SIX! This calls for a sleepover...

My sweet triplets turned six last week.  Cue me feeling ancient, I still remember wrapping their gifts when they turned one...

A dance party was in order - with all the trimmings, of course.  Stacy had some sweet, dear teenage girls on hand to do hair and makeup for the ballerinas, and it was a hoot to see them all dolled up.  Even if the lipstick was a little, ahem, bold.

The girls had a great time.  Lulu of course joined in not aware, not even a little bit, that she is only 2.  I even got out there and danced a little and for a second I think I felt 6, too.

I even got to have a little date with my Viv that day, which was a cherry on top of the party for me.

I think it's safe to say the birthday girls had a good time.  Gosh they are cute.

As a total surprise, I had arranged with Stacy to let the girls come spend the night at my apartment that night.  I wondered if they would be hesitant, as they had never gone on a sleepover before.  I was wrong.  I pulled into the driveway to pick them up and there they all stood, screaming, clutching their pillows and jumping up and down.

We had the BEST time.  Out to dinner and a movie, past their bedtime, with popcorn AND cookies.  We were living on the edge.  We had every blanket and pillow I own plus three sleeping bags piled into the center of my den, toys everywhere, lovies everywhere, and it was heaven to me.  During the movie Caroline snuggled up with me and said "Becca, can we please do this again?" and as they were falling asleep I heard Gabby say to Sophie "Soph, hasn't this been the most fun ever?"  I felt like George Banks when he hears the kids yell 'I love you' to each other across the hall the night before the wedding in Father of the Bride.  Talk about pulling on my heartstrings.

And one of my favorite parts was hearing cartoons from the shower the next morning and coming out to find this:

The sleepover was a huge success.

Happy Birthday, my precious girls.  I love you!

The Sound of Music

I was humbled and honored to take photos this weekend at a gorgeous backyard wedding here in Winston.  The mother of a longtime friend from high school was married at their home and I was fortunate enough to be there behind the camera to capture the beautiful event for their family.

Not long after I arrived and ran around getting photos of centerpieces, the cake, the last touches being put everywhere, Michael, the minister of music from their church arrived to fit in a little tuning and practice before the ceremony.

I became enthralled with watching him warm up and hearing his beautiful violin.  Maybe it was the gorgeous green all around him in the backyard and the fact that I don't think anyone else had even noticed him yet.  But I was sucked right in.

I have been blessed with an incredible love for music.  This is what makes me a "Frye" (my grandmother's family) more than anything else.  (That and my hands....every woman in our family has the same hands, I feel like.)

You will be hard pressed to find anyone on that side of my family that cannot carry a tune, keep great rhythm, and play at least one musical instrument.  When my great uncle Harold died a few years ago, my mom was quick to point out that our family section at the church service sounded like a full blown choral ensemble, and that for most hymns a lot of the group didn't even need hymnals and could sing the respective 'parts' by ear.

In our family, learning to read music has always been just as important as learning your multiplication tables and how to tie your shoe.  Just a few weeks ago at church the music with the hymn in the hymnal was not at all the same tune as what was being sung.  After church Mom said something to me about how "that wasn't even the same tune that was printed!" and I quickly said "yes, but how many people in the congregation actually even knew that, do you think?"

Part of our Christmas tradition every year growing up was, truly, nearly a concert at my grandparents house.  All of the grandchildren would take turns playing a song (usually Nanny's favorite, 'O Little Town of Bethlehem') on any variety of instruments.  Then my mom and her sisters would always line up at the piano to play their holiday trio of Sleigh Ride.  I've heard this every Christmas of my life.

I so, SO appreciate that music has always been so important in my family.  I have vivid memories of my grandparents in the choir at church when I was very young, of going to see my cousins in concerts many, many times through the years, and of being very involved in music growing up myself.  I often feel like I can still hear my grandmother humming.  She did it ALL the time, and it was like some sort of background soundtrack for my childhood.

Music often brings me to tears.  A gorgeous arrangement of something can take the breath out of me.  Just this weekend at the backyard wedding, Michael stepped back into the aisle during the ceremony and played The Lord's Prayer, and I forgot for a moment that I needed to keep taking pictures because I got so wrapped up in how beautiful it was.

I've realized that I am just like my mother used to be when I was younger now at church.  I clench my teeth when people talk during the music during the worship service.  I have even, from time to time, thrown her 'look' in the general direction of those folks who seem to think that the music during the service is some sort of free-for-all to whisper down a pew.  These things MORTIFIED me growing up, and now here I am...

