maternity shoot

 Over Memorial Day weekend I was in cahoots to pull off one of the greatest surprises ever for my tall guy.  Since our move, he has been begging his sister to come and visit before her migration to the south Pacific this summer.  Very quickly, time and weekends were dwindling away and he was convinced that she would not be able to come.

Little did he know that we had a plan...

The Friday of Memorial Day weekend, I lied to my husband that my brother, a pilot, had a layover long enough for dinner here in Atlanta.  This was how I got Mr. F to the airport with me.   A lie.  I think he's forgiven me.  When we got to the airport, he dropped me off at the terminal so I could use the bathroom (because, well, I'm eight months pregnant...), and go find the Stud.  He looped the airport and when he came back to baggage claim, there I was, not with my brother, but his sister!  There were some screams, hysterical laughter, and huge smiles.

I have no photos of them that weekend because they went and played on their own the whole time.  They went to a music festival near Augusta to watch pig races and hear one of Mr. F's favorite bands.  They ate ice cream, toured town, walked, talked, shared YouTube videos, and just had the time of their lives.  I loved when they came home at night brimming with smiles.  With major changes on the imminent horizon for both of these siblings, the odds of them being able to have time like this again is very slim.  I am so glad and grateful that they had that weekend together!

My one request for the weekend was that Sister bring her camera so she could take some maternity photos for us.  One morning, the three of us rolled out of bed with the sun, got dressed, and sauntered into the nursery.  Sister sat us down and took some of the most wonderful candid shots of us that I am always going to treasure.

When I thought about maternity photos, I wanted something that felt more natural to me.  While I love the shots of women in flowing gowns, grasping their bellies in the middle of long-grassed fields, that just wasn't me.  I wanted photos that captured my memories of this miracle pregnancy.  That meant my hair in  a top knot, because I'm too tired to do my hair beyond that, my favorite white blouse, the nursery that I have been pumping all of our hopes and dreams into as we get ready for baby girl, and my best friend.  I absolutely wanted Mr. F with me in the photos.  

Watching my gentle giant prepare for the birth of his first child has been incredible.  He has been so gentle and patient with me.  In the mornings as he wakes up, the first thing he always does is reach across the bed for my belly.  He talks to his daughter constantly, shares his daydreams for her future with both of us.  His capacity for love has expounded ten-fold and it just amazing to behold.

So there are no fields.  No flowing gowns.  Just us.  In our favorite room talking about our favorite girl.  Just us and her books, the chair we'll rock her in, the gown we'll dress her in.  Just us and our girl.  And all the cheese (:

strawberry picking

My cousin called a couple weeks ago to invite us out their country home for dinner as her parents were visiting.  We jumped on this chance to see the family and headed outside of the city for some serious bonding time.  When we got there, we found everyone waiting for us so we could go pick strawberries at a farm down the street. 

As a Midwestern girl, I am very familiar with the notion of apple and pumpkin picking, but I don't think I had ever been strawberry picking.  It.  Was.  Wonderful!  Oh my heavens, those berries tasted so good!  Our group divided, everyone in search of the lushest plants.  I sauntered along, pointing out berries to Mr. F and eating a few along the way.  My youngest cousin joined us and thanks to him our bucket was actually filled.  We kept eating more than we were collecting...

It was such a fun treat to an already highly anticipated evening!  Plus, we got to have a heaping mess of fresh strawberry shortcake for dessert.  It was a win, win, win, win of a time!

joint shower

In February, I got a call from Mr. F to announce his sister's engagement!  Her happy news gave me the courage to finally call a doctor and find out if I was pregnant.  She was looking forward to a summer wedding and my suspicions about my growing belly led me to believe that I'd be giving birth around the same time.  The next day the doctor verified my pregnancy and our family has been in full-on celebration/planning mode since!

Sister is marrying a wonderful guy from New Zealand in a a few weeks and moving there shortly thereafter.  The wedding planning period has been extremely short but everything is coming together famously.  We were even able to cram in a joint shower last weekend in Florida to celebrate her wedding and our coming baby.

I wish I could explain how amazing that day was.  We were surrounded by an incredible group of women who spoiled us completely.  It was such a treat to feel everyone's love and support of our respective milestones.  The morning started with a brunch of quiches, bruschetta, and a smorgasbord of delicious iced beverages.  I got to catch up with friends from our days living there and have some much needed conversations about motherhood.  It was refreshing and made me feel so much better about the daunting task of raising a child.

After our meal, we opened gifts and the chatting continued.  I am still processing this group's generosity.  We had asked them to attend two showers at once and they gave to both of us liberally.   I am definitely taking stock and rethinking my gift giving.

My mother in law happens to be a master quilter.  She doesn't refer to herself as such, but I assure you, she is.  Amid a heavy travel schedule this spring and planning Sister's wedding, she somehow managed to make a quilt for Sister and her fiancé and for baby girl.  

