aerobics, pee, and karma.

I started teaching aerobics when I was 18. Which as you might guess, was in the not so distant past

Snort...fine you haters, stop rolling your eyes. It was awhile ago.

On with my story: 
One day during class, a woman complained of all the jumping jacks and jump rope exercises. She asked if we could do less, or none at all.
Being a huge fan of jump rope and it's body toning benefits, I couldn't figure out why she didn't like the activity. Maybe she was just having a lazy day. I've had a few of those. I could sympathize.
I asked her if she was having a hard time breathing. She said breathing wasn't the problem. It was peeing.
"Peeing?" I asked, unsure if I heard her correctly.
She nodded and explained that since having her last baby, jumping made her feel as if she might pee her pants.
Not having kids of my own, I couldn't figure out why having a baby would make you feel like you might pee. I told her we were almost finished and it was probably just a sensation thing. She should try to continue with the class. No pain no gain, right?
Apparently I was wrong. A minute later she bolted from the room leaving a puddle in her wake.

I felt like the most awful teacher ever.

Flash forward a few years after I had three kids of my own. 

After teaching a exceptionally challenging workout routine I decided to stop by the store on the way home. I pushed the cart up and down the aisles, as my toddler swung his legs, kicking me in the stomach.
"Henry," I stopped in my tracks beside the frozen foods. "Stop kicking me. It hurts Mommy."
He looked at my face, then at where he was kicking...then he looked a little lower. (Side Note: I sweat A LOT!) 

"Momma!" He squealed. "You peed your pants. You peed, you peed, you peed. Georgie look, Momma peed."
I tried to shush him, but he wouldn't stop. That kid chose that exact moment to holler like he'd never hollered before. "Momma peed!" he yelled until every adult in a three aisle range was made aware of my body sweat issue.

I decided right then that it was karma because I made that poor lady jump till she peed. I guess in life sometimes things come back to bite you in the butt. That's all.

(Side note: Oh, and if you're thinking my sweatiness was more than sweat, I'll deny it till I die.)

school picture idea.

I don't like school photos. No. That's not quite it.
I loathe, detest, abhor, shudder-at-the-thought-of, completely-gag-when-I-look-at, HATE school photos. They're bland. They lack personality. And sometimes...if you're lucky, there's a mirror and a nicely posed child with a fist under his chin. Blech.

So this year I was inspired by a little photo I saw on Pinterest. If you're unsure what that is, email me and I'll fill you in. Basically Pinterest = best time suck ever!
This year I let the kids decide what they wanted in their picture. A favorite toy. A back pack. It was up to them. Then after the shoot, I mcjiggered a little somethin' somethin' in Photoshop. And voila! School pictures with personality and pizazz. (Can you tell I'm big on alliteration?)

It's an easy project.
1. Snap the picture.
2. Load the picture in Photoshop or another photo editing software that allows you to place text on the image.
3. Using varying fonts, type info about your kid at that age.
4. Flatten your image (if you used layers) and save a new copy so as not to save over the original file.
5. Print. If you live in Utah County go to Pro Digital Photos. They're great and I use them for a lot of my family pictures.

Here are a few samples of what I made:

bread butt.

The other day while I was making the typical PB&J lunch for my two youngest kids, I found myself out of bread. Luckily I keep a back-up loaf in the freezer. I pulled it out and thawed the first four pieces. When I started spreading the PB on the butt of the loaf, Teddy said, "I don't want that piece."
That was new. Up until that very moment I thought Teddy loved the end piece. He didn't protest the day before, or the day before that.
"I thought you liked the butt piece," I said.
"Not anymore. I don't like the butt."
I sighed. This new opinion of his had recently outed tomatoes and cucumbers too. I worried for a brief moment that he might become as fickle an eater as one of my friend's kids that will only eat toast and salmon. 
Ruby pulled herself up on the stool beside him and said very matter-of-factly, "I like butt."

And right then all my worries were washed away with laughter. 

ruby and the giant peach.

