I love this picture. It captures so much of our summer so far: life at the lake; the game that has consumed my family; Ava with her cousins; children imitating their parents. I love that the bean bag is mid-flight between Ava’s hand and the board. Both girl’s stand tranfixed by it’s flight. Will it go in the hole? Will Ava be able to pump her arms in the air and holler like her uncles? Or will it bounce unmercifully off the board and land in the grass?

The only trouble with this picture is that with my current track record, it will never see life past a screen.

Back when I was a working girl, I was also a 35mm girl. My office was one skyway away from a film processing center. As soon as a roll was in the can, I would drop off the film on my way to work and then hurry down at lunch time to see the pictures. I was generally so eager to see how the prints had turned out that I would leaf through the entire stack before I had finished paying. Capture to print to album was a seamless and nearly effortless process.

Then the fall before Ava was born, I was given my long wished-for “chh-chh-chh” camera, a digital SLR that took loads of brilliant and vivid pictures. I could snap away until I captured the picture that I wanted. While I gained the instant gratification of seeing my pictures immediately, I lost the urgency to print them.

Plus submitting digital files to print is not as simple as dropping off a roll of film. There is cropping and editing and enhancing involved. And of course, there is no longer a processing center between my bedroom and my lunchroom. In the past five years, I have yet to find a printing system that works. Therefore nearly all of our photos are hanging mid-flight between capture and album.

I want to change. I want to actually print pictures and put them in albums. I need your help.

How do you do it? What is your process? Do you use online printing services? Which ones? Do you like their print quality? Do you bring them into a service center? Do you make prints and put them in albums or do you make print them as pre-made albums?

What is your process?

Or are you like me, albums of beautiful pictures that you need a screen to view?

Send your advice. Help me pick these pictures off the grass and toss them to the printers.

A few weeks ago, Shanel’s mom was in town for the weekend. Back in our college days, Shanel, our roommates, and I would head down to her parent’s place in search of fresh cookies, a healthy dose of mothering and maybe some free laundry.

We’d haul baskets of dirty clothes down into the basement and let them twirl and tumble as we rolled out cookies and answered Candy’s unlimited supply of questions. With the rest of our mothers out of state, Candy’s interest in our lives reminded us that every detail of our life mattered and we still had moms back home to answer to.

She was the hug that was missing from long-distance calls home. And we were the sporadic surges in their water bill.

Last summer Candy and Dave sold the house he had built when Shanel was three and headed to a place that knows no winter. So when I heard she was coming to town, I put in my request for an outing with Candy and geared up for the question marathon.

On the morning of our date, I told Ava that we were going to have brunch with Shanel and her mama. She flew around the house like a debutant at the prospect of her first soirée. Oh, she wanted to wear a twirling skirt. A pink one. A pink one with polka-dots.

When I pulled out her adorable white shirt that Shanel had given her for her birthday to match the very twirling, very pink, very polka-dotted skirt, she came down for a crash landing.

“But Mama, it’s just white. White is so boring. I can’t just wear white to the brunch!”

That is what she said. And then she flung herself on her bed.

Trying to convince her that the shiny silver stripes gave the white shirt all the shimmer it needed was about as effective as swapping a diamond for a cubic zirconium.

Rarely do I go head-to-head in the wardrobe wars. In the year since she has generated an opinion about how she is attired, we have struck a finely balanced truce called, “I decide what goes in her closet; she decides what comes out.”

Not only had I crossed the line and stepped into her precious territory, but then I pulled out the Mama ammo.

“Ava, if you want to go to the brunch with Shanel and her mama, this is what you are wearing. You can wear a necklace over the shirt, if you like.”

I walked out of her room, pleased with my efficiency and surprised by the mysterious lack of protesting behind me. Oh, I was naïve.

Victory is in the mind of the wearer. A necklace in the hands of Ava quickly transformed into ALL her necklaces. She sauntered into the living room with no less than a dozen beaded necklaces, two purple gloves, a velvet purse, and a pair of wings to balance it out. Forget brunch, she was heading to a casting call for Fancy Nancy.

If she was going to wear white, she was wearing it with every possible adornment in her reach. I buckled Nancy’s fancy cousin in the backseat of my car and chauffeured her to the brunch.

