Not really, but sometimes it feels that way.

There has been basketball season and my child’s Never Ending 10th Birthday Celebration. Due to sports schedules, snow days, work, and other assorted disruptions, the birthday party devolved into something like 27 separate events spread out over two weeks. I am sending myself an email to be delivered next February 1st detailing what an all-consuming exhausting pain in the ass this has been, and strongly suggesting that we take 10 kids to race go-karts for 2 hours and that is it. If your kid can’t make it, or has some personality disorder that turns him into a raging asshole when he is exposed to cake fumes or more than one child at a time, that’s too bad. No rain checks will be given, no alternative celebrations arranged.

Although the multiple parties have helped establish a revised guest list for future sleepovers. The kid with the chronically weak bladder? Off the list. As is the bossy kid who throws a hissy fit when no one will listen to his extensive list of rules that ensure he will win a game. Also off the list is the kid who screams “Your bike is a piece of CRAP!” because he can’t ride it.

The great thing about my kid is that I never have to tell him this stuff. After the obnoxious kids left and there were just a couple of the good ones still hanging out playing video games, I walked through the living room, and he glanced up and said, “Notice anything different? That’s the sound of Good Manners.”

Last Sunday I managed to tear my camera away from they guys for a second or two and aim it at one or two of my favorite inanimate subjects, elaborate wrought iron and glass bricks and steel girders. They are not often found in the same spot. I’ll admit it; I’m a sucker for a sunburst.

But I believe that perhaps my family got more than it’s fair share of charming young men. I got to spend Sunday with two them. Emery and Mike are graduating this spring, and needed portraits that reflected their style and personalities. I think I caught them.

We had a ball; you can’t even tell they were freezing. I resisted posing them in front of a large clump of pampas grass. It was tough.

So perhaps it has been noted that I call myself a photographer and yet, the only photos of the recent snow have been taken from the snuggly comfort of my studio window. Perhaps you may have thought, “What gives hussy? Strap up and get out there and take some pictures!”

Far be it from me to deny such a cleverly worded imaginary request.

Note to my sister: None of the dark spots are dog poop. ‘Cause I know that’s what you are thinking.