Buenas tardes!

Hola from sunny and slightly cooler Mexico. I apologize for my short hiatus. Last week I was packing and now we are here. I keep thinking I will have time to post and then the sunny vacation days get away from us. Tomorrow we are just hanging out and I plan on taking time to tell you all about our trip to lovely Baja California Sur.

More to come! Happy to be here and simultaneously miss you! [hugs]

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I needed to Fix Myself

I was pregnant here. You can see the beginnings of my pregnant belly. 6.17.06
Dave & Me. Thanksgiving 2011

As I crawled in bed late last night Dave, who was already in bed, said, “I read what you posted. Wow! That was a lot. That was really good. You are a good writer.”

Thinking he was talking about the post I had just written on Overweight Women, confused and perplexed I said, “Well, thanks, um, didn’t you edit that post earlier?”

“No. The one you posted on Facebook.” He responded.

“Oh. My Fix-You Post.” I said and because I was tired and caught of guard by his thoughtful comment, I mean, (I don’t think Dave would feel especially compassionate about the overweight woman who was smoking while carrying her catheter bag into her dialysis appointment), I continued, “I am working on my archives. That was one of the last posts I wrote  before I quit blogging and it was one of the first posts I was able to recover from the sever-back-up Vortex. It was always a favorite.  I didn’t read it today. It is too sad.”

I turned over, smiled and was grateful that he had read it.  Dave’s feedback meant more to me than almost any other feedback I have ever been given. Go Dave!

The “Fix-You” Post was so sad  because I was so sad and right after that I quit blogging.  I quit blogging because my heart was broken and I spent the next five years trying to put my heart and the rest of me back together. It was more than blogging. I stopped and changed everything. I put my two feet on the ground and pointed them forward.

It is estimated that since Eli was born (he is 10) that I have had at least twenty miscarriages (I stopped counting). I could have chosen to adopt. I could have talked Dave into using a surrogate (probably not) and  even now that I am much older, every single month I still ask myself, “What if I am pregnant?”  It never leaves.  It just does not and so it is what it is. What I want you to know is that I use my pain to see opportunity. My heartache has morphed  into gratitude and  my lack of control has taught me to let go. And yes, getting here has been anything, but easy.

Opportunity.

Opportunity is what it was and opportunity is how I spin things now.  The one opportunity I did walk away from was my daily interaction with wonderful people who came to Crazyus.com. Without a word or an explanation, I unplugged and I walked away. Bloggers and readers alike were always kind and good to me and believe me, when I left, I missed all of them.  As I sit here and type I know that I would be over the moon if I ever could have that same internet connection again (get the play on words . . . internet & connection . . . he he he). Seriously, it would be beyond my dreams!

The opportunities I did have way back in August 2006 were my late miscarriage and imminent mental crash. It was time for me to accept the fact (or at least start accepting) that I may never give birth again and this was a not-exactly-how-I-had-envisioned-my-life opportunity to stretch.

Peggle

Here is how it went. We sold our house. We moved into a tiny tiny condo in Park City, UT. Dave would go to our land, work on our new house everyday, Kyle would go to school and Eli would go to pre-school. I, well, I would sit home and sleep or play Peggle. I spent hours and hours every single day playing Peggle. I played Peggle so much that I finally confessed my Peggle Addiction to Dave. He already knew. He mentioned an article he had read about combat soldiers who play Tetris. “They play it to help with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”  That was all I needed to hear and I kept on playing. I played Peggle for months and months and months. I loved my high scores I loved watching where the orange ball would go.

Eventually and still in my Peggle fog, we pulled Kyle out of first grade because he was so far ahead. He had gone to an accelerated kindergarten the year before and in October when the Principal at his new school told me it was fine for Kyle to “hang out” until the end of the school year (doing absolutely nothing, except getting in trouble), Dave and I knew something needed to be done. Because I was on Peggle-Auto-Pilot Dave took the lead and found a Homeschooling group (I was not about to Homeschool), which led him to this Hippie Montessori School. Dave went over to the school and loved it. I resisted for a few weeks until he finally dragged me over to check things out. Miss Diane, the long haired sixty-five year old director was wearing leggings, Uggs and a denim shirt. The school is in a house-slash-barn and I saw lots of feathers, Indian gear and Dreamcatchers. Because nothing is ever completely ideal, the school would end up being this crazy, dysfunctional, magical-talking-stick-duct-taped together Fairyland, but in that moment Miss Diane grabbed my sad sad face, kissed it, then looked me right in the eyes and said, “You will love it here. I know you will.”  She hugged me and welcomed me into her crazy-Hippie-Montessori-Planet. As confused as I felt, I knew and to this day know, that Miss Diane loves and accepts me, crazy parts and all. We paid our overpriced deposit, filled out our paperwork and signed Kyle up.

