My Dear New Orleans, I'll Be Seeing You

It was like any other Saturday, nothing particularly exciting going on, except one little thing- it was date night. Chris and I don't do date nights all that often. Maybe once a month or every 6 weeks or so. We usually decide that the hassle of getting a babysitter and the anxiety of leaving all three girls just isn't worth it, and we wind up buying steaks and wine from Whole Foods and we stay up late and drink too much all at home, and we call that a date night. But this night was different. We had planned a big date night. Which meant we were headed into the City- something we only do once in a blue moon.

Some couples go out to one of the bajillion incredible restaurants in New Orleans every weekend. Some go several times a week. I am not-so-secretly envious of those people. There are more non-chain places to eat here than you could ever, ever imagine. I've lived here my entire life (save the last two years spent up north) and I'm not even close to being able to say I've tried them all. After a week of throwing ideas back and forth, we had narrowed our restaurant choice down to two places we had never been. Emeril's and Herbsaint. (I know, if you're local you're probably wondering how we had never eaten at either of those places. Just bear with me.) We have eaten at many of the notable New Orleans restaurants- Commander's Palace, Antoine's, The Rib Room, Galatoire's, and Couchon, among a few others. Which is like barely a blip on the radar. I know this. Which is why when we do decide to go out to eat, we pick one of the places we've never been to, instead of somewhere we've already been. We also expect to spend anywhere from $150-$200 on dinner, which is yet another reason why its not something we do every weekend, or even every month for that matter. Its usually reserved for special occasions.

(from our anniversary dinner last year)

So we got all dolled up, kissed the girls goodbye, high fived my fabulous niece/babysitter, and all but ran to the car. We talked the whole way down to the City, on gorgeous St. Charles Avenue, parked, and finally, we had made it. In the end, we had settled on making reservations at one of the incredible Donald Link restaurants, Herbsaint. We were seated at a small table, fairly close to the entrance, with what seemed like half of the city packed into the building. It was loud, but so comfortable. I didn't know anyone else in the place, but it was like we all agreed on the same restaurant, so we all must get along on some level. The atmosphere was lively, fresh, and personal. We each got a drink- Chris, a classic Sazerac, and myself, a Ponchatoula Sour (they had me at homemade strawberry syrup- yum!). We ordered our appetizers, and a few sips into my incredibly delicious cocktail, I was finally winding down. I looked up at Chris and felt so, so at home. I mean, here we are, at one of the best restaurants in the city, only a half hour from our house, and we were surrounded by more history and culture than anywhere in a several hundred mile radius. New Orleans is famous for its history, its food, and its culture. And of course its people. And we were submerged in it. At that very moment, I looked up at Chris to see him staring over my shoulder. I turned to see what had his attention, but before my eyes focused, I knew what it was. I felt the rumble and heard the low hum of the streetcar making its way through the city. I looked back at him, and he said it. The words stung, mostly because I don't think either of us believed him, but both of us desperately wanted to. "We're never moving away from here." Then he got romantic on me. "I'm sitting here, in this amazing place, drinking a Sazerac, eating this insanely delicious dinner, watching street cars go by. We have all of this at our fingertips. Why would we ever leave?"

About a month later, that night came crashing through my mind like a freight train when I got the phone call I knew would one day come, but prayed it wouldn't be this soon. "We're moving to Louisville."

I grew up in New Orleans East, and moved to the Northshore when I was 11. I have seen New Orleans at its best and at its worst. I cried as I packed my bags to evacuate from a hurricane when I was in high school. I was 15, dramatic, and full of anxiety, I just knew that every hurricane that brewed in the Gulf would be The One. If you're from here, you've heard about Camille and Betsy, the two most notorious Hurricanes to hit the Gulf Coast before Katrina. I had heard stories my whole life about people having to use axes to tear through their roof to escape the rising water in their house. That hurricane was not The One. It would be about 6 years later that we would meet Her. I cried as I watched the roof of the Superdome cave in on the news from my sister's house where we evacuated to, in Jackson Mississippi, in the early hours after Hurricane Katrina (that bitch) ravaged the whole state and coast for that matter. I prayed that my parent's house would still be standing when we came back. (It was). I was here as we (Southeast Louisiana) bonded, rebuilt, and came back stronger. I said my vows in the same beautiful church that I made my First Communion in so many years earlier, and spent my wedding night in one of the most romantic, historically rich hotels in the city- Hotel Monteleone.




