This summer I’ve spent most of my time relaxing and enjoying my two girls. It’s too hot to do anything else! August is when I re-group and gear up for high school senior photography and family holiday photos. Here is a feature on my daughters, Arden and Tess, while we were on vacation this summer in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. Stay tuned for a magazine-style feature for my favorite subjects:  teenagers.

In 6 years time, a lot has happened. Yet, time has passed by so quickly. 6 years ago, Grandma Jean passed and I’ll never forget her response when I said, “Grandma, I’m pregnant!” It was, “Will you have one for each of us, Lesli?” Yes, she loved babies and she would have been thrilled to know Arden Jean.

6 years ago on August 14, 2004 in the late afternoon, Arden came into the world totally silent. No crying, not even a peep. All I could hear was the nurses whispering and the clinking of hospital utensils as they tended to baby Arden. It was a serene scene. Some babies just don’t cry, they said. That was Arden. It still is. She’s the calm one, the gentle one, the pleaser. Sweet Arden. When she tries to be mean, it just doesn’t work.

5 years ago, Arden started daycare two days a week at St. Rose. I thought I was going to die. A mother’s guilt is awful! But, we survived.

4 years ago, I went back to work full-time. Arden was in daycare every day and that was even harder than leaving her two days a week. She sliced open her forehead at school. In the ER, the doctor glued her gaping skin back together. She was quiet, as usual.

3 years ago, Arden was back in the hospital but it was to meet her baby sister, Tess. 9 months later, Arden visited the hospital again with a broken arm.

2 years ago, Arden slept through Ike’s wrath, then spent the next two weeks with Mimi and Papa in Gonzales.

1 year ago, kindergarten started and Arden sat at her school desk in Mrs. Cates class with 21 other anxious-eyed children. We parents cried, all feeling the same way about our “babies.” Reluctantly, we walked to our cars, wondering if there was some way we could turn back time just for a moment. I know where I would go. To 1915 Bethlehem St., in the April spring weather, on a picnic blanket in the front yard watching 8 month old Arden grab the tree trunk and pull herself up into a standing position. Daddy drives up from work just in time to see her feat. He lies down on the blanket with us and we smile.

Happy 6th birthday, Arden! I can hear you upstairs right now singing “White Horse” by Taylor Swift. I’m sure one day I will wish to turn back time to now.

Notice the IPad in her lap.

Remember that lullaby from The Sound of Music? I love it! But I never sang it to Tess as an infant. What I do remember is rocking this little bundle of tightness that shrieked and hollered like she was on fire, looking at David one evening and saying through sobs, “I can’t do this. I’m leaving her at the fire station. Isn’t it legal to do that?” Yes, I really did say that. I was serious. I didn’t think I could stand anymore of her incessant screaming. I couldn’t calm her down. I had to let her get it all out, which lasted from about 4 p.m.-9 p.m. The colic crying started at about 6 weeks and lasted until she was about 5 months old. Now, it’s a blur. I’m not writing this for sympathy at all, although I did feel sorry for myself at the time! I’m writing this to all parents of colic babies. You will get through it. Do whatever you can to survive:  a glass of wine, medication (for you and baby!), put the baby in the crib and walk away, use the swing (I let Tess sleep all night in the swing because it was the only thing that calmed her!), go outside, go for a run, go for a drive, get a sitter. Get help. I did all those things.

So, look what I have now! Tess will be 3 tomorrow. She crawls in my lap and says, “Mama, what did I do when I was a little baby?” She asks me, scrunching up her nose like she smells something strange. She knows exactly what she did as I’ve told her the story over and over. “I went, ‘WAAAAAA!!! WAAAAAA!!! WAAAAAA!!!!” Yes, you did. Happy birthday, Tess! I can’t imagine my life without you and would go through the colic all over again (but I’d be much more prepared and relaxed the second time around!).

Taking a reprieve from a colic fit. She was exhausted!

I didn't take many photos of Tess as an infant. It was hard to catch her at peace! Here are some rare moments.

Miss Mayra, the one you talk to at school, who sings with the voice of a bird, smiles at you and your friends with a loving gleam in her eyes. The artistic one who drew your name TESS on typing paper with lavender flowers and leaves swirling around it (I kept it). The one you told me had spider bites on her hand. Yes, she did. And she has more than spider bites. She has ovarian cancer. Stage 4. In 2008, she was given 2-3 months to live. I didn’t know any of this until last Friday when I casually asked her about the spider bites. It was the first time I’ve actually talked to Mayra. Always the friendly hello, smile, nod, and thank you. Thank you for taking care of my daughter and loving her. Thank you for your sweet, gentle ways, your sparkly eyes, your birdsongs, and your magical hands that make an ordinary name look special.

I thought the hats were her style. I thought she was cool like that. I didn’t know the hats covered the effects of many months of chemo and other drugs.

