of the chain. I have a book about the Rosary, a pamphlet about the Rosary, and a single sheet “cheat sheet” about praying the Rosary. That’s a lot of instruction for something as simple as a prayer. Seems rather complicated and frankly, like something that requires lots of time and studying to get it “right.” The work involved dissuades me. Shouldn’t it be easier than this?

We say prayers nightly with our children, but quite honestly, the prayers all seem rather perfunctory and rote, and I’m not sure how much they’re really worth. Heartfelt? It doesn’t feel like it. Half the time I’m picking out the next day’s clothes for the kids, while saying the prayers, and thinking about what else I have to do that night. The other half of the time, we’re saying them so quickly, just “because,” so that we can get the kids to bed and close the door. Said prayers. Check. Feel good that we’re teaching prayers to our kids. Check. Is this the life of faith and God that I wanted to live with my children? Not so much.

I want to do better. There is so much I want to do better.

I’m baptized Catholic, received my First Communion in the Catholic Church, confirmed in the Catholic Church, receive Penance in the Catholic Church, married in the Catholic Church. That’s five sacraments in the Catholic Church. Wow. I even went to a Catholic college and law school. I own multiple copies of the Bible. Have I ever read the Bible? No. I don’t mean a couple chapters or verses here and there; I mean read the Bible. Never. I have friends who have not only read the Bible, but have highlighted it, can quote it and reference it, and have gone back and read it again. Often. These friends pray. These friends are secure in their faith, and take comfort in their faith and in God’s words. I have friends who read the Bible together with their spouses, who read the Bible together with their children. That isn’t how faith works in our family, but I’m not sure faith in our family is working.

At times I’ll get called to the girls’ rooms after bedtime because I forgot to do prayers with them. We’ll do the Our Father and the Holy Mary and our personal intentions, and then I assure them that God is always listening, and that it’s important for them to know that they can talk to God anytime, anywhere, under any conditions. Perhaps I should take my own advice.

How does faith fit in your family? Is it working? Is it front and center, or off to the side, reserved for Sundays if you can get there?

These thoughts of God and faith seem to be a constant in my head, but not anything that I seem to be willing to do anything about. I ponder them and then forget them. Because, gosh darn it, it seems to require so much work to be religious — there’s the praying, and the paying, and the Sundays, and the this, and the that. Sounds all rather selfish of me, doesn’t it? I’m not going to make time for you God because I simply don’t have the time. He’s probably thinking, uh, excuse me miss, who gave you the “time” to begin with? Ahem?

And then, the other night, I came across a blog called Bring the Rain. And my thoughts and perspective have changed. The blog is that moving, that thought-provoking, that sad, that inspirational, that filled with faith. Please, go and read her blog from beginning to end (not now — it took me three days to read all the entries). Bookmark it and read it again. Find prayer. I’m trying. And I’m going to read my Bible (as soon as I can find a copy that doesn’t have such small print). And I mean really read it. And I’m going to read it with my kids. They will know a mother who read the Bible and who found solace in it’s words (hopefully). I want my children to know that although their parents may not always be there, there is a Father who is. I don’t have a father, I mean a true father. In so many ways, I consider myself “fatherless;” it seems only appropriate that on this, Father’s Day weekend, I am going to start getting to know my Father, my God. And to read His story. And to pray to him. Perhaps I had a Father all along. I was just looking in the wrong places.

In that vein, I’m disciplining K today, over something important at the time, and I hear myself saying to my five-year old little girl, “K, I want you to listen the first time, not the 5th or 6th time.” How many times a day do I say that? Anyhow, I wonder if God thinks that way of me — “Aileen, I wanted you to listen the first time, not the 1,000th time. But thanks for finally listening.”

Another interesting moment today as I’m working on this post throughout the day — my oldest daughter, who wants to be a Saint when she grows up (we must be doing something right involving faith), says to me in the car, out of the blue, “So, you know mama, when God does come back to the Earth (note — not “if” but “when — again, we’re doing something right), a lot of people are going to want His autograph.” Said from the heart of an eight-year old.