I'm so thankful that music has always been instilled in me.  I think I speak for every single Frye when I say that it's a blessing.  Music is healing and full of worship.  It can calm sometimes when nothing else can.  An appreciation of it is a true gift.  A gift for which I will always be grateful. (Which is exactly how my great-grandmother would have worded it.) :)

Love and Happiness...

I know that there are hundreds, thousands, likely even millions of things floating around out there right now about the Amendment One vote that took place yesterday in North Carolina.  I'm not thinking that what I have to say will matter to anyone any more or less than what anyone else has to say, but I seem to put my thoughts together on this blog fairly well, and so that's what I'd like to do...

I will not take a political stance.  I will not take a religious stance.  I will not bash North Carolina because I love where I am from.  But I will take a stance of loyalty.  And love.  And friendship.  And happiness.

I am FIERCELY loyal.  This gets me in trouble sometimes.  A friend can go through something rough with another person, and long after they have buried the hatchet, I am still walking around carrying a torch and with a bad taste in my mouth about the person that hurt them or did them wrong.  A blessing and a curse, this loyalty.  But it's just how I am.

This brings me to my most personal - VERY personal - connection to Amendment One.  My dear, dear friend Amanda.

Amanda and I met in high school, and got to know each other through very high school-like things - Student Council, Yearbook Staff, etc.  She is a SCREAM and one of my very, very favorite people on this planet. 

I can remember SO vividly, my Junior year in high school, when she talked me off of a ledge about worrying so much about what everyone thinks.   It was something silly about being invited to a dance and people that weren't were being mean to me about it (I know, I know, the DRAMA.  But it was high school.)  I am super sensitive (and really was then), so having anyone even slightly upset with me bothered me so, so badly.  But she looked me in the face, over the table in our 7th period Yearbook class, and told me not to worry about it.  That not everyone is nice and not everyone will agree with everything.  But not to worry about those folks - because it is your true friends that will be there for the long-haul, anyway.

A few years ago, I found out Amanda was gay.  I heard "through the grapevine" and then tried to track her down, to get in touch with her.  Almost a year later, I finally did, and we met for lunch.  She wasn't aware that I knew, and about halfway through lunch, after some general catching up and small talk, she told me she was really glad we had finally caught up because she needed to talk to me about something...and that she couldn't figure out how to until then.  I stopped her and told her that I knew.  And that I didn't care.  And that I would love her if her skin turned green and she shaved her head and was 4 feet tall.  It didn't change who she was to me...  And I remember thinking how sad I was that she had felt that I would care.  The very person who, all those years ago, talked me out of that same corner of worrying about what other people think.  She wasn't worried about me specifically, I don't think, but just anyone.  It had taken me nearly a year to get an email or phone call back from her.  But I remember being SO grateful to sit in that moment and talk to her about it all.  And the bottom line of it all?  She looked me square in the face and told me that she was the happiest she had ever been in her life.  And I remember crying, because I was so happy FOR her.

That afternoon I met Marie, and I instantly understood the connection.  When the phone call came down the road from Amanda telling me that they had decided to get married, I wasn't the least bit surprised.  They knew it wouldn't be a legally recognized event, but the importance to them was to have their friends and family in one place and commit to each other.

I was very, VERY humbled when they asked me to do some of the photography for the wedding.  I would stay with Amanda for the day, another friend would stay with Marie, and then we would both shoot things once the ceremony started.

I have been around a LOT of weddings.  In them, there to help photograph them...  The whole day of this one didn't feel anything different from any of the rest.  Amanda actually got ready at the same salon my sister did for her wedding.  I ran around and took photos of Amanda having her hair and makeup done, of details in the salon.  I stuck their rings in roses that were there and shot those.  I headed back to the hotel with Amanda and got to be there the whole time she got ready.  For about an hour and a half it was actually just the two of us, and I remember thinking how grateful I was for that time (that I didn't necessarily know would be that way).  The bridal party busted in soon, dresses everywhere, a little champagne to accompany the quick sandwiches being shared, vows being finished...me finding all of the details that I love to shoot for such an occasion.

It wasn't any different.  Amanda was nervous but excited.  She was reflective and beautiful.  She was HAPPY.

The wedding was beautiful and - even as my first experience at such a thing - didn't seem that different to me at all.  I didn't come away thinking of it as different at all.  I instead came away thinking about Amanda's young nephew who stripped his shirt off in the back of the ceremony site and played with his airplanes.  I remember the music.  I remember almost tripping over the bottom of my dress trying to get up from taking a shot of them exchanging vows.  I remember how beautiful the flowers were.  I remember Amanda's dad walking her down the aisle and Marie's brother doing the same for her.

