Gratitude and the Fullness of Life

Time is a funny thing. It has intervals, but cannot really be measured. It takes up space, and yet is invisible. It is priceless, and yet cannot be bought. As I recall the absolute swirl that November has been, I am humbled by this caretaker of our lives, this fickle and persnickety Father Time. He masters all and answers to none. And he marches on. One week ago today I spent my next to last day as a 50 year old. Two weeks ago today, Paris and all of Europe was normal. Three weeks ago today, my sister-in-law woke up at the age of 50 for the first time. Time is fleeting and fast, and is not sure beneath our step. 

As I pause in preparation for our national day of Thanksgiving in America, I ponder that this is the first year where neither of our sons will be home, and I ponder that this is the first year that my brother-in-law maneuvers his way through his first holiday without his life partner, and I ponder that we all live on a thin line, walking that fine wire between yes and no, today and tomorrow, here and gone.

Since turning 50 last November, I have lived in as much a state as humanly possible of awareness, of presence, of seizing moments, of living fully. As that year has slipped away and now vanished, I am not sure I was aware enough, present enough, captive enough. I don't know to what degree it is even attainable. I saw some photographs recently of Steve this time last year, fresh from the hospital, dealing with a stint, not well and the tell being in his eyes. I look at him closely each day, as if trying to view with my naked eye his insides and assess his health. I want there to be enough. I want there to be more. Of everything.

And yet time mocks me, letting me know that will never be the case, that it is impossible, that I am only given this day, this moment, this breath, this thought, this second. My sweet sister-in-law Susan knew that fully. Battling cancer, faced with obstacles daily in limits that varied, she chose joy and emitted hope. Up to hours before her surgery, one that would take her life ultimately, she looked death in the eye and was courageous and without fear, letting her hospital staff know she was in the best hands, the hands of the Great Physician. I cannot really shake the calm calculating reality of her unquenchable faith, in what would be seen by many as her darkest hour. But, I can try to attain to it, to grasp it, to nurture it. 

As I navigate my days, I think of life from Susan's perspective. Not in a morbid way, but in a way that sees each day as a gift. I think, ironically, of the Disney movie "Cinderella", the live action one. I think not of the pumpkin to carriage, but I think of the long suffering Ella, sleeping on cinders, serving stepsisters, smiling with her companions, showing joy and happiness amidst it all. I think of the scene where her own mother tells her goodbye, of admonishing young Ella to "have courage and be kind." And I see that paradigm as the lens through which Susan lived her last year and a half. While she battled cancer, she chose daily to have courage and be kind. We are so thankful that the cancer did not claim victory over her. We grieve immensely over the misfortune of her aortic dissection, but choose joy in that breaking of her heart as claiming her life versus the poisoned cells inside her. I think that is why Susan could sign "I love you" and wave goodbye as she lay there intubated -- she knew cancer was not winning, but that she was winning.

I read this scripture the night of her viewing, searching for some distraction from the ever present visual, seeking some encouragement from a faith that spans four decades:

 "Therefore if you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God." - Colossians 3:1-3

I have gone through my days following her death in the normal fashion: work, leisure, sleep, repeat. But my mind has not really stopped processing her passing. I think of her loved ones - my family - left behind daily, praying incessantly for our healing and peace, for the holes in daily lives to fill over with joy and warm memories. But I think mostly of her looking down the barrel of the shotgun she faced, and staring it down unflinchingly. I think of the courage it took for her to acknowledge the need to say goodbye, and to be okay in saying it. I think of the gift of her signing I love you over and over to her family, a final message that could stand the test of time, and give heart to those fainting under the weight of grief. Yes, her mind was on things above.

I do not mean to be all macabre on this eve of counting our blessings. I mean it more than anything to be a message of intense hope, a message of counting the greatest blessing of all - of being sure of your salvation, of being surrounded by those you love, of being alive and present in this moment. Even though my boys are not here, and I am not in my home, or actually a house, I am more grateful this year than in any other previous November. Our hope is not fixed on this earth, but on things above, and toward that end, I look for gratitude in life, for gratitude in all things.

