I wasn’t a very observant person in my early twenties. I thought about what my hair looked like, if my skin was broken out or not and what people were thinking about me. And that last one? One of the most powerful realizations one can come to in life is accepting that people are not thinking about you. They’re thinking about themselves. That sounds harsh, but it’s true. If you only realized how much people don’t recognize your hair or your skin or your jean size because they’re worried about their own hair, skin and jean size–well, it takes a lot of pressure off. Thank God.

I’ve always thought about people in an “Are they hurting?” kind of way because I believe that’s a special gift I was given. My parents say when I was very young, on more than one occasion, I asked to leave my family’s table at a restaurant to sit with elderly who ate alone because it made me sad. My presence could have very well annoyed these poor grandmas who, for the love of God, just wanted a chance to be alone, but that gift of knowing when to butt out of people’s lives and let them be hadn’t yet been bestowed. I’m still waiting for that one.

So I thought a lot about myself. And I thought about people who were hurting–at least the ones in my direct line of vision. But that was about it. The rest of the world, the lessons hidden in my environment, the way light hits the trees late in the afternoon or how, if you look closely, snowflakes aren’t just flakes but intricate symmetrical crystals–I didn’t take the time to really notice.

It used to drive my dad crazy. We drove to work together during my college breaks, and he’d point out everything on our hour drives–flowers, houses with cool front doors, new coffee shops with eye-catching signs.

“Did you see those hostas back there? They were huge!,” he’d exclaim. And I’d answer “What hostas?” because I was too busy thinking about how my thighs looked huge when I wore hospital scrubs or how poorly my dark hair took the latest blonde dye job.

He’d scold me. “You don’t notice things.” And I’d argue “Yes I do,” quickly covering my lack of observance with the first hint of beauty I saw out the car window. “Those tulips–yes, I saw them.” He’d laugh and remind me of just how oblivious I was to my environment, digging up the Proof of All Proof stories–that one time when I was pulling out of my friends’ driveway, unaware of the three bags of garbage directly behind my car. The story goes, as my friends jumped up and down, waving and shouting, alerting me of the garbage, I waved back thinking it was just an enthusiastic goodbye. And I kept driving and waving, ripping garbage bags to shreds and dragging pop cans and milk jugs and moldy paper towels down the dirt road. Still waving. Still smiling. Because those sweet friends were giving me the enthusiastic goodbye of a lifetime. So, I guess I couldn’t argue with that story. Yes, I was oblivious to a lot of things.

A lot happened in the ten years that followed. I became a mom which is huge. You suddenly notice everything–tiny toes, new teeth buds, the first red dot of a diaper rash. You write sonnets about your kid’s eyelashes. You study the way their chest rises and falls when they sleep.

I think, for me though, observance of the world around me truly took a new meaning when I started writing and taking pictures.

I’m speaking in Dallas next month at a photography conference. I felt completely intimidated at first because I don’t consider myself an expert in photography, and when it comes to complicated technical camera knowledge, I feel small compared to many of the great minds in the photography world who study and teach these things every day. I am confident behind my own camera though, and I have learned a lot from others–things I’m willing to share. The more I thought about it though, I realized I can share the story of why I take pictures–how photography changed me in a lot of ways and makes me more aware of everything the world has to offer. It plays an important role in my life, and my journey behind the camera mirrors my personal journey closely, especially the last few years. I am excited to share this journey, and the scattered notes and favorite photos (okay, embarrassing over-edited ones too) that are piling up as I prepare can attest to my excitement.

Similarly, writing has made me more aware of everything–not only the world around me, but my own feelings and judgments and opportunities for improvement as well. Writing almost every day naturally stimulates these “What am I going to write about?” receptors. And while I cannot go about life searching for things to write about–life needs to happen first–I do find that since writing, I think a little more deeply. I let myself become more vulnerable, I push myself to discover more, to read more, to fill up the wells within so that I have something to write about (which translates to “something to think about,” “something to live by,” “something to make me change” or fill-in-the-blank as you wish). It’s a complicated, wonderful cycle of input and output, and these two principles depend upon each other.

So this morning as I went through my weekend photos and sat down to write, I couldn’t help but notice how much easier it gets to put something on paper because I am learning to observe, to listen, and to be aware. Yes, there will always be writer’s block and periods of quiet inspiration. But I wait–because there is always something to write about. There are always moments to capture. The things we choose are just a fraction of the things that await our attention.

