tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75747675654284816322024-03-13T02:26:56.541-04:00One-Sided MommaOSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.comBlogger851125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-82833446066506104502014-10-10T19:31:00.000-04:002014-10-10T19:31:00.728-04:00Thank You for the MemoriesIt is with much dragging of all my proverbial feet that I must write this post. <br />
<br />
It's time for me to stop posting publicly about my family on this blog. It's time for me to retire One-Sided Momma. For serious political reasons we all hear about on the news lately and other privacy matters, I must discontinue One-Sided Momma. <br />
<br />
Thank you for coming here to read what I've had to say for almost six years. This blog has been a lifeboat for me more than I can ever express. And you have all been my buoys of light throughout some of my darkest days, happiest moments, and memorable turning points. Knowing you're out there cheering me on gives me fuel to keep writing.<br />
<br />
We've been through a lot on here. For that reason, I'd hate to lose anyone who is still interested in following our journey.<br />
<br />
Please send me a personal email if you'd like to follow our anonymous adventure on an already established anonymous blog that I will not be linking to here. If you've been a reader (and even if you've never commented) and you feel like you know us then I will extend that invitation to my new writing place to you personally.<br />
<br />
Please leave me a comment on this post or maybe on the FB site with an email to reach you if you're interested in the new blog. I would hate to leave anyone behind who is invested in our little happy world. You are a big reason why I kept showing up here on One-Sided Momma when it would've been easier just to eat chocolate chip cookie dough. My gawd do I love chocolate chip cookie dough.<br />
<br />
Thank you for the memories, my friends. Please join me somewhere new if you are missing OSMA. I know I already am.<br />
<br />
Love always and two weeks after that,<br />
<br />
OSMA<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAO3kxX44BhFH7Ymn4vwd-HMubGaq4Dz4qAkyuJZ2dvqN8bhbg28A4yBESpntxZl4nPgY4bzGmwLAo4VGl-BWP9gVuGzWIZHKZGDfsjKliFHRkLIB84kgxaa0thRotVu4gdbgCU8ka5zw/s1600/jazzhands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAO3kxX44BhFH7Ymn4vwd-HMubGaq4Dz4qAkyuJZ2dvqN8bhbg28A4yBESpntxZl4nPgY4bzGmwLAo4VGl-BWP9gVuGzWIZHKZGDfsjKliFHRkLIB84kgxaa0thRotVu4gdbgCU8ka5zw/s1600/jazzhands.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
*********************<br />
<br />
I am leaving this message up for a few days. After that, I will remove One-Sided Momma blog from the internet and cry a small river of sadness for this chapter of my beautiful life to close. <br />
<br />
Thank you for being a monumental part of that.<br />
<br />
xoxoxoOSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-56064098719379145602014-10-01T15:26:00.001-04:002014-10-01T15:50:53.219-04:00Still in ThereEntering this new phase of life is disorienting but really fun. <br />
<br />
Kids need me but only between the crushing hours of early morning and after 4pm. Dogs and kitten want things with their eyes every thirty minutes in between. Husband is all newly flirty, sweetly romantic, and retirement-planning.<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I knew this time would come but I must've been changing the garbage bags because I didn't see it arrive. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ten years in family-rearing trenches never felt so rewarding and so completely bereft of self. I'm sure I was there because two small children call me Mommy but sometimes I wonder. Do you, too? Do you wonder where you went and why you had to go all these years? Do you miss yourself?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Where did that student go who finally earned a respectable GPA by her last year of grad school?</div>
<div>
What about that new teacher who smiled at everybody except the principal?</div>
<div>
Who did away with the girl in the band they called Dove because she was the only white girl in the entire studio?</div>
<div>
Why didn't that writing thing take off?</div>
<div>
Didn't she try photography for a while, too?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, here's what happened:</div>
<div>
The student is resting. She studied her eyes out for like 28 years, she's tired and taking an eternal break from putting pressure on herself to do better all the time. </div>
<div>
The teacher is still teaching. Her class is much smaller now, more manageable for her. Sometimes her students get mouthy and she still tells them to drop and give her 20. The big one enjoys PT but the little one doesn't. She prefers to answer everything in song. </div>
<div>
The girl in the band still gigs. She has a regular show every night at around 8:15 when one of her students is scared to be in bed alone. It's an intimate setting in a dark venue - a rocking chair with the lights on low. The set list has been on repeat for about four years. Time to work in a little O.A.R. and Juice Newton. Man, I really loved Juice Newton.</div>
<div>
That writing thing really did take off. She authors her life story for her children to read someday when she can no longer recall the details of their beautifully busy days. </div>
<div>
She did try photography for a while but has decided to step away from a lens that is one more distraction during the day. She'll bring it back when the time is right. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Moms and dads, don't worry. I know by the time you get to where I am - 40something and experiencing a shift of seismic proportions - you're going to wonder where you went, too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You're still in there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Watch, I'll prove it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did you sing in the shower this morning? Yes, humming counts.</div>
<div>
Do you daydream at work and linger at the water cooler so you can hang out with your friends?</div>
<div>
Are you secretly DVRing that Roosevelt special on the History channel because you always thought Eleanor was Teddy's wife?</div>
<div>
Do you feel resentful that you are expected to stand by and take pictures with your phone<i> like a parent of all things</i> during a really cool birthday roller skating party for your son's friend? Instead of strapping on those skates to let your 16 year old legs - <i>because that's how old your body still is in your mind </i>- fly around the rink?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes? Well, there ya go. You are still in there. Never left, actually. Simply a change of focus on other people who needed you to focus on them for a few years instead of your impressive small turning radius on wheels. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I won't pretend to know how to resurface after all these years of being subterranean. But I can tell you it's a bad idea to think you'd make an amazing Roller Derby Girl if you've never actually seen a roller derby scrimmage in person. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh yes, I highly recommend researching thoroughly and no, attending practice doesn't count. The girls play hard during practice and sometimes there's a pack of ice on someone's ankle but the real bouts are where it really goes down. Girls become women on a gurney to the ER. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had a name picked out and everything. Many names, truth be told. Every day the youngin' in me would come up with another bada$$ name to match my bada$$ idea of becoming a roller derby girl. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Seize Her Milan</div>
<div>
Bangers & Smash</div>
<div>
Gin 'n Toxic</div>
<div>
Queen of Tarts</div>
<div>
Picass-Ho</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and my all time favorite: Venus Envy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, it's not going to happen. Derby is for ladies who don't mind breaking bones and working through the pain of healing. I mind all that very much. Trying to imagine folding laundry and giving Abby a bath with a broken clavicle was all I needed to cure me of signing up. I'm more of a "Here, let me get you a warm washcloth," and less of a "Hey Pansy, I'm gonna smash you in the throat!!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's good to know your limits. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Venus Envy was but a dream.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it's ok because I'm still in there. Bubbling up more and more every day. You will. too. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Enjoy the surprises you have in store for yourself. See if your body needs plyometrics or a cozy nook in a cafe people watching. It knows, all you have to do is shower and grab your keys. Want to work with animals but feel you need experience? Drive to your local sanctuary or Humane Society and they'll set you right up with a plethora of dogga kisses and kitten head boops. Need to stop doing for others and instead do for your sassy self now? I get it. Peruse aisles of a store and listen for a new style to lure you in. You've always wanted to try big round earrings? Do it. They might go great with your new short hair. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv24Zyg2QsuvTmgtOiKhUlDKwlZ9-rAvAdgQJM_7n_NyO_RbtzUwmUsvJFAl6P9jQMFtw0NIIXI620xXKT7BGwaYnGbBZBGQJs6IxWpLn1F-t6vvq9Dte-sDzGij1g8xpQj583QexiEQ/s1600/reallyshort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv24Zyg2QsuvTmgtOiKhUlDKwlZ9-rAvAdgQJM_7n_NyO_RbtzUwmUsvJFAl6P9jQMFtw0NIIXI620xXKT7BGwaYnGbBZBGQJs6IxWpLn1F-t6vvq9Dte-sDzGij1g8xpQj583QexiEQ/s1600/reallyshort.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I'm sorry, I should've warned you. And yes, it's a little shocking to me, too. We'll all get used to it. I've always wanted this hairstyle. Just on a much younger face. Ha!</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, this might be a disorienting time but an exciting time to rediscover yourself or better yet - redefine yourself! If not now, then when? If not you, then who? Someone else named Venus Envy, that's who. You cannot let that ho steal your thunder. Go out and make your own. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'll pass you a warm washcloth. </div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-30875807748476917972014-09-29T15:24:00.001-04:002014-09-29T17:29:59.668-04:00A Sacred Conversation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4ywn-r-JLPStc2SHl9jbMa7Bf1clvsbyys4oYnpO28cad4NC7psMRADZzb5rCF_VctLa1a8ZfhBw_Jc-OkHQSrDiq0MuOffuGORNua5K4nSyc8zDUcnJ1A7ohH1JfxfqLDLqV80Qhfo/s1600/IMG_1294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4ywn-r-JLPStc2SHl9jbMa7Bf1clvsbyys4oYnpO28cad4NC7psMRADZzb5rCF_VctLa1a8ZfhBw_Jc-OkHQSrDiq0MuOffuGORNua5K4nSyc8zDUcnJ1A7ohH1JfxfqLDLqV80Qhfo/s1600/IMG_1294.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When I was very little I prayed to the God I believed granted wishes to give me a ravaging disease instead of to other moms. My reasoning was that I thought I was strong enough to "handle" it. I'd seen enough after-school specials to know kids needed to have their moms around for a long time (whomsoever "they" were and let's pretend whomsoever is still in the English rotation). I was young, ignorant, unattached, and dispensable.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure where that particular wish came from or why I had the ego of Kanye West. Maybe because my mom means so much to me. And <b>her</b> mom means so much to me. Maybe because my dearest friend's mom had just died from cancer before she entered high school. Maybe because I felt impervious and virtuous to ask for such a blow.<br />
<br />
Who knows why we do anything as kids. But now?<br />
<br />
Now?<br />
<br />
I am <b>taking that request back</b> every day, like a chump. <i>Please God, please let me me live long enough where my children will be ok without my daily presence</i>. <i> Andy too.</i> <i>Nice and old, maybe 80 something</i>. <i>Dear God, I realize we made a deal but now other people are relying on me and I had no idea WHAT ravaging diseases ravaged. Dear God, I have saved a lot of Ziploc bags and cut all those plastic rings so turtles and dolphins won't die whenever we buy bottled water. I'm sorry we buy bottled water. (</i>When it comes to living, I am not above pointing out how green I am and how much I honor sea life.)<br />
<i><br /></i>
I have no idea if this is how it works. Because while I've felt a God since I was little, my relationship with religion has been soft and light-hearted. For me, proof is the point of living. All the rest feels more like a test I am studying for when I have the time. Read a little hear, write a little there, all the while hoping to take in what I need to pass the final when the time comes.<br />
<br />
When the time comes.<br />
<br />
Jimmy told many of us his time would come sooner than later. He knew he wouldn't live to be an old man. <br />
<br />
"But HOW do you know?" I prod him, squinting my eyes at his.<br />
"I just do. Look at me. I'm aging in dog years. I look like a basset hound."<br />
"Shut it. You look as handsome as ever. More like a distinguished terrier. Besides, I don't think I'm going to live that long either. I made this deal with God a long time ago. Oh no, it's cool. We can party together in heaven."<br />
<br />
Jimmy's countenance changes immediately. He is not amused. His face is locked flat, his eyes are sad, and I get the sense he thinks I'm mocking his premonition.<br />
<br />
"No," I clarify, "I just mean I'm not going to be ok without you here."<br />
"You're going to live a very long life, Hon, AND you're going to be ok," his words still make me cry, "I'm old and you're going to get old, ok?"<br />
"Ok, fine. If you say so, Jimmy."<br />
<br />
And now, getting older every year feels like an extra bonus from him. A little nod to one of our last conversations together. Gifted time I get to spend growing grayer, softer, and stronger.<br />
<br />
And yes, I'd say even a little basset hound. OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-11165739164853414482014-09-24T17:03:00.001-04:002014-09-24T17:52:59.562-04:00Wake Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCt_VjoRXFKNWIyHQYeRz857TyPa8RGMkOWT9004GIKU9LbR7ysrrepFv9iFejDvajUU1otBq7KoSz-gZwUbqpFvc5Fe6cs2t8_cqgaVG3uLmSeFOrOn_tiQD4MvP1544Vhp7eJr5FObw/s1600/IMG_0394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCt_VjoRXFKNWIyHQYeRz857TyPa8RGMkOWT9004GIKU9LbR7ysrrepFv9iFejDvajUU1otBq7KoSz-gZwUbqpFvc5Fe6cs2t8_cqgaVG3uLmSeFOrOn_tiQD4MvP1544Vhp7eJr5FObw/s1600/IMG_0394.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Wake Up.<br />
<br />
That's what my brother writes in his journal every night, before he goes to sleep. He summarizes his day in an 1 inch by 1 inch square, highlighting in pen what stands out the most. An artist of paraphrasing over a miniature scale of time.<br />
<br />
"I forgot to wish Paulo a Happy Birthday," he tells me over the phone recently.<br />
<br />
"How did you know it was his birthday? Facebook?"<br />
<br />
"My calendar. I saw it on my calendar from last year." Ah, what a treasure trove of important events my brother has created for himself, all the recipients of his birthday wishes, and beyond. <br />
<br />
"It's been twelve years since you adopted Sadie." <i>I know, she's almost 13.</i><br />
"You moved to Pennsylvania nine years ago yesterday." <i>Nine? Why does it feel like twenty?</i><br />
"We visited Dad in Texas in 2001." <i>Holy sh*t, your calendars go way back, man.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8SG_HYekJfY7mdh_K0iQPp7gq1-7_sp0QF-yb6iUuqxJo3dYdl9AZ-zWDi83ofbuj3uJeg0Y6GcayoRTfiuBFE-5d4MI_IeH0sv9uRuMLdnU5cxjKty5JzzuDSWpQ28mSalGFCRpAzg/s1600/IMG_0201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8SG_HYekJfY7mdh_K0iQPp7gq1-7_sp0QF-yb6iUuqxJo3dYdl9AZ-zWDi83ofbuj3uJeg0Y6GcayoRTfiuBFE-5d4MI_IeH0sv9uRuMLdnU5cxjKty5JzzuDSWpQ28mSalGFCRpAzg/s1600/IMG_0201.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I think about what it means to my brother to write those words in the "tomorrow" box every night. <br />
<br />
Wake Up. <br />
<br />
Yes, yes, we do wake up. Every morning. To this new place again. When we are lucky.<br />
<br />
Lately, I feel so lucky to wake up and find my children small. <i>Oh good, you're still little</i> as though the heavy hours of my soupy sleep has aged them exponentially. My dreams are fierce, twisted, barrier crossers and I'm too tired to be in them anymore by morning. <br />
<br />
Daylight is fanning through lazy blinds, iCarly is on low volume in the living room, and the coffee pot is hissing from the kitchen. All this familiar glints beautifully through a bothersome world beneath. My dreams have no power over me here. Thickness fades while blinking and oxygen feel like rebirth.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloJvPJD8_CVS40BqhCExsoVXhah73noNpypmjiv6D8xCZYiVCwT7SPEYovDl0HrqmBiYr3QuWGpwIpLumsg897ivBEAD6Ff8lqX51yZmFIBumvjhae0Niy3i0eKKjrHK7bBUAeQvUDYM/s1600/IMG_2571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloJvPJD8_CVS40BqhCExsoVXhah73noNpypmjiv6D8xCZYiVCwT7SPEYovDl0HrqmBiYr3QuWGpwIpLumsg897ivBEAD6Ff8lqX51yZmFIBumvjhae0Niy3i0eKKjrHK7bBUAeQvUDYM/s1600/IMG_2571.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"Goodbye, Daddy, I love you," whisper-shouts my son as Andy gathers his backpack, a piece of half toasted raisin bread most likely in his teeth.<br />
<br />
"I love you, too."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWaDVIRexdtMKZpxBzTwnOPnSZiOdo9bc8-sD0j6MeHfDxpfaSVZErOWLPwr2ahb7zHEU5QORWVOgutTqmBZWSdaFP8x3IpZw0VYYfEr80S7_FIUpTXJHJdmeDK9Y5jvfbByHqgjxAjA/s1600/IMG_2084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWaDVIRexdtMKZpxBzTwnOPnSZiOdo9bc8-sD0j6MeHfDxpfaSVZErOWLPwr2ahb7zHEU5QORWVOgutTqmBZWSdaFP8x3IpZw0VYYfEr80S7_FIUpTXJHJdmeDK9Y5jvfbByHqgjxAjA/s1600/IMG_2084.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I am so grateful to wake up. To wake up here in a real world filled with delicious sounds of small children, busy husband, happy dogs, and one very naughty kitten. It is a world filled with daylight and decaf, T-shirts and dishwashers, fundraisers and overcooked chicken, kisses and fights. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvJ-h8wijPY2IsBYau5TwoAU2s-dIf4dlXFCbZII9vtDEHClRdgoYoq5-mDy50hGSzwMO1stxR0roVoCLbwWt5U06wYQPY5exjqn9ptgofcfQ4yiUQ3_XmHxXw8xSnP8YCFAmurX8BkM/s1600/IMG_2403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvJ-h8wijPY2IsBYau5TwoAU2s-dIf4dlXFCbZII9vtDEHClRdgoYoq5-mDy50hGSzwMO1stxR0roVoCLbwWt5U06wYQPY5exjqn9ptgofcfQ4yiUQ3_XmHxXw8xSnP8YCFAmurX8BkM/s1600/IMG_2403.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's the world I love to live. To devour by the hour, staving off the night.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3ZHnNxMVOFImZGoi1vTig14YqD4xteY9rGuX4sFgUvjqchDwNmoeDTyGvTQQutNlsqkBKWFSLLXCbN8_508QflEmeYFbX4WVn_t-p_kSz47WomDLRVBFi0vzBEszmPjW0OzI1D9Zuns/s1600/IMG_0428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3ZHnNxMVOFImZGoi1vTig14YqD4xteY9rGuX4sFgUvjqchDwNmoeDTyGvTQQutNlsqkBKWFSLLXCbN8_508QflEmeYFbX4WVn_t-p_kSz47WomDLRVBFi0vzBEszmPjW0OzI1D9Zuns/s1600/IMG_0428.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm so lucky to wake up.<br />