Now, I know my history with things and grand ideas. I give them up after minimal time. Let’s hope I have follow-through this time. Because this is the important stuff. This is where it counts. This is a start for me, but by no means do I think there is any kind of “quick fix” — read Bible, find faith, check. I’m attempting to bring faith forward in my life and in my family’s life. I don’t want it so much in the background waiting for someone to “find time.”

I’m scared to start, but at least I don’t think I’m walking alone.

Follow through, keeping my eyes on the ball.

Now, go and read Bring the Rain.

to Mr. Bobblehead. B is infatuated, I’d almost go as far to say “in love with,” the girls’ softball helmet. He sees it and must have it. Must wear it. Everywhere. He dreams about it. Loves wearing it. Loves to pretend to hit and run with it. To his imaginary bases. I’m not kidding. Bats and balls are what this little boy is made of.

Come on Mom, just play.

Please.

Just FYI, for all those inquiring minds. The gray evolution is complete. I am now completely gray. Or maybe I should say white. And my hair is very short. Unfortunately that was a consequence of my desire to stop coloring my hair (at some point, I had to cut all that dyed brown off). The hair will grow. It will take a couple years, but it will grow; my curls should be back in another couple of months. I’m happy with the color (white/silver); and I’ve received nothing but compliments on the short ‘do. There have also been compliments on the color, though fewer of those. Those who complement really really like it. Those who say nothing, well, I can only guess (and frankly, not care anyhow).

I still have a “disconnect” when I see myself in photos or catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Who is she? And wow, that sure is a change. As you can see from the pictures, I’ve gone from long dark brown curly hair in November 2007 to very short gray hair in May 2008. It’s like a completely different me, yet I know I’m the same. I fight feeling like the old one when I see myself in pictures. The feeling is only natural, considering everyone associates gray hair with “old” or “older” people. The main complaint or concern everyone voiced with me doing this was “but you’ll look so old” or “your kids are too young to have an old-looking mom” or “do you want to look so much older than your husband”. At a high estimate, I only had 50% of my family’s support. That has been unfortunate because it wasn’t an easy decision, and it hasn’t been an easy road. Still isn’t. Some still have never mentioned my hair or it’s obvious changes at all. The elephant in the room. Well, like I tell my children, if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing at all. As I’ve learned, silence too says volumes.

Oddly enough, no one along the way (years I’ve been coloring) has suggested to my husband that perhaps he should start coloring his graying hair. No one has said “do you want to look so much older than your wife?” Not one person. No one has said “but you’re looking old” or “perhaps you should color because your kids are too young to have an old-looking dad.” I think this says more about our society/culture than anyone cares to think too long and hard about — the position/ideal that women are held to and/or put themselves in.

My hope is that if my daughters find themselves with prematurely graying hair (it’s genetic, you know) that they feel the confidence and acceptance to do with it as they please — whether leaving it natural or coloring it. Their memories from a young age will be a mom who embraced the gray and just accepted it for what it is — a hair color, nothing more, nothing less. It doesn’t define the person. I hope too to raise a son who accepts women who are only striving for their own ideal, not someone else’s. I’m not being critical of those who do color (because I did it for years and years, and we all have the things we like to do to feel better about ourselves), I’m just saying there should be an acceptance of those who choose not to color. There shouldn’t be the talk of “old.” Sometimes gray is just that - gray. It’s what God has given me, and I’m not old.

I can’t imagine going back to coloring, because quite honestly, I haven’t felt this good about my hair in years. It’s natural. It feels great. It is me. This is who I am. I have no worries about roots. I no longer waste 2 hours every three weeks at the hair salon. When I saw my friends in Santa Fe, the hair was a shock to them, but everyone was so supportive and complimentary. In fact, one even said, “How did you do it because at some point, I’m going to need an exit strategy too!” An exit strategy from all the hair maintenance. This, is a relief.