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Little words and lots of photos from this weekend:

Our kids learn this whole input/output thing too. Lainey asked if she could take a picture with my camera because she saw a bird. I handed it to her, Sister clicked the button and then smiled when she saw her capture on the screen.

And Little Sister thinks walking Latte on a short leash is very funny. Especially when she stops walking and Latte doesn’t and is thus startled when she has to stop short (sorry, old Sunday School days–I love a good “thus”).

I love to know readers have a heart for my girls that makes them concerned of safety, and I take safety comments to heart! But I assure you, we are aware of dog leash dangers and are very mindful and–well, observant of how and when our girls periodically take hold of the leash.

And a Family trip to Sweet Treats last night. They actually like throwing pennies in the fountain more than the ice cream.

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Welcome back to returning sponsor (and a reader favorite), Coco Penny.

Coco Penny offers a wide variety of hair accessories for little girls, available in various sizes and styles from large, detailed felt flowers for bigger girls to tiny bows and clips for babies.

Left: Small Coral Felt Bow , Right: Small Purple Rose

Continually expanding their inventory, Coco Penny offers a new line of sequin bows which Lainey thinks are fantastic.

I love their snug-fitting violet cluster collection for little babies and their large gardenias for bigger girls.

Coco Penny also offers interchangeable headbands and flowers as well as several gift sets, great for birthday parties or baby showers!

Use code “kelle” for 15% off your Coco Penny order.

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A week of observations await. What will you notice?

For the record, I haven’t dragged a bag of garbage since. It happened once, okay?

I have grays.

There I said it. My head has been overtaken. What started as my first gray hair last year turned into a freaking white-haired block party, and now I am obsessed with tracking them down in this nightly head-over-the-sink-examining-like-a-chimp ritual. No matter where I part my hair, I find one. Wiry, coiled non-conformists, those grays are. They think they’re so cool because they’re all go-against-the-flow and look different from the smooth brown ones. And since this is kind of new, I’m still in the Whoa! stage, so I shout from the bathroom after the latest gray hair census report and announce to Brett how many new ones I found.

“Nineteen, Brett. How can you get nineteen new gray hairs in one week?”

And he doesn’t even comment back as there are certain conversations I have with him where he just checks out because he knows I’m really just having a conversation with myself. Except he smiles–that smile that says “Ha ha, join the club.” Because he is–how do I say this…more experienced in the gray-hair-counting area.

Speaking of smiling, I’m not buying the smile from the chick on the Nutmeg Dark Brown box. She is smirking. She thinks it’s funny that I now have to buy her more than I’d like to, and I want to wipe that smile off her face for her. But I refrain. Because I need her, #28 Nutmeg Dark Brown with the conceited smirk.

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The last couple weeks have been good for me. I’ve fallen deeper in love with writing, and I’ve really enjoyed the way it feels to write through more challenging days. Writing is a part of me just as musicians can’t live without music and painters can’t live without canvas and paints, and I thrive on experiences that pull me to write a bit more raw and unfiltered. It’s my favorite kind, and though I hope that all my writing comes out that way, sometimes it needs to be stimulated. The writing though is really just a bi-product of the greater reward of challenges–instropection at its best, the kind that can’t come from reading books or hearing someone else’s story but must come from our own experiences. Sometimes I look back at posts from the early days after Nella’s birth, and I miss that writing and feeling. It just flowed–pain, self reflection, growing, putting it all out there. And as quick as I think it–that “I want that again” feeling, I retract, almost superstitiously as if just thinking it means I’m giving the universe permission to throw some great challenge at us. No thank you, I’ll keep my crafts and brunch with girlfriends.

I can say this because deep down, I’m not superstitious. And I know that good introspection does not need Down syndrome or husbands with chest pains or first days of kindergarten to fuel it. I also know that challenges are inevitable. When we live aware and embrace everything around us as part of our story–the good, the bad, the funny, the irreverent, the holy, the confusing and the calm–we’ll have wonderful things about which to write. Subjects to paint. Stories to sing.

So this weekend, I embraced the calm.