Miss Diane & Kyle

 

In late 2006 Diane and the Another Way Montessori School Community was everything this Adams Family needed to heal our broken hearts. No one knew anything about us. We had a clean slate and I loved it. We were simply the weird family, who was building a house up the street. And really at Another Way, everyone is a little weird and outside-of-the-box. Because of this we all fit into this little Park City Island of Misfit Toys. I loved it! I loved getting caught up in fundraising. I loved learning about Yellowhawk, the Indian. I loved that Sausha’s dad is Bart The Bear’s Trainer. I did not love that the dog-wolf hybrids came to the school, but my kids did.  I loved learning about the Talking Stick and I loved that Another Way was NOT Peanut Free. I sent my kids with their Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches to school and I loved that I could.

Miss Diane is a world renowned ski instructor and we love that she taught our boys to parallel ski. No snow plowing allowed. I love that the boys learned to ride and groom a horse and I loved that the horses were at the school. It was not very long after we signed Kyle up that Miss Diane convinced us that Eli needed to be there too. It was easy. It was safe. If I needed time to breathe, the boys could stay late.  As Dave and I continued to do infertility treatments I always knew we could leave the boys with Diane. I really believe we found our very own Modern Day Hippie Commune. It was disorganized, unpredictable and I loved it. The friends I made there are friends I will have for life.

As I was talking to one of those friends earlier today I was mentioning how our choices take us to where we need to be. I mentioned my second act, the-what-I-did -after-my-miscarriage-broke-my-heart act. My friend is my very same age and has had similar struggles and I said to her, “You know how you always tell me to put my feet on the ground and point them forward? Well, when I moved to Park City, that is what I did. I had no idea what would happen. I was so sad. And then I started opening my heart ever-so-slightly  and there you were, a better friend than I could hope for. You got it and  understood this crappy infertility road and since the moment we met at Another Way, you have always been willing to travel the road with me.”

Grateful.

Grateful is what I am. I am stubborn. I desperately want to control all outcomes. When I let go, when I point my feet forward, people and places always come into my life that heal me and are so much better than anything I could have imagined. Because I got out of bed and put my feet on the ground, I could begin to heal.

Eli the Very Serious Equestrian and Miss Diane
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I should be continuing our SJS story, but Kyle is sick — again.

Kyle, Eli & the Innes Boys 2004 or 2005

Today my writing is sloppy and brief. I will fix it when I can. Shortly we are leaving to take Kyle to the doctor.

As most of you know, a year ago Kyle was diagnosed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome. Recently I began sharing our story. I have alluded to the fact that Kyle is still not out of the woods. Today is another reminder of how delicate life is. His immune system is weak. When Kyle gets sick his body always embraces the whole go-big-or-go-home attitude. Strep Throat can get him back in the hospital and a cut will turn into a serious staph infection. That’s just how it is, our new normal. Two weeks ago he had Strep Throat (again), Hand, Foot & Mouth, and a Staph Infection on his upper thigh all at the same time.

Last night I came home from the Salt Lake City H&M Grand Opening Event (pays to have press connections, by the way). When I walked in the door, I could hear Kyle moaning. I settled him and about an hour later he came running into my room screaming. “MOM, MOM, I can’t breath! My stomach! Mom! Mom! I don’t feel well!” Deliriously I watched him try to throw up in my bathroom and eventually we made our way to the kitchen where after a few minutes of helping him relax (or relax as much as one can right before you throw up), he puked his guts out and continued to puke his guts out all night long while Dave and I played chicken with each other over who would get up and be with Kyle next.

It may be nothing. These days with Kyle, it often is somthing. My head aches and I am not sure what to do. This is how we roll.

Taking Yesterday for Granted

or shall I say, “I didn’t know a good thing when I had it.”

At this spot in time I think/hope I can be more objective when I look back at online communication’s early days. I think we all can. The facts are these: I really started blogging in 2002 when everything in Internet Land was crazy, the Dot Boom had gone bust. Venture Capitalists were no longer throwing millions at fleeting thoughts.  There was no Facebook; Google was around, but only used by nerds at that point, and a Twitter was something your heart did when it was in love.