I have been drunk on this city, among other things, yelling for beads at Endymion, sucking heads and pinching tails at crawfish boils every other weekend, screaming "Who Dat!" while watching the Saints year after year. I walked through the doors of Miller Hall on LSU's campus, pledged my sorority (Kappa Alpha Theta), and locked eyes with a brown eyed boy that stole my heart. I've fallen asleep on the parade grounds in early spring, yelled at the top of my lungs "Geaux Tigers!" until it felt like my throat would bleed, and as a victim of beer funnels and best friends, Chris managed to get us thrown out of an LSU game before it ever began. Ahem.






I've bonded with this city. I have a relationship with this area, and I feel like I'm leaving with so much left unsaid. I mean, let's face it, this city is so much more than Bourbon Street and voodoo dolls. There are so many things that I've never done while I've lived here that I'm ashamed of. How is it possible that I will be 30 this year and have never been to Jazz Fest? I hang my head in shame. Does this make me a, dare I say, "poser"? Gosh, I hope not. I will be back, I will fill my soul with this precious city once more. I will again shop Magazine street, picnic in Audubon Park, and go to mass in the Cathedral. Eventually, we will eat at every restaurant this city has to offer. I will hang a Michalopoulos painting on my wall (one day!) and remind my girls every day to never forget their roots. Because even though we will move again, (and again...) their roots are already planted. They will know Louisiana like I do. They will reel in massive bull reds in Hopedale, watch speckled trout dance just under the surface of the water from a glowing light on a pier over the lake, and taunt large mouth bass in the brackish waters in the neighborhood canals. They will stand on that very same St. Charles Avenue, elbow to elbow with their cousins, first and second, and wait as the men in our family crawl march in the Irish Channel Saint Patrick's Day parade, with half of the city, handing out flowers for kisses. Yes, they will know this city well. Come to think of it, they already do.

(With Paw Paw)



New Orleans, you are full of romance, history, and intrigue. You are so much more than even what I've mentioned. I'm sorry I have to leave you, again, before I could learn all of your secrets. I may be leaving for now, but know this: I'll be back after not so long. My Dear New Orleans, I'll be seeing you.

In Pursuit of Perfection

My previous post about little girls clothing was viewed about 72,900 times more than I expected. As of this morning its been viewed over 73,000 times. For me, that is shocking, exciting and a little scary. I put my opinion out for public viewing expecting a handful of friends to read it and move on. I never imagined it would have been shared and read anywhere near what it has. I posted my opinion and a few pictures. My intention was very simple: I am looking for classic, modest, and affordable clothes for my daughters. That is the bottom line. But by reading the post, many people drew some pretty wild conclusions. Instead of seeing what I hoped everyone would see, a few people twisted into something else. I have been accused of many things, as some people assumed that I have taken some major life choice away from my 5 year old instead of guiding her and helping her form her opinions. Without knowing anything about me, other than I that I like smocked dresses and classic children's clothes, anyone who read this blog filled in the blanks of my life on their own. Many people agreed with it, and some disagreed. My intention has never been to give off some impression that my family is perfect because of the way I dress them. My opinion is my own, just as my life is also mine. I opened my life for scrutiny and compliments, alike. The fact is, we draw many conclusions from one glance at a picture, and one quick read of a blog post. We are not perfect. As mothers, as women, and as people.




We see pictures and we instantly form an opinion. We see other moms lives and begin to feel like their lives are better, or we feel like they think their lives are better. We have gotten so wrapped up in the image that our family gives off that we are willing to literally stage a picture to give off the impression that our lives are perfect. Our houses are perfectly clean and perfectly decorated. We are all perfectly dressed, perfectly accessorized and perfectly designed. We throw perfect parties, create perfect crafts, and spend money that we want everyone to think that we have, just to avoid them knowing the truth. And I know how difficult it is for that truth to get lost. There is a secret in this perfection- and the secret is that the perfection itself is a lie.


(Five minutes into our 9 hour drive to Orlando. Everyone was happy at this point. I didn't post a picture of when everyone was tired of being in the car and on the verge of melting down. Who wants to see that anyway? On the surface, it looks great. The truth? It was a very long 9 hours.)


(First trip to Disney world! Happiness overflowing. At this point. Check back three days later when we were all exhausted and in desperate need of naps! Still, overall a great time, but no trip is perfect with this many little ones in tow. And Disney World? Temper Tantrum World. It was nice to see that we weren't the only ones dealing with the occasional rogue 4 year old...)