Across the street from where I live is a half acre lot filled with peach trees. For the last three summers in a row I've been blessed with a crate of the most delectable, mouth-watering peaches from the small orchard. My kids and I have made peach fruit leather, peach jam, peach syrup and smoothies of all design. But what I've found is I like a peach best when I can sink my teeth into one fresh picked off the tree.

As soon as I brought in the bowl, my little girl was asking for one. She likes them just like me. Enjoy the photo spew...she was too cute to stop snapping pictures.

She's my little sweet peach.

Secret 3 of 100

3:100 thumbs up

I hitch-hiked on the North Shore of Hawaii. It was an unpleasant experience and not one that I would suggest anyone try. First, you never know who's going to stop. It could be a total stinker of a person...and then what? You have to share a small vehicular space with someone that smells so bad your nose hairs singe. Pee-You! I'm not saying that happened to me. It was the opposite in fact. A super nice man picked up me and my friends, and then drove us to where we were going...somewhere he actually worked. He took us right back to BYU-Hawaii. He told us that we should be safer and just pay the .75 cents to ride the bus. (Yeah, I'm cheap.) But he also explained to us the dangers. And he said enough to scare me witless. So no more thumbing a ride for me.

But that never stopped me from using a buddy pass.

Mark and I used a buddy pass to head over to Hawaii for my Grandma's funeral and an awesome wedding shoot. Unfortunately last night when we went to the airport and saw the backed up system of people trying to fly standby, we realized we couldn't buddy pass it back to Utah. So with a lot of prayer we were able to find an affordable one-way ticket home. So good bye Hawaii...we'll see when we venture into the buddy pass world again.

Aloha, erin

sisters sisters.

"...and I'm Julene."

Unsure about that reference? Click on this LINK.

While we were visiting the Big Island, Rachel and I stopped at Ross. While scanning the clearance rack (because that's how I roll), we found a ruffly red shirt for only $3.99. I bought it and brought it back to my Auntie's house. Then, once all my sisters saw it and my cousin, they ran out to the Ross and bought the same one because it was such a great deal.
Then while we were dressing for church, Leslie put on the new red Ross shirt. I thought it would be funny if we all wore it. So after a little persuasion, we all went to Rachel's (my sis that lives in Hawaii) church wearing the same shirt...and looking quite Lawrence Welk-ish.

So of course, we had to stop by the Laie LDS temple and snap some matchy-matchy sister photos. See below. But could you also not mention this matchy-matchy-ness to any prospective clients because I usually heckle anyone who would wear the exact same shirt as their sibling.

 Those were the nice sister poses...and now for the real "sisters sisters" photos.

So now don't ya'll go run out and buy the exact same shirt for each person in your family...unless you want awesome awkward photos like the ones above.
luv, erin

Tutu.

Tonight my Grandma (the only Grandmother I've ever known) passed away. My boys lovingly referred to her as Tutu and tomorrow when they wake up, I'll share with them the somewhat unexpected news. But now that it's so early in the morning and I'm still awake, I can't help but feel a deep ache of loss, regret, and sadness over her passing. I usually keep this blog light hearted, but right now my heart feels full and somewhat broken. I know her passing is for the best and she's finally reunited with the love of her life. But still, I can't help but miss this wonderful woman that I named my one and only daughter after.

Dear Grandma,

Two years ago I took you to see one of your most beloved friends, Auntie Abby.

After a wonderful chocolate pie and turkey lunch, I drove the old saddle road to get back to Kona. I never counted on the cops being around, or them clocking me at 87 in a 45. I wondered what you would say when the cop approached the window and I rolled it down. You just looked at me and let out a slight chuckle. "See I told you to slow down," you said without a trace of anger. "But you go and catch the crook."
I laughed at your reference to my speed, tried to talk myself out of that ticket, and failed. The rest of the evening we told our ticket story over and over again to everyone at Uncle Aley's home. I thought the ticket was unjust, but your comment was so funny. Since you never learned to drive, Grandpa drove you every where. I have handfuls of memories of you telling Grandpa, "Eh Daddy, catch the crook." I'm just so happy I finally have my own crook story to share.

