Sunday, January 30, 2011

Kitchen Hack and other recent Samness.

All the toys in the world and the best toys come straight out of my kitchen. You name it Sam has a use for it. Egg beaters as hair curlers (this is very uncomfortable, trust me, but creates a lovely bouffant), wine opener as a fork, pot lids as drums. The boy has quite an imagination. His latest "kitchen hack" has been this government issue colander. He calls it his "butterfly catcher." He has yet to catch a butterfly, but has caught himself and his little the head, "perfectly little-brother-head-sized, so why do I get in trouble when I catch him?" He takes off running with it to capture mosquitos, bees, and tiny moths and has even asked to take it to our friend's homes as a toy. "No."

. . .

Yesterday he demanded, as Paul and I got ready to go out for date night, that I should not wear "all" my make-up because "it makes you look too much different than a Dinosaur Train," his current favorite TV show. I don't know what this means, but I caked on the make-up against his request, because I fear now that he (or anyone) thinks without make up I look even a scant bit like a dinosaur...or a train for that matter. Terrifying. Is it just me?

. . .

As he walked Paul to the front gate to see him off as the shuttle arrived (as he does daily) and I reminded him to hurry back because breakfast was ready, he called over his shoulder to me...."Mommy, at this point, I need to walk Daddy to his school bus." Waved me off with his hand and stood waving to Paul and a van full of US diplomats in suits, in his tiny Thomas the Train briefs.

. . .

"Daddy, regular milk comes from chocolate milk." "Daddy, bees come from water." "Mommy, cows come from Nanny's house" "Mommy, ok, rain comes from water." He's beginning to get a grasp on the fact that all things are connected in this great world, but we're still working on what comes from what.

. . .

Finally, to out myself, last weekend on a family outing, Sam piped up from the back seat of the car, "Mommy, this city isn't shit, this city is beautiful!" Paul gave me 'the look' and I had to admit that maybe on one of our rougher days here, in the beginning, I may have muttered something like that from the front seat. Slipsies!

Saturday, January 22, 2011

MLK Weekend

Before we set flight on another weekend in sunny South America (It has been sunny. Today is beautiful. My soggy blog of weeks of rain and a land like Yoda’s planet Dagobah from Star Wars is long forgotten), I would quickly like to recount our MLK weekend.

One of the best parts about my new job is the fact that I get all U.S. holidays and all Brazilian holidays off. Yes, we get a five-day weekend for Carnaval. Last Saturday, we packed a lunch and had a picnic at the Pontão, a park along Lake Paranoá with two playgrounds and lots of great restaurants. We watched several what had to be pastey Brits glide up on their paddleboards and spotted a burrowing owl guarding his den.

Sunday night, Elise and I had our first date night in Brazil and our first date night in several months. We bucked convention and decided to trek into the heart of the city, Asa Sul, and a Lebanese watering hole we had seen Friday afternoon called Libanus. We were definitely channeling our inner Anthony Bourdain, no holds barred, no reservations, as this was where the locals were. Even on a Sunday night, the place was buzzing. When the waiter approached, seemingly overdressed in a black bowtie and vest, we spooked like deer in headlights. The man could have easily been working his section for the past 20 years, maybe before either of us were even born and Brasilia was still sprawling and concrete and commune-like in its Jetsonian way and not the dripping urban jungle we are coming to love. He had the olive leathery skin of a true Brazilian or the true Mediterranean and the white wiry whiskers my jidou had. After looking at the tables around us, we ordered an absurdly cold liter of Antarctica. And, later, the best kibe and tabouli and ground lamb, kafka, that was like steak. We were outside, and there was smoke, men, boys, really, in t-shirts, young women in bathing suit tops though it was eight at night, our waiter smoking behind a playground slide, a bored bouncer checking his watch, the street lights florescent orange, like plump jack-o-lanterns suspended in the damp air.

Herein, it is easy to forget many inconveniences. Our air freight, which I packed out 2 months ago, has yet to arrive. It’s taken almost 9 weeks. 9 weeks! Truth be told, not all can be blamed on lethargic Brazilian bureaucracy. it didn’t leave the states for 7 of those weeks.