<br />
<br />OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-69035203825013714332014-09-18T14:50:00.004-04:002014-09-18T14:50:39.482-04:00Hold My Hand, Mama<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFyk1D5YzJ8NICmZ04Pmyzn8ny1xqo9B8tNMju1oXGe4SvbXYHj4ow18mYHbEadyn0mS2H2bWSrVqQFKAFe1fIjBt6qIvYwCW8xvj4kpXSm84IMvVLJBVSaWdtVM-PHiM4Fo2Au5Sfy0/s1600/DSC_0421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFyk1D5YzJ8NICmZ04Pmyzn8ny1xqo9B8tNMju1oXGe4SvbXYHj4ow18mYHbEadyn0mS2H2bWSrVqQFKAFe1fIjBt6qIvYwCW8xvj4kpXSm84IMvVLJBVSaWdtVM-PHiM4Fo2Au5Sfy0/s1600/DSC_0421.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Mama? I thought about it all day. I want to go to Full House with you tonight and skip gymnastics."<br />
<br />
"You sure?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, because gymnastics is one day a WEEK and Full House is one day a YEAR. It's important."<br />
<br />
"Sold. Go get your happy clothes on, little mama, let's roll."<br />
<br />
And off we go. To Abby's Full House or Open House as those administrators like to call it. We arrive a bit late on purpose to miss the general meeting. Neither of us are interested in joining the PTA or sitting in cafeteria seats.<br />
<br />
Full House is no misnomer as the halls are pulsing with parents in khaki pants, belted dresses, and scrubs. (I miss wearing scrubs to places where nobody knows if you are just getting home from your residency, the ER, the OR, or the kennel. Oh, the mystery.) Immediately, I withdraw from the crowd in front of us. Abby pulls me onward, her tiny hand in mine. <br />
<br />
"Mama, C'MON! We'll be late!"<br />
<br />
Her confident presence fuels me to motor not only into the throng of people, but through it. We come out the other side a smiling semi-circle, attached at the palms. <br />
<br />
As we enter the classroom, Abby's teacher points to her, winks, then kneels down to hug a little boy showing off his herringbone jelly necklace. She makes a big fuss and all I can see are her eyes, blue as daytime, and her pink painted toes. She is a magnet for the children. Before we make it to Abby's desk, I count four kindergartners tugging at the teacher's blouse, excited to see her after-hours and to show them something from their very own home.<br />
<br />
Abby's major modus operandi is strictly to stick with the program. She has an agenda and follow it we must, leaving no cubby unturned and no folded paper house untouched. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHy2VJK0YNbAiAGnWtZyZili4Ri4wPbiIxZ0vJjXZhlnLJl0tStUuYdyvy3QhDuFZQD-9yJTWKZX5f-bVKR14FWWoqZeJpZMA3b584IHOUzm_rqBexlnBobnscNEHY8NIJqz_xN_wykY/s1600/abbyhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHy2VJK0YNbAiAGnWtZyZili4Ri4wPbiIxZ0vJjXZhlnLJl0tStUuYdyvy3QhDuFZQD-9yJTWKZX5f-bVKR14FWWoqZeJpZMA3b584IHOUzm_rqBexlnBobnscNEHY8NIJqz_xN_wykY/s1600/abbyhouse.jpg" height="257" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Proudly and reverently, she walks me to each corner of her classroom. "This is where we nap, Mama. But I don't really nap. I might close my eyes but I don't really nap, I don't think, please and thank you."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXkpwwC75iR9BIuw9L-XNy_t5t4dUhyphenhyphenHQYTvyKd1GR3D-5wtAXKaAVfXXfvmRoEt8ma_U62Pl7TkrImUzm7TVoqcJTsVoFW7sPwVY33PgpVdpOB5CTArgK9uo50jX26RQzjmsiuGGHEwU/s1600/CSC_0939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXkpwwC75iR9BIuw9L-XNy_t5t4dUhyphenhyphenHQYTvyKd1GR3D-5wtAXKaAVfXXfvmRoEt8ma_U62Pl7TkrImUzm7TVoqcJTsVoFW7sPwVY33PgpVdpOB5CTArgK9uo50jX26RQzjmsiuGGHEwU/s1600/CSC_0939.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Abby's nervous "please and thank you" started a few months back. It's her go-to filler phrase when she doesn't know what else to say. There are others that have come and gone like, "I think" or "Maybe I just dreamed that" or "I don't know" but "please and thank you" has stuck around the longest. It's what I will remember when I think back to Little Abby. That and her love of bubbles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3IVOpjELD8EgjBr_c4ogrVjLFeBeaiKx5G-iMkB3RaHhgkqgj60GnPRe_TSnURytcw7qz2dIkCO-ydf8UovVqh1t727llObol7Fl5q3h-JyCb0E-TEsXJbqJPiD9RxWNGmMqNTBniBU/s1600/feb1+(637).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3IVOpjELD8EgjBr_c4ogrVjLFeBeaiKx5G-iMkB3RaHhgkqgj60GnPRe_TSnURytcw7qz2dIkCO-ydf8UovVqh1t727llObol7Fl5q3h-JyCb0E-TEsXJbqJPiD9RxWNGmMqNTBniBU/s1600/feb1+(637).JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Moms and Dads are holding Chicka Chicka Boom Boom charts. Some are pointing to cut-out pictures of their own children on the wall. Most are making the exaggerated, "Oh my!" face so their children will know their art is not going under-appreciated. We are all walking slowly. But I notice something. The other children are running around the classroom, to each other and to their beloved teacher. <br />
<br />
All the children are untethered from their parents except mine.<br />
<br />
Worried, I'm holding on too tightly and of course, ruining my daugther's chances at a successful future and marriage, I give slack in our hand and let my Abby go.<br />
<br />
"Mama, I have to show you the HALLWAY!!" She is already moving as she gobbles up my palm in hers once again. Like a silent wish being answered, it is her doing, not mine.<br />
<br />
Again, we weave in and out of people clusters like two coils of one busy DNA. <br />
<br />
This tiny hand of hers in mine is everything in the world right now. I can't make small talk, parent-teacher niceties, bend down to admire a little friend. My girl has my hand in hers almost on accident as though it's the most natural thing in the world, to connect herself to me -voluntarily- because she wants to. Not because she needs to. <br />
<br />
It's more than wanting to show me the hallway. (The HALLWAY.) It's more than attending her very first Full House.<br />
<br />
It's a connection. A connection that will be paraded through crowds, schools, projects, arguments, boyfriends, girlfriends, sleepovers, dances, graduations, and time. A connection that will sometimes disconnet, momentarily, but always find its way back again. A connection that I believed was one-sided: <b>me </b>holding on to <i><b>her</b></i> for dear life. <br />
<br />
All these years, I've been so worried about what happens when I let go. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LeOJn0JKlq9gY2cA7XxnyeT4AHG0hDyQSDnTvlZ5WZR2-vtRi2Hh1nUjQ2mFmOXAM6c4Upsk2MJ0KL4jEfNXfUy1UEgMuYbfXZEsMtgUckojifMXvftLFoTl9Ge7LuB8B4w-w0vGtFc/s1600/DSC_0235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LeOJn0JKlq9gY2cA7XxnyeT4AHG0hDyQSDnTvlZ5WZR2-vtRi2Hh1nUjQ2mFmOXAM6c4Upsk2MJ0KL4jEfNXfUy1UEgMuYbfXZEsMtgUckojifMXvftLFoTl9Ge7LuB8B4w-w0vGtFc/s1600/DSC_0235.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Until I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*********************************************************************************<br />
Hive Update: Didn't mean to leave you all hanging about Abby's hives. After she finished the cocktail of medicine her doctor put her on, she is all better. No hives, no fever, no more mystery virus that caused them in the first place. The ER doctor (yes, Dr. McSteamy) warned me that it will come back when I least expect it. He's a realist, after all, just like an imaginary boyfriend should be.OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-75624065480372184692014-09-15T17:02:00.001-04:002014-09-15T17:02:07.417-04:00The Zen of DucksPlump, steady, funny clowns<br />
Ripple through their circles<br />
Shifting weight like canoes<br />
with a tipsy Captain<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhups7x5nuGZ50szuH0x_PB2FeNrvd6m3cuqosF1wpDxthmfvzc1iXGFlRLxnjKcIoGtyppbi9jgYR9jnwo87iAbhY72hYUZu1rs18tjmekiGteZAWEf1NcN6fJ5NtZvPuqpQfrVXUTRfI/s1600/CSC_0785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhups7x5nuGZ50szuH0x_PB2FeNrvd6m3cuqosF1wpDxthmfvzc1iXGFlRLxnjKcIoGtyppbi9jgYR9jnwo87iAbhY72hYUZu1rs18tjmekiGteZAWEf1NcN6fJ5NtZvPuqpQfrVXUTRfI/s1600/CSC_0785.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
South to crane a tired neck<br />
North to hunt for brighter fish<br />
East, then west on pine needles<br />
A hammock for an hour.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I look to them<br />
when I feel gone<br />
<i>At ducks?</i><br />
When I feel gone?<br />
<br />
They remind me how to be here.<br />
<br />
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5ibZJbJmwsOueQlboyEMh7eYQkN93qWWOSnobQdH16ICKtGIBHWKlhGG8So5mDku_qKpMU_etYtrIUM_hVpmV_09guga07TBA7_0Oz_xYQgGPvKRKRzJhA8JUBGnedmojR_7q2dD7T4/s1600/CSC_0761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5ibZJbJmwsOueQlboyEMh7eYQkN93qWWOSnobQdH16ICKtGIBHWKlhGG8So5mDku_qKpMU_etYtrIUM_hVpmV_09guga07TBA7_0Oz_xYQgGPvKRKRzJhA8JUBGnedmojR_7q2dD7T4/s1600/CSC_0761.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<i></i></div>
<div style="display: inline !important;">
<i style="font-style: italic;">One gray, two black, </i></div>
<i>two white</i><i>, </i>I count<br />
Their feathers curl against the wind <br />
They are made of layers, too<br />
<br />
So very much like talking<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSXKgzdFxRJsa_gXa5FEtt8i0TXiIJk5imvdf2mENRLsSW4NWSyjPm856nbm2tEkuk2cYlBNepnUu4tzbTeGAyOtxmh1ylYPQUK4GZ4ZqHpysebX7Q_TmS7BwU5Pnad8G6SDbGSDPNU0/s1600/CSC_0762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSXKgzdFxRJsa_gXa5FEtt8i0TXiIJk5imvdf2mENRLsSW4NWSyjPm856nbm2tEkuk2cYlBNepnUu4tzbTeGAyOtxmh1ylYPQUK4GZ4ZqHpysebX7Q_TmS7BwU5Pnad8G6SDbGSDPNU0/s1600/CSC_0762.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Is that your smile, Astro Duck?<br />
Is this where you sleep at night?<br />
<br />
I'm not here to hurt you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHliNUTEbCLlnLC7B7-2Ty46jX2HV3oE_HVw39soIUF8AXIvExPrlKUJeM28BxIz0LR5Qp5Z9ewYFTnZM7aKMOZEbPciOIDUSaZqyR3c2zHqcw5A2i1z018Cp6mdJaDlvVzx6gTquoen8/s1600/CSC_0763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHliNUTEbCLlnLC7B7-2Ty46jX2HV3oE_HVw39soIUF8AXIvExPrlKUJeM28BxIz0LR5Qp5Z9ewYFTnZM7aKMOZEbPciOIDUSaZqyR3c2zHqcw5A2i1z018Cp6mdJaDlvVzx6gTquoen8/s1600/CSC_0763.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
They trust this moment,<br />
Not the last<br />
Give no credence to<br />
a past<br />
<br />
Inside his circle<br />
Wonder filled <br />
<br />
I really hope he's smiling.OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-48862645957541028172014-09-10T15:36:00.003-04:002014-09-10T20:04:45.905-04:00Doctor, Doctor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHdVhRhBDAdBN1SeWv327EBcGc2SMZdtsGDymHy80LPHiyWfOmwHDCPI_n9sq9tk3WaqL76NweD_FqfMiq3DINvTq0AR2CC9rSVj5IyVXyhsmGJHuQLuX8pS2pZQK_KB9HQ3gJaOy5kM/s1600/doc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHdVhRhBDAdBN1SeWv327EBcGc2SMZdtsGDymHy80LPHiyWfOmwHDCPI_n9sq9tk3WaqL76NweD_FqfMiq3DINvTq0AR2CC9rSVj5IyVXyhsmGJHuQLuX8pS2pZQK_KB9HQ3gJaOy5kM/s1600/doc.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When you wake up in the morning, you don't get dressed based on whether or not you're going to be in the ER hours later. <i>(Or maybe you do. Do you? Can we be real life friends, we have so much in common already.)</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
You get dressed based on what's happening that day. Walking the dog? Tank top and Wal-Mart shorts. Meeting at your kid's school in the afternoon? Capri pants with that cute tangerine shirt that buttons up the front. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So on a regular Tuesday, I wake up and pull on my favorite sleeveless peasant dress. It's blue, kind of oddly tiered in segments like those dresses you find at candle shops. The ones that reek of frankincense and perhaps a skoshe of myrrh. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have errands to run, dogs to walk, and dinner to make. One too many things in public to get away with neon shorts all day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By 6pm, I am in the ER with Abby. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Abby who comes off the bus with hives. If you have children, you know this is not a rare or special thing. Kids come down with the craziest symptoms that have you googling with one hand and stirring taco meat with the other. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZKJtAyqD31FTGhKOGqx0eZm6bG97SnoUbNURK8CWPv-ski61ebEaQTmyyl5RzUFlEDX-w_SnTT55jssElzoDF3CdD7-3Gec7rp1yhz7Mr5Yrb63-HAWyce_dgxyslkMlV4o3jbDCvis/s1600/hives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZKJtAyqD31FTGhKOGqx0eZm6bG97SnoUbNURK8CWPv-ski61ebEaQTmyyl5RzUFlEDX-w_SnTT55jssElzoDF3CdD7-3Gec7rp1yhz7Mr5Yrb63-HAWyce_dgxyslkMlV4o3jbDCvis/s1600/hives.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGvzOUH1z4ySFPgCn9-GI2exK_6jXNX-pPAmoVKkEiY9huKlV2JgYP7LF786sLrFoa6UqbDheDRMo0PpXrsOZgzd8BmaC-2GnPRLg7e_MP7kSP1usqu6OsFHGL9hZrgMlVb-hmX7ZS1E/s1600/hives2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGvzOUH1z4ySFPgCn9-GI2exK_6jXNX-pPAmoVKkEiY9huKlV2JgYP7LF786sLrFoa6UqbDheDRMo0PpXrsOZgzd8BmaC-2GnPRLg7e_MP7kSP1usqu6OsFHGL9hZrgMlVb-hmX7ZS1E/s1600/hives2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My parenting alarm doesn't sound until her upper lip swells up. She is suddenly and drastically a tiny Marge Simpson. Yes, it is adorable but logically speaking, I worry it will be her tongue to poof next. In my way of thinking, we have seconds to get her to a doctor before her airway is completely closed in. I ask Andy to drive Abby and me to the ER. Because, you know, I need my hands free to perform CPR or flail wildly at will. Either, or.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8icaNjKoTj2aEzds-HJJySHxBQ-u3QPg5KkT75v557PqJxuKdegNS587lohVM1LjckfJdDxd19PtrBN61ES2mSAd6XNSs9DrHQ8wCGMERLNn08zYRa4MyHi63CjJZqOeiNQWZZmXtyk/s1600/margelip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8icaNjKoTj2aEzds-HJJySHxBQ-u3QPg5KkT75v557PqJxuKdegNS587lohVM1LjckfJdDxd19PtrBN61ES2mSAd6XNSs9DrHQ8wCGMERLNn08zYRa4MyHi63CjJZqOeiNQWZZmXtyk/s1600/margelip.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>It's crucial to let you know I pull back my hair and mop it down reeeeallly well on my head when I'm nervous. So, by this hour, every oily molecule living near or on my hands is now ground deeply into my skull. I'm shiny from tip to (pony)tail. Now I am donning the kind of thing that is neither attractive or particularly successful. My bangs are dangling in my eyes like spider legs. Something on me smells like tacos. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We all make it to the door, register, and are seen within minutes. Nobody's freaking out. Abby's lip is stable albeit very Aflac like. Things are going so well, Andy and Grayson take off to make the rest of his baseball practice. That's when things happen. And man, it could've been great. If only I had showered.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ztwOBYUZstpOzslAy6cXisUWW1XtQ827P2AmEonhXsMjeMK-7RKh3H0hJLEVWC5JO55MZcqCjq-vDVrz_ZvbxEnToXS0Gk_wAVZOT0usqJ_qhJgVgZ5J6K8I7if5wkWmaScbwTZEl3g/s1600/margelip3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ztwOBYUZstpOzslAy6cXisUWW1XtQ827P2AmEonhXsMjeMK-7RKh3H0hJLEVWC5JO55MZcqCjq-vDVrz_ZvbxEnToXS0Gk_wAVZOT0usqJ_qhJgVgZ5J6K8I7if5wkWmaScbwTZEl3g/s1600/margelip3.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<u><b>Scene 1 - Nurse Enters Room</b></u></div>
<div>
Nurse: I'm going to ask you to drink this, Honey. It will help with the itching and the swelling.</div>
<div>
Me: Steroid?</div>
<div>
Nurse: Yes.</div>
<div>
Me: Are we ok?</div>
<div>
Nurse: The doctor will be in shortly. Yes, I think so.</div>
<div>
Abby: Can we go now? We've been here FOREVER.</div>
<div>
Me: Hang on, Baby. The doctor needs to look at you first.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEGY2qmJ0Uw0pKMhsvzgFzJAt3qXmydYf90yX2nV1HzSCbqLnv57N54R0Zb5X6wzyCJApLlCI1qPceSjHYNw5bU5liLZzjsl4PZWocHn6W_KjoIIEol6AM_brAtM4rNsYUGrW5JgoiH1k/s1600/marge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEGY2qmJ0Uw0pKMhsvzgFzJAt3qXmydYf90yX2nV1HzSCbqLnv57N54R0Zb5X6wzyCJApLlCI1qPceSjHYNw5bU5liLZzjsl4PZWocHn6W_KjoIIEol6AM_brAtM4rNsYUGrW5JgoiH1k/s1600/marge.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<u><b><br /></b></u></div>
<div>
<u><b>Scene 2 - Doctor, Doctor</b></u></div>
<div>
Doctor: Well, Hello. Abigail is it, or do you prefer to be called something else?</div>
<div>
Inside my Head Me: <i>Oh No. You're beautiful. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglou1oi4HW62cIeZ7aDLxuGbkfAMEif2Rvw3_W_5yVNvyvrKZRoDaCUaYSMnhuHt3sNqhniehX5a5U4JPaQ-HSJaKqt_64-QahfNSpjIVPK-0DGTrB2xIogh9m1g72IZJZigSfnpjxs9w/s1600/hotdoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglou1oi4HW62cIeZ7aDLxuGbkfAMEif2Rvw3_W_5yVNvyvrKZRoDaCUaYSMnhuHt3sNqhniehX5a5U4JPaQ-HSJaKqt_64-QahfNSpjIVPK-0DGTrB2xIogh9m1g72IZJZigSfnpjxs9w/s1600/hotdoc.jpg" height="400" width="321" /></a></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Abby: Abby. I like. To be called. Abby. </div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: Be nice to my future boyfriend, Honey. He's only trying to get to know you before we ride into the sunset on his yacht.</i></div>
<div>
Doctor: Then I shall call you Abigail.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1p1dA3d__x8Ge_NiqJz7PwuDSGzhQsU-06vydu7XcN6Ez-3UermlarU-S6-t1tNePzmyLmCcU33PagGNkw2ZIfrlbY3ZuLGQCm8ijY4WPMYm69lfXPtgRSmj9e9ayOguttmpUKnIJ9yI/s1600/docgeorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1p1dA3d__x8Ge_NiqJz7PwuDSGzhQsU-06vydu7XcN6Ez-3UermlarU-S6-t1tNePzmyLmCcU33PagGNkw2ZIfrlbY3ZuLGQCm8ijY4WPMYm69lfXPtgRSmj9e9ayOguttmpUKnIJ9yI/s1600/docgeorge.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Abby: I LIKE TO BE CALLED ABBY!</div>
<div>
Real Me, finally making eye contact: She really doesn't like the name Abigail. I can't help you there.</div>
<div>
Doctor, taking a dramatic stage pause, looking directly at me: You're not from around here, are you?</div>
<div>
<i>Inside my Head Me: Holy crap. Is this happening?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbp_Tqznp5UnVGk2ojAETqC3emP2sGjlUQpt5TKqUGGHysa818fTOuDv5SlOORYB7Ia22OnQ_viizyhHgYBIuxugG7A8Q0bzaNnXm6vR7jvSZOc7rrOi-rpKIcy6Zf6GxbL7BfsxLETvw/s1600/dochouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbp_Tqznp5UnVGk2ojAETqC3emP2sGjlUQpt5TKqUGGHysa818fTOuDv5SlOORYB7Ia22OnQ_viizyhHgYBIuxugG7A8Q0bzaNnXm6vR7jvSZOc7rrOi-rpKIcy6Zf6GxbL7BfsxLETvw/s1600/dochouse.jpg" height="299" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Real Me: No, I'm not. How could you tell? My accent?</div>
<div>
Abby: CAN WE GO NOW MOM?</div>
<div>
Doctor: No, it's more like your lack of any accent from anywhere, it's fascinating. I've never heard anyone with a non-accent like yours.</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: He just called me fascinating. - rifling through purse like a drug addict - Where are my cough drops? Dammit, Grayson ate my last piece of gum, didn't he? That little...</i></div>
<div>
Doctor: Where are you from?</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: I am from Roma, Italia. It is the city of love.</i></div>
<div>
Real Me: Oh, me? I'm from the suburbs of DC.</div>
<div>
Abby: Mom, seriously. I'm missing Teen Titans. </div>
<div>
Real Me: I only let them watch an hour of TV per day, tops.</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: I should've said we don't even HAVE a TV.</i></div>
<div>
Doctor: Them? You have other children?</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: Yes, but I can farm them out. Would you prefer we just start anew?</i></div>