Since Grandpa died, you haven't been the same. And I'm sure now you are so happy to be with him once again. And I want you to know even though I broke down at the Walmart tonight when I heard that you passed away, I'm happy for you too.

My one regret is that I didn't listen to the small voice that spoke to me over the last few days, telling me to call. For that I'll be sorry until the day we meet again. You have been a force in my life. I love you always. Erin

hold out your hand so i can spit on it.

When I was younger my cousin Amy spit on me. For real. Alright, her act of spitting may have been perpetuated by my spitting on her first, but still it was gross. And frankly I don't entirely recall spitting on her, so in my mind she's the spitter and I'm just the innocent child bystander. Now that I'm older and wiser, I don't spit on my cousins or anyone else for that matter. And they don't spit on me. Why? Because I still think it's gross. 

So when my four year old boy spits on the window in the car, I think it's gross. And I tell him not to do it again. 

When he spits on his seat, I think it's disgusting. And I snap at him not to do it again...or else.

When he spits on my newly mopped kitchen floor, I think it's down right horrific. And I yell, "Don't do that again. Now go to time out!" (Then I throw my hands in the air. Serenity Now!)

But, when he spits on his baby sister, (just before losing any shred of parenting sanity) I think, somebody needs to teach this kid a lesson about spitting. And then I do the only thing that comes to mind. 

"Teddy," I say. "Hold out your hand."

He spreads those trembling four-year-old fingers. "Uh, why Momma."

I don't answer. Using the spitting ability once cultivated in my youth, I hawk the biggest loogie I can and spit it in the palm of his hand, making sure that it doesn't drip off the side and further the spit problem in my home. 

"Hold that," I say in Mommy Death-Con 5 Commander mode voice. "Keep that spit in your hand until you think it's gross enough that you will never ever again spit on your sister, your brother, the house, or the car. Do you understand?"

His chin trembles and his big brown eyes grow to the size of moons. "Yes Momma." 

I look at him, tempted to swipe the saliva off his palm and send him on his way. But I resist his innocent charm. It's an act, I tell myself half-crazed with spit abhorrence. Spitting is gross! Four minutes later I decide maybe the punishment was a little harsh, but I doubt my little guy will be spitting on you anytime soon.  

  

moose tracks.

Yesterday I shot my second moose this summer. Talk about an awesome shooting season. As I drove down the Alpine Loop headed home after shooting a family, I was feeling quite ravenous. My stomach's hunger growls almost kept me from seeing the young moose standing a short ways off. In mid 'where-should-I-eat-out' conversation, I spied the young moose beauty. I swerved to a stop and whipped out my sharp shooter. It took seconds to snap on a 70-200 mm. With the right lens, I dared to step out of my van, sneak around the back, and shoot this moose beauty while he/she (who knows?) ate. 

I love me some moose!

On another note, if you were wondering where me and the hubs ate last night it wasn't the OG. Though, admittedly that was my first, second, and third choice. Mark put down his size 9 foot and we ended up at Costa Vida. Yeah, I'll admit that I might have announced their food tasted like butt as soon as we walked in the door, but I quickly changed my mind after I tasted the food. It was excellente (that's excellent in Spanish). If you're in Pleasant Grove and you want somewhere to eat...that is also now on my approved eating locations...go to Costa Vida. 

luv, erin

feat. and sore feet.

Today I ran 10 miles.

That's the darn truth. Just ask my aching legs and sore feet.

10 miles is also the longest distance I've ever ran. Ever. I'm not one of those running moms. You know, the type that actually like to go on a run for fun after a long day with the kiddos. Blech. I hate running. I'd rather stay at home with the kids, wiping booger noses and cleaning up poop. Up until the last couple months it would be safe to say that I loathed running. I spat at anyone who would suggest I even take up the sport. Ok, well maybe that's an exaggeration. I only considered spitting on others. Of course, my refined nature wouldn't allow such a hideous act. So what did I do? I decided to face my fear/hate head on. Awhile back I posted that Mark and I had signed up for the Timp half. With the date approaching, I've been training like any other non-runner would need to train. Now after months of practice, I tolerate the activity. And I do this for one reason, and one reason only.

When I'm done running I feel AWESOME!