After so much deep thinking and self-reflection, I turned it off this weekend. So much that last night while trying to fall asleep, I actually had to pull out my imagery trick where I tell my brain to shut-the-hell–up. It goes something like this, for anyone interested in borrowing it (I made it up. Dr. Phil, don’t even think about stealing it): You imagine your brain is a Magna Doodle–one of those magnetic drawing boards for kids, and all your thoughts are iron filing crap junkin’ up the board. And then you come in and grab the little eraser knob at the bottom, and you meditatively swipe it clean. You have to say “Swipe” out loud when you do it. Voila–resting brain. Dude, it works.

So, where were we?

Relaxing. Not much thinking. Hanging at the Church of the Isles of Capri with friends.

My girl is coming out of her shell a little easier these days. It’s confidence.

Hope your holiday weekend was lovely. Many more back to school today–good luck!

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Your #enjoyingthesmallthings photos:
If you use Instagram and have a photo that makes you happy, share it by using the hashtag #enjoyingthesmallthings. Yours may be chosen to be shared in a Friday post.

(can I just say I love these? I drop in on this hashtag several times a week, and it always makes me happy. Y’all are making beautiful moments with your families.)

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If you are in the Southern California area, I will be returning to San Diego in October to be part of the Infantino and Step 2 Everybody Plays campaign. Infantino and Step 2 are hosting their casting call now and are looking for children to be part of this event.

I just saw the new toys we’ll be photographing last week, and there’s a new line coming to Target called Go Gaga! Vibrant vintage colors, wood and corduroy textures–it’s gorgeous.

I’ll also be doing a book signing in San Diego on the evening of Wednesday, October 17th. More info to come.

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Finally, I’m thrilled to bring Casey Wiegand back as an Enjoying the Small Things sponsor. Casey is an artist in the Dallas area (check out her amazing art studio for kids and adults, A Little Artsy), but she also has an beautiful heart which she shares on her blog, at speaking conferences, and through her art.

Art, style, motherhood, family, faith, women’s issues–Casey’s got it.

And a brand new baby, Apple, who just came home. Check her out.

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It’s a four-day week! And I’m off to color my hair.

Before I write anything, I have to thank you for the kind words and all the love you’ve been sharing this past week. From kindergarten stories to hang-in-theres, this little space (and my Instagram and FB buds!) has felt like such a community–a reminder that no matter where we are or what our lives look like, we really are so very much the same. We need support, we give support. Both of these factors–needing and giving–are equally important to emotional survival.

I’ve had three major topics swimming around in my head this past week, and I’ve wanted to write about all three. They probably each deserve a separate post, but then I’d get very behind and while I was waiting to write about those, three other topics would climb aboard the write-about list, and words would begin backing up. I’d need some sort of mental Activia to regulate my brain. My friend Rebecca calls this state of mind mental mastitis. Which is just great–we have irregular bowels and swollen breasts to which we compare our need to write. What does that say about us?

I’m eatin’ my yogurt, I’m ice-packin’ my brain. Here goes.

First and foremost, Brett is great. In fact, the doctors swear he’s some sort of nutritional athlete based on his tests–a fact he finds funny. Cholesterol, EKG’s, stress tests–they all shout “Be Grateful.” And we are. Other than the crop circles shaved out in his chest hair and the hilarious stories my hospital/medicine/doctor/needle-phobic man has to share of his experience, you’d never know we were scared shirtless earlier this week. Yes, shirtless because my dad will let that one slide.

My favorite story–the one that had me curled up on the couch clutching my side with laughter–was Brett’s rehash of his stress test. The way they sanded–sanded his chest with sandpaper. And the man who walked in holding a Back-to-the-Future metal vial that had “NUCLEAR” printed in neon letters on its side and said “I’m here to inject you.” My husband thinks epidurals are poison–you can imagine his feelings on this space-age ritual that involved needles, the word “nuclear” and…his body. Apparently after pokes and strange sensations, he tasted metal in his mouth and said something to the nurse who said, “Oh honey, that’s just the mercury you’re tasting.” It is a wonder he didn’t really, truly have heart problems after that experience alone. And for all those sweet medical professionalists who have written in concern–promise, we are following up with a regular physician.

Three topics, one post. Let’s break it down outline style.