<div>
Abby: G-R-A-Y-S-O-N</div>
<div>
Doctor: Well, I think you're going to be ok, <i><b>Abigail</b>. </i>I have an Abigail too and she's four. She doesn't like to be called Abigail either. </div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: Oh thank you Lord for letting him have children, too. Now I can keep mine.</i></div>
<div>
Abby: Does she like Hello Kitty?</div>
<div>
Doctor: Yes. Very much. Do you want a Hello Kitty band-aid? I'll see what I can do. I'll be right back with your discharge papers. </div>
<div>
Me: Ok, I'll be waiting. Umm, <b>WE'll</b> be waiting. We'll be here. Ok. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFh-1lMzH1SzFIP88uX0cdgVT6Qu2rDEryrK8quTJ4FZDru9nrVOY8RRZ5bHDbeZsjJaDyovQcH6Opge3mQz7Ppe1g-6mXdYF56Cf1BwarxBeAXvGBSCC_yhHO7FV1JAJJuX0yLRN99g/s1600/hotdoc2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFh-1lMzH1SzFIP88uX0cdgVT6Qu2rDEryrK8quTJ4FZDru9nrVOY8RRZ5bHDbeZsjJaDyovQcH6Opge3mQz7Ppe1g-6mXdYF56Cf1BwarxBeAXvGBSCC_yhHO7FV1JAJJuX0yLRN99g/s1600/hotdoc2.jpg" height="400" width="305" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><u>Scene 3 - The Breakup</u></b></div>
<div>
Doctor: So, I couldn't find Miss Abigail a Hello Kitty band-aid but my nurse will be in with a pink one, ok? You two take good care and come back if anything else comes up.</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: I am feeling a little faint. See you in fifteen.</i></div>
<div>
Abby: Ok, we can go now?</div>
<div>
Doctor: Yes, you can go after the nurse gives you your prescriptions and your pink band-aid.</div>
<div>
Abby: And a purple one?</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head Me: Oh my, I'm wearing flip-flops, this just keeps getting better.</i></div>
<div>
<i></i>Doctor: AND a purple one.</div>
<div>
<i>Inside My Head: I will always love you.</i></div>
<div>
Real Me: Thanks, Doc, take care!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Married Me: HONEY, you should've SEEN this doctor. No joke, he was from freaking Grey's Anatomy. It was so annoying because I am just not in the mood for all of that tonight. </div>
<div>
Andy: You're just saying that because you're mad at me for being late.</div>
<div>
Me: Heh. No, I'm really not. Believe me, I wish none of this happened. Do I smell like tacos?</div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-22476413841164067202014-09-04T17:02:00.004-04:002014-09-04T17:50:40.689-04:00Not the SummitLast night I watched my five year old daughter exhaust herself during gymnastics. Abby was working on a drill by herself without any instructor to please or frustrate, yet she pushed herself to utter muscle fatigue.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwkFTj6Yr2WI8YOWc5OBwVMfRo5Hc5iXcS4wxJHmw96UkmWLlyDkxZnTfTCTsRLd6WPBf4BmEFMh17jSV_R8dYzWUwhi_dzK9iGP4J3PAvUIoNJ_WRCekEM8yTw2GsaWvOWhAejAjVBWA/s1600/CSC_0256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwkFTj6Yr2WI8YOWc5OBwVMfRo5Hc5iXcS4wxJHmw96UkmWLlyDkxZnTfTCTsRLd6WPBf4BmEFMh17jSV_R8dYzWUwhi_dzK9iGP4J3PAvUIoNJ_WRCekEM8yTw2GsaWvOWhAejAjVBWA/s1600/CSC_0256.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
The tears escaped the second our eyes met after practice. "Mommy, I'm so, so tired."<br />
<br />
"I bet you are, Baby. You know something? I'm so proud of how hard you are working out there. I can see how great you're doing and so can your instructor. And you know what? You can rest at times. I think maybe go slower sometimes. You don't need to work so hard."<br />
<br />
"Let's go home, Mommy."<br />
<br />
Then I felt the zing. The parenting boomerang that headbutts us when we've rallied against the machine.<br />
<br />
<i>You don't need to work so hard.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Those are the words I choose to usher my girl into her formative years? <b><i>Don't</i></b> work so hard? Will her teachers pummel me with spitballs for saying that? Will her future employers write me a pink slip for teaching her the virtue of slacking off? Will her future spouse forget my birthday every year because I've raised an entitled child?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCZQ9LUu1_CZhv8SpbrXnzbcxUsjLTQxbmM4fTIrjPHfdb96w3AZ8fOZGvVqDIbNF8_A8W82PHZWcyoBjCfkF1ODwTT3ByDrglIj4tHWVeyKECdyR1MmQzDN63C8zGcbgP83TnoOpoX0/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCZQ9LUu1_CZhv8SpbrXnzbcxUsjLTQxbmM4fTIrjPHfdb96w3AZ8fOZGvVqDIbNF8_A8W82PHZWcyoBjCfkF1ODwTT3ByDrglIj4tHWVeyKECdyR1MmQzDN63C8zGcbgP83TnoOpoX0/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't think so. <br />
<br />
I don't think we live in a day and age where hard work necessarily always wins the good fight. I think smart work does. There is a distinction. And I believe it's unrealistic to expect hard work to result in success every single time. It won't. And I don't really want my children falling into that antiquated trap. Hard work will end in exhaustion every single time. Which will lead to unfulfilled dreams, slighted passions, and built-up resentment as a result of punching in 12 hour days, plus a cruel hour commute in traffic away from the city.<br />
<br />
I'm going to teach my children that hard work is a virtue, yes. But it is not the most virtuous virtue. Hard work to be married to intelligent shortcuts and updated thinking is what I believe brings happiness. What good will your calloused hands do you they are reaching for the bottle of Motrin for your stress-induced migraine or worse, the bottle of gin to numb your pain?<br />
<br />
With things moving so quickly online and kids needing to know how to interface well with websites, it seems the natural trend will continue to move toward technology. I'm not advocating daily marathons of Mindcraft and Lego Batman but I'm also not entirely against it. Those computer skills, after all, are the real-life skillset our children will need to have in their adult world. No? You don't think so? Ask any new graduate from any college. Even performance-based schools. Entire musical scores are recorded, engineered, tweaked, and graded on computer programs that require more hours staring into a screen than practicing bar chords.<br />
<br />
Hard work plus a dose of worldly perspective is what I'm after. <br />
<br />
Of course I want my children to pursue their interests and their passions. I want my children to know that you can't skip a practice from a bruised foot and expect to make it regionals. But you know what else? I want them to love it. I want them to look forward to it each and every day, be fueled by it. I hope when they wake up, they will be itchy underneath their skin for the thing that brings them inner joy, not outward recognition. I hope Grayson will reach for the piano keys when he can't figure out how to ask someone he's been pining for to prom. I hope Abby will turn to her art table when she's sorting something out about her <strike>crazy</strike> moody mother. <br />
<br />
I think there is too much to lose from pushing our children to be better, faster, smarter, stronger all the damn time. If they show Olympic promise? Ok, go ahead and push. But for the 97% rest of us, it's a push and a pull.<br />
<br />
The push alone gets hard-wired into our children at an early age and before long, their natural curiosity dissolves into ashes on their Gifted & Talented diplomas. We don't need more "perfect" adults in this world. We need more imperfect adults who know true personal fulfillment.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1-NqRxdXrSKI-QtBYgusQOAz9aEQNKr47FI25e71Phv33wdx_CBRfF5nTeiMxNnu7xADWACTmh2mpKKNDAHNN3VrColzbKb_0DEA9xVNIOh3HUxKFw1dncEGHr-VB1KtSb9aeMfebTE/s1600/CSC_0410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1-NqRxdXrSKI-QtBYgusQOAz9aEQNKr47FI25e71Phv33wdx_CBRfF5nTeiMxNnu7xADWACTmh2mpKKNDAHNN3VrColzbKb_0DEA9xVNIOh3HUxKFw1dncEGHr-VB1KtSb9aeMfebTE/s1600/CSC_0410.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We need more imperfect people who glean enlightenment in the doing and not the victory.<br />
<br />
Ask any mountain climber why she climbs. Not many will say the summit. <br />
<br />
A taxed, frantic, relentless young mind becomes a neurotic, chaotic, unhealthy adult mind later on. It's about learning balance early on. Yes, please do practice your soccer drills. But also please completely f*ck around in the backyard for an hour afterward without any catalyst or blue ribbon in sight. That is where your happiness hides. And sometimes it hides well. I always want for you to find it. <br />
<br />
Life just becomes hard work for hard workers, I'm afraid. <br />
<br />
But life is mysterious, rewarding, and delicious for smart workers. People who have their finger on the pulse of what makes their generation tick. People who understand what the hell Bill O'Reilly is saying and why we should dig harder than the sensationalized news channels. People who aren't so booked every second of the day that they can't take a walk with their grandmother around the parking lot of Applebee's on a regular Thursday. People who know the importance of following through but also understand regular vacations will keep their fuses soft and their mental health sharp. <br />
<br />
People who know how to push themselves and also know how to pull back.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9ELjhzrqbYxbCJ7rncn_IlYgpgSq6EIBJGk6RHc7EqIx5N-XEH0cadXUzJE-QOVHtDf-XfwpRQ43ZbVCmZL0p8m0ijP1p6DhcOTMSBQLULFgXcK-zmVU4bbZtrlt3eREpSfOaLbYRQY/s1600/feb1+(876).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9ELjhzrqbYxbCJ7rncn_IlYgpgSq6EIBJGk6RHc7EqIx5N-XEH0cadXUzJE-QOVHtDf-XfwpRQ43ZbVCmZL0p8m0ijP1p6DhcOTMSBQLULFgXcK-zmVU4bbZtrlt3eREpSfOaLbYRQY/s1600/feb1+(876).JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And parents who will let them.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-74843678312525867142014-09-01T12:00:00.001-04:002014-09-01T12:00:37.797-04:00Anna's Rare BirdTypically, I never would've left a comment. There were already hundreds. Anna had so much love pouring in on <a href="http://www.aninchofgray.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #134f5c;">her blog already</span></a><span style="color: blue;"> </span>after the accident. What difference could one more "I'm so, so sorry" possibly make?<br />
<br />
A world of difference, actually. <br />
<br />
To me, to their family, to the wall of grief threatening to swallow them whole.<br />
<br />
When a twelve-year old boy is swept away in a neighborhood creek, never to return home again, all bets are off. Everything is wrong. The world is no longer playing by the rules.<br />
<br />
Adding my voice to the many hearts opened and hurting that day led me to care and awkwardly pray for a family I've never met, for a boy I couldn't fathom was gone, to a God I wasn't sure was listening.<br />
<br />
The Donaldsons haven't left my heart since. They haven't left the heart of millions. I believe our voices mattered to a family needing to see miracles. To feel unearthly love. To know compassion on a larger scale than they have ever known before.<br />
<br />
And we need them in return.<br />
<br />
After Anna's book, <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rare-Bird-Memoir-Loss-Love/dp/1601425198">Rare Bird</a></b>, comes out that circle of hearts will widen and more people will be forever moved by their story and their boy named Jack. More people will learn how to bring comfort when the worst thing imaginable happens to a family. More people will understand how to keep waking up when the act of living does not feel like an option. More people will have hope.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin2EA9TurkbbwOF4DT91Rx4Rv1o4DfnL1Vf_QLHnEEXmpFaxVHUiuUFccFKtVEZnEQWoTFUijCizHAWuUYZ7HzaeU7fLJ8ivdnNUSwESAc5TbYircW0jETrAG6UuKn5sAQxetJGQWEjIs/s1600/rare+bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin2EA9TurkbbwOF4DT91Rx4Rv1o4DfnL1Vf_QLHnEEXmpFaxVHUiuUFccFKtVEZnEQWoTFUijCizHAWuUYZ7HzaeU7fLJ8ivdnNUSwESAc5TbYircW0jETrAG6UuKn5sAQxetJGQWEjIs/s1600/rare+bird.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rare-Bird-Memoir-Loss-Love/dp/1601425198">Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love </a></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rare-Bird-Memoir-Loss-Love/dp/1601425198">By Anna Whiston-Donaldson</a></b></div>
<br />
Anna's grief unfolds real time in Rare Bird, just as it does on her blog. Her shock is delicately transparent as she tries to process the incredible trauma it is to lose a child. Anna does not hide how she and her family suffer, fight, and struggle to be the cohesive unit they just were. She allows us to see how every little detail of her life, even the privacy of her own driveway, is brutally unrecognizable. There is no point in pretending. Anna doesn't need dramatic words to help us understand her pain. She simply describes her days, layer by layer, while we walk with her and force ourselves to breathe. <br />
<br />
I rest a bible underneath my copy of Rare Bird while I read. As if doing so will negate the outcome, somehow bring Jack back to her. It's an unread powder blue-of-the-softest-leather-bible I bought at a thrift store. I know Anna would give that purchase a thumb's up and coupling it with the story of a mother's greatest pain seems right to me. It is my crutch when I want to deny the details of that terrifying afternoon. Anna's words gently lead up to that indescribable moment when she feels in her soul that "...Jack is gone forever." A moment that riddles your arms with goosebumps that flush through to your toes. Anna's honest disclosure is both horrifying and divine all wrapped in one. That glimmer of knowing without understanding how you know.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieO6r976CT8NoxFVnNc4SaTKMsqXhkZcmWit8XQpBIB3hcFtZ-1-c1hSDdY8oJ5OIzFBxnDcsE9mtzI82DxTVVW_YBmcNaFlU2rvYkhHSnzzqXRnpPyKh5HcFthVI7h_9kc3PL29oABKo/s1600/bluebible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieO6r976CT8NoxFVnNc4SaTKMsqXhkZcmWit8XQpBIB3hcFtZ-1-c1hSDdY8oJ5OIzFBxnDcsE9mtzI82DxTVVW_YBmcNaFlU2rvYkhHSnzzqXRnpPyKh5HcFthVI7h_9kc3PL29oABKo/s1600/bluebible.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
One of the first impossibles.<br />
<br />
Anna goes on to reveal many more inexplicable moments. Signs of Jack where there should only be trees. An unexpected visitor who brings her peace when she only knows anguish. Premonitions that would typically be cast aside as coincidence. A deep connection that escapes reason yet somehow brings comfort. <i>Despite crippling heartache and constant longing for Jack, there is a connection. </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKBZrFqifKisqSrtP7l5E6hkZG4KvovTNYvv8UhJejbO56I00wnt7LAGqLiiFGEq0owAa_O0PkHeDrlfK2OrJ903LUg_wWlWDhgd4QB9FqoyiL8W_QigLGSATIJsDK8vZniMsHvQL-EQ/s1600/Nothing+is+Impossible+with+God.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKBZrFqifKisqSrtP7l5E6hkZG4KvovTNYvv8UhJejbO56I00wnt7LAGqLiiFGEq0owAa_O0PkHeDrlfK2OrJ903LUg_wWlWDhgd4QB9FqoyiL8W_QigLGSATIJsDK8vZniMsHvQL-EQ/s1600/Nothing+is+Impossible+with+God.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Things that should be impossible but are not. Because once you get to know Jack, you understand his life verse in new and fascinating ways. "Nothing is Impossible with God" is more than a collection of prophetic words. It's a glimpse into a vast inter-connected place with the kind of beauty you only get from a boy with such soulful eyes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2M-TCoGteAUTE1bUf17Ye53Zm8jlK8GQSJzHROYOWvutTgDevTUl88C6vh5ZXHYK6JpGmAflGX8gBmluO9kyyBePYTBRRhm1odo3dmeAMnuragYFodOVdwVFnAmQ0njIxGL_bRaIFl4/s1600/soulful+jack+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2M-TCoGteAUTE1bUf17Ye53Zm8jlK8GQSJzHROYOWvutTgDevTUl88C6vh5ZXHYK6JpGmAflGX8gBmluO9kyyBePYTBRRhm1odo3dmeAMnuragYFodOVdwVFnAmQ0njIxGL_bRaIFl4/s1600/soulful+jack+eyes.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a></div>
<br />
You will fall in love with the entire family. Anna has such gift with words that allowing you in to her world feels like a visit over tea. Add to that her refreshing funny bone and you just want to ask The Donaldsons to wait up for you for their next camping trip. They are each unforgettable.<br />
<br />
But it is Anna's daughter, Margaret, who shines like a comet for me in this book. She is a witty, real life broken-hearted warrior who inadvertently inspires her parents to keep going. As you would imagine, Margaret tends to her own overwhelming loss in private ways, right for a 10 year old girl. Her natural charm springs off the page, intimating at the humor she shares with her brother, the one that forever glues four people together, not three. <br />
<br />
Living without Jack is not something Anna, Tim, Margaret, or anyone who loves him ever planned on having to do. Nobody ever dreamed it would be a reality. But now, after reading Rare Bird, I can see it is a daily reality they each must make on many different levels. A choice that will never feel easy or right. <br />
<br />
But one that is somehow, beyond all understanding, beginning to feel possible.OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-54145117657214596142014-08-26T16:08:00.002-04:002014-08-26T16:08:17.058-04:00Five Scenes in Driving Over a BridgeWhen we first moved to Louisiana, I knew I'd have to drive across the<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Pontchartrain_Causeway"> <span style="color: blue;">causeway bridge</span></a>. I've read that it is the "World's Longest Bridge." At 23.8 miles long, the entire thing is over a body of gator lovin', fish havin', snake dwellin', shark inhabitin' water, Lake Pontchartrain. If my mom is reading this, she has officially unfollowed. She doesn't do bridges. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsgAVTLNaA-bgAgVho7TNwsgeOI3A1LlGYBbIffxuKxssObmAgxI_ZhaKyu5OjZSRvyqdIuvz_Sr7UdYY8NGtxDw5h2zQUjjxy7T0cEi5gfUO4QmqTgPkz5Aene-fjXTZ7pr3XTLBV9U/s1600/IMG_0981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsgAVTLNaA-bgAgVho7TNwsgeOI3A1LlGYBbIffxuKxssObmAgxI_ZhaKyu5OjZSRvyqdIuvz_Sr7UdYY8NGtxDw5h2zQUjjxy7T0cEi5gfUO4QmqTgPkz5Aene-fjXTZ7pr3XTLBV9U/s1600/IMG_0981.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That little Lego looking bridge in the distance is the causeway. It's not so cute up close. </i></div>
<br />
<br />
The first time I drove across the bridge, the kids were with me. Which was good because you're less prone to pass out when you have trusting passengers willing you to remain upright.<br />
<br />
"Just bweathe, Mommy," little Abigail offers with her lollipop mouth.<br />
"Look at that PELICAN!" suggests Grayson as if I can see anything but the narrowing of my life before me.<br />
<br />
But fear be damned. Before long we are hitting the metal grid of the halfway mark and heading down toward the city. Four more trips just like this and I am a pro. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGI6WTxbGGqnC86fSqZdR2XvpPv-RffrFCR0Jl4GadKVKzEtqUJp9Ab5mlLAcpdJ_Kf9iKmfAyFzkw3wdZqCl8Hj9KaIDF94fCmYU0OuuZDG-LKvoUKpjV51k9EO4XXTBzkm8c56N8y9k/s1600/IMG_5633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGI6WTxbGGqnC86fSqZdR2XvpPv-RffrFCR0Jl4GadKVKzEtqUJp9Ab5mlLAcpdJ_Kf9iKmfAyFzkw3wdZqCl8Hj9KaIDF94fCmYU0OuuZDG-LKvoUKpjV51k9EO4XXTBzkm8c56N8y9k/s1600/IMG_5633.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Until I don't have my cheerleaders with me. <br />
<br />