And wouldn’t you know it, the day after I got all the brown cut off and was sporting a very short gray ‘do, I was carded while trying to buy a bottle of wine. No kidding. I said, “Are you kidding me, with all this gray hair you need my ID?” Her response, “You may have gray hair, but you have a very young looking face. You could easily be 30, and that’s the store policy.” Thank you very much. I’ll take that.

So, without further adieu, here it is, my road to gray:

November 2007.

This is 11 weeks after I stopped coloring. I spent many weeks pulling my hair back into a bun, then topped off with a headband to hide the gray/brown line. But that only worked so long. Eventually, it became obvious, I wasn’t just “late” for a root touch-up. There was a lot of gray. I decided to embrace it. In March, I got my hair cut shorter (about shoulder-length, with it longer on the sides and much shorter in the back — one of those hairdos you see on lots of women these days). Here is picture of that:

I’m the one with the skunk stripe. I thought maybe if I hang out with this crazy-haired dude all day, people won’t notice my hair. Yep, when I saw this photo, I nearly died. I said to my husband, “You let me go out looking like this?” He said, “I figured you knew.” Well, no, I didn’t. I thought it looked terrible, from a color perspective, and I’m sure you’ll agree. That day, I made an appointment to cut off as much of the brown as they could. I knew this meant going super-super short, but I was just ready for the brown to be gone already. I didn’t want that darn line down the middle of the top of my head anymore. This is what came next:

Clearly, the gray was still growing out, but you could see a lot more of it, and the brown was just on the tips. I let it grow for a couple more weeks, and then went in for the final cut. And now, here it is:

This was taken in Santa Fe, two days after the super-super short cut. I’ve had about one month of growth since then.

This is me on Mother’s Day at a Nationals’ Game. Here is another one:

This is last week — myself and M getting ready to run a 5K for Girls On The Run. We finished, running, hand-in-hand. She did great.

So, there you have it:

From here, it just grows, gets longer, gets the curls back, and that’s pretty much the end of….the Gray Matter (said in a loud booming voice). And that’s all she wrote (on this at least).

Gray — it’s just a color; nothing more, nothing less.

Well, way back in April while I was on my little blogging hiatus, they let me out of the house without the kiddos. And to travel. On a plane no less. Without kids. Did I say that already?  It was a foreign concept at first, but after about, hmmm, five minutes, I quickly adjusted to no diaper bag, no stroller, no diaper changes, no sibling spats, and no whining. That’s not to say I didn’t miss the kids and hubby while I was on my four day getaway, but to be completely honest, I really really really (am I over-emphasizing?) really enjoyed my time away. Really really really really.

Ok, that’s probably enough.

Myself and 6 other fantastic women met up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for some relaxing, some catching up, and some time without kids, oh, and some margaritas. Agave tequila. It’s a good thing.

Oh, and few of these too:

And here are those fantastic women:

We’re college roommates, and as such, our friendship spans 20 years now. Unbelievable. Four of our group of 11 couldn’t make it — you know, new love, having babies, and life. Between all 11 of us, there are 29 kiddos. Really unbelievable. Not surprisingly, we spent our first day and night and second day and evening discussing families and kids. From the gamut of husbands, to in-laws, to parents, to nursing, to potty-training, to puberty, to working, to house remodeling, to health, to schools, to the economy.

After two days of mostly kid-talk, we declared a moratorium on it. Or, at least, I did, and everyone else seemed agreeable. We turned to talk of politics, religion, and sex. Aren’t these all those topics you’re never supposed to discuss at the table or something like that? I think those are all the things you’re not supposed to blog about too, but you know, it’s those topics and everyone’s differences that are truly interesting. We are 7 individual women with varying beliefs, interests, and experiences. Like family, though, it was great that everyone could express their views and still come away respected and loved. Really. And not surprisingly, there are so many things that remain unchanged. It’s the same “us,” just 20 years later. There’s something comforting about that.

Oh, and we talked about bikini waxing too. Very informative.

So, here are some (a lot) of much anticipated photos. Enjoy.