As a result, our careful diaper plan is coming apart. We had calculated how many diapers we would go through between the time we would arrive in Brasilia and our air freight—with relief diapers—would get here. Now, with no air freight, we are buying $4 diapers. We are even on diaper rationing. Sam needed to start wearing his training pull-ups anyway, as he is full on—and very successfully—potty-training. So, after bath I pulled out one of his Diego training pull-ups only to have him say he preferred the training pull-up with “Finding Nemo” on it. No problem. So, I went to get “Finding Nemo” out of the diaper drawer, trading it for Diego.

Fast forward to 6:10 this morning when Sam comes padding into our room, tiptoes up to my side of the bed and whispers in my face, “Daddy, me wet.” I pull him into bed between Elise and I, not yet really registering the fact that, yes, he was soaking wet. It doesn’t occur to either Elise or I until later that morning, when everyone is awake, gathered around the breakfast table, shoveling silver dollar pancakes into their mouth, that Elise realizes “Finding Nemo” isn’t a training pull-up after all, but a swim diaper that doesn’t hold liquid. Nice one, dad!

Friday, January 21, 2011

"Wood you marry me?" and a the gifting circle of life...

From the moment I laid eyes on him, tiny round specs, orange hooded wind breaker, I knew I would be home, wherever we would go.

Just a year and a half later in a tiny church with all our closest friends and family we were married. Five years ago today, I stood fearless with my best friend with my brothers by my side as we exchanged our vows.

Like waking from a dream the day seemed to have floated away, as wedding days always do, but I have the greatest reminder as sleeps drifts away when I wake up every morning laying right beside me.

There is nothing we can't accomplish together, we know this to be true now and somehow always did.

Being the sappy and goofy lovebirds that we are, we decided in our first year that we would try to always give a creative variation of the "traditional gift" for each anniversary. This year, five years, wood.

After much deliberation with my parents at home on our final weeks before departure to Brazil, I decided on the absolute perfect gift. You see my parents have a collection that we've always admired. A school of carefully chosen and expertly carved Pacific Northwest Indian Tribal fish plaques that swim along their kitchen wall. With our collective love for the Northwest, mine inate and Paul's discovered, I knew this would be the perfect addition to our home on our fifth year. Something we would always display proudly as a reminder of home, past and future.

Over Thanksgiving weekend the boys, my parents and I set out to meet Paul in Seattle to rendezvous for a big dinner and quality family time at my brother's house in Seattle.

On a customary visit to Pike Place Market after pastries at our favorite bakery, my dad and I carried out our plan to sneak away to one of his favorite galleries just down the street, but we never made it, or did we? My dad took a precision, base-stealing slide on algae and rain covered 1st Ave. and skidded right into the front vestibule of the gallery. Instead of shopping and sharing a father-daughter moment over Northwest Tribal Art, we spent five minutes that felt like an eternity awaiting an ambulance in a different kind of father-daughter moment, that I hope to never have again and yet all at the same time would never have given back (except for the pain, you can have that). A nice man from the gallery tended to us offering us water and quietly and protectively stood by as we waited perched in the doorway where we landed, to be whisked away to more important matters. Never knowing we were headed directly where we ended up.

Fast forward: 3 weeks.

Stage: Brasilia, Brazil

Northwest Indian Art still running through my mind (that and the healing shattered wrist of my Dad's on a mission I instigated but could have never foreseen) I emailed the gallery in hopes that I could purchase the piece I'd been eyeing, to have it delivered all the way across borders to Brazil and to pass on thanks to whomever was the gentleman that was so kind to us in our moment of despair. To right the afternoon by getting what I'd come for. For my husband, and for my dad.

Not an hour later, I received the kindest of responses from the owner of the gallery, the man who aided us that soggy Seattle afternoon. He told me that he hadn't stopped thinking about my Dad and how he was healing, expressing his concern for him as we waited in his doorway. Noting, what I already knew, that my dad was brave and courageous and marveling that he never showed a moments weakness as he patiently waited to have his first broken bone in 65 years air-casted by medics. Just like the dad of my childhood, that nothing could touch.

Last week my carefully chosen plaque arrived from Northwest Tribal Art, free of shipping charges from my friend Chau.

This morning, like children on Christmas morning, we exchanged anniversary gifts while Paul slipped on his dress shoes, while the children ate pancakes and while we awaited the bell to ring any second to announce the arrival of Paul's ride. Paul opened Eagle-Whale and I knew as the Thanksgiving's weekend events came rushing back to me, thoughts of my dad, our unexpected vestibule of bonding, our silent gallery guardian, my boys being reunited with my husband on a rainy Seattle day after a long two weeks of separation, the bonding time with my brothers brought together from both ends of the country, the amazing food we shared and the downtime we were given to share as a result of the slippery pavement..... and I knew that this was not just a gift that I had chosen, but one that I had been given. Much like Paul. Full circle, just as if the great spirits of the Pacific Northwest Indians had their arms around our shoulders throughout our whole adventure.

