Araceli's 14th

Happy 14th birthday to our 21-year-old!  Ha ha.  She's finally catching up age-wise to her looks.  Here is Tziporah crashing her lunch with Dad at Orlando's, formerly Pepperbelly's.  It's been a tradition for Scott and Araceli to lunch there, and for Scott to embarrass Ari by telling everyone that they've been coming there for her birthday for, "How many years, Ari?"  Lunch was delicious.

Dinner was Election Day chili and cheesecake from Trader Joe's, Araceli's favorite.

Another example of Araceli's nightly ailment.  She is such a unique and fun soul.

On the way home from Utah Youth last week, we stopped in Swede Town to do a photo shoot with Barbie and Leo.  (Araceli's case and cello.)

If only I were a photographer.  But we had fun.  Araceli is always fun; sometimes too much fun for me.  She's exuberant, intense, loud, unapologetic and dramatic.  I'm thankful for all those qualities every day, because Araceli has depression.  She takes medication for it that enables her to be her true self, rather than be chained and fettered by the demons.  The difference between the Araceli who is trapped behind a wall of depression and the Araceli that thrives when there's enough seratonin in her system is terrifying.  Prisoner Araceli - without medication - has a palpable shroud of lead around her.  Nothing can penetrate the apathy and heavy emptiness.  You could take her to Disneyland and the reaction would be the same as if you took her to the city dump.  Nothing.

I'm just telling you this because there are solutions.  Fortunately, we found the solution for our girl a long, long time ago, allowing Araceli's true technicolors to shine.  And shine she does!  She buckled down this last term and got 7 A's and a B+.  She also did a ton of babysitting for us, taught cello and managed to talk Audrey, Tyler, Scott and me into taking her and Emma to Fizz after approximately 90% of their ballet, jazz and modern classes.  It's bad, but I don't care.  It's fun.  But maybe all those lavender Italian sodas are contributing to Araceli's hips flying out of joint at night.  Hmm.  Or maybe it's the early morning hot chocolates and cookies on the way to cello.  Whatever it is, we're sticking with it.

When Araceli was born, I slept with her tucked into my arm, right there next to me, snuggled up against the winter cold.  I still love to have her right there, not tucked under my arm, but close enough to scatter her singular brand of sunshine in my path.  Love you, Celi Belle!