Last Friday, I took the trip solo. As would be the norm with me, panic set in before hitting the toll. Radio off, windows cracked (you know, in case I need to push them down manually - I saw that on Oprah), and heart in my throat, I remind myself to "bweathe."<br />
<br />
Not only am I able to breathe, I am also able to have an entire Round-House theater musical on that 23.8 mile bridge. Set to various numbers on the radio. I am the Meryl Streep of The Causeway with nobody but pelicans to see me sweat.<br />
<br />
<b>Scene One: Christian singer <span style="color: blue;">Matthew West's</span></b><span style="color: blue;"> <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZuJWQzjfU3o">Hello, My Name is</a>..</span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">"Hello, my name is regret. I'm pretty sure that we've met. </span><br />
<i>Oh Yeah, we've met alright. And I just kept on walkin! Ain't nobody got time for you, regret!</i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">"Every single day of your life, I'm the whisper inside that won't let you forget."</span><br />
<i>You might be a whisper, but I'm a ROAR!! RAWR! R o a r. Meow. Aww, I miss my kitty.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfhtrPJUNwRFA12nisByQONEC9DHNNJ6VLjDYyjS9DBt-xkjGvjsNBL5xiLGG5RtpAgtL6Qac8XesVPcpvmLbDjSrFYJKLiwKv4LawXS6XPA7zPbhECeenUPs5mg_0fPjDpTyNZsrroU/s1600/IMG_5920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfhtrPJUNwRFA12nisByQONEC9DHNNJ6VLjDYyjS9DBt-xkjGvjsNBL5xiLGG5RtpAgtL6Qac8XesVPcpvmLbDjSrFYJKLiwKv4LawXS6XPA7zPbhECeenUPs5mg_0fPjDpTyNZsrroU/s1600/IMG_5920.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;">"Hello, my name is defeat. I know you recognize me. Just when you think you can win, I'll drag you right back down again, til you've lost all belief."</span></span><br />
<i>Ok, yes, I do recognize you too, defeat. And you are one sneaky little son-of-a-gun. BUT I haven't lost all belief so YOU LOSE DEFEAT. YOU LOSE AGAIN HAHAHAHahahahah. Ha! Ha. Hmmm, this song is making me hate myself. NEXT.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Scene Two: Country Boy Dustin Lynch's</b> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsRMlR0CUt8"><span style="color: red;">Where It's At</span></a><br />
<span style="color: red;">"It's at 2am when she's reaching over, faded T-shirt hanging off her shoulder. Dressed up, hair down, in a ball cap."</span><br />
<i>Hey, I do wear a faded T-shirt....although it's not a sexy shoulder hang one. Maybe I should stretch one of my old shirts out for Andy. "Hi Honey. Here's my shoulder. Am I sexy with my Flashdance shirt" HahahAHAHAhhaha. Ha! Ha. I'm hungry</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Scene Three: </b> <b>Rocker Lady</b> <span style="color: magenta;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Un35T2TQ0EY">Pat Benetar's Heartbreaker</a> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">"You're the right kind of sinner, to release my inner fantasy, the invincible winner and you know you were born to be....</span><br />
<i>be...a what? Born to be a what, Pat? A writer? A vet tech? A teacher? I need to know, Patty...I'd love some direction and advice. What was I born to be?!?</i><br />
<br />
"<span style="color: magenta;">You're a heartbreaker, dream maker, love taker, don't you mess around, no no NO!"'</span><br />
<i>I love you, PB. You're more to me than roller skating at Wheel-a-While with Bobby. Who, incidentally, turned out to be a real jerk. And he wasn't that cute. I should've had higher standards. DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME BOBBY, NO NO NO! [throws one-handed rock and roll horns to the pelicans]</i><br />
<br />
<b>Scene Four: Soulful </b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pB-5XG-DbAA"><span style="color: #274e13;">Sam Smith's Stay with Me </span></a><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">"Oh, won't you stay with me. Cause you're all I need. This is ain't love, it's clear to seee...but darlin' stay with me."</span><br />
<i>Man, this guy's voice is amazing. Even his breathing is kind of hot. Poor guy, he doesn't need to beg with a voice like that. </i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">"Why am I so emotional? No, it's not a good look gain some self control. Deep down I know this never works. But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt."</span><br />
<i>Who wouldn't lay with you if you sang to them? Sweetheart, it's ok to be emotional. But I'd recommend finding someone else. This one night stand has already texted someone to meet her for breakfast at Waffle House. You can do better.</i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">"Won't you stay with me. Cause you're all I need. This ain't love, it's clear to see but darlin' stay with me."</span><br />
<i>Just sing, baby. You'll find someone at the studio, at the rock climbing gym or maybe Walgreen's. That's how it happens in the real world. You'll be ok. Do you like to hot yoga? </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Scene Five: Radio Off To Enjoy Some Silence</b><br />
<i>Whoah. End of bridge already? That was fast. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Where's Wendy's?</i>OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-48997018027263265132014-08-22T14:47:00.003-04:002014-08-22T15:36:29.572-04:00Order Room Service<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Parenting small children did not come easy for me. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AEkLE4Z7M-P3yRluYlL8QZPgU18Tsu84VSG0UUgWrENVwZcQRfUCg8G-v0hzanV4jY-OZNNsDLkQWwyA8bkeqiGnj-aYBrUQNyj6jq43KePFvtO4Jz3oijgBZTXhsb5jabwqJKB0UhI/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(20).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AEkLE4Z7M-P3yRluYlL8QZPgU18Tsu84VSG0UUgWrENVwZcQRfUCg8G-v0hzanV4jY-OZNNsDLkQWwyA8bkeqiGnj-aYBrUQNyj6jq43KePFvtO4Jz3oijgBZTXhsb5jabwqJKB0UhI/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(20).JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjk7W_8hSZCA8NtNhNV3ty5C6nPWjxvKYoCX92P1UV-JTHJSPFaQrQ7ANEqmNRkDANZz66yvL_2Jf2QpORKsH2sIxupOkThzXaQ2mia_VDDFdSrs5i8914D52aU7doM_3Wl00KO0oMwr0/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(154).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjk7W_8hSZCA8NtNhNV3ty5C6nPWjxvKYoCX92P1UV-JTHJSPFaQrQ7ANEqmNRkDANZz66yvL_2Jf2QpORKsH2sIxupOkThzXaQ2mia_VDDFdSrs5i8914D52aU7doM_3Wl00KO0oMwr0/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(154).JPG" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
As a hormonal, highly sensitive to the universe, I love me some quiet, Erin person, it was almost more than I could handle. There were times I thought I'd check myself into a little room governed by psychiatrists, nurses, and lots of hand sanitizer but that never came to pass. Believe me, there was this one day I tried. But I wasn't needy sounding enough. That's the thing about moms. We know how to sound very put together when everything in us is falling apart. Such a gift.<br />
<br />
Before I go on, I have good news. No, AMAZING news. I made it. Yes, my children still need me and I'm barely at the finish line but I made it through the hardest stay-at-home years of my life, raising my smalls. Again, I wasn't sure I'd still be here to see the light at the end of this tunnel, but I'm here. And you guys, it's the prettiest light I've ever seen. It's worth it. <br />
<br />
If you're wondering a few things, I'll try to pre-answer them for you:<br />
Did I have postpartum depression? Nope. I took the survey, all checked out fine. Was my husband deployed? Yes, one time for 10 months. Didn't I have any family nearby to help? Nearby is a misnomer when you're talking Virginia mixing bowl and DC traffic. Even those who tried to get to me got stuck in hours (4 hrs on a Saturday one day!) of traffic going one way. Didn't I have any friends to talk to? Tons. Didn't any offer to help? Yes, many did but I couldn't articulate what I needed myself. And when I realized I needed help raising my children, I didn't know how to word that without sounding like I was 12. People can drop in and lend a hand for a few hours but I knew I had to figure this out for the long haul. Couldn't I hire people? I did. Sometimes it went well, other times not at all. When you are already at your lowest point, hiring a babysitter feels as hard as building a car out of spoons. Plus, all of your spoons are dirty.<br />
<br />
You see, when you're someone like me you're very independent, <strike>stubborn </strike>head-strong, determined, and mostly positive. You view yourself as capable and are bewildered that raising children is suddenly so hard. How can little kids make you this depleted when you've gone to graduate school, got a teaching job, learned to SCUBA dive, and run a marathon all in the course of one year? How is a nap schedule and Play-Doh kicking your ass after all of this?<br />
<br />
Because it is, that's why. Who cares about the details, it just is. <br />
<br />
I know the details now. Eight years later, I'm a scientist about the details. I know that I need ridiculous amounts of quietude and space to feel normal. I know that I cannot stomach sitting on a floor to play dolls but love kicking a soccer ball in the backyard for days. I know I need music, not just lullabys. I know I have to eat well or my brain goes haywire. I know that structure, sleep, and removing myself from the noise of social media - especially the sensationalized news channels - is not optional for my psyche. I know that I love to sing my babies to sleep in my arms when they're sick. I'm a virtual expert on me, eight years later. <br />
<br />
So, for anyone who's been confused as to why the job of raising young children is such a huge one. Stop wondering. You'll figure it out eventually. Right now you have to survive. Right now you have to get through it. Right now your job is to do the hard work, cry sometimes, and laugh so much more.<br />
<br />
Here's a quick guide that might help. I'm calling it The Simple Guide to Living with Smalls. <br />
<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Go to bed by 9pm. Stop laughing, just do it. Don't scroll Facebook. It'll be there tomorrow. And the same stories will burn on your timeline for days so you're not missing anything. </li>
<li>Wake up before your children. Yes, even the little <strike>effer</strike> lovebug who gets up at 5:30 giggling in his crib just because he just can.</li>
<li>Sit upright in a chair drinking your favorite drink. Not rum. Trust me. </li>
<li>Brush your teeth. If you don't do this you will find a dry toothbrush next to your sink at 8pm, which incidentally, is the next time you get to think about yourself. Floss, too. Duh. Always floss or else all the cute people in your life will stop wanting to kiss you. You're welcome.</li>
<li>Get dressed while listening to music, NOT the TV. Pick something uplifting that you like even if it's from the 80s. Especially if it's from the 80s. May I recommend <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djV11Xbc914">this one?</a> </b> Rock that tune in your grannie undies all around your room until you find the outfit you can feel comfortable in yet still maybe stop at the grocery store for emergency chocolate. We've all been there. Aisle 5.</li>
<li> Make yourself a smoothie filled with all the veggies, fruit, and water you'll need for the next 6 hours. This will be the best meal of your day. The younger your children are, the more good sh*t you need to put in that smoothie. P.S. Spend the car payment and buy the Ninja Food System. Add avocado to everything.</li>
<li>Make eye contact with your kid(s). It's hard because those dishes, that laundry, those dogs, your hair, The Twitter...but look at them. They're here because you worked hard to get them here. They're here and they love you the most.</li>
<li>Answer their questions. Even the one about babies. My kids recently saw a cartoon of a woman getting ready to give birth and both of them couldn't figure out why her legs were up. They couldn't imagine popping a baby out of her bellybutton that way.</li>
<li>Love your partner. He/she's freaking tired too. Like more tired than you. Not really but what the hell does it matter? It's not a Tired Competition. Nobody gets a night at the Hilton with oversized body pillows as a prize if they win. By the way, don't worry...you're totally more tired.</li>
<li>No seriously, love your partner. This is worth repeating. Text them funny texts. Flirty ones. Emoji ones. Communicate throughout the day but about Date Night, not your jobs. Your jobs both suck right now, talk about something fun. Hug them when you see them at night. Kiss too if you took my advice about flossing. Thank them for running the bath, sorting the mail, making the appointment for the AC guy to come, not show up, come, and not show up again. He/she is working two jobs at least, just like you. But don't worry, you're still totally more tired. Way. If there is no partner and you're going this completely solo? Please be extra kind to yourself and reward yourself with positive friends, exercise, and a healthy lifestyle that allows you little glimpses of what keeps you feeling like yourself.</li>
<li>Pamper yourself like you would your best friend. You bring your bestie Gatorade when she's got the flu, right? Well, you're worth it, too. Stop and get yourself Airborne pills when your little <strike>snotbuckets </strike>cherubs bring home all the germs. Paint your toes that funky robin egg blue. That color looks cute on you. Take your kid(s) to a store just for you and make them suck it up for 20 minutes while you enjoy your life. They already enjoy theirs because you're an awesome mom, remember? Buy that uplifting card you see... for yourself. <i>You</i> need Maya Angelou quotes. <i>You</i> need the pretty lady made of hemp seeds and butterfly magic that says <i>Spirit Warrior</i>. Get them. For yourself. Then, buy the cup of coffee/tea/flavored water to enjoy on your drive home. When the kid(s) fall asleep? Drive around to get yourself another one. You'd do it for your sisterfriend when she's sick, right? Do it for you because parenting smalls is very much like being sick all the time. You feel like crap while you're making everyone else forget you exist, see? Same thing.</li>
<li>Play with your kid(s) as much as YOU want. They just got here, they have no idea what's appropriate. If that means 20 minutes a day, then rock that sistermom. Seriously, do you remember your parents playing with you every waking second of the day? I remember a whole lot of meandering aimlessly and happily in my neighborhood and in the woods behind our house. Can't do that today, I realize, but my gawd, the children can still learn to entertain themselves safely within your decided parameters. <i>Plus, I tried playing with Abby all day long one time, not even getting up to get myself another cup of tea, and we were both in tears before 3pm. Nobody was happy because nobody had a mom. I became a 3 year old along with her and we both desperately needed a nap. </i></li>
<li>Haha, here's the catch: Play with your kid(s) without a technical distraction. Yes, I know, I love my phone and my camera too. So. Much. But those two will still be here when they turn 18. Our kid(s) won't. This time of raising smalls feels like forever but it couldn't be more of a trick The days are long but the years are short. By the time your kid(s) reaches school age, you will have more time to devote to your distractions. And that's when you're going to need them. Let your children be with you while they're little. More importantly, let yourself be with them. They're your memories too.</li>
<li>Give yourself a mid-day dance break. Or several. Freestyle is great but hip hop is better. Because how precious is your little one trying to do the running man? It's ok to bust out the camera too. Fine, go get your phone.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Messes do not make you a horrible person. They are a byproduct of all the fun in life. Take out the paints! Bring out the colored bubbles! Be the master of a Play-Doh Universe! If you just hived out reading this one then do it all outside. But make the messes. It's how your children learn to do things and how you learn to not do things for them. </li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvk9ylviCuDaRAg9-5lo4UuxRo2hjws7l-0nso9ShsQtjhGP-XR_XueijSQFaFc7bIsw3gZZu6GS0m9yNx5a7nwLXT1utS1ikveOLnNPV5yNkGW5tuglcaFrjU_a0kV1SwWh-BtwboGw/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvk9ylviCuDaRAg9-5lo4UuxRo2hjws7l-0nso9ShsQtjhGP-XR_XueijSQFaFc7bIsw3gZZu6GS0m9yNx5a7nwLXT1utS1ikveOLnNPV5yNkGW5tuglcaFrjU_a0kV1SwWh-BtwboGw/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(1).JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>Clean up is for everyone. Good heavens, please don't do what I did. Please do not become the only person in your house who knows where everything goes. Ask your kid(s) to help you put things away. Ask them to sort laundry, then put away folded laundry, then help you do the laundry. Your shoulder blades and your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend will thank you for it. Anyone raising children and trying to keep a clean house is already insane. They need help and your children won't know how to help if you don't<strike> make</strike> show them. Pretty soon, it'll become a habit for all. </li>
<li>Give yourself a Time Out. I'm not talking an hour or two at Barnes & Noble on a Saturday. Not even three hours with your friends for Happy Hour. I'm talking two full beautiful wonderful so very necessary days of rest at a hotel when nobody <strike>can find you </strike>will need you. You need nobody to need you for a couple of days. If you don't do this, none of 1-17 will help you one bit. Trust and believe, if you're like me at all, you need time to defrag and reconstitute yourself for the hard week of doing it solo ahead. P.S. Order room service. Turn off the TV. Bring a book you've been dying to read. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8lYGS2VuM27GY6KDWWrKV79Y7YZCcuYmJEplx_DdVjyYDL3bHC3sJTuaNSEvwkzqk8MbyhU4Vng-6wYqlOdNOk7mJvqPqWpON8LsyeLU4BvHQbairGHWwRebq3HWxLXnfWlFGjttY6c/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(81).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8lYGS2VuM27GY6KDWWrKV79Y7YZCcuYmJEplx_DdVjyYDL3bHC3sJTuaNSEvwkzqk8MbyhU4Vng-6wYqlOdNOk7mJvqPqWpON8LsyeLU4BvHQbairGHWwRebq3HWxLXnfWlFGjttY6c/s1600/abbytwo.jpg+(81).JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a> <i>You guys, I was so tired in this pic. I can remember this day. Abby was sick with a upper respiratory stuff. I threw her a B-Day party where many family members came. Andy was deployed and I wouldn't ask anyone for help because I wanted everyone to know I had it all together. </i></li>
<li>Stop yelling. It's not them you're mad at. You're mad because you're sad. You're sad because you feel like a monster when you're this low, I get it. So you yell because it feels like all you have left to gain control. We all do it from time to time because you're so tired you just need everyone to do exactly as you say or you'll drop. But do your guilty little self a favor and stop yelling at your kids. You're a big girl, close your mouth or yell into a pillow if it has to go somewhere. Kickboxing classes are good too, just a suggestion. Personally, I prefer Tae Bo but that's because I'm 40. Your kids don't understand how tired you are. They're new on the scene of life and haven't been that tired yet. Let them live that innocently for as long as they can. You can handle this. </li>