On occasion I have mentioned that my very first blog actually began in 1998. Oh wait, technically it was 1997 when I wrote my first web piece on OS News (Dave’s technology website that still exists today). See, I worked at an early-stage startup and internet is what I did. Some sort of personal website only seemed a natural fit. It was my wedding blog. Dave had this fantastic idea to put all of our wedding information and special love thoughts online. I honestly doubted if anyone besides the handful of internet junkies would actually use the site. If they did, we promised that all of the information was there and that this online information would make things easier by streamlining our wedding agenda.

Thirteen years later, I can now tell you that I was correct. A handful of people did look at our wedding blog and most of the feedback we received went something like this: [insert a Midwestern Pre-school teacher voice here] “Oh geez, that is really, um [confused pause] sweet? Aren’t you concerned that just anyone (probably a pervert) could look at your website and show up at your wedding?” Not really, and really what Dave and I thought was, “well, if some random person finds our website, then the more the merrier [even a pervert, wink, wink].”

Fast forward a few years to 2002. Once again my lovely husband had the brilliant blogging idea. We had recently purchased at VW Eurovan Camper. Dave, the boys and I were going to spend a year on the road and Dave figured a blog would be the perfect way to let our family know where we were and at least when we made our post we would also let them know that we were still alive. I like how he thinks. We hit the road and occasionally posted from exotic locals such as Calgary, Alberta, Canada and Western Nevada.

Then one day, one of the many times we were back in Utah staying in a friend’s condo, all of our stuff in storage and feeling a little displaced with two delightful small children, I started writing. I began to use my blog as more or less my daily therapist. Each new day I had somewhere to go to let it all out.

It was great. It was new. It was my everyday outlet. My only rule is that before I published anything online that my husband and technical writing editor extraodinaire was required (begged) to edit each and every post. I had pressed send on too many hastily-crafted, barely-literate emails in my time (and paid the price in embarrassment) to have my dangling modifiers hung out to dry to the world. No. I would do my best to make sure my pieces were edited in hopes of only the very few would even notice my comma splice or homonym conundrum.

With grateful links to my website and word of mouth, momentum starting building and more than just my sisters and my mother-in-law were reading my website. I really did not understand the gift I was given. I had found a sweet spot that everyone but me seemed to know was there. Self doubt in full swing, I denied the fact that I was hitting my stride at the just the right time! Instead, I let myself get spooked. I let other people’s perceptions fill my head. I am not a jealous person, for instance. However when other people told me I was jealous, I listened and worked extra hard to prove I was not jealous. No, I was just silly. Silly for letting my head get filled with such nonsense. Instead of minding my own business and focusing on the thing I love to do, which is write, I let my head get filled with gossip, harsh criticism and insecurity.

I lost my momentum, walked away and stopped believing in myself.   I did not know how good I had it and  have had to forgive the past me for not seeing the gift I had been given.

It has taken me a lifetime to discover that I need to believe in myself. Back when I was writing full time, as much as I LOVED telling my stories I do not think I ever thought or believed I deserved a space in this world, let alone the internet world.

Growing up I believed in my beautiful thin and tall sisters. When I was way to young to be listening to such music, I believed in my rock star sister, who taught me about David Bowie and Alice Cooper. I believed in my awesome brother who all the girls loved. I believed in my other brother who always had the lead in the school play. I believed in my sweet mom, who everyone loves. I believed in my dad and I do not even know him. What I do know is every time I saw him he had a fridge stocked with special drinks, like V-8, and always a brand new fantastic car. (The Firebird — yes, the one with the bird on the hood — and Porsche were my favorites. ) He did not pay much child support or have anything to do with me, but with those expensive drinks and fancy new cars he must have been doing something right. I believed in him. I really did. Everyone in my family, my very big family, was completely awesome, just not me. Seriously, that is what I believed. And somehow my beliefs followed me into adulthood. Each and every time I feel some success, I feel someone deserves it more than me. Jealous? No. I will freaking die on a sword for you so you can succeed. I will cheer you all the way to Victory! I will scream the loudest for you. It is easier. Believing in myself, well, that has been more difficult.

Stopping and catching my breath has been good. Somehow, deciding to be present for my two amazing boys and incredible husband helped me see.  Go figure.  Sure, I know I walked away from opportunity. My momentum was moving forward and going somewhere fast. I honestly do not know where blog of yesterday would have taken me. I do know it was going somewhere and I do not take that for granted.