Tess, when she told me I cried. Right in front of her. You were standing there by my knee caps gazing up. You didn’t understand then, but I hope one day you do. I cried because I had no idea. Not that I thought she should tell me. I cried because she gave no indication of being sick. She laughs, loves, shares her talents, floats in and out of St. Rose every day like an angel. You love her. Miss Kate says so. She says, “Tess snubs me when I try to join in on hers and Mayra’s conversations.”

Bye, Tess! She says every day you go. See you Wednesday (or Friday or Monday). She means it. Every day counts for her. And every day I thank her for being your teacher.

Your sister Arden took this one of us. I love it! I need to take one of you and Miss Mayra.

I’m a bad grand-daughter. At least I feel that way right now. The only grandparent I have left is my paternal grandmother. She turns 86 on Oct. 25. Recently, I’ve had the burning desire to photograph her. I don’t know, I just felt like I needed to remember her the way she is right now. Although I think about her a lot, I don’t call her enough, and I certainly don’t visit her like I should. I could blame it on time, I’m too busy, I’ve planned too much and can’t fit in a visit with her. But all those excuses are LAME. Truth is, I’m ashamed that I don’t spend as much time as I’d like to with her.

As a child, I spent lots of time with Nanny in her Merle Norman studio in Gonzales. I remember sitting with her in the LazyBoy chair in the back of her studio and watching “All My Children” while we ate lunch or listening to her read from a book of fairy tales. When a customer came in, I’d tiptoe behind her and listen while she offered her expert advice on makeup and beauty. I loved to watch her open the tiny drawers on the vanities and take the bubble makeup samples with a flat sides that peeled back. You could almost fit an entire fingertip in one and dab it on your face. Nanny was a master at dolling up anyone’s complexion. Her face was always perfectly made, her skin flawless. I thought she was beautiful. I still do.

I have to give credit where credit is due. This contest is inspired by 2 photographers who wrote 2 blog posts that blew me away with emotion. The first photographer is Zack Arias. He wrote this about his stepfather: http://www.zarias.com/?p=236  I read it soon after he wrote it (Aug. 25, 2008) and it has resonated in my mind ever since.  The 2nd photographer, Angie Sloan, wrote this blog post on October 9, 2009:  http://sloanphotographers.info/?p=1031  Please, please read them before you read about this contest!

 Okay, now that you are dabbing the tears away from your eyes, take a deep breath and get excited! Pick up a camera. Please don’t buy some expensive contraption you won’t know how to use because you refuse to read the instructions. Just dig up a point and shoot digital camera or your old polaroid and photograph one of your elders who is special to you (grandma, grandpa, mom, dad, great-aunt, great grandma, great uncle, great grandpa, elderly family friend). Submit your favorite photo of an elder to me either by email:  lmdabney@comcast.net or mail (504 West 30th St, Houston, TX 77018). The contest ends  at midnight Dec. 31, 2009. The winner will receive a free photo session with me plus an 8X10 mounted print of your winning shot. The only people who cannot participate in this contest are my professional photography buddies. Sorry, guys and gals! Any other questions? Leave a comment!

This is Nanny reading to my younger daughter Tess:

Our air conditioner quit on us tonight. Perfect timing: we are moving AGAIN to another rent house. Soon. In about 1-3 weeks? I can’t sleep. No surprise. Most nights I crawl into bed with Arden. “Mommy, will you lay down with me?” is her whimper. I tell her she’s too big for me to sleep with her every night. But secretly I don’t mind. I grab her hand, and she falls asleep quickly while I stare at the dark ceiling trying desperately to remember everything I can about her as a baby.

We were in the 1915 Bethlehem house. Her crib and room furniture were black, walls light pink, carpet taupe. I remember photographing her for the first time when she was only 2 weeks old. I used my 35mm camera with black and white film. I framed the pictures. I still like them. She had this doe-eyed face, observant. I loved laying her out on the floor after a bath and massaging her little body while lullabies played in the background. She would kick her legs with delight and coo. I’d stare at her and ask her who she was going to be when she grew up, what was she going to sound like. I longed to hear her talk. How would she sound? Those evenings were so calm and peaceful. I can’t get that time back.

We were in the front living room of the Bethlehem house. The large-paned window let the light in and I held 5 month old Arden in my arms as we waltzed around the room to George Strait’s “You’ll Be There.” She sometimes fell asleep while I danced with her.

These times have passed, and I can’t get them back. I can’t stop thinking about this, even though I know you are supposed to “live in the moment.” What’s done is done. There’s no turning back. But I’m afraid I am a person of memories. I can’t let them go. I long for those days, but I know I will one day long for today. So, I guess it’s true. We should live in the moment.

My first-born will be 5 on August 14. She starts kindergarten August 24. Here’s to you, Arden Jean. I love you!