And today, with a 10 mile feat under my belt, I felt like AWESOME-squared.

wedding day nightmare.

Did your wedding day go off without a hitch? Was it everything you ever dreamed of? Or did something disastrous happen? Because if the latter is the case, believe me, I completely understand...I'm not saying my own wedding day was an absolute debacle, but I've been to enough weddings to tell you that sometimes...a lot of the time...things don't go as planned.

As in this case:
Monday I arrived at the designated location at 3:30 pm to shoot my lovely bride and handsome groom. Because they didn't have a bridal session, we shot their bridal type images before their ceremony which was to start at 4:00 pm.
First, let me say that it usually takes a few minutes to start shooting. The bride needs to be prepped and then placed in the perfect location that will enhance her loveliness. So basically when I say that we didn't start shooting until 3:45, I'm really saying that it's not because I'm slow. I am not slow! (Sorry, personal issues.)
The shoot continued for 10 or so minutes before I realized my lovely bride didn't have her ring on.
I said, "Hey do you want your ring in these shots?"
"Yes," she said.
And off her sister went to fetch the rings.

5 minutes later:

I glanced over my shoulder and saw my lovely bride's sweet sister with a look of pure petrification on her face.
"Um, Matilda (this is a fake name...but totally cool, right?) what's wrong?" I asked.
"If I tell you, you are going to freak," she said, voice shaking as much as her hands.
Um. Like that statement didn't just freak the bejeezus out of me. Sure.
"No worries. I won't freak," I said. Total lie. "What's up?"

INSERT: As I spoke the wind blew through the field tossing around weeds and wild flowers. Yes, we were standing in a field full of tangled weeds. Awesome...but not ideal for that day's shoot. You'll see.

"Well," she began after much coaxing. She pulled the ring pillow out from behind her back. "The rings are gone. They were on the pillow in the car, but after I walked across this field and jumped over that ditch there, they disappeared."
Holy freaking Moly! You've got to be kidding me, right? Right!?! No. It was the truth. My eyes grew to the size of saucers and I immediately rushed to her side, dropped down to my knees and started searching the field. My bride, bless her sweet soul, kept her composure as her fiance helped me dig through weeds. She even stayed calm after I called in the Calvary to help me search. Friends and family members of the bride came down and dug through the field.

45 minutes later:
I found the bride's ring. I wanted to cry, shout, jump for joy...at least be rewarded with some type of Hart's drink (this didn't happen). We kept searching for the grooms ring.

Alas, we never found it.

The wedding went on as planned, aside from the huge bump. But now I think, as I look fondly on that day, how bad can your wedding day really get? I suppose there's a lot more worse things that could happen than losing rings. But for your sake, I hope not.

luv, erin

true story: death threats, racism, and me

I have a disorder.

In short, it is this: sometimes I'm a complete and total loser. I try to say something and it comes out all wrong. Yes, I know. Common mistake, right? Well, for me it happens all the time. Like tonight's utterly foot-in-mouth worthy example.

Tonight I shot bridal portraits for a lovely client that will be getting married in a couple weeks. I've already shot her engagements, and so I feel familiar and comfortable with her, her fiance, and her family. In fact, I feel like we're friends. Buddies. Pretty close to besties. I'm not bragging or anything about having awesome clients that are also friends. I just want to explain my frame of mind when the Disorder occurred. You'll see.

Disorder Incident #1
While shooting Madi, clouds covered the sky and the lighting dimmed. I decided to lower my shutter speed to pull in more ambient light. So to help keep a steady camera hold, I braced my back against a nearby fence. Madi's uncle, Kurt (also a friend of mine...again, not bragging) came to the shoot. I thought he was standing behind me. I thought he was also propped against the fence. I thought he was the one banging the fence over and over and over again.
So when I yelled over my shoulder, "Stop that or I'm going to KILL you!" I didn't expect to turn around to find Madi's lovely mother staring wide-eyed at me in complete shock. Apparently she's never had a photographer threaten her life. I guess there's a first for everything.