What I have now is today. My guess is that no longer are my readers many. The few of you that have found me or remain I am grateful for. If more come my way, all the better.  Life is moving and while it moves forward my hope is that I carve out a space once again. This time, however, I promise to notice that it is there.

Alcatraz Prison, San Francisco, California

Fifty-nine dollars and a fifteen minute boat ride is all it took for me to gain access to The Rock.  Dave had meetings that day so my girlfriend and I went the day before and bought our tickets. We got up early, walked to Market Street and caught the Street Car. As we rode a long we began chatting with a young couple sitting in the seats in front of us. They were going to Alcatraz too.  We sat there watching them tend to their beautiful baby girl when my friend and I commented to each other, “Remember how easy it was having a little baby?”  We looked up at the couple and said, “Enjoy this time. Cherish it. We know you are not sleeping.  That being said, you can take her anywhere and she won’t talk back. She won’t fight with her brother. She is just a baby.  With those big blue eyes and shock of bright red hair, She is so beautiful.”

I could see the look on the husband’s face. I could see him thinking, “Are you kidding me ladies, ladies with those big, capable boys. Did you see me haul the giant stroller onto the streetcar?  Do you see the sweat dripping down my face? Easy? Not sure about that.  Your boys can walk on the bus, find a seat and sit down without any help.”

As we talked to this couple all I could think is how much the wife looked like my DC friend, Heather’s sister.  I wanted to ask her. I knew Heather’s sister lives in the Bay Area and also has a new baby. I kept thinking to myself how cool it would be if it were her.   As I was studying this woman’s face and thinking about this possible connection, my friend asked where the couple was from. “Phoenix,” the woman responded and suddenly I had to let got of this imagined connection.

The boys were eager to get going and we were almost to the Pier.

And that is when they said it:

“I think all the tickets are sold out for the day. We bought ours online. We bought our tickets last night.”

Moments later as we stood in this Alcatraz Tours Ticket Line with our squirrely boys, we learned that the couple with the beautiful, easy baby girl were indeed correct. Tickets were gone for the day.

We re-grouped and bought tickets for the next morning.

Twenty-four hours later we followed the same routine.  Dave accompanied us on his way to his meetings.  First stop was the hotel lobby where the boys had their daily dose of complementary hot chocolate.  Then Starbucks on O’Farrell for breakfast, oatmeal. As we made our way, we did the daily check, making sure we had enough change for bus fare. Meeting our friends by the Gap on Market and waiting for the Street Car.  Back on the Street Car, riding along, I looked up at just the perfect moment to see the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market.  There it was, a sign for “Donna’s Tamales.” Glee is what I felt and I smiled as the warm memories flooded in.

Mid-February 2008 found Dave, the boys and I at Hapuna Beach on the Big Island of Hawaii.  After purchasing three Boogie boards from the local Kona Costco, two yellow and one blue, we made our way on the black volcanic rock-covered, dry desert landscape drive to our favorite beach, spending many of our Big Island days riding the Hapuna Waves.  I don’t think I have ever spent that much time in the Ocean.  While riding the waves Kyle and Eli met another boy.  As often happens on sunny beach vacations, my boys and this boy became fast holiday friends making sand castles, catching the biggest boogie board waves and collecting amazing beach artifacts as they ran all over the beach. Soon the Aunties of Kyle and Eli’s new friend were saving a place at the beach for us each day.  We got to know them too and feel blessed because of it.  One of these women was Donna of Donna’s Tamales. The other was Shirley.

I looked up at just the right second and saw the sign, “Donna’s Tamales.”  I insisted that after we were done at Alcatraz we must return. Knowing my girlfriend is a big foodie, I knew this would not be a hard sell. It wasn’t.

The line for Alcatraz Tours was long and windy. Naively, and as we were also toward the back of the line, I wondered how they were going to get all of us on the boat.  Sitting on the boat I realized my perspective was inaccurate and that they indeed had room for many, many more.  Even though we could see “The Rock” clearly from the San Francisco Shoreline, I also assumed the boat ride would be much longer. Barely enough time to sit and take a few pictures, I heard the Captain or whomever’s job it was to do this, announce, “We will be docking momentarily. Be prepared to leave the boat.”

The weather was unusually warm. I stripped layers of clothing off and tied a sweater around my waist and stuffed the boy’s sweatshirts in Dave’s newly-acquired tradeshow swag backpack.