I have a crystal clear memory of Amanda's sisters - who I babysat for when I was in college - sitting in the front row before the ceremony.  They were nervous.  One of them couldn't get her corsage pinned on because her sweet hands were shaking.  I got down on my knees, offered to help, and talked to her while I worked on her flower.  I told her I knew this was different.  But that it was okay.  And that Amanda was HAPPY.  We loved her and she was happy and that's what mattered.  She nodded and hugged me and two hours later I watched her cutting a heck of a rug on the dance floor with everyone else, having a blast. :)

Amanda and Marie are no different to me than any other married couple that I am friends with.  The only issue I have when I go see them at their house is not that they are gay, but that their cat stirs up my allergies.  My only argument with them is that neither of them cheer for my Wolfpack.  They are fun and loving and warm and hilariously funny and I will be friends with both of them forever.

And they will - one day, somehow, I know - be parents.  And I will show up with bells on toting my favorite baby gift of a monogrammed blanket and send my customary First Christmas ornament.  Their children will love sailing and golden retrievers and the Heels and the Hoosiers.  And they will be wise, beautiful, driven people because they will be a reflection of their parents.

Like I said - I will not get on any political or religious soapboxes.  But I will get on a happiness one.  It is all - ALL - we should ever want for those people that we love.  And if they are happy, who are we to judge?

Boys & Girls & Eggs, Eggs, Eggs

I LOVE dying Easter eggs.  It is just as much of an art form and creative outlet as anything else to me.  I will always (I hope!) have a childlike excitement about this annual ritual.  Pulling a once white, boring egg out of a cup of color has always made he happy.  I have very clear memories of dying eggs at very young ages and have always loved the boiled egg-plus-vinegar smell that Easter eggs create.

The bonus of all of this is that kids LOVE to dye eggs.  The double bonus is that it always makes for great photos.

Friday night I headed over to take care of all of this with Spencer and Sam.  That afternoon someone asked me how many years I'd done this with them, and I couldn't believe it when in my head I counted all the way to 9 in my head before answering.  I can remember one chubby, blond-haired, only child little Spencer doing this with me all those years ago.  Now he is 10, has braces, and proceeded to read the news out loud from the newspaper we used to cover the table while his eggs were in the cups.  Something about this kid will always feel like some sort of first-born to me.

Sam, who is a bit of a tazmanian devil in life in general, will sit for AGES doing this.  It has always amazed me that he is all but hypnotized by this process.  He has been since he was a baby.  He loves it.  About halfway through our time I turned around just in time to see him send the cup of pink dye FLYING off the table.  Wall, window, bench, clothes, floor....EVERYWHERE.  Kid didn't miss a beat.  Stood up on the bench with his little egg stirrer still going in another cup with one hand while I stripped his shorts off and cleaned up the neon pink lake that was quickly spreading all around both of us. 

After saying "please try to not get a ton of color on your hands" so many times, you just give up...

I went home that night and promptly boiled 6 dozen more eggs for an adventure with some of my girls (and no other adults) the next day.  The flash of "What on earth are you thinking?!" was fleeting, and the next morning I headed to pick up 5 VERY excited little girls for lunch and more fun.  It was egg-cellent (oh come on, I had to do it somewhere...)

First we went to Chick-fil-a, where a nice man who held the door open while I pulled them out of the car one by one and let them run in told me that he never knew a Toyota doubled as a clown car. :)

I thought I was in the running for a Nobel Prize by getting the eggs all boiled up front so we wouldn't have to wait on that.  I did not, however, think about 5 little girls having to wait on those little tablets to dissolve.  Patience?  Not so much.  But then I brought out all the eggs and they sure were excited. 

I realized my camera was inside and asked them to please not touch the eggs for two seconds while I ran inside to get it.  I couldn't even turn around to come back out before I heard "BECCA!  BECCA!  You said not to touch the eggs and Nora picked one up and she dropped it and it broke!"  I turned around to Maggie behind me, egg in hand, making sure I knew Nora broke the rules.  Then there were the rest of them, all with eggs in hand.  Ah well.  If Nora jumped off a bridge I assume they'd all be right there with her...  But dang is she cute.

Once they got going it sure was sweet.  They would just shriek and squeal in delight with every egg that revealed itself.  The magic of it was never lost on them, not with a single one of the 6 dozen eggs.