Disorder Incident #2
Flustered and completely embarrassed, we left the first location (after I apologized repeatedly) and sought out a spot that was better lit. Upon arriving at the second location, a light rain began hitting us. I wanted to hurry the shoot along so beautiful Madi and her handsome fiance, Cesar (take note of his name now) wouldn't get drenched.

"Madi," I said from across the field, "turn to face the poppies. Oh lovely. That looks awesome. Perfect."
Snap. Snap. I shot a few more pose changes, and then decided it was time for Cesar to jump into the picture.
I looked up to where he stood near the side of the road, waiting to be called into the shoot.
"JORGE!" I yelled. "Jump in."
He looked at me. Madi looked at me. Madi's lovely mom who I threatened just minutes earlier looked at me.
Then Kurt (did I say friend earlier? I meant former friend) turned to me. "You mean, Cesar? Wow, Erin. Just because he's Mexican doesn't mean you can throw any Hispanic name out there. Are you a racist or what?"

In that moment, I wanted to die.

Disorder Incident #3
After apologizing profusely, in between laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face, I recomposed myself. I was determined to finish the shoot without one more moment of complete mortification.

Five minutes later. "Madi, now you and Jorge..."

Son of a flipping mother! I said Jorge again. Apparently I am a racist-death-threat-throwing photographer. Apparently I have a Disorder and it doesn't matter that my clients are like friends...because that probably wont last very long with my record.



run erin run.

This morning I signed up for the Timpanogos Half Marathon. Crazy, right? I hate running. Every time I start I silently curse the forsaken exercise for at least the first two to three miles. But once I hit mile three, something happens inside me.
No, I'm not going to call it a runner's high, because there's nothing high about my feet repeatedly pounding the pavement, and the monotony of inhales and exhales to keep up with my forward motion. It's almost like I hit a numbness, and in that moment I no longer feel the ache in my legs or the burn in the tips of my lungs. It's like my body just gives up and says, "fine, what the heck, keep running then. You suck."

So I keep running. On Monday, in fact, I ran just under seven miles.

Today when Mark proposed we run a half...something we've been considering for awhile...I figured, what the heck. Let's do it. We signed up, we paid our money, and now we're in. There's no turning back, but I figured why not get a few of you out there to do it with me. It could be like a super-cool group thing. You know, all the cool people are doing it.

So if you want to join me, click on the link for details:

Timpanogos Half Marathon

hot sister of hair.

There are many things that I covet. The number one thing being: My Sister's HAIR!

If you don't know who she is, you can check her out:

HERE

As I was saying, she has Hair. Loads of it, and I have none. When we were younger I was convinced my hair was thin because of her mean, hair-pulling, older-sister ways. I see now that I lucked out and got the bum, thin-hair gene which isn't helped when I eat sugar or caffiene...there will be another post on this conundrum later...as I was saying, Nikki has awesomely thick hair. I love it and I'm jealous of it.

Confession over. Here she is.

A head full of hair, and smokin' hot.

This picture was taken during the Summerill Family Trip to SO-CAL 2011...also, there will be many of these pics to follow. Stay tuned all your 2 readers!

hairy situation.

This is my husband, Mark:

Hairy? Yes.
Why? Simply because I cut his hair and I haven't had time to do so in the last year. So Mark got to embrace the 70's and grow out his wavy fro (as pictured above).

So, this last week I figured, why not really rock the 70's look. After a little persuasion, he was shorn like a sheep, sampsoned like Delilah would want it, de-hair-i-fied to look like this:

Oh yeah, baby! That's hotness for you.
But his serious man-ness was a little overwhelming after about 30 seconds, so we cut the rest off and now here's the new and improved Mark:

 

Which "look" do you like best?

a. 70's Fro

b. Mullet Man

c. Clean Cut Mark

I'm leaning toward Mullet Man.

Throw in a wife-beater top and a dirty old truck and he'd have some serious Mullet style.

luv, erin

henry.

I try really hard not to label my kids, at least not while they're listening. I don't want them to think that's how they should always be. For example: if I said, "George is my shy child."

I would feel like a fail-mom if he never made any friends because of his tendency towards being shy.