Kisses on all your faces on our anniversary: Paul, Peter, Sam, Mom, Dad, Dave, Dan, Janice and even Chau.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

I Swear!

Finally an official picture of the momentous event. I was unfortunately, unable to attend (I was shooting a wedding in FL that weekend.) Fortunately I have the best Uncle (and Aunt!) in the world and he came out to bear witness to my husband's swearing in to the Foreign Service, shaking hands with our lovely Secretary and such. I'd like to think there were each given the opportunity to thank their loved ones, Academy Award-style for all our sacrifices and such.......don't tell me, I'd like to live in a fantasy world. Regardless, I grow increasingly thankful each day for all the sacrifices I have made to support and continue to make (ahem....8 weeks no air baggage....ahem) and accompany Paul on this adventure.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Sam: "Missing Daddy at Daddy's work day"

Me: Missing home

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Picnic at Pontao

Friday, January 14, 2011

I Want You Yay With Me

Bedtime has been a challenge. I’m sure Sam does not have sole provenance over this, and a disinclination to go to bed is endemic to all boys his age. Every night we go through this exhaustive routine of stories, sips of water, wishes, milk, prayers and crying that leaves Elise and I physically and emotionally spent. Often, I want to crawl into bed right after Sam does.

Last night was good. We started reading one of our new books written by Jamie Lee Curtis in the den. This, in and of itself, is a challenge when Pete hasn’t gone to bed yet. I was lying on the floor in the den when he bit me on the big toe like a tiny piranha, crawled up in between my legs and landed on my chest. We bumped foreheads then he wrestled my eyeglasses from my face. It’s hard to read to Sam with Pete crawling all over us, wrinkling pages. This book has songs in it and I sing the songs (having no idea how to read music), much to Elise’s dismay.

After milk for both, we moved into the boy’s room. I wanted to read Clifford the Big Red Dog. Sam wanted to read a coloring book. I tried explaining to him that you couldn’t really read a coloring book since it didn’t have any words, but he insisted, so I played along, making up a Thomas the Train story to accompany the pictures he had scribbled over (though he is becoming quite the artist. He and Elise painted with watercolors for me yesterday). After a few more stories it was lights out. Sam stayed in bed, reading in the half-light seeping from the bathroom, and Pete eventually collapsed, exhausted (the kid never stops moving all day long).

I moved into the kitchen to clean up the few dishes from dinner. We had stopped at Oba, a small boutique grocery with fresh fruit and a good meat department, on the way home from work. Ironically, it was less expensive than the supermarket grocers. We had intentions of eating out, but Pete is at that age where he is too big to sleep in the bucket next to the table and too big to sit at the table and engage himself in a restrained and constructive manner. He’s a wild man! He would be good in a high chair. He’s much better than Sam was at this age eating out, sitting in a high chair, but none of the high chairs in Brazil have buckles. We’re toying with the idea of putting a belt or bungie cords in the diaper backpack to strap him into some of these contraptions that pass for high chairs. Likewise, none of the shopping carts have buckles either. In fact, few of them have seats for little kids at all. So, if I don’t have to carry Pete through the grocery store, squiggling in my arms the whole time because he wants to get down and crawl through the aisles—which, as you can probably imagine, aren’t the cleanest places to let your baby crawl—I put him in the strapless seat. If I turn away for even a second, he is standing up as though he were riding a longboard off of Diamondhead. I recall that Pete is now at that age that Sam was at when we went our road trip through Oregon and either Elise or I had to bounce him or walk with him outside every time we went out to eat, because he couldn’t sit still either. Needless to say, we didn’t try eating out last night. Instead, we took home sandwiches from Marietta’s which were awesome.

Oh…! And I almost failed to mention the biggest highlight from our outing yesterday…Sam wore his big boy underwear the whole time and didn’t pee in them once!! When we got home, we finished our dinner and Sam ate his broccoli and asked for more!! It goes without saying that someone was rewarded with some ice cream last night!

I thought everyone asleep, but a half hour later the kitchen door creaks open. It’s Sam. “I want you yay with me.” He looked up at me with those giant brown eyes, one a shade slightly more cocoa than the other.