I. Kindergarten, Week 2

This whole thing has been like Bloom: Finding Beauty in Five-Year-Old Anxiety, Lainey’s follow up version to her mother’s memoir. The same principles abide:

A. Life is Hard.
B. You have to go through it.
C. You learn.
D. And then you grow.

Day two, three and four didn’t magically get better. She still cried and I still cried and we talked, talked, talked through all of it. But I’ve had my favorite conversations to date with my daughter, communicating through all of this anxiety, comforting her on the drive to school, lying in bed at night discussing what this is all about. After quickly growing accustomed to the comfort and security within her own little classroom, she still expressed so much fear in the morning regarding her day–enough to cry through morning routines and skip breakfast the entire first week. “I’m so scared,” she would say. And when we would prompt for more specific explanation, she made two important clarifications: “I’m scared of music and art class” and “I’m scared of learning.” Music and art were two related arts classes she hadn’t yet attended–new teachers, new experiences, and the fear of the unknown overwhelmed her. And the fear of learning itself? Well, aren’t we all afraid of that. As exciting as the world of knowledge and experience is, the magnitude of information–what we don’t know and have yet to learn–can make us feel so small and fragile.

It seemed appropriate one morning on the drive to school to share a little bit more with Lainey, especially when five seconds of car silence stimulated her already growing anxiety and she asked me, “Please keep talking about school, Mommy. I’m scared.” I asked her if she wanted me to tell her a story about the scariest time in my life, when I too was “scared of learning” and cried every day.

I told her about Nella’s birth. How when they told me she had Down syndrome, I cried because I was scared. I didn’t know anything about Down syndrome, and I was scared of learning.

“Do you think Nella’s scary?” I asked Lainey. Her anxiety broke for a moment while she laughed and answered “No.”

“Of course not,” I replied. “It’s just that I didn’t know anything about Down syndrome, and I had to learn. I cried every day for a while, but every day it got better, and pretty soon I stopped crying because I forgot about Down syndrome. I learned that it wasn’t scary anymore. I know school seems scary now, but I promise it will get better.”

When I picked up Lainey from school on Thursday–the same morning she cried, afraid of music class–I watched as she held the hand of the safety patrol who walked her to my car. She tried to conceal her smile, but her attempts were futile. She climbed in, threw her backpack on the floor and proudly announced, “I like music. It’s not scary.” And yesterday? She hugged me tight before class and marched right in, no tears. No tears, all day. My my, how she has grown.

We catch her playing school now with her stuffed animals and little pool critters–arranging them in story circles, asking the little cow to hold the door, reminding the octopus he needs to raise his hand.

Oh, Nella’s about to get in big, big trouble for goin’ in for a swipe. The five seconds that followed this picture when Lainey found out she wrecked her class line? Yeah, I didn’t photograph that.

It’s a tiny window into the happenings of her classroom. “Please walk quietly,” she’ll say after she takes ten minutes to line them up perfectly. She calls them by her classmates’ names. She talks about star charts and morning snack and borrowing crayons from Jillian. And can I just say, I’m thrilled she gets to experience this right now.

Sister bloomed.

II. Fred’s

I’ve written about Fred’s on Tuesday nights before. I call it Tuesday Night Church because God is there. In fact, I think it might be his headquarters. Now that Fred’s is closing for a month for renovations, I realize how important this evening is for me; how important these friends are in my life.

I started going for me. I think acceptance of anything challenging in life is a forever journey. For me, adulthood special needs is where I focus on preparing my heart, and when I heard about Fred’s special needs dance night, I knew it would be good for me. I needed to be there–to learn and embrace. In thinking about the future and embracing my daughter’s special needs, I have submerged myself in a mix of acceptance, research and advocacy. For Down syndrome, the focus of all three of these areas seems to be the very positive message of progress. We want the world to know we’ve made great strides in this community. That Down syndrome looks like inclusion and college and independent living. Down syndrome looks different in 2012 than it did in 1950. I am so thankful for this fact. It is inspiring and motivating and says a lot about dreams. If you build it, they will come. If you believe it, it can happen.

I believe the progress in our community is directly related to this mindset–wanting more for our children, finding new ways to educate, studying the science and psychology behind how our children learn, raising standards.

There is a part of me that worries though. I worry that this message of “Look what Down syndrome looks like now” can be misinterpreted to “Accept my child BECAUSE Down syndrome looks like this.” Because she could very well go to college or drive a car or speak well or live independently. And the level of advancement any child makes in life should, in no way, be related to the level of respect, love and dignity she deserves.

I want my child to be accepted because she is a human being who deserves to be loved and respected.

It is only natural for me to be inspired by the bright future of individuals with Down syndrome. To hear stories of twenty-year-olds in college or thirty-year-olds who are married and living on their own and to grasp on to that hope for Nella—to share those stories with the world to demolish existing stereotypes.