But, since my kiddos hardly read this blog, I feel I can spurt about anything on here without them knowing. Mom-Of-The-Year goes to me, I know. I pretty much dropped that award in my pocket years ago.

So let me just say, my kiddos are gloriously different from one another.

Sometimes I love it. Other times, not so much.

The other day I overheard Henry say to George:

 "Hey Georgie, what happens when you're feeling really grateful for something, but you really have to toot?"

Did your eye brows just screw together in a "Did I seriously just hear that?"

Mine certainly did.

Henry's answer: "You have a gratitoot!"

I'm not going to lie, a laugh burst from my lips and I thought to myself, that kid is definitely mine.

I'm so grateful to have Henry. He's clever, witty, charming and always fun.

Happy eight years old, kiddo!



cupcake.

As if I didn't need another reason to break Lent. Brekke, an amazing photographer and friend, showed up on my doorstep today with a lovely box of these goodies (see images below). Believe me when I say they smell as good as they look. So here's the new motto of my little ghetto blog:

If You Bring It, I Will Shoot It.

Do you think it's too Kevin Costner? Nah, I didn't think so either.

So, if you perchance happen to make something mouth-watering and ridiculously good-looking, don't hesistate to stop by my house. I take a couple shots, more than a couple bites, and we'll call it good.

luv, erin

And in case you were wondering, the cupcakes on the left are blueberry cream cheese, and the ones on the right are peanut butter chocolate. Terrible, right? Ugh. Talk about kill my Lent with a fiery vengence.

popcorn and parties

Every year March rolls around and my stomach clenches in knots. You see, I lucked out in the birthday department. My oldest two boys are born 2 years and 4 days apart. So every other March (we have friend's parties on the even years), I get to throw one wildly enormous party or two parties 4 days apart. Neither option thrills me, but this year I opted for the easy route.

Two parties. Both a trip to the movie theater so my house stay's intact.

A Movie Party! Easy right? Well, not so much. Herding 15 kids to the movie theater and back wasn't my finest mommy moment. I'll spare you the details, but I will share my one epiphany of the week. In photoshop I made these nifty popcorn invitations, and then I googled popcorn cupcakes and came up with a plan to make what you see below. If you like it, let me know and I'll be glad to pass along the party invite in a digital file.

Oh, and if you want to check out my George-a-pie's pics, they're up on my photo blog:

www.erinsummerillphotography.com/blog

withdrawal. an ode to sugar.

I am

a crack addict

not really, but holy hell it feels like it

Today.

one of the lovely ladies at the PG Rec Center ate a doughnut!

In front of me.

Can you believe that?

The sweet smell of sugar glaze was like fire to my nose.

Burning my olfactory system with maple sugary goodness.

Sugar.

Sugar. 

Sugar. 

Itch. Scratch. Itchy. Scratch. Scratch. 

I want me some SUGAR!

Withdrawals suck. 

38 days from now, I'm going to feel like a friggin' rockstar. 

38 days to go. 

true dat.

If you know my Teddy, you know he's certianly not quiet. He often says what's on his mind where ever we are. Take for instance church: "Mom, that lady is fat or she has a baby in her tummy." It's not ever a question, but his simple observation.

Of coure each time he comes up with something tactless, I shush him and explain that saying what you observe isn't always a nice thing to do.

But there are other times when his observations are simply true, and I have to smile and pass it on. For example, Sunday's discovery.

We walked into the house after church on Sunday, a bustle of flinging off coats and dropping bags. Out of the chaos came a loud Teddy voice.

"Mom, Grampa is black and Gramma is white."

"What?" What is this kid talking about?

"Mom," he said in a most persistant voice. "Grampa is black and Gramma is white." His eyes widened as the truth dawned on him. "They are not the same!" He repeated this over and over again.

"Well," I explained, "Grandpa is dark because he's Hawaiian and Grandma is white like snow because that's how she was made."

"No," Teddy argued, his mind firmly made up. "Grampa is black. He's black like Bubba (our black labrador). And Gramma is white. They are not the same at all."

I chuckled...because what more could I say. True dat!

So kids, you see, opposites attract.