I knew it was going to happen. I knew that as soon as we got a digital camera, we would stop getting prints. And it has come to pass.

The last time I put prints in an album was a year and a half ago. And that was a whole year’s worth of prints that I finally got around to uploading.

This is a problem because I love looking at photo albums. The kind of album you can actually sit on a couch and hold in your lap — not the kind filling up all the space on my laptop hard drive. My kids love looking at albums too. They spend hours pouring over photo albums looking at how cute they were as babies and how much their friends have changed. To look at photos on the computer would just mean more screen time for them — something I’m trying to cut back on.

I declared in January that getting the photos printed was going to be my project of the month — but it never happened. And now there are thousands of photos that will take hours to upload. Every day that I put off the project, the more cumbersome it becomes.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my digital camera. I would never go back to film. But I hate that all those photos are in my computer — waiting for it to crash so they will be lost forever.

It’s about this time of year that I start really itching for warmth.

The fun snowy weather is, hopefully, behind us and now it’s time to march toward spring. But this is where things always seem to hit a snag.

It would be a perfect world in my mind if it was in the 50s every day in March, the 60s every day in April and the 70s every day in May. Unfortunately, this is never the case.

The other night, I could not get warm. I put on my pajamas along with a fleece top and climbed under the covers but I was still freezing. As I lay there, I tried to remember what it felt like to be so hot the sheets stick to you. It’s funny how hard that is to remember when it’s 30 degrees outside. I just kept reminding myself that it’s almost spring. And then before we know it, it will be summer. Hope it’s a hot one.

This blog was written by my co-editor Cheryl Clemens:

The other night was a typical one in our house.

I left work at 5:30, picked up Rosie at an after-school activity at 6, swung by the house to pick up Lucy and headed to the station to wait for my husband’s train. (Once in a while all three of us Clemens girls like to pick up Dad together.)

Back at home, Lucy started making spaghetti for dinner, Rosie began her homework and Dan and I changed for a quick date at the gym.

Finally back at home at 8, we all sat on the couch together. I was sweaty and starving, exhausted, overwhelmed thinking about all I had to do before bed and guilty for having left the girls to go to the gym.

That’s when Rosie leaned over, sniffed my hair and smiled.

“Mama, you smell just like a freshly made Build-a-Bear,” she told me, then put her head on my shoulder.

Seems I was obsessing about everything except the gift in front of me — three of my four wonderful family members, settled onto the couch spending a few quiet moments together.

Up until then I think I was the only one worrying because it was such a “crazy” night. To everyone else, it was just a night and they were taking it in stride.

I exhaled, put my feet up and let everything else go. You know, it’s not every night I get to smell like Build-a-Bear.

One mother was spotted pushing a stroller in her neighborhood. Another stood out at a meeting. And more than one woman was introduced by a mutual friend.

They could’ve been reliving how they met their spouses. But the ladies I was talking to were discussing how they met mothers with kids the same age as theirs.

These all-important (to your sanity) friends literally are what keeps you from running away from home sometimes. They are the ones who talk you through the sleep-training, get you through the bouts of flu and summer boredom, laugh at the embarrassing things your 3-year-old tells your mother-in-law.

Another mom who knows what you’re going through is worth her weight in gold. It’s no wonder we’re a little sentimental about how we met our playgroup pals.

“Remember the first time I came to your house?” one mom asked, recalling a mess her son her made.

“I was so happy to meet someone with a baby,” another mom confessed.

How we meet other moms is sometimes similar to how we met our mates, from chance encounters to actual fix-ups. I’ve heard of moms meeting at coffee joints, playgrounds, in the children’s sections of stores. Others find their matches in more organized settings such as mommy-and-me classes and mothers’ clubs.

For some of us, it’s love at first sight and we quickly connect. Others of us are shy at first and a little hesitant to make the first move. I’ve even known a few moms who thought they didn’t like another mom on the playground only to realize later how much they have in common.

It sounds like dating, doesn’t it?

Come 2 p.m. every afternoon, my 5-year-old preschooler is tired. He’s not tired in the sense that he needs a nap, but tired of me, tired of his toys, tired of hanging around the house.

“What is there that I can do?” is something that I hear just about every afternoon.

Jonah is pretty good at entertaining himself — he loves Legos, coloring, puzzles, games and anything that involves animals — but it can only go so far. He’s the youngest of four by four years and he’s never had siblings at home in the afternoons to play with — at least since he’s been able to play. And there are only so many days a week that I can organize a play date or take him on an excursion. He has an October birthday, so he’s an old preschooler who is more than ready for kindergarten.

So here’s my question. What are some fresh activities (that don’t involve a screen) that a 5-year-old can do to keep himself busy at home? I’d love to hear about them!

This blog is by my co-editor Cheryl Clemens:

These are some of the questions I’ve been asking myself, struggling with or searching for info about lately.

If you have any answers or suggestions, please share.

My 8 year old has underarm odor. Isn’t that a bit young? The pediatrician says it isn’t but it’s really freaking me out. I’m afraid she’s going to wake up one morning with D cups.

I need a really good foot moisturizer. Seriously. Sandal season is right around the corner and even someone with a serious foot fetish wouldn’t look twice at my dogs.

Why am I suddenly obsessed with Chipotle? I could eat a Chicken Bowl with black beans, rice, lettuce and cheese every day. Is that a lot of calories?

My basement storage area is a disaster. I open the door, ready to start clearing it out, and I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know where to begin. Usually I just close the door and promise myself I’ll start next weekend. Why can’t I start on this project?

I’m completely lost on “Lost.” I’ve followed it religiously from the beginning but I find myself scratching my head and scowling after every episode this season. When are they going to throw us a bone so we can at least pretend we’re starting to figure it all out.

My oldest daughter walked home from school with friends when she was in third grade. But now my youngest is the same age and she seems too little to walk by herself. What changed over the past six years and when should a child be allowed to walk home with friends.

My son is a senior this year but so far has said nothing about going to prom. I hope he wants to go.

We need to replace our minivan, either with a new/used van or family-style SUV. Any recommendations?

OK, little known but extremely embarrassing fact about the Clemens household: We girls love to watch reruns of “America’s Next Top Model.” Every Saturday the Oxygen channel runs an all-day marathon and if we’re home, it’s on as background noise. My husband says that’s how he tells time on Saturdays, because at 10 minutes to every hour you can hear Tyra Banks on almost every TV in our house going, “12 (or 10 or 5) beautiful girls stand before me, but I only have 11 (or 9 or 4) photos in my hand …)

My co-editor Cheryl Clemens wrote this blog:

I remember the first short story I ever wrote was in fifth grade. It was about a girl who was taking a walk in Arabia (come on, I was 9) and she fell and was knocked unconscious. When she woke, she was in a cave with magical horses that could talk. Of course, no one could ride the horses but her, which really came in handy when an evil sheik tried to capture them.

My youngest, 8-year-old Rosalie, writes and illustrates stories all the time about princesses and mermaids and magical girls who can do amazing things.

My oldest daughter, Luci, used to do the same. But she’s 14 now and outgrew things like that long ago. She did, however, recently share the plot of one of her stories. “It was about a girl whose dad got hit by a horse and died and she had to go live with her aunt at Disney World,” she told me.

I did a double-take on that one. It sounded absurd initially. But I’ve spent a good chunk of today writing and editing stories about Web sites and summer camp and pediatric allergists.

Having to go live at Disney World is sounding pretty good right now.

My co-editor Cheryl Clemens wrote this blog:

Have you checked out this amazing lip dub by the students at Shorewood High School in Seattle? It’s reaching 1 million views, so take a look. If you want to see how they did it (the best part), click here.