I found this quote today and wanted to share it:

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend."  -- Melody Beattie

My hope for you this Thanksgiving is that no matter where you are, no matter what you eat, no matter who you are with, may this day be a season of intense gratitude in your life, a moment where you can see that all good things are from above, that love has been lavished on you, that our hope is eternal. May you have a day where you remember all that has been done for you, and reflect on the fullness of your life. May the coming year be one where you have acceptance, order, clarity...and where you can see the abundance in your life, the overflowing goodness.

This layout shows our last Thanksgiving spent at Murphy Manor. We didn't know at the time that it would be our last Thanksgiving there. And here's the deal - we never know our last anything. Never. Take in the richness of this moment, and savor the blessings of the season. Look around you and see - you, too, have overflowing goodness in your life.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Be blessed.

Overflowing Goodness ~ Thanksgiving ~ November 2014

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation 
Paper: Basic Grey

Title Font: Rochester

My Game Boy

I read recently, "The days are long, but time flies" or something of that sort. As I contemplate turning 50 one month from today, I can definitely say that is the understatement of the year...or, more appropriately, the half century mark, if you will. I am not morbid about aging, and I don't have any unnatural feelings about it. I just really kind of sit here and shake my head at how fast it has all gone. 

One does not have to look far or hard to see how fast time has gone. Think back to your cell phone 5 years ago. Or consider the price of gas the first time you filled your car tank. Recall the dress code issues when you were in school. Find any little tidbit from your teenage years, and compare it to anything you see a teenager out there doing today. Time flies, and life evolves.

I will always be a bit of a technology buff, I believe, if I can continue to keep up with it. I will forever remember where I was the night Princess Diana died, because I was in my home "office" at my computer, a Compaq Presario All-in-One, with one disc drive in the front - a new ground-breaking 3.5" inch hard disk, which ushered in the farewell for the floppy disk. We paid $2,500 for that computer at Comp USA in Houston, and we were on the cutting edge to have a desktop computer at home. Now, mind you, this was all of 1994. Twenty years ago.

And the internet? As we knew it then, the internet existed as viewed from the portal through the parameters of AOL. We didn't even know the real internet. And accessing it? Dial-up baby. As in modem. As in nothing else could be going on communication wise. As in you had to have your phone line connected to the back of your computer and no phone talking could occur. It's funny to remember, and also kind of crazy to contemplate at the same time.

I bought that computer for my new working woman turned stay-at-home mom business. I was so proud of it. Business cards printed with my @aol.com email address, and the phone number that would ring if I wasn't out surfing AOL's news bites of the real world wide web. I do remember Kraft and Proctor and Gamble as being two of the companies that began ghosting their web address on the bottom left corners of their television commercials. And I also remember scoffing at why in the world anyone would ever need to know their dot com addresses. 

One of my tender memories, and I have the photo tucked away safely on a scrapbook page, is my oldest son, around 18 months old, standing on his tip toes, sippy cup in his left hand, and his right hand is extended up to the computer keyboard, and he is trying so hard to connect with that machine. I guess even back then he was wired a little like mom - interested in all things technology. 

Fast forward three years, and that little blonde boy that was so full of energy and light would be scampering around under my desk in a new house in a new city, hooking up the computer components, following the color codes on the peripherals to plug them in correctly. I can still see his little feet sticking out from the desk, his whole little body almost hidden underneath the desk and behind the tower. I had graduated at this point to a black Dell. Woot, woot.

It wasn't soon after this moment that I began battling this little tow-headed bundle of ideas for computer time. Yes, one computer in the house. He would want to play either Roller Coaster Tycoon, or his Tonka Construction game. I folded many loads of laundry to the sounds of either a dump truck backing up, or kids screaming as their coaster descended. If I were to hear either of those game sounds today, I would instantly be transported back to a house in San Antonio, where I fought the blacktopped barefoot imprints on beige berber like nobody's business.

Computer games gave way to Game Boy and Nintendo DS and then PlayStation 3...but somewhere along the way, the boy returned to a computer game. When we lived in McAllen, he and his classmates stumbled upon a game called RuneScape and he would play this game on the family computer that we had set up - that same Dell that had been with us in San Antonio was hanging in there, on its last leg.