New Mexico is desert country, so it looks a lot like this:

You see lots of this:

In Santa Fe itself, many of the homes have outdoor entrances to their courtyards, which then leads to the home. Like this one:

Here is the place we stayed:

The house was huge on the inside, with 2 kitchens, and so many bathrooms, I’m not even sure I even saw all of them. I got lost in there more than once.

This is what greeted us outside our front door. Odd. Turns out it is a windmill from Africa, and that at one point, that well actually worked. Till the neighbor put in a pool and dried up the well. Neighborly actions and unintended consequences. I’m sure there’s an overall life lesson in that.

Anyhow, back to us. Most of the women are exercise fanatics. Well, some. So, a “run” was a given; plus, the weather was beautiful. Off they went:

Me, however, I choose the walking option, together with a few others. We explored at a much slower pace. Here is something we discovered in the underbrush:

A buried cab of an old-time classic truck. Who knows what the story there is. Hopefully they got out okay.

After exercising and showering, it was time to eat! And, boy, did we eat some good food in Santa Fe. Incredible food.

The Shed. Great lunch.

Other highlights of downtown Santa Fe:

San Miguel Church which bills itself as the oldest church in the U.S. I’m a bit skeptical since I’m pretty sure I’ve visited another place on the East Coast which also bills itself as the oldest church, so who knows. It looked old.

I loved the architecture in Santa Fe, and the way people decorate. Their outdoor spaces are very important, not just for looking pretty with flowers and such, but for the artwork, the sculptures, the presentation. Nothing says Santa Fe like an old wagon wheel and and an animal skull atop your rooftop.

After exploring downtown and shopping some (it was much colder than anticipated so purchasing some fleece was in order, and of course, some souvenirs for all those kiddos), we decided to do some exploring outside Santa Fe. We headed about an hour East to the Bandolino National Monument, prior home to the Navajo Indians.

Caves, stone ladders, wooden ladders, and more caves.

Going up, up, up to the siva, which is the ceremonial cave and platform at the top of the sheerface.

What goes up, must go down, down, down.

A photography hazard:

Getting these things stuck in your knee when you stumble getting up from the ground while trying to take just one more shot. Let me tell you, those cactus quills do not like to come out. It seems they have arrows on their tips, kind of like the car rental places at the airport — do not back-up or your tires will deflate. Well, the cactus quills like to go in, but they tear you up coming out. Thankfully a kind soul or former boy scout, I’m not sure which, had a band-aid and came to my rescue.

Then it was back to Santa Fe for more eating, more drinking, and more chatting. Oh, and there was a spa treatment in there somewhere too. Lovely 1/2 hour massage (which was about an hour too short) at this cool mountainside Japanese spa. Ten Thousand Waves or something like that. Everyone walks around naked with just a robe on. Guys and girls. Like a Sunday morning at home, but you don’t know these people. Weird, but oddly okay. They have outdoor baths, single sex and coed. Laura and I stumbled upon what we thought was a female-only outdoor bath, only to find a naked dude sitting right in the middle of it. Luckily, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, averted my gaze and walked the other way. Laura, however, not so lucky. All she saw was bath, so she walked over to test the temperature of the water. Upon seeing the naked guy (you know, when she was only about 2 feet from his you-know-what, reaching her hand into the water) suddenly found herself startled and trying to act all cool, not like she was moving away from the bath in a freakishly fast pace giggling because she had seen a naked guy, but you know, because, that’s what she always does when she approaches outdoor baths. Very funny.

Before we knew it, our time together was coming to a too-quick close. Here are some photos of Canyon Road, which is where a lot of the Santa Fe art galleries reside. We walked through here and drove through here often, as it was just down the street from where we were staying. Fantastic stuff here, and in retrospect,we probably wish we had spent some more time exploring the galleries.

Last, but not least, here are some more of my own artsy-fartsy photos:

Here’s to friends. Lifelong friends.

And now we say good-bye Santa Fe Getaway. Hello Reality.