I had daydreamed about what this quilt would look like and it is even more amazing than I had hoped!  It looks like a quilt my great grandmother would have made and is the perfect size for indoor picnics and cuddle sessions.  To top it off, the backer fabric looks just like the wallpaper I've hand painted in the nursery.  (..which I still need to show you...)

Isn't she beautiful?!  I often feel like she's the Diana Barry to my more Anne complexion.  Where I am fair, sister has these stunningly dark features that I envy.  And that smile?  Yeah, we've been seeing it a LOT since her engagement.  Can't wait to see her smile at the wedding!

To top it off it was my birthday.  I got to celebrate my sister and daughter in the morning and eat cake in the evening!  How great is that?!

A big thank you to everyone who came!  You are wonderful!  And an even bigger thank you to Mom for putting this shindig together.  I'm so grateful we got to share those memories together before Sister moves overseas.

just because...

Just because I want to remember these sweet moments.  I want to savour my husband's giggles and shock as he feels his daughter grooving inside of me.  I want to remember stealing a few extra moments in bed together before starting the day.  Because I want to remember the amorphous shape of my belly as it contours to baby girl's adjustments.  Just because.  But mainly, because I never thought I'd be able to make these memories and I want to cherish all of them...

for more bump and nesting photos, be sure to follow along on instagram.  you can find me under the handle seewhatiseadesigns.

watch and listen

Pregnancy has changed me more than I thought possible.  I had been warned about morning sickness, stretch marks, and swelling ankles.  Luckily, these experiences have not been part of my journey.  There has been fatigue, nose bleeds, and the need to slow down.  Our weekend walks look like Mr. F is escorting his geriatric counterpart from the nursing home I move so slow.  But I can still move. 

My nesting urges have been insatiable at times.  I will feel an insane amount of guilt and anxiety if I am not painting wallpaper in the nursery, hanging artwork, or foraging for furniture.  I am learning to ignore these urges to some extent as my body requires more rest and bedtime.  The baby's wellbeing is not contingent on floating shelves, I have to tell myself.  Some days I listen better than others.

The most fascinating change in me, aside from my daily recognition that somehow my body is capable of growing another human, is spiritual.  Almost as strong as my need to nest is my need to know where I come from.  This began with a hunt for names for our child.  Very quickly it became clear to me that I didn't just want to use names from family history, I needed to, even though I could not explain the need. 

So I began searching.  I started with Mr. F's family, as his relatives have done an incredibly thorough job tracking their legacy.  I followed them through North Carolina, Ontario, England, and Scotland, eventually landing somewhere in the 12th or 13th centuries in France.  Nearly 1,000 years of my husband's forbearers stretched out before me.  Their names and locations gave hints at their stories and I could see the traits come to life in my husband.

Then we looked at my family, which was much harder, and is still in process.  I called my dad and he gave me access to his online files.  For the first time in my life, I saw his family tree beyond my great grandparents.  The history I thought I knew was so different.  There were photos and some stories.  Names, dates, locations.  Family.  For the first time, I had a clearer sense of where I came from.  My Anglophilia was justified, as well as my mild addiction to Brigadoon and the Outlander series.  I stared at the computer screen, soaking in the spider web of a pedigree chart and all I could think was, Are they proud of me?  Do they know that their hard work is ushering in another generation?  

My maternal ancestry has been harder to track, due in large part to me losing a printed file full of work my mom had put together.  As Anglo based as my father's side is, my mother's is even more Swedish.  Both of her parents are first generation Americans with records for her grandparents and beyond being either still in Sweden or in Swedish. I am the first descendant since the immigration to pick up Swedish again, and my skills with it are rudimentary at best.  (I can wish you a happy birthday and probably order a hot dog.)

In the midst of my search for my Swedish kin, the most remarkable gifts for baby girl have been pouring in.  My grandfather's infant sleeping gown, sweaters made by my great grandparents, handmade blankets from relatives living and gone.  We have inherited a sweet little rocker that Mr. F was rocked in by his grandfather, not to mention toys Mr. F played with as a babe.  Each time one of these packages arrives, I am filled with the same sense of connection to who I am, who we are.  This little baby we are so excited about is the joy of many, even those came long before her.  

Not long ago, my great aunt and uncle were in town visiting their children and grandchildren. It is a great joy to me that living in Atlanta has afforded more frequent interaction with these sweet souls.  After a delicious dinner, I ended up in the kitchen with my cousin and my great aunt, the three of us catching up and dreaming together.  All at once my aunt disappeared to her room, returning just as quickly with an armful of sweetly wrapped packages.  The largest was beautifully festooned by her other daughters, with calligraphy inscriptions and baby-inspired stickers.  Inside was a tiny little stuffed animal for the baby from one daughter and a handmade blanket from the other.  "As soon as she heard about the baby, she started knitting!"  I was so overwhelmed by the love of these cousins that I know so little of.  We are family and that was enough for them to share in our joy.