We stepped off the boat. I looked up to my right and starting snapping away. It has been years since I have felt this inspired. The landscape. The words. Everything about this moment entranced me and I wanted it captured. The Large Red Spray Painted letters read, “INDIANS WELCOME,” (in reference to the 1969 occupation of Alcatraz Island by 79 Native Americans), on the sign that also stated in big black bold type face, “United States Penitentiary, ALCATRAZ ISLAND 12 ACRES, 1 ½  MILES TO TRANSPORT DOCK,  ONLY GOVERNMENT BOATS PERMITTED, OTHERS MUST KEEP OFF 200 YARDS, NO ONE ALLOWED ASHORE WITHOUT A PASS.”  I could not believe I was standing there. I could not believe I was reading these words, not on a television or movie screen, in person and it was not a dream.

As we walked on further, we were met by our Jersey-Chicago styled ex-cop-ex-army guy. He talked like my Chicago Irish Cop grandfather. I could envision our Chicago-Cop-Accented guide eagerly and loudly calling as I disembarked, “Hey Bam Bam,” just like my grandpa used to do.   At age four, maybe even five or six, I always thought it was super cool that my grandpa gave me this special name.   I looked forward to our visits and positively could not wait to hear those words: BAM BAM!  As I got older wiser, or maybe just a little insecure, I realized that my grandpa was comparing me to the Flinstone’s “boy” baby and the comparison was made because I was so rough and tumble. Girly girl I was not.

AS we walked off the boat, instead of hearing my “special” name (I seriously half expected it), our guide immediately began weaving the off-the-beaten-path tales of the Alcatraz Prisoners and prepping us for the tour. We were also given the option of touring the island on our own.  After hearing him speak, yet knowing I usually only take a guided tour if absolutely required, I did not hesitate when my friend asked, “What do you think about taking the tour?”  “Absolutely!” I responded.

Before starting the tour we were encouraged to buy the $1.00 Alcatraz Pamphlet and use the restrooms.   We chose the restrooms. The caffeine had caught up to my bladder and all I could think about is the closest place to release.  I scanned the fastest route, grabbed my boys and raced over.  As I jammed the old family bathroom door lock shut, I sliced my index finger wide open.  The blood was gushing, would not stop and I was elated that I had inadvertently cut my finger on the Alcatraz bathroom door. I made my way to the ranger station for a Band-Aid while the boys looked among the masses for our friends.

Our guide was speaking just to the left from where I stood.  Several people were gathered around. Kyle looked at me with an “I can’t find them” face, while Eli stated, “Mom, we cannot find them!” I looked and there were our friends, perched right next to our tall guide.  I really do wish you could hear his voice as he told about Inmate #210, Joseph Bowers or Alvin “Creepy Karpis” Karpowicz or Arthur “Doc” Barker.   I was hooked and then promptly wondered to myself, “Why don’t I usually take the tours?” Boring! Because they are usually so mind numbingly boring. Not this time. Not on this island.

See, I was a tour guide once. I tried to make the tours interesting. Ultimately I think all I did was spew out phrases, tons of factoids that I had to remember word for word. Not our guide. Maybe it was The Rock. Maybe it was the subject matter and then I listened for a moment to the young, long-haired tour guide behind us. Yes, because our most awesome guide was so loquacious, the next tour caught up to our tour.   The tour behind us, I listened and yes, it was boring.  Our guide added things, and I do not know if they were exactly true, and I did not even care if they were.  He kept me engaged.  Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was because he reminded me of my Chicago Cop Grandpa. I think it was his stories, stories about this amazing place where I never thought I would be.

The tour ended.  I pulled out my camera and snapped away as we moved through the rest of the Island on our own.  The prison cells were so clean, so small and so desperate. Looking at the tiny prison cells I imagined the claustrophobic feeling and understood the need to escape.  The boys broke free from the line of people waiting to check out headphones and tape recorders for the recorded portion of the tour.  With their escape, we dodged the boring-taped tour bullet.  I did one of those once, the USS Something or Other. Never again!

They went off, up some stairs and out a door and back down another set of stairs. We were walking in the prison yard. It was lonely, stark and beautiful.  The boys played and asked about what prisoners did. “They would most certainly have a basketball.”  I snapped and captured and snapped some more. The fog was settling low and the sun was shining appropriately through.  Breathtaking light.

At the edge of the yard there was a small exit. At the exit there was a set of steep stairs. We walked down and I snapped pictures of the birds perched on the out building, with fog, ships and water all floating mystically in the background.