For Christmas in 2001, my amazing husband gifted me with the first iPod, it having been released in October 2001. {So, think about that for a minute - the iPod isn't even 15 yet.} Well, I was taken completely by surprise! I had no idea he was getting this for me, and I set out immediately on Christmas Day afternoon to begin importing my CD's into this new software called iTunes. Well, like an 85-year-old on Jeopardy, that poor computer didn't stand a chance memory wise. And my poor husband didn't realize that the Christmas iPod would require a New Year's laptop. I love that man for so many reasons, but one near the top of the list is that he will indulge my technological cravings. Time after time.

I left Best Buy on New Year's Eve with a newfangled laptop, of all things, and began once again the transporting of all of my LIFE, including music and photos, onto the latest version of personal computing. The old Dell, with some life in it still, was relegated to my sons - and the oldest launched full fledge into his RuneScape games, often with his younger brother sitting at his side, content to watch the medieval questing and simulated life.

Over ten years, in three homes, on four computers, my oldest son has played RuneScape. I can understand it a little. I fought my own demon of addiction with Zoo Tycoon when the boys were in grade school. I finally had to quit the game altogether so there would be clean clothes in the drawers and food on the table. {And that reminds me of an aunt that was an avid video gamer in her seventies...maybe it's just in our gene pool...}

During Philip's last year of high school, he became more intentional about hanging out downstairs. I appreciated that so very much. It gave me so much joy to see him hunkered over his computer screen on the couch, or at the desk in the family room, or in one of my slipper chairs here in Scrap Central. He lived for the release of new quests and has now accumulated quite the collection of holiday regalia from ten years of completing activities on his RuneScape account. I like seeing what he's done with his character. I like seeing him figuring out how to do something. I like seeing him passionate about ideas. I like seeing him game. 

The quest goes on. He's in college now. I miss seeing him here, hanging out.  But in the young man now, with his sophisticated MacBook on his lap, I can in the blink of an eye go back in my mind to that little tow-headed boy, camped out on the bleached pine desk in my San Antonio study, backing up dump trucks and building houses on the old black Dell. It is a joy to watch your children grow and change. And it is a joy to see some character traits deepen and morph, much as the very pixels on our screen have. Yes, the days are long, but time flies. 

Ten Years on the Quest ~ Philip & RuneScape ~ March 2013

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation

Paper: Carta Bella

Letter Stickers: Pink Paislee and Cosmo Cricket

Notebook Paper and Denim

I have tried to revisit in my mind the mental bookmark that segregates for me the beginning of my love affair with all things supply related. There is no watermark moment, no recalled genesis, no hallmark memory. I can simply remember that as long as I can remember, I have loved school supplies.

As a young child, we would head to Ronnie's Supermarket and pick up our supply list off the aisle end cap - that supply list having been typed on an old manual typewriter and run off via carbon paper. Remember that lovely cornflower blue ink? We would carry our supplies proudly home in big sturdy brown paper bags, lay them all out on the floor, carefully label them, and then, almost in a manner reserved for crown jewels, place them back inside the same brown bag where they would hold revered status until the bell rang on the first day of school. 

And we would carry them in to class in that same brown bag. $50 backpack? Not necessary. We were above knowing we needed one. And all year long, I took careful time with my supplies - never one to want to sharpen my crayons and face the jagged edge of the torn paper for the rest of the year, never one to mix colors of paint on the plastic palette, never one to just throw them at day's end into my desk. No sirree - I coddled them for the year, knowing that what was left over was mine to keep and could then be added to my private stash back at home.

And what were summers for, but playing school? As I think back on the cool of the mornings in the gulf summer heat, I am amazed to think that we played school in a garage with a door that never opened. We cleared a space and set up a desk area for 2-3 students, and we rotated who was teacher and who was student, using up our supplies left over from the grade we just finished, which, if we were lucky, included some extra worksheets that we never needed in "filler time". I loved playing school. I loved school. I loved the whole spectrum of it, the supplies just being the easiest outward manifestation, the one constant as you changed teachers and campuses. Give me a new pack of 64 crayons and watch me transcend time.

Fast forward to my early 30's, and see me with two young sons, and a corner in an upstairs retreat where we had craft supplies and a little oak table with 2 chairs. {Don't think I didn't wish I had that table and chairs back in the '70's in my garage!} We did arts and crafts with the boys as early as they could manage to move their fingers around on a piece of paper. I have piles and piles of childhood art around here, mocking me with its presence. I refuse to let it go just yet!

