Brian Anderson is a fool. And I love him madly for it.
See, there’s a difference between a fool and an idiot. Idiots are straight-up stupid; like the entire cast of The Bachelor franchise or people who obscure their rear car windows with Beanie Babies. I don’t care what Merriam or Webster says about it; in my mind, fools are gold because they play in the world just a little bit differently than the rest of us. If you know Brian Anderson, then you know he’s the biggest fool there is.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She was carefully descending the precarious and creaky steps of the tiny Georgetown Dog Shop in a pair of black leather, high-heeled boots that were ridiculously impractical for the occasion. I remember the shoes because when you spend your entire life 14” off the ground, it’s the first thing you notice about a person. It was at this point I said to myself, “Oh please don’t let that high-maintenance-looking one be my human.” And then our eyes met.
With all the finesse of a defensive linebacker in a tailored, red wool coat, she pushed through the crowd of humans that were probably violating fire code in the cramped pet shop and she swooped me up. “Oh hell no,” I woofed under my sweet-smelling puppy breath, but then I looked in her eyes and I knew: Ali Anderson was the one I’d been waiting my entire 15 week life for.
Up to this point, I’d spent my days on the run in South Carolina. I got picked up by the authorities and did some time in the joint where I spent most of the day nervously pacing and pissing myself. You spend your day hoping they don’t call your number because if they do…well, let’s just say I’d be glue right now. Yeah, glue. Not just for horses anymore.
Anyway, one day my number was up. I’m a Lucky Dog though. Maybe it was my devastatingly good looks, but they put me in a van bound for Washington, D.C. *Cha-ching*. The word on the street was that the Obamas are dog people, so I felt confident Sasha and Malia would make great pack mates. On the ride up though, I discovered it wouldn’t have worked out because I’m a canine of the liberatarian persuasion (I read a few chapters of Atlas Shrugged in the joint).
So that’s how I found myself face-to-face with Ali and her pack at an adoption event in Georgetown on a freezing cold Sunday in February. Just a few hours later, immediately after I had taken a righteous dump on Ali and Brian’s dining room floor, I knew I’d found my forever home.
Now instead of nervously pissing myself and reading free-market anarchism literature all day, I do stuff like chew sticks.
Work on my hook turns and dribbling skills.
I take naps with Ali and write the occasional guest blog post. Oh, and the rugrats around here have been teaching me to beg for food at the table. Ali shamelessly photographed it one time before she barked at me.
Life is good.
Woof,
Millie Anderson
P.S. If you want to make life good for some of my buddies, check out this website or sniff your way to a local animal shelter.
I could have gabbed on the phone with her for hours about everything from The Oscars to The Lorax. Tara had given birth to her third child 3 weeks prior and the last of the “out-of-town family help” had just left. She was looking forward to establishing a well-oiled family routine while on maternity leave and enjoying some of that painfully fleeting time with her newborn son, Adam. It was indescribably important to Tara to have this stage of her family’s life photographed. And then the Bell’s Palsy struck.
True to the woman and mother Tara is, she was calm, adaptable and even positive about the outcome of the post-pregnancy-related condition that temporarily paralyzed the left side of her face a few days before our session. Maybe adaptability is what having three children teaches you, but in Tara’s case, that’s just her factory default mode of operation for every day life.
I imagine she’ll have the same poise when she’s sitting on her daughter Ali’s bed, having one of those mother-daughter, heart-to-heart conversations some day.
Even when those moments are drenched in tears, Tara will see the same carefree, creative and inquisitive little girl who loves her dolly and her mama.
Andrew is like an Oreo cookie: A sensitive, sweet, little soul sandwiched between layers of rambunctiousness and mischief. With parents who nurture a combination of qualities like that, Andrew is a gem. I wanted to dunk him in a glass of milk and gobble him up.
Many years from now, Tara will look back and remember when both of her sons fit inside the protection of her embrace.
And while Adam was only three weeks old at the time of our session, you know he was watching Ali and Andrew’s every move; scanning the room like a baby Terminator to gather critical intel on his big brother and sister. Sure, he looks innocent enough lying there, but you know he’s got a trick or two up his onesie.