Ava and her over-accessorized attire were greeted with all the admiration that a four-year-old aspires to.

After many hugs and kisses, Ava received her first question of the brunch:

“What would you like to order?”

“Oh, French Toast, I want French Toast. No. Pancakes. Strawberry Pancakes. No. French Toast. Um, Pancakes.”

Ava, honey, you’d better tighten up your responses or the question and answer time is going to be of the extended kind.

Candy, being the surrogate mother that she is, brought her own contribution to the closet-o’-Ava.

And what do you give fanciest four-year-old this side of the picture book?

Why sparkle flip-flops, of course. And two pairs no less.

She tried on the pink ones and twirled. She tried on the purple ones and twirled. And then she put on one of each and twirled.

Between the varying flip-flop combinations and mouthfuls of French Toast, Ava was not available for further inquiry.

Eventually the weight of vanity grew too great and Ava deposited her acrylic gems on the table. Switching roles as quickly as her costume change, Ava went from waited-on to waitress.

While we were engrossed in the conversation that comes from so many good and thought-provoking questions, Ava disappeared from our table. We spotted her rounding the corner at the other end of the restaurant carrying four cups of water.

She eagerly passed out her plastic wrapped gifts, careful not to spill a drop. Candy was quite delighted with this sweet offering of water.

Of course, it wasn’t quite as much water as I consumed washing the college grit out of my jeans. But we do what we can, one cup at a time.

What works for me?

Aprons!

Seriously, now. Don’t give me that look.

If your vision of aprons looks anything like this or this, than let me introduce you to a whole new crop of clothes savers.

Hello friend, will you stop this evening’s marinara from bubbling up on my clothes?

And you girl, will you keep the soapy suds from dripping on me?

Hi there pal, will you come in bathroom with me? We have some scrubbing to do.

I used to store my aprons in a drawer behind the dish towels. Surprisingly they didn’t serve my kitchen time. Last fall, I installed a hook near the entry ways to my kitchen and hung some sassy aprons up there. It  single-handedly stopped the steady stream of staining to my clothing.

I love to cook, but I am clumsy and messy. It’s true. I splatter. I splash. I kind of resemble the toddlers in the kiddie pool. And my methods of cleaning aren’t much cleaner.

After years of having to change my clothes before the guests arrived, I remembered that my grandmas used this handy thing called an apron for that very purpose. Wow, they were smart.

And look at how cute aprons are!

Really, it’s time to bring back the apron. What do you have to lose? Stains, perhaps?

Goodbye Online Dating. Hello Online Play Groups.

After months of reading about sweet Julia and thinking, “Oh, that sounds just like Ava” or writing an Ava-antic and receiving a comment about how “Julia does the same thing,” the pint-sized virtual friends met.

My pal MckMama and her sister threw an all-out birthday bash inviting seasoned friends and blogger friends to The Meadows, an enchanted piece of this earth that she calls home.

The men threw their weight around the lake on two supercharged jetskis, churning up enough water to make the neighbors peer out their bay windows to see if a seaplane landing strip had been redirected to their wake-free lake.

HungryMan challenged his long-time water rival Johnny to Interstate Tubing, pulling him white knuckled across the lakes at speeds that exceed highway limits.

The girls huddled around the dock stupified at Johnny’s ability to withstand severe water torture and horrified at HungryMan’s utter disregard for life. Surprisingly, there were no other takers for tube ride pulled by Hungryman. Even Ava refused to ride on the jetski with her daddy. Shocking, I know.

I spent the afternoon catching up with dear college friends and former roommates,

(back: Kristi, MckMama, Me, Yvette. front: Shanel, Becky)

and meeting blogger friends that I have only read about.

(Hilary, Angela, MckMama, Me, Tiffany, Kristi, Yvette & Cosette)

While I was being kindly chastised for taking “too many breaks,” Ava and Julia were forming a friendship that hitherto had only existed in the comment section of their mamas’ blogs. I found these two skipping down the stony path while comparing swimming suit stripes. They were both eagerly awaiting a piece of the princess birthday cake. It was clear that the two were quickly united in their keen sense of summer fashion and sugar-laden sweets.

Ava didn’t want to leave all her newly acquired friends until she heard she was going to ride in Shanel’s car.

“I have always wanted to ride in your car!” she squealed as she grabbed Shanel’s hand.