And read, oh, would we read. Many times it would be the same book over and over. I never knew the full measure of my husband's patience until the year that my oldest child asked him to read the same Dorling Kindersley bulldozer book every night. Now, these were photos of all kinds of machines, with descriptions of their name and purpose. No story here - just a machine encyclopedia if you will. Philip wore that book ragged and heaven help us if bedtime came and the bulldozer book was needing to be unearthed. 

Preschool time came around too soon for the boys and I, I guess. I don't know if it was the fashion of the day, or the fear of letting them go, or their desire to soak up everything and learn from me all I would impart...but some combination of any of that led me to a stint with homeschooling. I was not cut out for it. The boys were not cut out for it. Thankfully we all had sense enough to recognize that early on. What I remember fondly about the experience, though, are all the workbooks we bought and how fun it was to set up a school room in my own home for my sons, and see their little heads bent over that blonde oak table, pursuing the completion of some little assignment. This was definitely a new definition of school supplies for me!

When the boys began kindergarten, we lived in the valley at the very southern tip of Texas. Borders blended and societies merged, and all of the stores of McAllen served not only the citizens of McAllen, but also the needs of any visitors over from Mexico, in pursuit of goods not available to them at home. Translation: buy it when you see it, because it won't last long. I learned early to guess at what you needed, and buy extra, because by the time the teacher told you it was on "the list", it would no longer be on the shelves. 

We had one Target in town, south of our home, towards the border. You needed to go early in the morning for it to be clean, for the checkout lines to be tolerable, for the aisles to be maneuverable. There was no way, in this border town, I would ever even consider going in to the Walmart. No way. Target was my only option. So, when they set out the school supplies, we were there. The boys would pick out their folders, their spirals, their crayons, their map pencils, their scissors, their rulers, their pencils, their pens.

It was always so much fun to see the choices, to revel in the colors, to mark this year's trends based on the images on all the supplies. It was entertaining to watch them consider the choices, as if they were selecting a house or a car, weighing all the options, importing onto the array of supplies a value far beyond the price tag, ensuring they ended up with an assortment that did not match their brother's. No copy cats here! Get that individuality captured! The buggy would fill and we would head home with our new round of treasures. 

I will 'fess up. There were usually 1 or 2 or 7 things in the buggy for me as well. My husband learned early on that my brain requires an assortment of note pads, post-it notes, pens and spirals. Just because. After all, when the bell rang, it was a "new year" for me, too. I couldn't head into my volunteer meetings with last year's tool kit, could I? The travesty!

Home we three would head. Supplies divvied up onto the counter. Label maker pulled out. Backpack loaded. In July no less. What were we to do? The fun was in the selecting, the fun was in the waiting, the fun was in the going. We relished the entire process. My boys were always extremely eager for meet the teacher night, and the commencement of the school year. They were great little students and loved the social network of school as much as they adored their teachers and mastered their lessons.

When Texas launched tax free sales weekend, and Macy's matched their tax hiatus with back to school sales, we upped our school shopping to include clothes. We learned to go the night before and preview the choices. Some stores would set things to the side for me, ready for me on Friday morning to run in at opening bell and pay quickly and get out before the crowds descended. {Thanks Aeropostale - you done good by me.} Steve would always pick up the jeans at Macy's. Of course, he calls them denim. And he would let me know when the denim deals happened. I would let him know their sizes.

When the boy were in middle school, they began taking an interest in their clothes. By the time they graduated, I was out of the picture, with the exception of the photo on my debit card. They morphed from Aeropostale to Urban Outfitters and Pac Sun. I morphed from going to giving them a budget. I honestly didn't mind and I enjoyed seeing what treasures they came home with, albeit some of them looking like my definition of school clothes not so much. Denim? It still came from Macy's. We've had all sizes of Levi's in this house. You could measure the growth of the child by the change in that famous waistband tag.

When August 2013 rolled around, we were left with one child at home needing supplies. One child at home that does not like to shop. One child at home that is independent. One child at home that would rather not be seen in public with us unless it is at Chuy's for mexicana comida deluxe. We casually offered to Andrew a little excursion and nearly fell over when he agreed to go!