Plus, he knows he’s got to keep up with these two cohorts who are thick as thieves when they’re hatching a plan to ambush their photographer.
I treasure the Saturday morning I spent hanging out with this relaxed party of five, snuggling their toasty-warm-new-baby bro and digging up worms in the back yard. I was *this close* to making popcorn and snuggling up on the couch to watch a movie. Next time, guys – I’ll bring the donuts!
~Ali
I interrupt your regularly scheduled blog post to bring you shamelessly biased, non-photography related commentary about the other man in my life. I usually only see him on Sundays and occasionally on a Monday or Thursday between the months of September and February, but they are cherished moments I look forward to with heartsick longing all week.
Don’t worry – Brian knows all about it and he’s totally cool with it. In fact, he encourages it by handing me an icy cold beer and taking the kids outside to play so I can enjoy unencumbered, quality time with this man. Well, several men actually, but of all my beloved Indianapolis Colts, Peyton Manning is the one I look forward to seeing the most every week during football season. Or at least I did…until his employer sent him packing last week. (C’mon, where did you think I was going with all this?).
If you’re a guy, skip ahead a few paragraphs. If you’re a girl and maybe you’ve gotten behind on your SportsCenter the past few days, let me just catch you up, girlfriend:
Peyton Manning is widely regarded as one of the top five greatest quarterbacks OF ALL TIME. In his 14 seasons as quarterback for the Indianapolis Colts, he has steadily racked up a list of accomplishments that involve lots of impressive statistics and acronyms which you’ll never remember. He’s a record-holding, four-time league MVP and yes, he won the Superbowl during the 2006 Season. He’s an endorsement god. He’s committed to philanthropy. Think of it like this: he’s Oprah of the NFL minus the false eyelashes and superhuman ability to make people cry on national television. (Though he did make me cry during the 2003 AFC title game).
Manning is no commitment-phobe. He’s been playing for the Colts since he joined the league 14 seasons ago. Last week, however, the city of Indianapolis nearly declared a statewide emergency when owner and CEO, Jim Irsay, elected not to exercise a contract option that would pay Manning a $28 million bonus. Basically, he’s an expensive guy to have on the payroll at a time when the team needs the cash to rebuild their roster. The NFL is a business and not even the greatest player in the league is immune to budgetary realities.
This means Manning has been the belle of the ball this week in places like Denver and Phoenix with teams offering him their second string quarterback’s first born child in exchange for a Superbowl win. More importantly, this means I potentially have to start rooting for teams that wear colors like orange and blue together or have bird heads with furrowed unibrows on their helmets. My skin tone looks terrible in orange. See how devastating this is for me?
Even so, I’m no fair-weather fan. I remember the pre-Manning days when the Colts sucked so much that most of the State of Indiana had to be Bears fans, (except for the Southern part which is basically Kentucky anyway, so they don’t really count). I’m a girl from Indiana who will always talk trash about any team that plays the Colts (even when we’re losing). My point is that for me, it’s less about the game and more about getting fired up for quality people.
I don’t adore Peyton Manning because he’s conventionally handsome (he’s not) or because he wears tight pants on Sundays (I can go to the ballet for that and see hotter dudes in way better shape with a lot less…um, well…down field coverage let’s just say). I don’t go gaga for Manning because of his famously quirky pre-snap routine at the line of scrimmage, cute as it may be. I respect him because he’s the best at what he does and he works harder and smarter than anybody else for it.
I am energized and inspired by people all around me who smartly pursue a passion. Whether I’m reading their books and blogs, spending time with them over a cup of coffee, watching them win Superbowls on TV, or my personal favorite – kissing him good morning every day, I find value in populating my life with people that have different and greater talents and intellect than myself.
My Colts beer mug is already getting frosty in the freezer in anticipation of kick-off in September. And Peyton – I’m sorry darling; even though you’ll always be a Colt, please don’t take my trash talking personally when I see you on the other side this September. After all, it’s just a game, right?
~Ali
If I were a spray-tanned, sequined, big-Texas-hair kind of girl competing for the title of Miss America, my platform statement would involve a campaign to save America from the following:
My daughter begged to make gluten-free brownies. That’ll teach her.