I'm a photographer by accident. I received a camera several years ago as a gift from my mother in law and now, about 7 years later, I'm a paid photographer. I chased my daughters around for years, played with editing programs and fell in love with photography. I love what life looks like through the lens of my camera. It is my job to stage pictures, to a certain extent. But I don't like pictures that are too perfectly posed. There is nothing wrong with a fresh set up and background, with coordinating colors and outfits- of course you want to look your best in the portraits that will be on display. But don't miss the real moment- don't stage a moment that didn't happen. I like to give a general setup and then I encourage everyone to get comfortable and really, truly be themselves. I would rather have the mom and dad smiling, full of love and life, and not have a single child looking at the camera than to have every kid looking at me with a fake smile. Its not reality. I crave what is real about life. Two year olds are not wired to sit still. Boys are not wired to be perfectly clean. Little girls love to twirl. Almost all kids love to jump. I want every family to look at their pictures and see what I see. Eyes squinted nearly shut from a smile so big their cheeks overflow. Daddies laughing while they throw their little girl into the air. Mommies giving kissies and getting snuggles from their little ones. That is reality. In ten years when you look back at your pictures, what will you see?





I feel the same way about pursuing perfection with each other. Facebook is great in a million ways, but it can also make a difficult life harder. If you wake up and feel like nothing is going right, your marriage isn't going great, you're always stressed out, your kids haven't been listening, whatever it is that's going on... and you get on Facebook to see someone has posted a series of pictures fit for a parenting magazine. They have planted the most beautiful garden with their 3 year old. The little one is wearing a darling outfit, rain boots to match mommy's and she even got her own gardening kit. Its almost sickening how cute this picture really is. And then you start to feel like if that mom can get everything done in her home that she has the time (and energy!) to engage her little one in such a messy project and still manage to look, you guessed it, perfect, then you must not be as good of a mother as she is. You barely got the laundry folded today after turning the same load on in the dryer on for a fourth time. You don't have any idea what to cook for dinner, the house is a mess and you're just. beyond. exhausted. OR you're a working mother, in a completely different situation, and maybe today is just one of those days that you are missing your babies more than usual. Whatever your situation may be, almost all of us have felt it. Its that pang, the initial thought of "Oh, come on!", and then it happens. You compare your life to theirs. There is a quote that always rings in my ears. "Comparison is the thief of joy." And it absolutely is.


(This picture looks sweet and effortless. The 3 year old helped mommy bake muffins while the baby sat quietly in her seat and watch. Ha! Yeah, right. The mess was unreal, and the baby cried half time. This is a great memory for me though. Sometimes the mess and crying is worth it in the end.)


Don't think for one second that there isn't a not-so-glamorous story behind almost every perfect Instagram pic. They just haven't posted the picture of the not-so-pretty stuff. Just because someone posted a picture of their perfectly clean living room and their impeccably dressed toddler finger painting doesn't mean that day was as serene and therapeutic as it appears. While it is easy to look at a friend's life and envy her creativity/style/house/whatever, the reality, the real meat of life, isn't what we see in pictures. We can look to those pictures of the pinterest over kill birthday party, or the family pictures, or the straight-off-of-food-network dinner she cooked from scratch, and we can roll our eyes, or we can smile and maybe even draw inspiration from it. I know I'm not the envied mom. Most of my crafts turn into colossal messes with toddlers eating finger paint and big sisters throwing tantrums. All too often I burn dinner, my clothes aren't brand new, and as much as my last post was grossly misinterpreted, my children are not dressed in smocked clothes or boutique dresses to play in. Our finances aren't perfect, my kids usually lose their minds at the most inconvenient times, and I have usually "given up" by 5pm and am drinking a glass of wine while I throw something together for dinner. But what I don't post pictures of are the moments I treasure the most- the ones too precious to stop to take a picture for Instagram. Every single day I pray that I can find grace in my own life, in my every day chaos. Instead of hating the mom posting the gag-worthy perfect pictures, I try thank God for my crazy, wild, adventurous life, and I find myself falling deeper in love with everyone in it. Embrace your life. Be thankful for your gifts. Your life might not be perfect, but its perfect for you.



(I love this guy more than words can say. And that's the truth.)


(Glass #2 for that night, ending a weekend where each of my children took turns with a stomach virus, and threw up in various locations in my house. Oh, and the dog had surgery and was coming off of anesthesia so he was dropping bombs all over the place too. Lots of bleach and disinfecting. And Merlot. Lots and LOTS OF MERLOT.)