<li>Let go of guilt. It isn't serving you at all. It's depleting you even more of anything good living inside your tired bones. We all make parenting mistakes. We all expect too much. We all think we have to be perfect at this. We all think they should be able to wash their little bodies by now because your head pounds with the despair of knowing you're not going to sleep tonight...again. Forgive yourself of your mistakes after your kids forgive you. Because guess what? They forgive you right away. They love you the most. Now, you need to love you half as much. </li>
<li>Write down their sweet words. Draw with them. Wrestle on the floor. Play the board games you like. Who cares if all the marbles fly off the Hungry Hungry Hippo board? We all know it's not about keeping our marbles. It's way more fun when you let some of your marbles go.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
There's a light, you guys and it's the prettiest light I've ever seen. I'm here now and I've found my voice. Please don't let yourself think it doesn't get better. It does. Yes, you'll miss them while teachers/administrators/their friends spend their days with them but you need this time apart. You will find yourself again and the best news is that the old you is happy you're back. She's so happy you didn't give up on her. She's so happy she's singing so that others like her will hear her and know it really does get sweet again. Do the hard work, know this season of your life does not last forever, and definitely order room service when you have no more left to give. Having no more left to give is a sign you need to give to yourself. Guilt-free. You deserve it too, sisterfriend.<br />
<br />
<br />
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukyq9NWJM0cOSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-36146247573355554582014-08-18T16:32:00.005-04:002014-08-18T21:44:12.089-04:00Shrinking the Moat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghn7ieaIM9UEF60WgpFWKsUTzLMhTT-8LSdR5RoTOHmHsTxu-0mBvuT5bwD9cC-7u63MKQmMW8XOT6U4qwKkXikblo7AHIwLYXnPK6hGZNXRzzdNtxWW1U4rIF7xBEZi8Fo3EWcGHoHkc/s1600/DSC_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghn7ieaIM9UEF60WgpFWKsUTzLMhTT-8LSdR5RoTOHmHsTxu-0mBvuT5bwD9cC-7u63MKQmMW8XOT6U4qwKkXikblo7AHIwLYXnPK6hGZNXRzzdNtxWW1U4rIF7xBEZi8Fo3EWcGHoHkc/s1600/DSC_0465.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
When first receiving the text to join them for breakfast, my mind reeled with excuses: <i>I have this cough. It's the kids' first full week of school. I ate crawfish last night and now my pants don't fit. </i>But instead I wrote back: Ok, I'm in. <br />
<br />
The Military Spouse Group meets often for various things throughout the year. Sometimes socials, sometimes exercise, sometimes to unwind through designing wreaths and swapping numbers of babysitters who hang up wet towels.<br />
<br />
Throughout the years, I've joined in. I've clinked glasses, read Book Club books, and traded stories of endless nights as new mothers while our husbands worked their way up the ranks at new duty stations. For the most part, it was always a good time.<br />
<br />
But lately, I've not felt like joining in. I've (rudely) ignored invitations. I've hit the "maybe" button just to declare it a firm "no" the day of. I've driven to the function, joined in for an hour and made haste to leave less than an hour later. <br />
<br />
Why? <br />
<br />
I think because I've made assumptions. The wives here are so put together. One is a ballerina. Literally, she is a walking, talking, pixie-haired precious ballerina. Another takes pictures of babies that make you beg your ovaries for one more try. A few others have started their own businesses and are committed to their heart's work. The last one has a gorgeous British accent and rocks Athleta outfits like she has forgotten she's wearing clothes. I can never forget I'm wearing clothes. Mine are forever tugging, pulling, scooching, getting pinched somewhere too rude to re-situate in public. I remain, at all times, acutely aware of an underarm that's showing through a bell sleeve, or of a clasp driving a new bellybutton somewhere deep into my hip.<br />
<br />
I assumed all these women weren't like me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAggSY5UZodysfBxz3yGntQlzNQAMTvW05AHEzPSx1vhnH7kK3p2E79o10E9N3vFAEkbjIlBnTujP1frjMIc37VZMYe40FwmvedXzKzjeakTr5DWb0X3JXw_0DlQii9cCN0EGJQ0FumyE/s1600/CSC_0588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAggSY5UZodysfBxz3yGntQlzNQAMTvW05AHEzPSx1vhnH7kK3p2E79o10E9N3vFAEkbjIlBnTujP1frjMIc37VZMYe40FwmvedXzKzjeakTr5DWb0X3JXw_0DlQii9cCN0EGJQ0FumyE/s1600/CSC_0588.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6U4llOmPC0jDjCmzDzd9334yj04b_4IQiVwgMlwp8tOBCQCmBvhWw-Qzl31gmaIRNlKLHCF-TJ2LsjwGyPkOlzYFpztvxwoR5tVOeOxYWBXapz99lN3p-xYNqeDsUugqNq8Tx0vdbyWY/s1600/DSC_0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6U4llOmPC0jDjCmzDzd9334yj04b_4IQiVwgMlwp8tOBCQCmBvhWw-Qzl31gmaIRNlKLHCF-TJ2LsjwGyPkOlzYFpztvxwoR5tVOeOxYWBXapz99lN3p-xYNqeDsUugqNq8Tx0vdbyWY/s1600/DSC_0107.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Yes, those are dog pajamas. I need an intervention.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
So I said No way more than Yes. I reveled in No. Bragged to my non-military-spouse friends about the freedom of my No. Danced around my kitchen while those Together Girls had gatherings because No was so much more risque than Yes. <br />
<br />
Then, the boomerang returned. The distance I created to empower myself with non-comparisons turned into a moat of disassociation. An island of women who move every two to four years, miss their family, and bleed Tricare were within reach and I pushed myself away because I didn't think I had my sh*t together. A large well of fellow moms deciding to pause their career clock, like me, and balance their family on the small of their back were nearby and here I've been, walking away from them with an empty bucket.<br />
<br />
So dumb. <br />
<br />
This morning that changed. Forcing myself into clothes that would gripe and fuss, I went to meet a large group of very <strike>intimidating </strike> easy going women. <br />
<br />
And when I got there, the moat shrunk. Our differences became laughable while our similarities beamed.<br />
<br />
One spouse just moved here. She has three young kids, is a stay-at-home parent and is also a registered nurse. She told us a story about how she found out a bully was stealing her kindergartner's lunch midway through his first year of school. My mama blood ran hot just like hers as she retold the story. She dealt with the situation like a champ and we all applauded her instinct to investigate. <br />
<br />
One mama mentioned her recent abstinence of social media and right away I went in for the gold. "Are you happier?" She lifted her gaze to mine and breathed a very full, "Yesss, so much happier" <i>Hmmm, I might have to try this, New Happy Mom Lady.</i><br />
<br />
I met a rescue freak mama just like me. Yes, her biceps and svelte yoga frame daunted me at first but before long we were chatting about her elderly beagle and the most efficient way to make food for a dog in kidney failure. She adds baked salmon.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKuw0vlF_RWh7hlUDoD0iU6itR5joV-UPQZ5rDL8OqDLo1b_NY67WMQ8XIKsDJSgFqY7KNDV_b-TTqo6HuUpKu3zl0JYead2nJZvu5obZtmKrckLbr6PJLE6H-ws7aQhPURV9jcQRcoo/s1600/dogmat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKuw0vlF_RWh7hlUDoD0iU6itR5joV-UPQZ5rDL8OqDLo1b_NY67WMQ8XIKsDJSgFqY7KNDV_b-TTqo6HuUpKu3zl0JYead2nJZvu5obZtmKrckLbr6PJLE6H-ws7aQhPURV9jcQRcoo/s1600/dogmat.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
At the end of the table was another wife, cradling her week old baby in a front carrier. Next to her sat her own mother who told stories of living with her daughter in tiny living quarters overseas while the husband was deployed.<br />
<br />
My friend, the one who texted me last night, gave us all hope that teenagers do come back after the painful "I Hate You" years. Hers even lets her snuggle. At sixteen.<br />
<br />
When it was time to go, I checked the time. Four hours had passed although it felt like one.<br />
<br />
And I barely noticed that new bellybutton two inches away from my hip.OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-38254276277327634972014-08-15T18:02:00.000-04:002014-08-15T18:04:13.664-04:00It's Always the Little ThingsThe hygienist making small talk with your chatty 5yo while she clearly has a raspy voice and pink eyes herself. She's not feeling well but you'd never know it unless you had the chance to be two feet from her kind face.<br />
<br />
My Sadie, a senior girl now of almost 13, lifting her chin toward the sun until she deems herself warm enough to seek shade.<br />
<br />
An old friend from high school leaving heartbreakingly sweet youtube videos of animals on your facebook timeline. Him having no way of knowing how you look forward to seeing them pop up when he sees fit.<br />
<br />
Pledging only $10 for a rescue to bring a bull terrier mix to safety and seeing his freedom picture two days later.<br />
<br />
A grown man giving a 7yo his favorite shirt to wear because the 7yo's mother forgot to pack an extra shirt for her now shivering son.<br />
<br />
Your friend's silence as she listens, really listens, to you tell her how you are. Her asking about *you* again and not your family.<br />
<br />
Sitting down in a quiet place with a ceiling fan on.<br />
<br />
A teacher's new tangerine top with the tag showing. Her warm smile as she describes how much kindergartners can do.<br />
<br />
A lady, maybe a fellow mom, smiling a big one after realizing you are waiting for her to go first at the four-way stoplight.<br />
<br />
How Sparrow finds her Food Lady and digs "a hole to the middle of the earth" after eating dinner as a thank you. Every time.<br />
<br />
Telling a new mom you like her shirt as an excuse to meet her. She was nervous too and now you have each other.<br />
<br />
Sharpening pencils, signing your name in cursive, and packing lunches with autographed love note napkins tucked inside.<br />
<br />
Playing footsie with him while he flips the channels. And flips the channels. And falls asleep flipping the millions of channels.<br />
<br />
Listening to a stranger tell you about their shy little boy without telling her everything about yours. <br />
<br />
Birds.<br />
<br />
Just a few leaves falling in August.<br />
<br />
Avocados.<br />
<br />
Saying yes to a balloon fight, ice cream for dinner, and TV for at least an extra hour.<br />
<br />
Tuning out media when it's fighting for justice, happiness, and wellness for all. It has good intentions but to your mind it's still a fight.<br />
<br />
The Beatles.<br />
<br />
Watering plants back to life.<br />
<br />
The first bite of pizza.<br />
<br />
Interruptions from people who won't always want or need you right this very important I-made-you- a -cookie-with-black-frosting-and-an-orange-slice-on-top second.<br />
<br />
Green tea.<br />
<br />
Invitation to a secret club.<br />
<br />
Recycling. <br />
<br />
Sketched drawings of children.<br />
<br />
Date Night.<br />
<br />
"Reece-Out" instead of "recess"<br />
<br />
Friday night Pizza/Movie Night waiting for you patiently.<br />
<br />
<br />
What are the little things that accumulate for you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-64271311938184047932014-08-12T11:36:00.005-04:002014-08-12T11:59:27.397-04:00When Sad is a Rabbit Hole<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQD2WoTxgcreyGR7m3fIcFeXA7nS9Szrt1OMNv6ozTORfCgt702s5aVIN6lbyFNIPb2lZA0JO2nnyEfkuspCyvUHQ7dNv1E4VRJ2YsNocs-WWOHwhQ7q8eSYU1v_zJyaDCkiVP28gHtw/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(40).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQD2WoTxgcreyGR7m3fIcFeXA7nS9Szrt1OMNv6ozTORfCgt702s5aVIN6lbyFNIPb2lZA0JO2nnyEfkuspCyvUHQ7dNv1E4VRJ2YsNocs-WWOHwhQ7q8eSYU1v_zJyaDCkiVP28gHtw/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(40).JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sad is a rabbit hole. <br />
<br />
For some people who experience feelings of sadness, it casts a pall over a canvas of normal, to hover for a day or so, and then it leaves. <br />
<br />
For others, others that seem untouchable, sadness <b><i>is</i></b> the canvas and there are things to be done that cast a pall of normal over it. <br />
<br />
Things like drinking cappuccinos. Taking a walk with a friend. Making people laugh. Prescription drugs. Volunteering. Things like going to work, having conversations, and coming home to go to bed. Normal things. Normal things that take more energy, strength, and willpower to accomplish than they should. Because, for them, sadness is busy, so very busy, gnawing away at every molecule of goodness and light it can consume. It feasts on their energy while draining them of theirs. Sadness is a greedy bastard. It's obsessed. It can never have one. It keeps gnawing and biting and chewing until its had more than its fair share to slog around your insides like a sticky cloud. <br />
<br />
Some people figure out a magic formula that protects them. Their magic formula works! It changes their chemistry for hours, days, and if they're extremely devoted to the task of meteorology, years. They find their recipe to stave off sadness and they are euphoric. They win their mind back before the sticky cloud makes its way to the tippy tippy top. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qTNhE8gcUqyicIYioT9p83HRqqfwz0ATZiiwExP6VqRy76RzMa5EOf-xI74hlaT54Cy-JRaNaz8aVoStoCL6g4t9_JNoMN0onxkyv2fl9tlJy_RUShZsuP_Ss32vC5uUUC2SVv8eikQ/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(137).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qTNhE8gcUqyicIYioT9p83HRqqfwz0ATZiiwExP6VqRy76RzMa5EOf-xI74hlaT54Cy-JRaNaz8aVoStoCL6g4t9_JNoMN0onxkyv2fl9tlJy_RUShZsuP_Ss32vC5uUUC2SVv8eikQ/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(137).JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
But then the formula changes. The cloud is back and working its way up, inch by healthy inch. Your normal becomes warped. So unrecognizable. Off kilter and scary. Unbelievably so, it is back to square one. Back to search for things that will cast a pall of normal over their inner landscape of that dastardly cloud.<br />
<br />
It's a never-ending cycle for those people who fight to feel "well." They don't choose their canvas but they sure as hell try to color it pretty every single day. To distract themselves, to fit in, to counter-attack the storm that is always brewing. To hide it from others who might think less of them despite their heart not to do so. Some worry if the cloud is catching.<br />
<br />
This type of sadness doesn't have to eat you whole. It will die trying but one day <b>it will die</b>. <br />
<br />
May all of you who find yourselves in the rabbit hole give yourself more time. More time to create another formula that wards off your storms. More time to understand your struggles will pay off, are paying off today, are such a gift to others fighting with their heads down. More time to feel how much you are cherished and needed on this earth. More time to show others that it can be done.<br />
<br />
Your rabbit hole won't spit you out. You have to keep climbing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gWTBd-zfDXuqPoSmGKjxlppZadNEmmCFGGz92N-k4JgNE2EQse00zYyJzzakbMhbre7vCUM58hYnjbC-8UVdiIfeQwXdRCqmVLpooNmx1OLxRE49BkUzgUbAhIYjFvt_A5KDRQq9vYQ/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(136).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gWTBd-zfDXuqPoSmGKjxlppZadNEmmCFGGz92N-k4JgNE2EQse00zYyJzzakbMhbre7vCUM58hYnjbC-8UVdiIfeQwXdRCqmVLpooNmx1OLxRE49BkUzgUbAhIYjFvt_A5KDRQq9vYQ/s1600/ithaca.jpg+(136).JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table cellspacing="0" style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.600000381469727px;"><tbody>
<tr style="font-size: 16px;"><td><br />
In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255</td></tr>
<tr><td>National Suicide Prevention Lifeline</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-33026847263938018482014-08-07T10:12:00.003-04:002014-08-07T10:45:46.910-04:00Urgent Care<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCFf56K7NeBYVeJxKya1OFpjupHOtUc4cPjuoYk7fRbltzfbmH1xNqF0lVC7qeqc1eyOS6XDMXxV3tglLKUyOJKxhiwBkYBnhtsUWhaQPMuS_bbOVNe-md1WEkon2-fLHZZK9lgs9Hn8/s1600/carousel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCFf56K7NeBYVeJxKya1OFpjupHOtUc4cPjuoYk7fRbltzfbmH1xNqF0lVC7qeqc1eyOS6XDMXxV3tglLKUyOJKxhiwBkYBnhtsUWhaQPMuS_bbOVNe-md1WEkon2-fLHZZK9lgs9Hn8/s1600/carousel.jpg" height="336" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I've been pining for a "quieter time" when I'm in charge of my thoughts again. Where the pushy conveyor belt of life slows itself long enough for your fingers to loosen, temples to cease fire, and toes to pop up before the lip of your shoes get eaten by the hungry metal seam.<br />
<br />
<i>Chomp, chomp. Just once I'd like to see where it goes. </i><br />
<br />
Did I do this? Did I make it all so critical? Because for a long time everything has been on fire. Everything matters so much all the time- engineering lives that depend on me. Raising a family is strange that way. You are split in half: wholly relevant and constantly disappearing. <br />
<br />
<i>Chomp, chomp. </i><br />
<br />
For years, it feels like I've been working in Urgent Care. As in uh oh, your forehead is warm. Crap, you need lunch! PLEASE don't roll in the dog hair! EEK, why are you wearing booty shorts?<br />
<br />
For years, triaging. All forethought, planning, and scheduling ahead, trying to predict who would be walking through the door in the morning. Cranky girl? Lethargic boy? PMS Mom? OCD Marine? But sometimes we are all well and the kids are steamrolling on the couch, breaking legs off dolls just to "cast" them back on, and making "phshew, pshew noises with LEGO people that never run out of things over which to wage a seven minute war.<br />
<br />
But I cannot take myself from this Urgent Care mentality- the incessant nag of more. GAH, can you still read? No board games, we need Vitamin D! Man, I never took you to one museum, did I? And so on. <br />
<br />
For self-induced reasons, my insides are in flames that lick their way up and down my thoughts to create worries that feed on fire.<br />
<br />
<br />
*************************************************************<br />
<br />
<br />
Grayson starts 2nd grade today Abby begins all day kindergarten next week. For the first time in 8 years, I will not be working in Urgent Care. That decade-long fire is about to go out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2Cyk39cv8Pkw4gK1RPTLSi0aVEwFc-lgMTU68Nu12lee2n9YhBOvFmyyKBEoDvjKfbqibTSbw6g1lNRIkmpah8x49yra6o7wKOjO2Lp1k6f2OvNvK3L8OOmCCCvetAlJuAyxvVb4dtA/s1600/morningdog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2Cyk39cv8Pkw4gK1RPTLSi0aVEwFc-lgMTU68Nu12lee2n9YhBOvFmyyKBEoDvjKfbqibTSbw6g1lNRIkmpah8x49yra6o7wKOjO2Lp1k6f2OvNvK3L8OOmCCCvetAlJuAyxvVb4dtA/s1600/morningdog.jpg" height="400" width="390" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
And I'm going to sleep hard like a smiling dog in the afternoon sun.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-21826067584469999732014-07-27T20:46:00.001-04:002014-07-27T20:49:51.616-04:00ManifestSometimes I don't know where to turn.<br />