Shanel opened the rear door and Ava peered in, announcing, “It’s not dirty at all!”

Thank, Ava. Really, it’s not my fault that you insist on carrying out two purses full of crayons, polly pockets, notepads, flash cards, chapsticks and who-knows-what each time we go out to the car. I cannot be held responsible for all the treasures you store in the creases of the back seat.

As we pulled away, Ava stared up at stylishly streamlined dash that makes a VW so hip and said, “Oh Shanel, your car is so beautiful!”

Apparently her good taste extends beyond new friends. Here’s to beautiful friendships and many more parties at The Meadows.

Ava’s room has reached an all-time low.

Four days with four little girls sandwiched by two extended weekend trips have done things to Ava’s room that would cause mice to relocate.

To make matters worse, Ava carries the strong conviction that clothes are to be changed every three hours. I’m all for creativity and expression, but not when the discarded outfits become a free form art project on the floor.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the sun keeps shining–sending us day after day of glorious summer weather. Who wants to sit in a rocking chair delegating clean-up tasks, when there is a whole, big, non-frozen world to explore?

That was my position on Monday and then again on Tuesday. Today the mess had consumed all three pairs of flip-flops and both swimsuits. It was clearly time to put my foot down.

I sent Ava into her room to begin sorting through the mess or to at least find those items necessary for her swimming lessons. I returned to find her, megaphone in hand, ordering about invisible servants.

“Servants! I said, Ser-Vants! Clean up this mess, right now!”

As you can see they weren’t making much progress.

With a bit of digging and shoving, and not the least assistance from said servants, we recovered one swimsuit, one swim cover, a pair of watermelon flip-flops, and one sun hat from the wreckage and headed off once more for the beach.

Ava commanded her work force to take care of the mess while we were away, but I assure you they did not.

I am anxious to share stories from our north and south adventures, but as you can see, we are up to our ankles in size four sundresses.

If you know any visible maids, feel free to send them our way.

The ice cream lovers have left the city in search of the perfect cone.

We packed the four scoops in Heather’s van with HungryMan, baby Ilsa and more than our fair share of luggage.

We’re headed south to more lake county in search of new adventures.

Preferably adventures that end with a crispy cone and not a emergency vehicle.

Remember when little Rapunzel was locked in the bathroom tower?

Thankfully, the Great Knight was on hand to scale the ladder and rescue the frightened princess.

Today, the nefarious bathroom captured another young victim and there was no Great Knight or even a ladder to help the poor, distressed child.

So, I did what any good mama would do when a child is locked in her bathroom, I slipped a fruit strip under the door and dialed, “911.”

“911, emergency services, what is your emergency?”

“Um, there’s a little girl locked in my bathroom and she can’t turn the lock to get out.”

“(pause)”

“The bathroom’s on the second floor and there is no way to get the door open from the outside. My daughter locked herself in there before and my husband had to climb a ladder up to the window to get her out.”

“This has happened before?”

“Yes. Um, yeah. I always tell children not to lock the door, because it is so hard to unlock. My cousin’s daughters are visiting and I must have forgotten to tell her.”

“So she’s locked in the bathroom?”

“Yes. I was wondering if maybe the fire department could bring their ladder here and get her out.”

“You need the fire rescuer to climb up to your bathroom to rescue the child?”

“Yes.”

Surely, I’m not the only one that read stories about how firemen rescued cats out of trees. And if they can employ their ladders for cats in trees, it can’t be too far a stretch for them to aim that ladder at a window barring in a scared little girl.

Sure enough, the fire truck came and in just enough time for me to tuck away clutter, find my camera and hide our defective smoke detector. We are a safety first family.

Six fire fighters rushed up my stairs to assess the situation. They found one crying girl squarely locked in a bathroom and three other little girls coloring notes to slip under the door to her.

“Her name is Cate!” I yelled at them as they scampered back down the stairs to retrieve their ladder.

How many fire fighters does it take to climb a ladder?

Four.

Three to hold it and one to climb it.

Apparently they take safety a bit more seriously than HungryMan.

Which is probably why that lock is still on our door.

Safety aside, HungryMan and his fire fighter counterpart have the same through-the-window technique.

That’s if you don’t count the flip-flops.