We headed to North Park mall quickly, before he changed his mind, in search of anything he would agree to let us buy. Said child not only dislikes shopping, at the time he disliked getting anything either. We settled on some jeans, er....denim, and we found some shirts he liked, and we even found some shoes. It was a wardrobe trifecta. Given he was in the spirit, we then headed to Target. Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today? With Andrew, we knew to strike while the iron is hot. A momentous end to a family tradition? #bullseye

Notebook paper? Check. Binder? Check. Red pens? Check. Last round of this shopping rodeo? Check, check, check. It was a sobering reality to be sure. Hard to believe my days of spirals and new pens and fun notebooks are over. Oh, wait. They're not. You might just find, if you know where to look, my private stash of school supplies. A part of me will always feel invigorated by "the start of school", and will soak in the new beginning of a season. New blue jeans, though, are optional. 


Back 2 School Shopping ~ Our Final Rodeo ~ August 2013

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation http://scrapbookgeneration.com/index.php?route=product/category&path=213

Paper: Basic Grey, Lily Bee, Pink Paislee, Simple Stories

Font: Pacifico

Have Suitcase, Will Travel

I'll be the first to admit it's been a bit of a different summer around here. A sign of the times to come, no doubt. Our oldest has been off working at summer camps, home only for about 20 days between Mother's Day and August 16. We supported his choice, completely. We would support it again, and I'm sure between the two sons, we will be called upon to own those words. 

Our July 2014 Europe cruise that we booked in 2012 had to be cancelled, as the church youth group changed their historical summer camp week - and - yes, you guessed it - moved it right smack into the week we were to be cruising from Spain to Venice. We also supported our youngest son's desire to go on his Senior Beach Camp trip, and knew in our hearts we could not go on the trip without him. Wouldn't want to.

Our youngest did not really want a different family vacation, unless we could go to Alaska. Again. While we loved our trip there, and truthfully do dream of going again, we knew this year was not the year to plan accordingly. I don't know - something or other about two kids in private universities. We asked him to defer that plan, since we are not deferring tuition. He didn't want to go anywhere, and our oldest could not go anywhere.

So, the summer panned out with a grand case against a family vacation. Three strikes. We were out. I'll have to say it's the first summer in over a decade that we haven't had a trip. I'll have to say, too, that it's been harder on me than I imagined. I know, I know. Vacations are hard to plan. They are expensive. You come home more often than not exhausted - and wanting a vacation to recover from your vacation. 

It does seem silly to me when we travel and pay a lot of money each night to stay all squished together in a room that is a mere meager fraction of the size of our house. It's almost a ruse. "Let's get people everywhere to pay exhorbitant amounts of money to stay in (usually) lackluster rooms, share one small bathroom, trip over suitcases littering the floor, battle thermostats that struggle ineffectively, grapple with sheets that itch, and more often than not, tune out noisy crews on the other side of an all too thin wall."

All financial silliness aside, all cramped inconveniences shelved, all tedious master planning ignored, I will confess I love the family vacation. Love. It. Love it. We recently went to a hotel for a weekend, and we did it mainly so that we could be crammed into one room with our boys, just hanging out and being together. There is just something special about picking up little pieces of your every day life, shoving them into a suitcase, traversing this country, and exploring something new - together as a family unit.

Steve and I grew up as polar opposites in this family vacation paradigm. I can remember so very many vacations as a child. My husband took only one in his entire childhood, and it was to his oldest sister's wedding. Every time I ponder the juxtaposition of our pre-marriage travelogues, I cringe for him. I know we can't undo the past, and I know his parents provided for him and his siblings in many other ways, but I just hate that they didn't get to experience the annual family vacation. 

The gift for us as a family that erupted out of his childhood paradigm, though, is a near insatiable wander lust embedded deeply in him, and his commitment to plan and provide for his own family some wonderful trips. He and I started early on, with weekend road trips around Texas. So many fun memories. We started annual vacations early on, too. First for two, then four.