The remaining two packages were wrapped in pink tissue by my aunt.  In one was a circular tin photo of my great-great grandmother, whose wedding invitation hangs on my bedroom wall.  The photo is of her as a little girl and I could briefly glimpse what my own daughter would look like.  The last package was my great grandmother's baby book.  In it is delicately inscribed the precious memories of her first year.  There are newspaper clippings in Swedish and English announcing her birth.  Some of the pages are in English, others in Swedish.  Simple phrases marking her growth.

All at once, my Swedish family who I have been trying to find was there with me, celebrating with me, teaching me.

The author Linda Hogan wrote, "Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.”  This is what pregnancy and the promise of motherhood has given me.  It is not just expanding my family with Mr. F, it has given me all of my family.  I can feel them with me, carrying me, supporting me, praying and cheering for me.  I hear them calling to my daughter, You are the result of the love of thousands.

putting the fun in funeral

Well, the past week has gone absolutely nowhere near like what I had planned or even thought it would.  I was supposed to go work a trade show, Mr. F was going to spend long days in the library to prep for the GMAT, there was going to be painting, laundry.  None of that happened, except the library part.  My husband has some serious focus and determination when it comes to the GMAT.  The night before I was supposed to go work,  we received a phone call that Mr. F's grandfather had passed away after a long a debilitating struggle with multiple health issues.  This news put us on a plane with Mr. F's parents and sent the four of us to Washington for the funeral and much needed family time.

The overwhelming feeling at the gathering was not of sadness over Grandpa's passing.  He had been sick for so long that in some ways, it was a relief. He was no longer in pain,  But he is also no longer here, and that is where the bulk of the sadness came from.  Emerging from this, however, came 24 hours of joy.  All of Grandpa's children, two of his brothers, nephews, grandchildren, and friends gathered to celebrate not only his life, but the family he created.  

To say this was a treat for me sounds overly callous, but it's true.  This was my first chance in our marriage to get to know my husband's paternal family and I will always be grateful for it.  I formed relationships with cousins and aunts and uncles that I never would have been able to and found a multitude of kindred spirits in my newfound family.  We shared stories, daydreamed of future gatherings, and generally revelled in the joy of company.

To top it all off, my mom was only a few hours away in Portland, Oregon with her family and was able to drive up to meet us for the funeral.  It really was a great trip in the midst of what could have been devastatingly hard.

Now, brace yourself for a bunch of photos that will mean nothing to you, but I needed to share to help me remember and document.

beachcombing

My great uncle kept a house on the Oregon Coast.  For about a decade, we would trek out there during the summers and stay for about a week.  It was the highlight of every summer.  The Oregon Coast is a magical place, with rugged cliffs, wild pines, and cold, damp air.  Only there would you need warm clothing in August and be grateful for a cup of cocoa and a warm fire.  

While I hunted down book stores, two of my favorites are still in those coastal communities, my Nonny would be walking the beach.   He would wake hours before any of us even thought of consciousness, trolling the coast for precious agates, sand dollars, and shells.  We would bring home bags of them every summer, which my mom still has many of in the basement of my childhood house.  She uses them in decorating, filling shallow wide bowls with them, nestling candles in them, or leaving the perfect heart shaped rock on their dresser.

Over Christmas, Nonny allowed the rest of us to go with him.  We didn't go nearly as early as our Oregon summer days and the Atlantic doesn't offer agates like the Pacific does.  But we found shell after beautiful shell.  I loved watching my athletic mother leave us all in her trail as she walked gingerly over the wet sand.  I similarly loved witnessing the childlike enthusiasm of my father over each treasure he found.  I'm not sure if it's the result of him growing up in the desert or just his deep seeded love of the ocean, but he never grows tired of his combs.  

I brought home my own assortment of shells.  I even had a rock stashed in the pocket of that pink half-zip until about a month ago.  One day, I went for a walk.  When I tried to put my keys in the pocket, I found a shell waiting for me.  It was the perfect reminder of some wonderful days with my parents.

beach life

As you're reading this, we're on our way back here.  Life has been busy lately.  Really busy, and kind of hard.  About a week ago, I called Mr. F at work and told him I needed the ocean.  He agreed, requested a couple of days off, and the next thing we knew, we were planning on a long weekend vacation.

These photos are from Christmas.  My parents drove down from the D, picked us up in Atlanta, and the four of drove down to Florida to join Mr. F's parents for the holiday season.  On Christmas morning, the six of us and the two dogs got up relatively early and went for a long walk on the beach.  The tide was low, perfect for beachcombing.   This might be my new favorite Christmas tradition.  All of the family together at our happy place. 

I have plans to spend hours on this beach this weekend.  Walking endlessly, listening to the crash of the waves, my thoughts, and maybe a few NPR podcasts.  Goodbye real life, hello oceans!