I will use a work analogy here: Sometimes, when our government asks a foreign government to do something, the foreign government will have this knee-jerk reaction not to do what we ask, even when what we are asking might be in their best interest, just because it is the U.S. asking and just to spite us. Likewise, without thinking, sometimes I have the knee-jerk reaction of not doing something Sam wants to do. It’s not to spite him. Maybe instinctively, I think it wouldn’t be be parenting or steering or guiding or whatever if I just let him do what he wanted to do all the time when, the truth of the matter is, he doesn’t frequently get to do whatever the hell he wants to do all the time and, moreover, sometimes I deny Sam the very thing he wants to do when it is in everyone’s best interest if we do what Sam wants.

Usually, when Sam asks one of us to yay with him, we don’t. He needs to learn to go to sleep by himself. But last night I had had two glasses of wine and two glasses of wine has a tendency to dissolve my resistance.

I yayed next to him. He whispered, “We have fun day?” I responded, “We had a very fun day.” Then I said, “I love you, Punny.” “I wuv you, too, Daddy. Wuv Mom wuv Peter.” Then, he was asleep.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The Ultimate Haircut

This morning Sam got his haircut at THE coolest place ever in Brasilia, Happy Hair. Like...I 'm seriously considering getting my hair cut there, too. He picked his vehicle they maneuvered it to face a flatscreen TV playing one of his favorite cartoons and got to work, but not before I busted out my nearly aerobic brazilian charades, wherein I begged that they not cut all the curl off, while Paul dutifully translated "cachos!" While an incredibly hip and gentle man cut his hair the ladies of the salon tempted him with a breakdancing doll, trucks and the like. A neighboring brazilian boy played a video game in a tiny hummer while the stylist snipped away. Peter played with toys and books on a black flokati rug amidst tiny fruit shaped stuffed stools and rifled through a toy box, while Paul and I marveled at the two story high wall of balls. Genius, I say, genius. He has never been more happy to have his hair cut, although he never really minded it to begin with.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Sam Should Turn Three More Often

A change has overcome the eldest Hanna boy. Perhaps, he finally believes that we will be staying in our “Brazil house” for more than a few weeks or perhaps the digging in the hard red clay with his bare fingers, running hauls of water back and forth across the patio in his giant dump truck naked or listening for the parrots squawking in our mango trees are finally having the therapeutic effects we had hoped for. A calm has descended on the boy. He’s gone easier on his little brother. He enthusiastically strips himself down for bath, placing his dirty clothes in the dirty clothes pile and his diappey in the waste basket. He eats with utensils. He calls our adult friends “Mr.” and “Miss” as appropriate, shakes hands, introduces himself and says “Excuse me” when he wants to say something when an adult is speaking. He goes on the big boy potty. He surprises us with words and phrases in Portuguese, like when he busted out “Tudo Bom!” when I got home from work the other day. He smiles and laughs with ease (though he’s always smiled and laughed with ease). Though he did have to have a shot a few days ago and you would have thought the way he acted for the rest of that day that someone had shot him in the leg.

He had no sympathy for Peter who had FOUR shots and barely whimpered (well, that’s not entirely true….I’m pretty sure the entire compound was brought to just shy of Defcon 1 when they heard Pete’s shriek). Speaking of Pete, I would be remiss in failing to mention the youngest Hanna is full on walking. Mark your calendars. January 6th. He takes upwards of five, six or seven steps at a time, changes direction, everything short of parallel-parking. They better get that baby gate up….STAT! Video to come, though it won’t be nearly as entertaining as the video of him barking like a puppy dog. Every time he hears a dog (which is quite frequent in our neighborhood), Pete perks up, puckers his lips and lets out a “Whoo whoo whoo!”