<br />
The usuals aren't working: the silence, knockoff Oreos, sideburns of sun on the too-tall grass in our backyard, or the third glass of wine. Nothing, none of it's working right now. <br />
<br />
So I turn inward and starve myself from connection, figuring nobody can touch what they can't see. Then, in a mean twist of chemistry and human condition, I turn it outward and clean the crumbs from underneath the plate of a child <i>who is still eating</i>. Nothing, none of it's working right now.<br />
<br />
I don't go for the spiral, the deep dive down in to the well where things are just plain pitiful. Mostly because that is selfish crap. <i>We all have this sometimes. Nobody is saved from their lives.</i><br />
<br />
But it's there. The desire to be saved. To be taken by the wrist, shown the way down the dark hall, sat down in a place I don't recognize, and held strong by someone - anyone- who means it.<br />
<br />
I'm no more tired than you. Not in the physical, more something else to do with your worn out soul-ical. Your fatigue from life and mine are the same. And utterly different, all the time. Because it's work. We all have it. We wake up, nobody but us steers the day. We look at the clock to see how much longer we have, as if a certain whistle gets blown at a certain hour. We fix dinner we won't ourselves eat, we make more dishes like an evil boomerang. <i> I swear I just washed this knife.</i> We hide in our bathroom from more innocent chatter about impossible treehouses and Spongebob. We are found by all sets of eyes, human, canine, and now feline. We can't hide from life. Life finds you and has you clock the hell back in.<br />
<br />
Because there is no clocking out.<br />
<br />
I never knew that. I should've, but I didn't. I figured there were diapers, formula, bouncy seats, playdates, wine, and then YAY school! Oh, dear HayZeus, how naive of me to think there was a space between. The only spaces I've found in between is laundry. The beautiful puzzle of laundry that allows me to pine for sister wives, churning butter, and sharing a man who will only annoy the sh*t out of me once a month.<br />
<br />
It's going to be fine because fine is what I'm after. No epic knowledge of home making. No epiphanies about child rearing or "finding myself in the mundane." If I haven't found myself by now, there may not be real reason to keep looking. I've been here all along, cursing, singing, writing, saving dogs. It takes more than gray hair and eyebags to suffocate that girl who refuses to go out without a fight.<br />
<br />
Manifest. I keep saying this word to myself: manifest. Manifest the will to keep pushing through the muck and the sludge in the <strike>miracle</strike> likelihood there is someone at the end of this to hug me tightly. To show me that love and willpower are, in fact, always met with the reward of a brighter day. <br />
<br />
And by brighter, I totally mean overcast with over a 60% chance of rain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4bfN8PWMIcAbekAMXHnqfP077EgUkTP5V115dQmnjBBNF81RZkXM8PXz126-qnnwY6Cf3QHNd89UdE6c7ma86q8G3ba3dXAP6FDHPJ1x7L5Q1l82U3XzSKPHgsFGEQeVdEdSGukpMmw/s1600/seedsofkindness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4bfN8PWMIcAbekAMXHnqfP077EgUkTP5V115dQmnjBBNF81RZkXM8PXz126-qnnwY6Cf3QHNd89UdE6c7ma86q8G3ba3dXAP6FDHPJ1x7L5Q1l82U3XzSKPHgsFGEQeVdEdSGukpMmw/s1600/seedsofkindness.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-77350817527517233652014-07-24T10:02:00.004-04:002014-07-24T10:05:24.430-04:00PrayerfulI'm not sure when it started but we now have a nightly tradition. At bedtime, after I peck their foreheads and mush their cheeks for another kiss, they ask the same question:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9ft3-NIT1Cf8Um13zyLph9-bPEiVj-fLsXs0QoxCNiftVp8Gcw8w5EkLVIzpz792e_5HDyCM-BswZEU8XfGmcQ_Pnoq5lD3c55D2EYrIaeuSyR3y4H9A_bmEmIJZrxUjWCZi8wSngJg/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9ft3-NIT1Cf8Um13zyLph9-bPEiVj-fLsXs0QoxCNiftVp8Gcw8w5EkLVIzpz792e_5HDyCM-BswZEU8XfGmcQ_Pnoq5lD3c55D2EYrIaeuSyR3y4H9A_bmEmIJZrxUjWCZi8wSngJg/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Grayson: Mom, will you pray with me?<br />
Abby: Mommy, will you PRAY, not P-L-A-Y with me? <i>There was some confusion one night with Abby's request, leading to my delivery of a dissertation on effects of sleep deprivation. She is seeing to it that never happens again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
For Grayson, now 7, we fold our own hands neatly, close our eyes, and chat with God silently for a few minutes. Our main focus here is to ask God to fill our minds with specific lovely things while we dream. But there's a catch. He insists we pray for each other and not ourselves. I find this fascinating. Either my boy doesn't trust me to cover myself in the right words or he has certain requests he's sure I'll omit.<br />
<br />
Abby's another story. She likes her prayers out loud, up close, and centered around her only. Our prayer is conjoined, outspoken, and sparkly. Just like our relationship.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear God, thank you for these blessings we recognize and fail to recognize daily. Please allow Abby to dream of rainbows, fairy wings, cotton candy, Pandora kitty, kissing Sparrow and NOT ______________. </i> There is always a fill-in-the-blank word she chooses with fervor like NOT SHARKS or NOT WOLVES or NOT GREEN BEANS. My favorite is "NOT SECRETS because I cannot keep a secret."<br />
<br />
The other night I was in a hurry and ready to collapse into a pile of laundry I'd held at bay all day long. Grayson sensed my rejection but held fast to our ritual just the same. My prayer for him was officious, abrupt, and over well before his prayer for me. This gave me a few seconds to watch his small face emote all the requests being made on my behalf. <br />
<br />
A slightly raised eyebrow.<br />
A tiny frown lasting milliseconds.<br />
Eyes squeezed together and pensive.<br />
And finally, peace.<br />
<br />
"What was that all about?" I had to ask.<br />
"You'll see," he responded, tickled with himself.<br />
<br />
That night I had a visit from Jimmy in my dreams. It wasn't anything spiritual, heavenly, or even magical. It was a favorite uncle hanging with his niece, talking over mundane things like wallpaper. His voice was pure Jimmy- rich, mellow, and normal. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIrPapRrFq7yTo9pe5VCD0TL42B8I6CfXgt-FgktD9EhTr6l2_Yp2eLXz07JJAQYvwgWhTkJyZEOiCHrKRcpKQBRN6VHlSkoFuT7zFT8Ab0gVuM274ZIGuLud2CmSIsRPs7F5zf6kQ4k/s1600/555946_10151380335661801_1638908781_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIrPapRrFq7yTo9pe5VCD0TL42B8I6CfXgt-FgktD9EhTr6l2_Yp2eLXz07JJAQYvwgWhTkJyZEOiCHrKRcpKQBRN6VHlSkoFuT7zFT8Ab0gVuM274ZIGuLud2CmSIsRPs7F5zf6kQ4k/s1600/555946_10151380335661801_1638908781_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It was an answered prayer from a little boy who has every reason to be tickled with himself.OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-60920352520034267352014-07-23T11:17:00.000-04:002014-07-25T09:22:28.462-04:00Vacations Aren't For the Weak of HeartIt's been too long. I'm jumbled up and inside-out for not being able to write in the last few weeks. Feels like my brain needs a good dusting off. Many layers need sorting.<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm a few real life errands away from doing work worthy of reading so in the meantime, let's just wipe around the lamps and magazines-</div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li>We just returned from a few days vacation on the east coast. </li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtnVakFb8GeydSnzKCW-2kxH8zMfmNzKyJnS-TEHLXo6LBErx_0WLyEGm4VHq8SJR4n0zw5IfqqtIaK_btFABP8w6aq6mdtgNEsnGr-Bi2L2aRL5DldzC-hGQkD_rbyiNGo8snikuYXM/s1600/airport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtnVakFb8GeydSnzKCW-2kxH8zMfmNzKyJnS-TEHLXo6LBErx_0WLyEGm4VHq8SJR4n0zw5IfqqtIaK_btFABP8w6aq6mdtgNEsnGr-Bi2L2aRL5DldzC-hGQkD_rbyiNGo8snikuYXM/s1600/airport.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>I combined visiting with family with a vacation. It was eleven days of pinging all over in planes, rental cars, and boardwalks in effort to do it all. I should know by now that for me Doing It All means immediate inner turmoil and a mini-meltdown on a lounge chair. </li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFWur6Y_6foYbLaE7VNlE949cVnhvHiwawRlbrXQXxIDEh1mmvtpubOJLKqcu8ZyJBM9wQRTWtWniNpwKBqFqfU5GxHEzSXuhSOdB_MEfV2lAqAreN4KTV44tX1U2OmNIPLb9cCq02YU/s1600/mompool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFWur6Y_6foYbLaE7VNlE949cVnhvHiwawRlbrXQXxIDEh1mmvtpubOJLKqcu8ZyJBM9wQRTWtWniNpwKBqFqfU5GxHEzSXuhSOdB_MEfV2lAqAreN4KTV44tX1U2OmNIPLb9cCq02YU/s1600/mompool.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>We surprised the kids with a visit from their old besties from Virginia. Their reactions were low-key and conversations picked up right where they left off while Tanya and I wiped away unnecessary mom tears. Kids and their impervious hearts.</li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6m4hjrUCxu_ziOvAgeRaGMZFuP1fgE7W_uZlh1uZvXWKP4OIUJrVsIDBujqEkrfVTaoeH0YI3Me34WDILYSvnzAdtWtw3zgeidvwy9UoXPhSjfL0VGyjsJG6vmjtnh4sEUJevKzmb4nU/s1600/foursome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6m4hjrUCxu_ziOvAgeRaGMZFuP1fgE7W_uZlh1uZvXWKP4OIUJrVsIDBujqEkrfVTaoeH0YI3Me34WDILYSvnzAdtWtw3zgeidvwy9UoXPhSjfL0VGyjsJG6vmjtnh4sEUJevKzmb4nU/s1600/foursome.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr7p9lynQ96K8VrPEFgGhfUUcYKwrXDOc7RMNW_jVHV-h0zKJllJwXAyxtkrNerOZjuAFMeliLb4khDmDda7A3iW-L2QvGHZ1aoPvaRcydiG0p4t-PGIvsOgQFTdhEJ3WI3X1ISMJfLw/s1600/friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr7p9lynQ96K8VrPEFgGhfUUcYKwrXDOc7RMNW_jVHV-h0zKJllJwXAyxtkrNerOZjuAFMeliLb4khDmDda7A3iW-L2QvGHZ1aoPvaRcydiG0p4t-PGIvsOgQFTdhEJ3WI3X1ISMJfLw/s1600/friends.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN2auMmvj0wM3WgHcWjwHNmW6D3LN9yAzcjaKQfAqPGVCxAzfpKm2kG7tvRFIRJAlyKvR6oxIWeIoISy1SQEPxm2UUFNI1dStXdWgBBWmhu6GFWOhnrdxN-r35_b2EDvSSYemfTa8rQM/s1600/sophieabby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN2auMmvj0wM3WgHcWjwHNmW6D3LN9yAzcjaKQfAqPGVCxAzfpKm2kG7tvRFIRJAlyKvR6oxIWeIoISy1SQEPxm2UUFNI1dStXdWgBBWmhu6GFWOhnrdxN-r35_b2EDvSSYemfTa8rQM/s1600/sophieabby1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ28klUl8-XG3c1cJxJa-IeldjNpLFv9lshm2Wqy8Nq7akuHrSdsKy34Ro8aeUhJKR_ExTrP7neYT2g2nWUvoICzRjIwZPOMpEpAmglJbvTZiCVoQGhvgfOEXul1ZfsjG2wuRLc-BaLdw/s1600/sweetboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ28klUl8-XG3c1cJxJa-IeldjNpLFv9lshm2Wqy8Nq7akuHrSdsKy34Ro8aeUhJKR_ExTrP7neYT2g2nWUvoICzRjIwZPOMpEpAmglJbvTZiCVoQGhvgfOEXul1ZfsjG2wuRLc-BaLdw/s1600/sweetboys.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>If we vacation together, never invite me to the beach.. I will spend our entire trip disappointing you that I don't want to actually go to the beach. Or go anywhere or do anything. Unless you desperately want to listen to the seagulls while sipping hot tea on the porch. In that case, let's. I will pack two mugs.</li>
<li>The boardwalk is prime real estate for feeling awesome about yourself. Anything goes. And sometimes some of it has yet remains scantily clad. Rock on, rounding curves and aging muscles. You too deserve the light. </li>
<li>My mom's house is now a time machine that makes me walk around daydreaming about my little brother's elementary school years (he's 22 now). Standing in his closet remembering the days he wore funny T-shirts, teenage-slouched in his oversized hoodies, and turned pink when he laughed.</li>
<li>My own children seem older and more present in my mom's house. Gone are the days I hover or refill sippy cups. My favorite thing in the world now is to watch Mom listen to Abby. Abby speeds up and Mom's face searches for anything meaningful. It's like Diane Keaton meets Reece Witherspoon. So, so funny.</li>
<li>Grayson still thinks my mom and Grandpa T are Santa Clause. When I'm not in the room, apparently he places his order for the next LEGO piece his shelves can't live without.</li>
<li>My little nephew dances just like his father. I wish we could see this more often in person. And more of my brother's sweet family. </li>
<li> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzSLutB34_oZ1AKvbkveVxRiW8wOlaWdOg819d8kmOwFnud3yGC5RckTn66UDobwsxOIElwhioMVt24DE4CGsFEIDuAVxpILGkT8x2ukO4j5unc21IjxFYg_vPzJ8wgV2R7QroI1qe1Q/s1600/rockclimb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzSLutB34_oZ1AKvbkveVxRiW8wOlaWdOg819d8kmOwFnud3yGC5RckTn66UDobwsxOIElwhioMVt24DE4CGsFEIDuAVxpILGkT8x2ukO4j5unc21IjxFYg_vPzJ8wgV2R7QroI1qe1Q/s1600/rockclimb.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></li>
<li>East coast waters are frigid in July. Living in Louisiana for a year has spoiled me and now I fully expect all natural waters to be bubble baths leading into a jacuzzi.</li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fcsOK3FTvtuvbLBMgZMGzn0mIg3a1g8Yb9dBiXkgbUcDBC19LvQwxZR4m8eSVMNjbsSZBxTKNtrgHXhuupqC2AXMextJb9jay7R3dFMU4xYqLnFJBPh-fx60LHS7wI2i2PwfIOkQxG8/s1600/roughtwaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fcsOK3FTvtuvbLBMgZMGzn0mIg3a1g8Yb9dBiXkgbUcDBC19LvQwxZR4m8eSVMNjbsSZBxTKNtrgHXhuupqC2AXMextJb9jay7R3dFMU4xYqLnFJBPh-fx60LHS7wI2i2PwfIOkQxG8/s1600/roughtwaters.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>Abby is terrified of sharks. This made the beach trip and surrounding aquatic themed EVERYTHING so much fun for her. I have sore arms from carrying her little near 6yo frame so she could hide her eyes from all of Ocean City. </li>
<li>Leaving my family is increasingly difficult for me and taken in stride with my kids. Their youth and their "military kid" lifestyle seems to be giving them an edge over change and loss. I'm impressed at their fortitude and maybe a little envious. Andy always stops at Dunkin Donuts because husbands don't mind spending $5 on a hot drink that might dry up the sads.</li>
<li>If I never see another arcade, token machine, or ticket counter, it will be all too soon. We took kids to the arcade so many times it began to feel like an Examiner headline: Family of Four Rot and Perish at Prize Counter Because 5yo Could Not Decide Between Pink or Purple Slinky. There is not enough cotton in the world to mute out the hellish cacophony of that place. I might actually hate it.</li>
<li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LItz2w4jjPK6wT1rFNdCNKoPAkZbRph5j1wqda3wAs2-5F7sZxlkEx2WL7G5fuf1hGdBkh8YCUygZ6YOicglwuSh1U0pMTAL7BeIwrld0N4NiDINx3yjycce-W1LJC3aIhb0sFqgEYg/s1600/jackpot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LItz2w4jjPK6wT1rFNdCNKoPAkZbRph5j1wqda3wAs2-5F7sZxlkEx2WL7G5fuf1hGdBkh8YCUygZ6YOicglwuSh1U0pMTAL7BeIwrld0N4NiDINx3yjycce-W1LJC3aIhb0sFqgEYg/s1600/jackpot.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></li>
<li>When asked what their favorite part of vacation was, the children both agree: The arcade and visiting with their old buddies from home. Sacrifice is often worth it. </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpEulLVTsVjNJcFCG_v1hKb4PaCmxx_ea2V0pEAiimncb5A_MnrIWEMcDpTrTL55zPEQBR72uUttBXGAy1tembB0C8-RV4iy91uCFsSpSYGdaYt-Z8rp3zCVCoSRWH41Il8ZFCcmQZ2A/s1600/DSC_0490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpEulLVTsVjNJcFCG_v1hKb4PaCmxx_ea2V0pEAiimncb5A_MnrIWEMcDpTrTL55zPEQBR72uUttBXGAy1tembB0C8-RV4iy91uCFsSpSYGdaYt-Z8rp3zCVCoSRWH41Il8ZFCcmQZ2A/s1600/DSC_0490.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6Hv_fzoagq5DvfxqmSmNdcXaTS5d_IV2_r9kBUL8X80dgCkgrIOQWbiDBVtuxZZ-mwgIyrUbWanfz7A1d8q_L-nSWnECdDuyUi6VSkGLGTDw2Uhm7fLoLm404S0MAHNHv8Q_eXSpVc0/s1600/bathtime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6Hv_fzoagq5DvfxqmSmNdcXaTS5d_IV2_r9kBUL8X80dgCkgrIOQWbiDBVtuxZZ-mwgIyrUbWanfz7A1d8q_L-nSWnECdDuyUi6VSkGLGTDw2Uhm7fLoLm404S0MAHNHv8Q_eXSpVc0/s1600/bathtime.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4vM5c0x0yRs8U0Gd3vQSxsZBIdqA3fJi9iMqWZlL4OOQcZDbx12sfQWhnwe7AxCfb9OXsLZbbeLSIeqtey3T0orL1W_YXTruitrxy1H7xFQFoVK8nHCa-47bo3AEjFjarW7fpsZh3zY/s1600/bedtimestories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4vM5c0x0yRs8U0Gd3vQSxsZBIdqA3fJi9iMqWZlL4OOQcZDbx12sfQWhnwe7AxCfb9OXsLZbbeLSIeqtey3T0orL1W_YXTruitrxy1H7xFQFoVK8nHCa-47bo3AEjFjarW7fpsZh3zY/s1600/bedtimestories.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS42t1v8XVQP0aGk2GvxoRY2mNP7-_3pF-ZhyazjBoYroDX6DVvwqwxo0etJJP3sR_Py7TjUafGiuUWbAzA7TzDF5imkyiZJtE1zSsD4GKcjxIgfOtWSu2eg7-E4uANO-xARaq4dYHsAQ/s1600/dallas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS42t1v8XVQP0aGk2GvxoRY2mNP7-_3pF-ZhyazjBoYroDX6DVvwqwxo0etJJP3sR_Py7TjUafGiuUWbAzA7TzDF5imkyiZJtE1zSsD4GKcjxIgfOtWSu2eg7-E4uANO-xARaq4dYHsAQ/s1600/dallas.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-90405785277409558642014-07-08T14:45:00.001-04:002014-07-08T14:56:52.388-04:00Pandora's BoxIt seems our world has been enlightened.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
We have a new family member that I haven't formally introduced yet. Her name is Pandora and this is her story:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDclbF-QA-fLpuMMUhU6OE93MwOewCpTWhS1n6GX5dc0jWjy1wKLaUbhmjnCwDxCwEBlDM1eBxNTvqAlwoVDQW6V0J2eoAUbOy2t3Sr0yJhHjvfrDCHhUn235LYCDlYU8aP7r3KnFZzo/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDclbF-QA-fLpuMMUhU6OE93MwOewCpTWhS1n6GX5dc0jWjy1wKLaUbhmjnCwDxCwEBlDM1eBxNTvqAlwoVDQW6V0J2eoAUbOy2t3Sr0yJhHjvfrDCHhUn235LYCDlYU8aP7r3KnFZzo/s1600/DSC_0056.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
On Father's Day, I am doing what all derelict wives are doing - coming home from Wal-Mart with last minute Father's Day gifts. Reveling in my hour long child-free shopping trip, I decide to take the interstate home for a moment with the open road.<br />
<br />
It takes nearly five whole minutes of driving down the wrong direction on the interstate for me to realize I am, as usual, headed west when I need to go east. The nearest turn around spot takes me to a busy parkway, where everyone is speeding up to merge instead of slowing down. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>Oh man, is that a half-smushed bird in the road? </i>I swerve hard to the right so as not to add insult to obvious and miserable injury.<br />
<br />
<i>My God. It's a KITTEN! </i> And the kitten isn't dead at all, she is dragging her lifeless legs toward the median like the tiniest warrior I've ever seen. Mouth wide open in a battle-cry, she is heaving her good legs - one front and one hind- to propel herself away from zooming cars and toward the safety of tall grass and swarms of ants. <br />
<br />
<i>You can do this, you can do this, you can do this! </i>My van and I are parked with hazard lights on before I rationalize how stupid it is to try to chase a traumatized creature on the median of a busy road. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqoNUlA7g2X2ijtOkLsA5n68GQVzJU0oPFRI2Cxhquqa5mubCwfcfO8pmfxp6V_5fyj03k08zs0-gcbTa6HxE04vlECM_ogvb1ecLcpbFh7JDfIfrsPd_1g6kO502I-AOgTnkiO1Fq1pw/s1600/Parkway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqoNUlA7g2X2ijtOkLsA5n68GQVzJU0oPFRI2Cxhquqa5mubCwfcfO8pmfxp6V_5fyj03k08zs0-gcbTa6HxE04vlECM_ogvb1ecLcpbFh7JDfIfrsPd_1g6kO502I-AOgTnkiO1Fq1pw/s1600/Parkway.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(No cars taken in this pic as it was taken days later, but it was insane on Father's Day)</div>
<br />
