The plan ...

Eating gelato on our honeymoon.
We ate this every. single. day because: Italy.

Last night I was taking a shower and talking to myself about my day, as a normal person would do, and I got to thinking about the blog.
I have a lot of things backlogged that I want to share.
I really want to talk about my guy (...let's first stop and delight in the fact that I HAVE A GUY!), the wedding, and the new family sitch.
I want to explain the trip to Africa (why the eff Africa ... for starters) and our lovermoon to Italy.
And I want to show off the house and basically document every single detail about it: the changes we made, the way we I am decorating it, and why I will be marrying my counter top as soon as it is legal to wed a work surface.

But the thought of writing until my fingers bleed for sake of documentation purposes gives me a bit of an eye twitch.
I discussed with me three options:
1) I could get a boob job. As I was contemplating my future writing endeavors, I happened to look down at my sad, limp chest. Picture, if you will, a knot of silly putty; you know how when you remove the silly putty from its plastic egg and manipulate it with your hands, and then perhaps stretch it in half and hold one end up and let the other slowly elongate until you have two small lumps connected by a thin membrane of pliable clay? Imagine that puddling in the bottom of a bra and you will have a vision of my femininity. So there's that.
2) I could be my regular self and write until I no longer have individual fingers but instead two bloody stumps because I am long-winded and my natural inclination is to include every. element. of. my. life. that. ever. happened. This option could then in turn set me even farther back unless I stop doing things until I catch up.  
3) I could dedicate one, succinct post to each fantastical, life-changing event and call it a wrap.
Yes.
It is decided.
Number 3 is probably the direction I am going to drive this mother in.
That was really the only good option anyway, but I like to give myself several choices so that I feel like I make decisions. 
I think I will start in chronological order and just lay it out there while trying not to be too wordy.
And now to leave you with a few photos of this year.
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be ... sun more.

Ezra loves animals. But this one did not
love him. Look at his face. #wth

My beautiful freckle ballerina. 

The Fourth of July with all four
of our kids. That sounds weird. Four kids. 

Micah is 5! And wearing glasses.
He's so cute I literally cannot even
look at him. It is blinding.

A back shot of the 'ole tat. This shot was made
even classier by my twisted bra strap.