Then it hit me. I was standing next these broken old buildings, surrounded by thousands of birds, with the foggy, dark shadowed San Francisco backdrop off in the distance. At that moment I felt like I was hiding in some crazy Post Apocalyptic movie. It was beautiful and I was inspired. I had not been this inspired in I do not know how long. All the broken concrete on the rocky beach, the vivid and occasional flower growing through the destruction, the Prison Buildings behind me, surrounded by the beautiful landscape, the fog, the darkness in the distance and the sun shining through. I could not stop taking it in. I was more interested in photographing the scenery than my own kids. That just does not happen.

Our time was nearly up, we made our way back to the ship as I snapped and tried not to miss a thing.  Even the restroom sign was cool.

Back on land, we hopped another streetcar, rode along and got off at the Ferry Pier Farmer’s Market.  I could not make way fast enough. We headed directly for “Donna’s Tamales.” The boys and I stood in line and then I saw her. It was Shirley! “I nervously thought, “Is this stupid? Will she recognize us? The boys are so big.” We moved closer to the front of the line. Between the second she looked up and smiled until the moment she uttered the word, “hello,” she had indeed recognized us. Her long grey hair pulled in a ponytail and she could not believe it was us. Words flowed out of her mouth,  “What happened to you guys? We waited and waited and never heard from you. It is you!”

“Time and life got in the way. I saw your sign this morning and knew it was meant to be.”  I quickly told her about tickets selling out the day before and how we had to come back this day and how I had looked out the window at just the right moment to see the sign. It was all meant to be.

“Can I buy you guys lunch?”  Shirley offered.   The boys and I ordered three amazing tamales, one goat cheese with red pepper and two traditional.  They were the best tamales we ever had and I am not just saying that because we know the owners.  Shirley and I talked a minute more and made plans to keep in touch.

The boys and I walked away met up with our friends.  Fruit and vegetables beyond our wildest dreams of goodness were before us. We tasted grapes, peaches, candy, nuts and some sort of Apricot-Plum hybrid fruit. I am sure it was organic [wink, wink]. And then we made our way to the Gelato Sorbetto store. I mention this now because as far as memories go, the Coconut Sorbet I had was and still is one of my very best and most delicious memories. We were hot. The boys were hot. The cold coconut flavored sorbet with giant coconut flakes mixed in was an experience I did not want to end. So much did I not want the flavor to end that I talked Dave into taking the bus back down to the Pier for some more Coconut Goodness that very evening.

A perfect day, it was a perfect day.  My eyes and my heart were big and I was open.

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Clunky Travel Love

Clunky. Clunky. Clunky. Clunky. I have just spent the last little while trying to understand slide show software. Something that a few years ago I would have struggled with as well; however, eventually it would all make sense. Today. I am not so sure. The Internet seems to move at the speed of quadruple dog years, with technology itself moving even faster.

Ok so here is the deal. In the past four years, a majority of my time — our family’s time –has been spent traveling. I have finally been to Europe. I survived the year of the Disneyland Season Pass. We made it to California Five different times that year. I saw beautiful Maine for the first time. I bought super strength Antibiotic Ointment in Mexico and I have gone home to Minneapolis more than once. In these years I have traveled for death and traveled because we had an unexpected Swine Flu School Holiday.

We have always traveled — a lot. CrazyUS began as a travel-log. In 2002 we took a year to travel with our then one and three year old boys. As the years pass, my love for travel has exploded and my Wanderlust is nearly impossible to contain. Today I was all excited to start talking about travel and how travel is the journey I hope my life always takes. Damn it! I love to travel! Dave’s new job is in the travel industry. I am trying to work in the same industry. I get home from a trip and before my suitcases make it up to my room, I have already begun scheming our next trip.

Of course that would lean one to think the following and yes, it is true: I love escape. I am so grateful I have a life and a husband who helps me make our traveling dreams possible.

Here I was going to talk travel (I kind of have) and I was so excited to put together a little slide show and now I am stuck. I think of the days where my grandfather, who also loved to travel, by the way, would take snapshot after snapshot of his trips. Once home, as a family, we would gather around his giant old canister slide projector and look at grainy vacation photos. I never quite understood why it was such a big deal. It was an event to go to my grandparents’ house and view these slides. To a little girl, those grainy photos were boring and the slideshow long.

My guess is that my travel photos are not much more enthralling to the average viewer. It’s super cliché for me to even say it. I will. Those photos bring us back. Bring us back to the smells, the moods, the fights, the stinky feet, the new discoveries, the little snail we happen to capture crawling across a leaf, something we would not have seen had we not left our house.

Cross your fingers that I can figure this out.