~Ali
When I see a pregnant woman in public, sometimes I have to suppress the desire to forcefully yank her aside by the strings on the back of her ruffled maternity top to get her attention. I have a dire warning to issue. In my head, I imagine I have the crazed bloodshot eyes and bed-head hairdo of a zombie, dragging two hysterical werewolf kids behind me and I’m yelling, “I have a message for you!”…right before I burst into flames.
It’s those first-time moms you can spot right away (God love ‘em): They walk leisurely through the grocery store, blissfully unaware they have the precious time to read every label. In passing, I usually hear one side of a cell phone conversation that sounds something like, “I know, but I totally think a low-VOC robin’s egg blue on the walls accented with fair-trade, organic cotton, mocha toile crib bedding will be less cliche than Winnie-the-Pooh, don’t you?” They spend hours – literally HOURS – doing online research for the best kid crap from sippy cups to strollers.
I know these things because I was her.
Post-childbirth, she’ll realize that a solo trip to the grocery store is a luxury just like brushing your teeth and shaving your legs will be. She’ll laugh when the poop-stained mocha toile crib bedding becomes a drop-cloth in the dining room for that art project where the kids paint every square inch of their bodies and then roll around the floor like someone put Red Bull in their juice boxes. And the stroller – who cares? She’ll end up buying one of every type at some point anyway. These aren’t even the golden nuggets of motherly wisdom I would share with a blissfully unaware, first-time mother-to-be. Sorry doll, you gotta learn that stuff the hard way like the rest of us.
Here’s what I’m so desperate to make sure the mother-to-be in the cute maternity top knows: All that stuff you *think* is important is actually meaningless compared to what should really keep you up at night, which is this: Does your child know what she likes about herself? And since we’re on the subject – Do YOU know what you like about yourself?
I asked my five-year old daughter, Genevieve, for the first time last week, “What do you like about yourself?” as she munched on her after-school snack. Thankfully, she hasn’t developed that sad, self-censoring response that affects so many kids, especially girls; the one that is fueled by doubt and insecurity – “I don’t know.” Without hesitation she replied, “I’m smart. And I’m kind. And I can snap. Oh, and I’m really flexible in gymnastics.” She knew. She didn’t have to think about it. And she’ll be a woman before I’m ready for her to be.
When my business coach last year asked me a similar question (what are my strengths), I struggled to give her three. I’m a big talker about raising my daughters to be confident, problem-solving, smart women and yet I couldn’t easily name three of my own strengths. Although embarrassing, it was a watershed moment for me.
I have zero background in psychology (mostly because I skipped those classes in college to play Frisbee Golf and watch Days of Our Lives), so I don’t claim to be an authority on child development. It doesn’t take a person with a lot of letters behind her name to tell you that if you can’t articulate what you like about yourself, how can you expect your kids to do the same? They learn it from you.
It’s not conceited to talk about what you like about yourself. It’s leading by example, so give it a whirl:
1. Write down at least 10 things you like about yourself; skills, personality traits, talents, quirks, even physical characteristics.
2. Pick three of those qualities and for each one, write down one small and realistic action you can take to move something forward in your business or personal life. Then do it. For example, let’s say you’re really talented at networking with people. Start a group on Facebook to facilitate idea sharing and networking in your field of work. Fill the group with people you have handpicked because of their talent, ideas, or expertise.
3. If you’re a parent, ask your kid(s) this question, “What do you like about yourself?” Share your answer with them too. You know your kid best – pick a moment when you know they’ll be open to sharing. I often get more conversation out of my kids when a Barbie doll is asking all the questions (Go with someone like Rocket Scientist Barbie though because I’m not convinced Glitter Nails Barbie knows her own name).
4. Rinse and repeat.
Taking stock, out loud, of your own awesomeness isn’t jerky. Here’s what’s jerky: Bragging about how much money you make, how much useless stuff you own or how much influence you possess. Oh, and road rage.
This week, ask your kids, “What do you like about yourself?”. You’ll be surprised. Then go out and tackle a pregnant woman. This is stuff she needs to know.
~Ali