Motherhood has a way of making the mundane extraordinary. A way of giving deep meaning to a cluttered floor, a messy face and a sink full of dishes. Joy filled the living room, nutrients filled a belly, and a Mama gave her heart. These are signs of life, and our life is made of memories. Our memories overflow into stories and our stories last generations. Our stories are all we really have and so I am a trying communicator, an eager storyteller. With a bold red and an even bolder laugh I share my heart through my memories, stories and recipes. For my family and friends I let it open wide. For complete strangers I do just the same. But there is a unique enthusiasm when I daydream of Octave years from now, learning who I was and who I am through this medium. It is with that thought that I throw caution to the wind and share myself from the inside out. I make sure not to forget the nooks and crannies, the spaces in between the good stuff. The unassuming, quirky, less flattering parts are always far more intriguing. I let this heart open wide to Octave, because she holds half of it. She will always be the first one who made me a mama, and this is something I will never tire of celebrating.