“Hi Cate,” yelled the brave fire fighter. “I’m coming in this window and then I’m going to unlock the door for you.”

Hurray for the hero! She rescued a child and she didn’t even have to carry an ax or hose. Or face a cat with claws.

After little Cate was safe in her mama’s arms, Ava dispensed suckers to celebrate.

The same suckers that were thrown to her from a fire truck during a parade in front of our house.

Because everything in my home must have a poetic end.

Do you see anything wrong with this picture? Besides the silly foam shoes that have overtaken feet of every generation.

How about now?

Before the mosquitoes made their appearance on the first night of our northern adventures, Ava’s new Crocs were chewed through by an aggressive pair of teeth.

I was not a happy camper.

Last summer, I succumbed to the over-priced crocs hoping that they would last two years. They lasted two months. Ava lost them the first day she was in St. Louis last summer.

I did not want to buy them again this summer. After searching in vain for an alternative, I finally slapped down more cash for a new pair of PINK Crocs. In less than three weeks the pink strap that holds the right pink Croc together was shredded by a naughty pair of teeth.

I wanted to pitch a fit the size of our seven-man tent. But before I unrolled my fury on the chewing culprit, I remembered that once upon second grade I used to engage in a little pastime called counted cross-stitch. Surely, if I could blend blue and purple floss together to create pansies and lilies for my grandma’s kitchen wall, I could stitch together a bit of mangled foam.

Thankfully Mr. Cabela was on hand with bit of superpower fishing line.

“This Spider Wire will slice through your finger before you could break it.”

With that pleasant thought, I gingerly paired Mr. Cabela’s power thread with his wife’s sewing needle and went to work.

See, handicraft skills have real life purposes for real life situations.

Like when you go on a weekend trip and something gnaws through your child’s only pair of sandals. With a bit of string and a sharp needle you make everything better again. And by better, I mean sandals with a green patch that will slice through your daughter’s ankle before it comes apart.

So would you like to venture a guess whose teeth created such a ruckus?

Was it Fertie’s canine fangs or

Ava’s sweet teeth?

Let the guessing begin…

Back in the day when I rode northbound for twenty-four hours in the back seat of my parent’s station wagon to visit my Minnesota cousins, my Aunt was always looking for ways to keep us here a little bit longer. And she was brilliant at it.

My dad would have just finished playing tetris with our suitcases, sealing the hatch and strapping us down to our plaid seats when his sister would wander over with a steaming cup of coffee, lean into the window, and work her magic. Within moments my brothers and I would be running free while my dad went in to fill up another cup of coffee and my mom devised another shopping trip to the mall.

My Aunt could convince nearly all her siblings to stay at least for supper. She walked from packed car to packed car, releasing cousins from Texas, New Mexico, and North Dakota. Like caged animals we would spring from our seats and rip through their green lawn, tickled with our freedom and ecstatic at the prospect for more time together.

Following in this great tradition, my cousin Heather and I began hatching plans as soon as the midnight bells began to the toll on our last day together. Her husband, Fred, was starting a new job on Tuesday, so there wasn’t much time for extensions. We squeezed and squeezed the timetables, but only one hour would drip out here or there. It was hardly worth the effort and our hands were getting sticky. I crawled in my rain-saturated tent that night knowing that tomorrow there would be no last-minute unpacking.

The morning sun brought relief from the rain and hope.

“Rachel,” Heather said as we washed the sleep from our eyes. “Fred’s thinking about maybe renting a car and driving home, and then he would come back on the weekend and get us.”

“What? Are you serious?” I said, putting down my washcloth. Her husband had just devised the most elaborate extension in the history of our family.

“Yeah, it was his idea.”

“Well, he can take HungryMan’s car.”

And that’s how I involved my husband in our schemes, by depriving him of his automobile.

Yesterday morning, Fred started off on a nine hour trek home, which he will repeat in reverse on Friday. If that doesn’t say, “I love my wife,” I don’t know what does.

Except maybe the fact that he’s driving HungryMan’s car while listening to HungryMan’s ipod on HungryMan’s stereo.

There are now ten little feet hopping around my house in anticipation of trips to the beach and the museum. While Heather and I are dreaming of nap-time when we can retreat to the couch with a cup of chai and devise our own trip to the mall.

Because clearly, it’s for the children.