Assumptions dwell among this community. If parents are fighting for answers and spending hours researching how to break down more barriers, they’re accused of not accepting their child’s diagnosis. If others seem to be content with their child’s speech and motor delays, they’re accused of settling for low standards.

We need both—high expectations and progress as well as acceptance of our children, loved just the way they are.

So I started to go to Fred’s to stretch that part of me that wants to accept all of this. To see people for who they are, regardless of what they have accomplished. Sure, Nella is part of it, but it goes beyond that for me. It goes beyond Down syndrome too because there are individuals with many different special needs at Fred’s—some who speak well and text fifty words a minute on their cell phones and some who don’t speak at all, who communicate with their heart and their eyes and yes, sometimes their hips (Dude, the dancing. I can’t even explain the dancing. You’ve seen Dirty Dancing? Yeah. There’s some of that goin’ on).

I look at every one of these individuals and imagine that they could be Nella. Or Lainey. Or me. And I want to know what that feels like. When I first started coming, my goal was to make each of them feel special. I asked them what their names were, what they liked to do, I made sure no one was dancing alone, I high fived and bumped hips and exerted every ounce of energy I had to spread compassion like it was my job. Sometimes, I’d go home so emotionally exhausted. It was work. Good, satisfying work, but work.

What’s happened the past few weeks though is that it doesn’t feel much like work anymore. These people truly have become my friends. Instead of coming thinking “I’m here to be compassionate” or “I’m here to grasp some big meaning of life,” I just show up and let the spirit of Fred’s-on-Tuesdays do what it does best. Let go and drink it in. My laugh lines have grown deeper. My hips have become more fluid. Hell, I lost my voice last week after hollering “Whooooohoooo!” through every measure of Party Rock. I’m enjoying myself and thinking less about embracing special needs because they’re kind of a moot point once the music starts.

We talk a lot. I’m really getting to know them—where they work, where they grew up, who likes the doo-wop bands, who likes the “sexy sexy” songs, and who’s in love with whom (I’m deeply engrossed in one of the on-again, off-again romances, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve been carrying messages back and forth between them, secretly rooting for this couple to get back together).

I don’t even really know why I go, but I know I need to be there. It’s knowing God.

*****

Alright, last outline point.

III. A New Friend

It’s interesting how this happened. A couple months ago, a few of you left comments that you found Enjoying the Small Things by way of another blogger, Glennon Melton who writes at Momastery.com. So I check this chick out and realize I’ve read some of her pieces on the Huffington Post, and I really dig what she has to say. I drop her an e-mail to thank her for her beautiful mention of Nella’s birth story, and we start writing back and forth. Meanwhile, I’m reading deep into her blog, and I am riveted. Moved, intrigued, completely awestruck by the way this woman is using every ounce of herself–her past, her vulnerabilities, her strengths, her story to GRAB people and help them. And help herself. Isn’t that what writing is really about though? We write to help ourselves.

And then she tells me what a funny thing it is because her family is moving to Naples in a matter of weeks. And during this time of planning out how we’ll get together to meet, I get more and more e-mails from readers. Do you know Glennon Melton? Have you ever heard of Glennon? You two have to meet.

So we did. Four hours in a coffee shop talking about everything. Writing, kids, God, books, husbands, travel, dreams, people, love, blogging, messy houses, school, parents, ourselves. Sbe is everything her writing portrays her to be–honest, real, good, vulnerable and funny as hell. If you don’t already read her, you should.

And I have to hurry and post this because our families are meeting each other today. Our kids, our husbands. This feels so very meant to be.

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Oh, that felt good. Three subjects, one post. No more blockage.

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Friday Photo Dump:

Look…Baby’s growin’.

There’s an official shelf for Nella to sit on.

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I’m excited to have one of our sweet Etsy shops back in the spotlight this month (pun intended). We have several strands of Bubblewish lights in our home–in both of my girls’ rooms, draped across our entry way and headboards during the holidays, and a light-free star strand scalloped across our shower curtain. Bubblewish twinkly lights are a whimsical addition to any room and add a dream-like glow with a touch of personality.

Bubblewish will be adding some new fall and holiday strands to the shop soon. Check it out!

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Saw my first shooting star last night. That was pretty cool.

Happy Weekend. Sorry for the crazy long post.