The pieces of our Brazilian life are falling into place. We have a car, though our air freight shipment which we had hoped would be here in time for Christmas—because my “biggie” gift to Elise is in there—is now slated to be here 6 weeks after our arrival….fingers crossed. I need to buy windshield wipers so I don’t hit a capybara or pot hole driving in the rain at night. Elise started her Portuguese class on Wednesday. We’ve been waiting for the jogging stroller to get here before we start running, but I don’t know if we can wait anymore. Elise ordered two craft books, though she swears she only placed them in the shopping cart, and the Amazon shopping cart bought them for her. Faced with a lack of evidence to contrary, I will have to take her word for it. She is threatening to buy a third on jarring, preserving and pickling which I am secretly really excited about because I, too, think the shelves in our home should be lined with mason jars full of sweet deliciousnesses (and pickles once we get the garden in and the cucumbers growing. I see corn stalks like spikey green obelisks on the side of the road and can’t wait to try that in our backyard, too. I hear a rooster every morning through the bathroom window before I start getting ready for work. They sell chickens and roosters at the pet store. I wanted to buy one, but Elise wouldn’t let me, even though we have talked about having a chicken coop someday so that we can always have fresh eggs. She’s told me people in Seattle have chicken coops in their backyard, up to a certain number and size. We went to the pet store in search of rabbits, big fluffy ones, but didn’t buy any after Elise intimated that she wouldn’t be able to handle it if one of the bunnies passed which prompted my response, “Like, you emotionally and psychologically couldn’t deal with it or just that I would have to dispose of the body which I would expect to have to do anyway.” I think it was the later, but since I’m not sure, we haven’t bought any rabbits yet.).

I was outside with Sam playing ball when it struck me one of the subtle ways a place can seem so alien. Though Brazil reminds us a lot of Florida, it is different. And not just in the fact that we have to share the highways with horse-drawn carts. The birds are different. The butterflies are different. The pigeons aren't grey, but a dusty reddish-brown, like the color of the earthern clay. I saw a butterfly and expected it to be a monarch butterfly, but it was all different colors of purple and pink and with wings that weren't shaped like I had expected them to be shaped but long and pointy.

Yesterday, Sam went on like a six hour play date and skipped nap. Sam’s become somewhat of a night owl since arriving in Brazil so the fact that we were able to get him in bed shortly after 8 as opposed to 9:30 or later was a welcome respite. I ran out for pizza and Elise and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping red wine and having dinner. The pizza crust had the same weird processed-cheese filling it had in it the last time (I had forgotten to ask if they had a different kind of crust which may have pushed my Portuguese to its limits anyway), but we ate around it. Though the fluorescent tubing in the kitchen is far from candles, it was by far one of the nicest meals we’ve had, though dinnertime, too, is easier since Pete switched to solid food and will basically eat anything you put in front of him, peas, hamburger, broccoli, salami, the list goes on ad infinitum. He truly is the human garbage pail. Unfortunately, he also eats dirt, toilet paper and Styrofoam.

A thunderstorm knocked out our cable for two weeks. We don’t feel as though we’ve been missing anything. I should say I haven’t. I’m not sure Elise feels the same. But the only TV we’ve watched since we’ve been here was Hell’s Kitchen with Portuguese subtitles running along the bottom of the screen (since Gordon Ramsey is somewhat of a hot-head—which is putting it mildly—we learned a lot of…”choice” phrases). There is no football and if it did come on it is at 11:30 at night.

Another one of my favorite times of the day is when Elise and I lie in bed and read after the boys go to sleep, often listening to the rain. I just like having her next to me, regardless of where we are. Before the second installment in the “Hunger Games” series arrived, she would flip through a Brazilian fashion magazine and ask me to translate phrases for her like, “Roxo é o novo preto.” By doing so, she was putting herself weeks and months in front of her peers in mastering the language, though she acts surprised she understands as much as she does. Rarely does she give herself enough credit.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

When it rains...

It rained for six days and six nights.

I could sit and listen to the rain all night. There is something grounding about being in the middle of all that water, as though Atlantean and isolated, the sound of rain pinging the plastic covers over the clothesline in the laundry room, pouring from the drain pipe on the sound of the house and spattering on the pavement outside. It rains all night. It rains as we go to sleep and it is still raining when we wake up. The pool overflows and water runs into our backyard like someone very strong dug their fingers under the earth and tilted the pool as though emptying it. Our roof leaks. Water streams from light sockets. We put a bucket beneath it to catch the rain and empty it before we go to bed. Our house is porous. Everything is damp. Towels never dry. There is no real separation between the indoors and out. The walls could be there or not be there or be walls or not be walls. The house is less a shelter and more part of the jungle, a place we are within the rain. The rain runs in rivulets down the streets because there are no drains and there are no gutters. I don’t know where all that water goes.