When the boys came, we altered our travel itineraries to mirror their capabilities and interest levels. I have enjoyed, thoroughly, watching my boys age and turn into such good, fun-loving, witty young men. They are just so enjoyable to be around.  In fact, in 2006, they were at such a fun age that we took two trips that year - the Grand Canyon and Sedona in May, and then Colonial Williamsburg in October. We have long been determined to gobble up as much of this short lived goodness while we could. We waited for them to be old enough to remember, and we knew we only had so many summers before the window began closing.

We have had some grand adventures together. I've photographed them all. 1,282 photos of our Alaska trip. 1,131 photos of our New York City trip. I won't dare divulge every trip and its jpegs. I will tell you that I pull those jpegs out and relive the trip - the stories and the discoveries and the laughter and the meals and the obstacles and the memory of everything the pictures tell me, and the details they cajole out of the deeper corners of my mind.

I won't believe yet that we are done. I simply can't. I am taking the summer of 2014 and cataloging it as an aberration. In fact, we have our 2015 trip planned out already. On the books. Deposit paid. I can't believe we are done because I can't believe we will ever get tired of one another. I can't believe we will ever fully quench our desire for adventure. I can't believe we can ever see everything. I know the next few summers will be challenging, with the boys' activities sandwiched in between college semesters.

We are content to let them have their own adventures during this season. We are even planning on having some of our own adventures. But, in my heart, I believe back when I taught them how to pack, when they learned to read, when I printed out a customized packing list for each child, for each trip, that I did more than create travelers. I like to believe that I planted in their hearts the wanderlust for travel, the desire to be an adventurer, the joy in being together. I think they, like their dad, like their mom, will always be ready. Have suitcase, will travel.

Oh, Alaska! I'll be back someday. Your beauty lives in my heart. The memories remain fresh. And I'd like to believe I'll once again be asking for a table for four. Get ready to serve up that incredible rustic beauty you offer, and save me some salmon. Adventure is out there! Have suitcase, will travel.

Oh, Alaska! ~ Ketchikan, Skagway, Juneau, and Tracy Arm, Alaska, and Victoria, Canada ~ July 2012

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation http://scrapbookgeneration.com/index.php?route=product/category&path=213

Paper: Echo Park, Little Yellow Bicycle

Font: Pacifico

Trick-or-Treating

I looked across the table at my husband one day and I could see in his eyes the weight of the nest emptying. Back-to-back boys has been a ride – joy, terror, bliss, chaos. I have known for a few years that my honey would take hard the hit of the college drop-off. And I was right. And he did. We decided that we would take a little trip. You know – embrace the change? Start a new ritual? Being the mouse fans that we are, we thought we would head to Orlando. But, as fate would have it, the places we wanted to stay were booked, so we looked toward Anaheim.

We had gone there together for the very first time ever together. Back in 1986. We were both visiting friends in Fresno and they took us. That was so long ago. I don’t even think there are any photographs of it. If there are, they are on film somewhere with Miss Ginny in Fresno. But, I have faint memories of the park. We then took the boys there for the first time in 1999. Our little family of four headed west. To see the mouse. Toon Town times and little blonde boys falling asleep in their mouse-eared nuggets were the order of the day. And I have a few photos of that trip. And negatives somewhere. It seemed like a circle to book-end the trip with the boys with a second trip for the two of us.

We stayed at The Disneyland Hotel in 1999 and opted this time for The Grand Californian Hotel. As the trip got closer, we became more and more excited. I would text hubby little images of the parks and we would do countdowns. During all of our anticipation, a friend asked if we were going to the Halloween party. I told her we weren’t planning on it. She talked about how much fun she had at it. So, on a whim, we decided we would buy hard tickets to Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party. And we ended up trick or treating! And it was so much fun.

Biggest moment – being blown away by all of the reworking in the Haunted Mansion to convert it to embody The Nightmare Before Christmas. Biggest let down – the main PM parade didn’t showcase the villains like I thought it should. Silliest moment - us standing in long lines to actually trick-or-treat with hundreds of other adults. But, it was a little bit of magically ghoulish fun. And just the thing we needed to help ease our hurting hearts.

Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party ~ Disneyland ~ October 2013

Sketch Credit: Scrapbook Generation http://scrapbookgeneration.blogspot.com
Paper: Echo Park, Girls Paperie, Pink Paislee
Fonts: Minnie, Noteworthy, Blackmoor LET