<i>You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok. </i>I gallop from shoulder to median eyeing dry grass for any movement. <br />
<br />
With nothing but my thrapping heart and jingling car keys, I stand without a towel, extra shirt, or even large cup, in which to put her...if I find her at all.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
A few feet in the opposite direction of where I think the kitten is hiding, I see a flattened piece of cardboard. My head on a swivel, I grab the cardboard piece and galumph through the grass with bumblebees like a dizzy antelope. (Oh no, I'm sure that's not scary at all to a wee kitten running for her life.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>You can do this, you can do this.</i><br />
<br />
If I'm able to get to her, I'm now positive she'll shoot toward the street again to get away from the crazy panting monster leering at her spouting Tony Robbins inspirations.<br />
<br />
<i>There you are, you dear little thing. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I lay one hand on her speckled gray coat and use the other to put the hunk of cardboard on the curb that she is hugging so she can't dive toward traffic. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
We stay like that for many minutes. She lets me pet her until finally her open mouth lets out a silent cry that guts me from the inside out. We are not having a picnic, this girl is in trouble. She is in serious pain and I need to get her out of here now.<br />
<br />
<i>You can do this. We can do this. This is happening.</i><br />
<br />
I quickly lift her scruff and she doesn't even flinch. Holding her a few inches off the ground gives me no comfort as to well-being. Her limbs just hang this way and that. Some look broken, some look to have simply given up. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I scoot the cardboard piece under her before realizing it's actually a dilapidated box. Not much of one anymore as I re-assemble its ripped up sides but enough to act as her safe house for a while.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
She lets me slide her right in. Her terrified golden eyes are the last thing I see before clutching that box in my arms like it is a bomb ready to explode.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i>Well, shit. I can't just stick you in the carseat, can I? </i><br />
<br />
If you've ever try to extract a petrified cat from your vehicle, you'll know this only ends in cat urine all over your upholstery and slices down your arm that may or may not need stitches.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwifFp_uW7r8JrG5N4vZr9iL-dJttL7qLhw3v3hGGTGabUUYfQFX0upDNDZADpSgk_NZq_kps_3n216aVomh-LaRaIpjEkqCl3-fmEQhl65A1rtuuHdio6UkKULMKQNtlHryurTZECSHM/s1600/pandorabox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwifFp_uW7r8JrG5N4vZr9iL-dJttL7qLhw3v3hGGTGabUUYfQFX0upDNDZADpSgk_NZq_kps_3n216aVomh-LaRaIpjEkqCl3-fmEQhl65A1rtuuHdio6UkKULMKQNtlHryurTZECSHM/s1600/pandorabox.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Yep, she's in there.) </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I have no choice but to trust she's too tired to fight. I put her in Abby's carseat, tell her she's going to be ok now, and drive like hell to the nearest open animal hospital. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then, somehow text my husband.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i>Hi Honey. Pls don't be mad but I found kitten in road and now at vet. Will text soon. Happy Father's Day.</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Within a few minutes, he writes back, "Do what you gotta do," and I fall in love with him again. You see, Andy hates cats. He doesn't hate anything but he hates cats. He has allowed many dogs in our home throughout the years but has never bent one millimeter with his rule of no cats, ever.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
So I sit in the waiting room - half adrenalized and half wondering what will happen to our bank account when the doctor comes in.<br />
<br />
Two hours later, Doc tells me the kitten looks bad but is stable. Do I want to continue with feline leukemia test? <i>Yes, I do</i>. <i>What''s going on with her? </i> Kitty has sustained a lot of injuries and a possible head trauma as one pupil is blown. Kitty's x-rays show no broken bones but she does have legs that have serious ligament injuries, front much worse than hind. It will be more than likely she'll need her leg removed before long. She will need observation overnight. Do I need a coffee? <i>No, just a job please. </i> We are hiring. <i>I'll take an application.</i> Thank you. <i>No, thank you. </i>Have you named her yet? <i> I haven't even seen her yet, really. What does she look like?</i> She's gorgeous. And tiny, only 2 lbs. Would you like me to bring her out. <i>Yes, let me put on some lipgloss. </i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi71Pu7aD2wS5XJ0wDeKdYUenZEU3q1xQsu-63e0K9nZzKdoOGoDz99ui5axO-GGPGm_7bonmo2zRVGliowaIhv6tS_2Dj9wgtJSP-7sfcJGnbkTSOf33yX_MLYXtpQaoxdJiexeOVYjg/s1600/pandydoc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi71Pu7aD2wS5XJ0wDeKdYUenZEU3q1xQsu-63e0K9nZzKdoOGoDz99ui5axO-GGPGm_7bonmo2zRVGliowaIhv6tS_2Dj9wgtJSP-7sfcJGnbkTSOf33yX_MLYXtpQaoxdJiexeOVYjg/s1600/pandydoc.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUr77nO1KpFcL9XUoUHGC05btb36BRL3cSnU0T_yAS14-_XysKi6qHIHh-KPbYyNc92c6kkiPnmid1-mwnZdRJmrqywPsfUHwavwZVyH9eqf6LV5NAdEk_rOg2HR67QEkUWNkzHxcIuFc/s1600/pandorahospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUr77nO1KpFcL9XUoUHGC05btb36BRL3cSnU0T_yAS14-_XysKi6qHIHh-KPbYyNc92c6kkiPnmid1-mwnZdRJmrqywPsfUHwavwZVyH9eqf6LV5NAdEk_rOg2HR67QEkUWNkzHxcIuFc/s1600/pandorahospital.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRKrdMs9y0CXmphtRofYUrdLe5rw0ZkFg974JMzS7BO48xMY6RohWMC7R_wpB3UlUsRta_gzjQ_OedA7c2ZVrRBFvvHX1iL7B20FOH4e6fdNmEukHnaIEJmPPsgdNMgpAbqNeUOQRK1Q/s1600/pandyhospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRKrdMs9y0CXmphtRofYUrdLe5rw0ZkFg974JMzS7BO48xMY6RohWMC7R_wpB3UlUsRta_gzjQ_OedA7c2ZVrRBFvvHX1iL7B20FOH4e6fdNmEukHnaIEJmPPsgdNMgpAbqNeUOQRK1Q/s1600/pandyhospital.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
Well Hello you little warrior princess.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I name her Pandora because she is stunning, strong, and let me put her in the saddest little box I've ever seen. I name her Pandora because it's a name I love and I'm pretty sure I already love her, too. Warrior kittens don't come across my path everyday. When they do, I illegally park my minivan to help them get to safety. Forever. I'd be crazy not to.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfM0q6dhQCsFyEZh1oZHZVKQM1Xdgl2DU6QP0YzRqTo__wpZ0TdWLoE-A8gKXHQdhSILmF4MwRaIq3xsBYItRXS2GleEfLa87H_rUsEU1gY2H3IMbiJLVi-Sd39AbqHgGXYVM_XHLEpAM/s1600/DSC_0185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfM0q6dhQCsFyEZh1oZHZVKQM1Xdgl2DU6QP0YzRqTo__wpZ0TdWLoE-A8gKXHQdhSILmF4MwRaIq3xsBYItRXS2GleEfLa87H_rUsEU1gY2H3IMbiJLVi-Sd39AbqHgGXYVM_XHLEpAM/s1600/DSC_0185.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTK1Nq5XL87KHCzrx97N1BmBjHOFHn0uGjwmbAJvr5Bn8FcPLYYAe31Fvhfn4oXLYkyH51FR4ip-Y2m0AJStC4eKw6VGDx70akDBamQfsyv_ha-SFN9W2B5F1LJIodsdnAye_qyFyo4eE/s1600/pandybox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTK1Nq5XL87KHCzrx97N1BmBjHOFHn0uGjwmbAJvr5Bn8FcPLYYAe31Fvhfn4oXLYkyH51FR4ip-Y2m0AJStC4eKw6VGDx70akDBamQfsyv_ha-SFN9W2B5F1LJIodsdnAye_qyFyo4eE/s1600/pandybox.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTY9_w-jW5uKEn0O798ucTEmXPBOzjtwlyEuD0iFSd6dgOLo0cyHS1aikWo8lk67RqIKpqznC2lWWqYlf40zLC9CXfQr3TBAxC6sn6hdf-RY_NGMs89ctBRuvVDhf5TAp4J11Wg1XIpQ/s1600/daddypanda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTY9_w-jW5uKEn0O798ucTEmXPBOzjtwlyEuD0iFSd6dgOLo0cyHS1aikWo8lk67RqIKpqznC2lWWqYlf40zLC9CXfQr3TBAxC6sn6hdf-RY_NGMs89ctBRuvVDhf5TAp4J11Wg1XIpQ/s1600/daddypanda.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmK-ObItoBQwLXoCEftPJHhQRV0IKIGhjBc9Zmi2bvfccySTZy0r_BY5If0do4RKcx69nkSkSLvTiG_KFcIjy6Yy4Yp0lERWWOekYgcfPddgTcCemepOuS8rLb82zPv3rnktwClimRUaA/s1600/graysonpandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmK-ObItoBQwLXoCEftPJHhQRV0IKIGhjBc9Zmi2bvfccySTZy0r_BY5If0do4RKcx69nkSkSLvTiG_KFcIjy6Yy4Yp0lERWWOekYgcfPddgTcCemepOuS8rLb82zPv3rnktwClimRUaA/s1600/graysonpandy.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LsTBvy3Y3RMIMhij-ffnssJ2qEl8KNXJLiTZOeExoW-E9ZD6oGICOZaALlwB9MdpjCWicgmRXw9LEv_PCDRfZcnYpg8rX60UNyYzRvyzffFxdtfi6Yd0CYndS_Gy7Zx5rXFvt54pbD8/s1600/GraysonPandora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LsTBvy3Y3RMIMhij-ffnssJ2qEl8KNXJLiTZOeExoW-E9ZD6oGICOZaALlwB9MdpjCWicgmRXw9LEv_PCDRfZcnYpg8rX60UNyYzRvyzffFxdtfi6Yd0CYndS_Gy7Zx5rXFvt54pbD8/s1600/GraysonPandora.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjNQs4hSl5GJvN80Ym3ZwqRmtk9lVjrPqkfROqVDJvz_m_PIA7EnXw2HR1FJcLk30LDfF-18JrIYTR_YsoEJZVNXaghYeLQ5CtDyKF1DeTlxtU53LOrLSGbJWFNwH379BUhG9HNdWv-A/s1600/CSC_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjNQs4hSl5GJvN80Ym3ZwqRmtk9lVjrPqkfROqVDJvz_m_PIA7EnXw2HR1FJcLk30LDfF-18JrIYTR_YsoEJZVNXaghYeLQ5CtDyKF1DeTlxtU53LOrLSGbJWFNwH379BUhG9HNdWv-A/s1600/CSC_0225.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-_0nhVSz_Het4apJPS9-GX0elNC6bOBRTNTj_9WVcpWZ3ibqS3nsVZFI34W_t8Km1PNSEIN4WaETO1wG7lNsmrNLMGlv71rLUxO2VwkqR8L8rtdILYAi54r8sdp2818tgCFZ5mVhpEU/s1600/DSC_0355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-_0nhVSz_Het4apJPS9-GX0elNC6bOBRTNTj_9WVcpWZ3ibqS3nsVZFI34W_t8Km1PNSEIN4WaETO1wG7lNsmrNLMGlv71rLUxO2VwkqR8L8rtdILYAi54r8sdp2818tgCFZ5mVhpEU/s1600/DSC_0355.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8X17h3QrTDd4p1J9TTVEyeJCeKvLmsq78vS9YAUbGrMBNV0D_RwbAmEnPK4yA_AMhHTm0N2W8S1dslvN1OBkF2SlkUbjOnNI8mg9MK5xefK36KK554cW-vluhOcoScJADDVATql8ThOU/s1600/DSC_0366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8X17h3QrTDd4p1J9TTVEyeJCeKvLmsq78vS9YAUbGrMBNV0D_RwbAmEnPK4yA_AMhHTm0N2W8S1dslvN1OBkF2SlkUbjOnNI8mg9MK5xefK36KK554cW-vluhOcoScJADDVATql8ThOU/s1600/DSC_0366.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNuTh96su5Q2SkZwb0kF1ScHR7BRITWVe16du2dVBgq3B0BNgg-qhGWcqCL-sq9HXdUTL9LbvJH5tv8oItGWlrv3IZIi710Hx9p6sTJDaFpFYtniNHhFS6EM6iQf9S_puVNBHE1zM0-3k/s1600/pandyabby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNuTh96su5Q2SkZwb0kF1ScHR7BRITWVe16du2dVBgq3B0BNgg-qhGWcqCL-sq9HXdUTL9LbvJH5tv8oItGWlrv3IZIi710Hx9p6sTJDaFpFYtniNHhFS6EM6iQf9S_puVNBHE1zM0-3k/s1600/pandyabby.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4jD0neSTNCgB-hp8k2eamU24G1Y2-zYpzylp-UAMt6PcWVBRKoVpLqCsQeNyjQSQmVMn2icpaO9gHeR1JROmP1eo9pqaQ9zerruPU3QY7y10ucorlytoAj4_z8XDmTCtmRjzKf8dSRg/s1600/DSC_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4jD0neSTNCgB-hp8k2eamU24G1Y2-zYpzylp-UAMt6PcWVBRKoVpLqCsQeNyjQSQmVMn2icpaO9gHeR1JROmP1eo9pqaQ9zerruPU3QY7y10ucorlytoAj4_z8XDmTCtmRjzKf8dSRg/s1600/DSC_0346.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKv3AiRzXCB4wx2SJZa29lsy_dr6WwQM4Udmp79EW9rs9DmWmlkCbR1epUYNN96HehpxXdiKONwttK5Bl3o-X_OtnkHIuedrmzd-dzX9isJEfh3wuiDnvk8y-inJk6AqumonGV_qiunc/s1600/DSC_0300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKv3AiRzXCB4wx2SJZa29lsy_dr6WwQM4Udmp79EW9rs9DmWmlkCbR1epUYNN96HehpxXdiKONwttK5Bl3o-X_OtnkHIuedrmzd-dzX9isJEfh3wuiDnvk8y-inJk6AqumonGV_qiunc/s1600/DSC_0300.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2PKTObZCTZ2pGAYhFaO1gMoG6vkwuuN4eK0C9mXuoTcYxCgu58dfqhdoLhkRUqQ8iYHEDKtuda7n5Mr_u8SDmOu0nK68hz4wVkywOCFSNnXpr38N1DWlq8LfoJqNVnT6beqyLqvGDFU/s1600/CSC_0218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2PKTObZCTZ2pGAYhFaO1gMoG6vkwuuN4eK0C9mXuoTcYxCgu58dfqhdoLhkRUqQ8iYHEDKtuda7n5Mr_u8SDmOu0nK68hz4wVkywOCFSNnXpr38N1DWlq8LfoJqNVnT6beqyLqvGDFU/s1600/CSC_0218.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOoKxSg1Ldqbn9phlCwoHdv2tNffzvCEH3zRiWDH7HTq181rmaoYZyfWBCYpYgl8RlK1rBp20_Pq5Ve4MgsNSS5bgNsiSeNvKNUZVqMaH9iP5agziWVtO3nYloWIswZg2fWfcqS9FSDg/s1600/DSC_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOoKxSg1Ldqbn9phlCwoHdv2tNffzvCEH3zRiWDH7HTq181rmaoYZyfWBCYpYgl8RlK1rBp20_Pq5Ve4MgsNSS5bgNsiSeNvKNUZVqMaH9iP5agziWVtO3nYloWIswZg2fWfcqS9FSDg/s1600/DSC_0164.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ic9YCVe2masguTkJkPCX6aBr-hge0KVKj9lpS6DieoFgaEk86hWuxhQjm91GUqkmXGG8Ewzzo_9-oMYyjL3_aToRrOPTisuPhSTUj_OyN0mMRDdXLgmJ12T2ogua5JzctCQjU6V7JNQ/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ic9YCVe2masguTkJkPCX6aBr-hge0KVKj9lpS6DieoFgaEk86hWuxhQjm91GUqkmXGG8Ewzzo_9-oMYyjL3_aToRrOPTisuPhSTUj_OyN0mMRDdXLgmJ12T2ogua5JzctCQjU6V7JNQ/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ3K0pGl72-3g9hAWFthHJ25hO33Q-wo2uCq8ILQg4n80fp5oYF7FoVNbDuug1XkAdc1I47grV0dqene6ZtUS-eHo8wz0Z6eWDmE8Za48n3_khcruIq3T8651QZxVoWiz_Jw_jNngIBeQ/s1600/harlot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ3K0pGl72-3g9hAWFthHJ25hO33Q-wo2uCq8ILQg4n80fp5oYF7FoVNbDuug1XkAdc1I47grV0dqene6ZtUS-eHo8wz0Z6eWDmE8Za48n3_khcruIq3T8651QZxVoWiz_Jw_jNngIBeQ/s1600/harlot.jpg" height="268" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMeynXMCUxTbVevL_okDMrj2bkA1oJ59vbeV_0usHt3qqDxpzIdioXZPTTgPxzbEEGOPa5ctTkddyI0EmSfOpDgD5GcIsDcnA7Z8PsMbP-3c9j5mRc30DsaambVclFq0apxeF-nX-3_w/s1600/andypandybonding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMeynXMCUxTbVevL_okDMrj2bkA1oJ59vbeV_0usHt3qqDxpzIdioXZPTTgPxzbEEGOPa5ctTkddyI0EmSfOpDgD5GcIsDcnA7Z8PsMbP-3c9j5mRc30DsaambVclFq0apxeF-nX-3_w/s1600/andypandybonding.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
******************************</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
An update on Pandora or Pandy Paws as we call her:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
She has come along beautifully! She has gained weight and is now over three pounds. Pandy Paws no longer has worms, fleas, or any disease at all. She still cannot feel or technically use her front right paw but has been using the rest of her legs quite well. I cannot see any defects in any of her other legs. Our regular vet assessed her recently and discovered there is a teeny-weeny bit of feeling returning to her injured paw so we will give her much more time and kitty PT to see if she can keep it. We are so hopeful. And our vet says there isn't any sign whatsoever or head trauma so another win!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Pandy Paws hasn't officially been integrated in with the dogs yet. Sadie scares her which is hysterical because Sadie is more afraid of cats than anything else in the world. Sparrow has whined, pined, and cried for Pandy ever since she sniffed her here. We hope this is maternal (Sparrow had a litter of pups before we adopted her.) and not carniverous. Needless to say, introductions are going well but very, very slowly.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The kids' summer has been filled with kitty snuggling, kitty feeding, kitty play-scratches, and kitty bedtime stories.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Life with a kitten is a very good life, indeed. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-lQV2PsTjH_MD2NTM190SabWUJ4Umh7B_C2ygj3KPXHQ_9oLHi3a3-09t0r9FRpHiEmVbJIXG5NdkilIOb_R10L25Wf8N_WQ9DwPbMq5FxSXww3BN5ug0MnkGSuHymZIvCFVJRVYCvI/s1600/DSC_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-lQV2PsTjH_MD2NTM190SabWUJ4Umh7B_C2ygj3KPXHQ_9oLHi3a3-09t0r9FRpHiEmVbJIXG5NdkilIOb_R10L25Wf8N_WQ9DwPbMq5FxSXww3BN5ug0MnkGSuHymZIvCFVJRVYCvI/s1600/DSC_0122.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-39656570798726052862014-07-02T16:53:00.006-04:002014-07-02T16:59:16.048-04:00To Detoxify or Not, That is the Question<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jt180LOMHgFihQYl8Rzvpc7Jof1nfDWeqsPJZOIJ-0SmVJS6k7WQhD36GiaLVSt_Dj4DoW_rRTmIl2TyItx9bA4_J8A3x4KKiEUqgFFVeX7e9Ie_2NXl-rTi-ecc9kZtbMALXew0g00/s1600/DSC_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jt180LOMHgFihQYl8Rzvpc7Jof1nfDWeqsPJZOIJ-0SmVJS6k7WQhD36GiaLVSt_Dj4DoW_rRTmIl2TyItx9bA4_J8A3x4KKiEUqgFFVeX7e9Ie_2NXl-rTi-ecc9kZtbMALXew0g00/s1600/DSC_0253.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
Two days ago, I received a text from a super in shape buddy of mine. She asked if I wanted to join her for Dr. Oz's 3-Day Detox since we've talked about it in the past. Glancing at the ingredients list I decided I was in. Spinach, raspberries, coconut water, almond butter, hells yeah. This is what I usually eat so why not use Andy's new <strike>baby</strike> Ninja food processor to make these foods into smoothies? <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because once you do that, they're no longer food, that's why. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Holy crap, you guys. I had no idea how much I love food. I always poke fun at Andy for being the foodie but Day 2 on this smoothie detox (Is it a juice cleanse? Not really, very chunky.) and I'm so ready to park it in a pizzeria and crawl into the nearest meatball, fork first. I actually might just use my hands, I am that damn delusional. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Day 1 was traumatic with feeling subhuman-tired with a headache the likes of caffeine withdrawal (btw, I am relatively caffeine free so that wasn't cause) but Day 2 has me barely functioning as a responsible citizen. We were coming home from a play date and I stopped our minivan in the middle of the road to admire flowers in a neighbor's yard They've always been there because they're huge and lanky but I've never noticed them. "Whoah, look at the color on those petals, you guys. It's like magenta dipped in milk." </div>
<div>
"Mom. There are cars behind us. You need to go." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I mean, I can almost smell vanilla..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"MOM!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was obviously a dairy mirage. What's next. Will Andy stride through the door and I'll eye him sideways while asking for a serrated knife? "Honey, have you been working out?" My carnivore nature knows no bounds. It's been over 48 hours without chicken meat and eggs and I'm beginning to lose my sh*t. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except, I licked the spatula from this morning's egg burrito breakfast for the kids. My tongue no sooner left the station when I had scandalous egg in my mouth and exploding all over my tastebuds. SWEET JESUS these eggs are AMAZING. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Detoxing wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the blistering headache driving through my temples into my spleen. I'm not even sure I can take a Motrin because all that synthetic stuff would surely count as a "tox" of which I'm trying to "de"? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After cheating with the egg spatula, I recommitted. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until lunch. When I was met with a situation. My friend and I had gotten together with our kids at a park. We (my kids and I) sweat our weight off by barely moving. We are very lucrative with our sweat glands here in The Big Easy. I could see Grayson raining from his earlobes. Abby was doing better but only because she was siphoning Gatorade from my snack pack at an alarming rate. So, my kind friend suggests we grab lunch in a place with air conditioning to get everyone out of the heat. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And here's when life decisions get tricky for me. Just for me. Normal people would've simply explained the hardship of not having their blender and 12 ingredients with them in a polite manner. But at that moment in time, I didn't want to deny my friend's invitation to lunch thus prioritizing my detox. This detox, let's revisit, I accepted on a whim - for no reason whatsoever other than I like my friend - this detox that I'm totally committed to until I'm holding a cheesy egg riddled spatula that I can't keep away from my suck-hole? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh yes, there was cheese on that spatula.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The detox rid my confident body of no.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Off we went to a cute place so our kids could eat and I could bumble awkwardly around a menu that didn't serve Dr. Oz's 3-Day Detox smoothie. Crap. What to do. Order food that I stare at like it is illegal in the state of Lousiana. I whisper, "I'll take the spinach salad please." It arrives moments later: fatty spinach leaves with succulent cranberries, cinnamon walnuts, and delicious dressing on the side. There are beautiful puffs of goat cheese all over it and I don't know what to do. I love goat cheese. Like it's sick how much goat cheese I don't mind eating. And it was all mine for the taking if I wanted to dive off the detox wagon and into Normal Life Land. I didn't eat the cheese. I cry with you. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So here I am now: a guilt-stricken, migraine having, food eating, bona fide spatula licker by noon on Day 2. </div>