I especially appreciated my sweet Olivia, who took all the time in the world, did hers so carefully and one-by-one - never had multiple ones going at the same time.  She was so painstaking and detailed and thoughtful about how many she had of each color and making sure she'd made one for each member of her family...  I just sat and watched her for a while while all the others played tag in the front yard.  She's totally me 25 years ago.

Yes, it was crazy both times.  And a mess.  But would I have traded it for the $640 million lottery?  

Not a chance. :)

Blink and You'll Miss It...

This Friday I took all of about 30 minutes to stop by part of Vivi's 6th birthday.  On the brink of her first sleepover, she and the crew were having pizza first in the 'party room' in the back of Mario's.  One step through the front of the restaurant and I could hear the mass of squealing and girliness all the way in the back of the restaurant.  When I opened the doors to their room, I realized that - although certainly plenty loud enough - these girls had really just been on mute up until then.

It was chaos, 7 girls seemed like 70.  They ran all around the tiny little room and Jen sat next to me looking scared for her life about what the next 12 to 14 hours would be like.  I laughed and told her to call my mom, a professional slumber party mother.  If there were ever a gold medal in such a thing, my mother would be a champion over and over and over again.

But then it was time for cake.  They all just got louder and squealier as they gathered around the table.  But after singing, for a SPLIT second, there was silent anticipation and a flash of time for her to make her wish and blow out her candles.

I see so much of life - of life's moments - from behind my camera.  It's how I am used to experiencing so many of the moments that I am present for - mine or anyone else's.  I am often trying to freeze time to preserve a memory for someone else, but every now and then I catch a shot that will stick with me forever, too.

She's growing up lightning fast...but I'm sure part of me - and everyone else who loves her - will always see her as this little girl...

Oh Abe...

I've said before how much of an Abraham Lincoln nut I am....

Yesterday my cousin, while on the phone with me from DC taking a walk on his lunch break, got a little tripped up and then says to me "Whoa, sorry, ran into Abraham Lincoln."

I'm sorry...do what???

Turns out he was walking past Madame Tussaud's and ole Abe was out front from the President's Gallery exhibit getting a little sun on a nice Spring day...

Once getting this photo from him, my response to him was this:

"Looking good!  Looks like he's about to run out into the street and join the Electric Slide or something."

"Actually, he's across the street from Fords."

"Dude, he needs to run the OTHER way then!.....Oh wait.....Theatre or Gerald and Betty?"

"Theatre"

"Okay.  Definitely run then.  Run, Abe - RUN!"


Sometimes the dumbest things crack me up for hours...  :)

40 Days...

Last year, I gave up Starbucks for Lent.  I think my poor boss didn't think it would be a big deal.  I hadn't been there long, he didn't know.  I think this year if he heard of such plans he'd change the office locks.  It is just the two of us at work and I'm not necessarily a pill if I don't have my White Mocha, but I am such a nice girl with it.  :)

This year I will toss soft drinks by the wayside.  This should go over just fine I think.

Also during Lent this year, I want to DO something.  Not just NOT DO something.  Not just give something up.  A very dear woman here in town (hello Jean!) did this last year, and I thought to myself, "Oh, I will SO do that next year".  And here we are.

Every single day, she stuck a piece of mail - a real, handwritten, stamped piece of mail - in the mailbox for someone she loved.  40 notes.  40 stamps.  40 people that she wanted to make sure knew how much they are valued.

In this day of phone calls and email and texting and Facebook and Twitter (and blogs - I know, I am happy to call myself on the carpet here, too), there is nothing so precious as a sweet note in the mail amongst the bills and Bed Bath and Beyond coupons (how does that place ever make any money???).

I LOVE to write a handwritten note.  My sister and I have been raised in a family where note writing is expected - but not in a bad way - it is enjoyed.  I have a ridiculous stash of stationery and I often pile more in my poor little box even though I don't need it.  I am a paper snob and a total sucker when it comes to a pretty note with a monogram slapped on it.  (I am aware that it's a problem - but there certainly are far worse things to spend money on than pretty paper...)

Each night before I go to bed I will write the note to go out the next day.  Sunday notes will go out Mondays - a note will truly be dated for every single day of Lent.  I'm so excited I could pop.  I realize it's a little thing when divided by 40...but I still hope it will bring a few smiles here and there.  And who knows, I might keep right on going after 40...who cares if I have to restock the stationery box.

Here's to always taking the time to let people know just how much you love them...there's no better time to do so than when we are in the midst of celebrating the very best Love we will ever know...