For the New Year, we spent a relaxing weekend, mostly at home, thanks to the rain. Plans for the zoo or the TV Tower were scrapped. Thanks, sky. After attending a New Year’s party at new friends’ house, we drove home around 10:00. We pulled onto our street to see that there were no cars on it. This was a welcome sight as it meant that our neighbor’s would not be having a party. The week prior—though Peter slept from 8 to 7, our neighbor’s had a party until two. The walls of our bedroom vibrated to Lady Gaga. Elise moved to the couch, behind the heavy wooden doors of the den which I imagine did very little, thick as they are, to block out the noise. I finally drifted to sleep to Counting Crows.

But with the street empty, we were cautiously optimistic the rest of our night would be peaceful. This was not the case.

Happy New Year, Brasilia! At exactly midnight, a cacophony erupted outside. Sam, already in our bed for the random firecracker popping in the night, buried his head in my chest. It sounded like the roof was being ripped off our house. We could see the flash of M-80s and Black Cats through the louvers on the plantation shutters. I clutched him as he quaked in my arms. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. Fortunately, it was short lived, though it can never be said that the Brazilians don’t know how to throw a party. I would hear later from a co-worker who had a panoramic view of the city’s skyline that fireworks could be seen as far to the left as you could see in the nightsky to as far to the right as you could see in the nightsky. The entire city was blanketed in sparks.

New Year’s Day the new president of Brazil was to be inaugurated. We had heard that there were going to be kids concerts on the main promenade, so we piled into the car to see what we could find. Due to the rain, we just drove, but saw the crowds gathering in front of Planalto (the Brazilian version of the White House) in anticipation of the inauguration. Platoons on horseback trotted through the streets and guards in colonial-style helmets with long bright-red plumes poking out of the top marched back and forth, polearms high.

Sunday was the most tranquil day in Brasilia yet, despite the rain. We made a run to McDonalds for French fries and a small dose of Americana just to get out of the house. As we pulled out of our street we passed two carts pulled by horses. On the back of one was a washing machine. Squashed mangos filled the road, having been tossed up into the trees in the median in hopes of dislodging more mangos and breadfruit. We drove, exploring, despite our crummy windshield wipers (I lament that despite my extensive language training, we were never taught how to sign up for internet service in Portuguese, how to buy a car in Portuguese or how to say “windshield wiper” in Portuguese....”limpiador”. I had to look it up.), in search of sidewalks wide enough for the double-jogger that we have been told should be here next Monday after 6 weeks….along with the diapers we are desperately running low on. 6 weeks is a long time to live solely on that which Elise and I could haul through the airport.

The end of each day, brings one of my most peaceful moments, taking out the garbage. I walk out in my bare feet and place the bag in the basket suspended from the street, a design, I have been told, meant to discourage small rodents and bugs. The street is bathed in a bright orange glow from the streetlamps above, brighter and more orange than the states and is usually/almost always damp and shiny with rain. From the end of our street, you can see the skyline of the city beyond, twinkling. The TV Tower has been transformed into a giant Christmas tree. It looks like a chandelier in the distance. And various buildings that pass for skyscrapers in this city that is not quite a big city shudder, spitting out fits of light that are almost festive.

I go back inside to the boys sleeping peacefully. Then it starts to rain.

Monday, January 3, 2011

New Years Eve 2010, 10:58pm, Our House

Ooh baby baby! Oh baby baby!

The little Fish is ONE! Here, once again, is the proof that a party, albeit small, was had. A larger and more fabulous (and clothed!) party to follow in late January-ish. When we have things, and people. Not that we need things or people, we just think that a fitting birthday party requires a touch of this and that. Anyone who wants to jump a flight to Brasilia (a lovely place to visit!) for "The Greatest Hanna-Brothers-Carnival-themed Birthday Party on Earth!"...a date will be released shortly....

Sunday, January 2, 2011

New Years Resolutions 2011

Keep us honest people......

Paul: "To do one romantic thing for my wife each week." (He came up with this while I was making pizza. Not 30 seconds later I asked him to please grease a pan for me while my hands were covered in dough. He did it, then informed me that that would be his romantic 'thing' of the week. Lucky me.

Elise: To make more time for myself athletically. To introduce Elise Hanna Photography to Brasilia, to take the rivers of inspiration that travel inspires and create daily, both personally and professionally. To plant roots here. To network with confidence. To not blindly search for the next stepping stone, but to be present and aware of all my options, enjoying the ride and creating new avenues for EHp to grow globally.

Sam: "To have more parties with lots of presents"

Peter: "To keep sleeping through the night and continue eating like an NFL linebacker."