<div>
Detoxes are hard. And possibly for people who have a real drive to do them. I've lost a couple pounds so far but this thumping bear in my skull is making me not care two bear poohs about numbers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I'm in this far and am curious if maybe by Day 3 my system will feel brighter, more hopeful, and less hating the sun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My plan is to stick with it for the rest of today and tomorrow. But if this cranium throbbing doesn't let up by noon? I will personally buy you our first round of burritos (extra guac) at my favorite Mexican place.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
We'll even ask for goat cheese.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-24668193092192982442014-06-25T00:27:00.002-04:002014-06-25T00:27:48.221-04:00Blue Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x_5YQSfvNzYObW8QFilIXDLWCfIqvcASYMDSOTCy0MBIrndIpd_cxwigtDqiX9B94pmLtbIffwPoK_sYeGlkKsNbeuCQWBQN223ualqPV6mPlanpmju0SqP9b4u6KurTlsXRlMjksjw/s1600/DSC_0259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x_5YQSfvNzYObW8QFilIXDLWCfIqvcASYMDSOTCy0MBIrndIpd_cxwigtDqiX9B94pmLtbIffwPoK_sYeGlkKsNbeuCQWBQN223ualqPV6mPlanpmju0SqP9b4u6KurTlsXRlMjksjw/s1600/DSC_0259.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<br />
The summer's off to a roaring start as we juggle from kitchen to shoe rack to pool. Damp towels curled up like heavy roadkill on the bathmat keep me absolutely insane. The kids and I are pink and waterlogged before dinner. It's been hot dogs a lot for dinner. The days take on a choppy rhythm of ease, rush, ease, rush, then BLAMMO - exhaustion. Seven pm comes before any of us have had dessert.<br />
<br />
I would tuck in the children tonight but I don't want to even a little. Me and my room temperature Blue Moon will not peel ourselves from this temporary hide and please have mercy on my soul don't seek. The TVs on in the living room pushing out ocean spray and intermittent beeps from a captain's ship where, I'm sure, there is no television.<br />
<br />
I've grown to detest TV. It is loud box of noise which scrambles things in my mind that reach for each other then drop hold at their fingertips. Less of a dying and more of a never met. <br />
<br />
There is this story I want to write about the most darling broken kitten I found off a parkway on Father's Day and I will. But stories are hiding behind eaves of frustrated bricks, stacking themselves tightly around something I can't name: fatigue, angst, disappointment, fear, PMS? I don't know but my skull feels dark with black cooking grease, the kind that pops off the pan and right into the crease of your garbage can.<br />
<br />
I'm hearing thumps and echoes in the tub that is the kitten climbing and slipping with her legs outstretched like it's the Rebel Yell. The only sound better is her purring. A kitten's purr makes up for everything. One slow blink of their almond eyes and all is forgiven.<br />
<br />
It's been months since I've gone to bed willingly. Like I'm fending off the moon with a desire to lay thoughts down on a table in singular file with all edges aligned. Until the morning comes to scatter them to oblivion.<br />
<br />
The kitten is quiet now. She would tuck herself in if I never closed her kennel for her. But I will do my rounds: straighten covers, check doors, brush chlorinated hair from sweaty temples. Then I'll return to this quiet room and stale Blue Moon to see about those stories.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKb1vHzwt9R22ZY-f16a6ayw6hwVbS5JtdZQe9tDlbsCXoqhMSj3LqGAnXmBCVum13sVn6tWCShfFD3eDQTvCXjba8m-D0qE8hfxJRuxwPSG56l-Y3wVUeNQDKU3FaaPXuqbDi_NGix28/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKb1vHzwt9R22ZY-f16a6ayw6hwVbS5JtdZQe9tDlbsCXoqhMSj3LqGAnXmBCVum13sVn6tWCShfFD3eDQTvCXjba8m-D0qE8hfxJRuxwPSG56l-Y3wVUeNQDKU3FaaPXuqbDi_NGix28/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-67440746162996588012014-06-13T15:16:00.004-04:002014-06-13T15:16:52.600-04:00This is 40As evidenced by my sentimentality over preschool graduation, I am a poor transitioner. Hell, I've been misty over my friend's kids graduating things this week on FB. <i>Rachel, your daugther is so beautiful and tall! Chris, your son's teacher looked so proud.</i> <i>It's totally ok to cry, Brandi but know there's so much more cool stuff coming.</i> And so on. I like things to stay the same. Or at least where I can find them.<br />
<br />
This is making my upcoming birthday a little bit of an Everest. I'm turning 40. As in I had to click the clicker thing on the elliptical machine *five times up* to get to my current age. I know I'm still technically 39 but I'm trying out 40. It's weird. Uncomfortable. Too big. Airy even. Like I'm standing at the bottom of The Grand Canyon blindfolded trying to find my way up and out. It's scary down here all by myself.<br />
<br />
But aha! I take off my blindfold and see that I"m not alone at all. There are some crazy cool cats down here with me. The 40+ crowd has me intrigued and lately I've been paying more attention to the good that can come from it than the bad. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KIYdJ28RtWMP2-FmLgKdvXbSpWND8XKuQmLoQ9JS-tqZGbcIKR7SnrloKhklCA91Ci40js6B2DNadNo0g314fJOBj2qjSZUZraniClDw3Q9LixRqO6AGYANOzu2ke8jA84ziMsmIIwE/s1600/2014-01-01+10.50.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KIYdJ28RtWMP2-FmLgKdvXbSpWND8XKuQmLoQ9JS-tqZGbcIKR7SnrloKhklCA91Ci40js6B2DNadNo0g314fJOBj2qjSZUZraniClDw3Q9LixRqO6AGYANOzu2ke8jA84ziMsmIIwE/s1600/2014-01-01+10.50.40.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Good in 40<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>You value kindness over tenacity. While determination is still a good thing, by the time you hit 40 you see none of the success means a thing without heart. Where this is heart and success? There is always a domino effect. Good way leads on to good way. The results magnify beautifully for generations to come. </li>
<li>You cut to the chase. Small talk is nonexistent. Once you've established you like someone, they pretty much know at what age you lost your virginity after your third conversation. (Not telling but I'm locking up my daughter until she's 24.)</li>
<li>Skirts and drippy silver earrings are fancy. Nobody expects you to wear anything clingy or even somewhat revealing. Not even your significant other. Doesn't mean you can't rock some cleavage every now and then but long maxi skirts aren't just for fortune-tellers anymore. </li>
<li> You see the light. You might not always behave like you see the light but you have it locked in your scope most of the time. That yellow Gatorade your 5yo just spilled all over the garage? It's juice on concrete. Grab the hose, no bigs. Those new half moon eye-wrinkles you see in the mirror now when you smile? They make you look like your father, it's all good. </li>
<li>You prioritize joy. Snapping pictures makes you happy? You strap that Nikon on your shoulder like you're Jane Goodall collecting data from the forest. Writing fills you up? You sit your butt down every chance you get to tap out your thoughts and watch them show you how you feel. There might not be more than today to experience joy. At 40, you get how important this is.</li>
<li>You push away fear. By now I've come to understand that worry is a beast but fear is a bully. Once you've established a working relationship with fear, you're fluid. If you shut down and let it overpower you, you're letting fear have its way with you. And its way is usually keeping you from new experiences. When we first moved here, I was really afraid of driving across the 30-some mile causeway bridge. I white knuckled it the first time, noticed pelicans the second time, and played "I Spy" with my kids by the third. There are fun things across that bridge - uptown, downtown, excellent music, delicious food... I'm not about to let fear keep me from the original Cafe du Monde. </li>
<li>You never go a day without feeding your soul. Chocolate and snuggling dogs is mine. What's yours?</li>
<li>You have the kind of confidence you dreamed of in high school. I call myself an introvert. That's only a half-truth. The other half is that I'm also an extrovert. I don't let that one out so much because everyone needs a secret up their sleeve when there's an awkward pause in conversation. Being 40 is like one tall gin & tonic. I have lost my inhibitions. While I'm not swinging from chandeliers and spilling red wine down your blouse, I'm also not shrinking into a corner wishing I had the audacity to speak. 40's gift to you is audacity. And it's so much fun.</li>
<li>You adore your friends. I have about five text windows going all day long from friends scattered about the country. Learning where they're running, driving, going out for Date Night, or cooking for dinner brings me inner peace and sisterly calm. My friends keep me grounded and allow me to be my cursory, ballsy, irreverent, sappy self. </li>
<li>You do your thing without apologies:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZ_lwi808UnC_CW64gz5na2fHyVEYjbY3brqe5NgkIlRT1dfcAoupv-N_CCT8Bv1Vbyb9D5-wJOucaqPO6SLVhi7ccgXTwvO1do0uZWZmWm6_nFhYhe6xs4NzMlP49NcD1FXeiL6EJtg/s1600/2014-03-14+04.26.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZ_lwi808UnC_CW64gz5na2fHyVEYjbY3brqe5NgkIlRT1dfcAoupv-N_CCT8Bv1Vbyb9D5-wJOucaqPO6SLVhi7ccgXTwvO1do0uZWZmWm6_nFhYhe6xs4NzMlP49NcD1FXeiL6EJtg/s1600/2014-03-14+04.26.21.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
</li>
<li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
You need your family. It's been over a year since I've seen my mom, dad, and brothers. I feel them missing. I'm beginning to fade away a little without them. I get to see them this summer, however, so will hopefully spend time slowing down the clock a little while that's happening. </div>
</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">You know when you've said enough.</li>
</ol>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-27299360644868034432014-06-04T18:05:00.006-04:002014-06-04T18:14:12.964-04:00The Chicken Sitter<div>
My friend has six chickens and six chicks. While she was away on vacation, she needed someone to collect eggs and make sure her livestock never became, as she put it "deadstock." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<i>I can so handle that</i>, I texted her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Sucker</i>, she texted back. And with that we had an agreement. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
I thought I would rock this. I mean, how hard can babysitting chickens actually be? (Babysitting is inaccurate because chickens are quite self-sufficient as long as you make sure their food isn't clogged and they never figure out their eggs double as dinner on a half shell.) Well, probably not terribly hard unless you're me. Me who finds a way to complicate dropping outgoing mail in her own mailbox. (I always forget and drive it to a blue box somewhere near a Starbucks.) Add to that, being a freak about everything I'm in charge of to the point Sadie can't choose a different spot in the house to hang out in or I check her lymph nodes, and we are standing in a chicken coop wearing flip-flops. That had seen torrential rain for four days. Oh yes, I did.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once I mastered the art of bringing a pair of auxiliary "chicken sh*t" shoes with me, things got better. I even remembered my camera one afternoon:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR1C1ydEg3_nDh49H09qsYAHJZoO3fuhHOXCA54pU-5E-PY-9hU3rosJH1Yv7JFNw0MdIRLrodndLy2aTdM1ENjhdcrBi-vjjIDHMqvBpCjNwhVCOI1rPbETxppm3wA79TvqO0KmFkdw/s1600/chickenlight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR1C1ydEg3_nDh49H09qsYAHJZoO3fuhHOXCA54pU-5E-PY-9hU3rosJH1Yv7JFNw0MdIRLrodndLy2aTdM1ENjhdcrBi-vjjIDHMqvBpCjNwhVCOI1rPbETxppm3wA79TvqO0KmFkdw/s1600/chickenlight.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMJJL0TrPflZoiv2lH29PfIPUHjY-eoZBrxQV-nDQz_Sp92xfGNnxN3Kgj-6FBhjWGE5h58uDygr6HhzcoyLY9N_P4IMrmSUuNxkXdR7xWPWw7K1FIGP4-22UOq03A5uq2S7Ux8l1jDk/s1600/bigred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMJJL0TrPflZoiv2lH29PfIPUHjY-eoZBrxQV-nDQz_Sp92xfGNnxN3Kgj-6FBhjWGE5h58uDygr6HhzcoyLY9N_P4IMrmSUuNxkXdR7xWPWw7K1FIGP4-22UOq03A5uq2S7Ux8l1jDk/s1600/bigred.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TJpTM5tgooN_PaI32fsAwr21C8sJbTKWg5ONNO8RiXDkaGcYrrA7s5vtIQLpH1XLGxcAslhTeF6TySsTLbfi_1j6gLmajTvtt0sJKgD9_7twi0VJQ-5cG5TOQQvj22BB3KeOjy-IJCo/s1600/chickencollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TJpTM5tgooN_PaI32fsAwr21C8sJbTKWg5ONNO8RiXDkaGcYrrA7s5vtIQLpH1XLGxcAslhTeF6TySsTLbfi_1j6gLmajTvtt0sJKgD9_7twi0VJQ-5cG5TOQQvj22BB3KeOjy-IJCo/s1600/chickencollage.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxxsZAnLqTwetTiKQOlM3zTMKR_hAGpQj4-LYUlZb_EhvYd3VxYBwPVO8-qysUExXsZbGmjfWLCpvG6Ie6U9inRvMYPR-NxIwywwRdGDg4gJNiNKvIlcFOXrvO7Gytlq5-JfQuHKo37Q/s1600/chicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxxsZAnLqTwetTiKQOlM3zTMKR_hAGpQj4-LYUlZb_EhvYd3VxYBwPVO8-qysUExXsZbGmjfWLCpvG6Ie6U9inRvMYPR-NxIwywwRdGDg4gJNiNKvIlcFOXrvO7Gytlq5-JfQuHKo37Q/s1600/chicks.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Aren't they kind of precious? And strangely beautiful? The black one and I have a thing. She caaaaawwwks low when I show up and side-eyes me from the ledge. With four heavy struts, she meets me at the door like a Labrador anxious to go pee. They all kind of waggle their girlie bums -a parade of puffy greatness ready to march around their stomping ground for yard treasures until dusk. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then you know what happens at dusk? You'll never believe it. <b>They tuck themselves in for the night. </b> No lie. My friend told me they'd roost themselves and go into a trance like a pack of twenty-somethings at a Phish concert. She did not exaggerate. The first night I came back to the yard and couldn't see any of them pecking around the grass, my heart lurched into my flip-flops as I knew for sure coyotes\alligators\snakes\Duck Dynasty got them. Along with the sound of my panic attack, I could hear some soft cooing. Purring really. I tiptoed toward the coop not sure what kind of CSI scene I was about to stomach but to my delight each chicken had roosted themselves into cozy hovercrafts up high like cats with beaks. It was freaking precious.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As unforgettable as roosting is, the best part isn't even witnessing the circadian rhythm of chickens. No, the best part is washing the eggs those hens gave way to every other day. If you're wondering why you wash them, imagine what was on the bottom of my flip-flops that first night. Yep, that stuff gets on the eggs too. It's nature. You just warm wash and dishsoap nature off and scramble those bad boys up with cheese to enjoy the fluffiest breakfast burrito you've ever had in your life. THE. Best I'll never buy anything except fresh eggs again. Warm and dirty, right from the chicken's.....nest. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8msmgDdSKOxYu2U3V3dAVppwZakLiV8jRoZZpdJv_aEDQPD3TlX5OopH10xiFphwcbxWlAhShzg9QuJnMkH0llVGt6LQaynOutfKgC17lG1gVCP995TPhR6vxpRY5J4fn4Ifgt1pcBM/s1600/eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8msmgDdSKOxYu2U3V3dAVppwZakLiV8jRoZZpdJv_aEDQPD3TlX5OopH10xiFphwcbxWlAhShzg9QuJnMkH0llVGt6LQaynOutfKgC17lG1gVCP995TPhR6vxpRY5J4fn4Ifgt1pcBM/s1600/eggs.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'd say the chicken sitting went off without a hitch until the night we pulled up to tuck them in and Grayson whispers, "Mommy...fox!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sure as he'd said it, there it sat. Ears high and tail out straight. Crap. He either just ate all our feathered friends or is in the mood for fresh children flesh tonight. "Keeyah, Keeyah!" I yell to the fox in case it speaks fake Mandarin. It does not and instead settles down in a comfy circle of its own bushy tail to watch us for a spell. "Ok kids, you stay here," I say to a saucer-eyed Grayson and an asleep Abigail. "I'm going to RUN to the coop before the fox and SLAM the door behind me, OK?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Mommy? There's another one."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sh*t. Not sure I can outrun two foxes. I have been working out but pretty sure my cardio is still sub jackal fast.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh no, it can't walk, can it? It's dragging its back legs. Crap. Damn. Hell. Don't repeat those words, Grayson, ok? Sh*t. Not that one either. What do we do."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Mommy, call someone," my son offers since his mother clearly needs suggestions. "We have to save it." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Great. We do, don't we? We have to save the lame fox that is dragging itself around by the front legs, don't we? The fox that probably got hit by a car while it was hunting the chickens that I've grown quite fond of. We still have to save it, don't we?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And believe me, we tried. I made several phonecalls, spoke to a few people and even one lady willing to rehab it after I captured it in my fox kennel and transported it four hours away to a town I wasn't even sure was in Louisiana. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then we lost fox visual. Sometimes, nature's really a B. We went back in the morning and could not see the foxes anywhere. My hope is that the tech I spoke with actually did show up or the hurt fox and his stoic guardian experienced a miracle and now live happily ever after in Snow White's palace. What. It's what I told the kids. We're from the suburbs. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Signing off for now. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until dusk, </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Farmer Sue's less rugged and more liberal sister</div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-88618624346589799912014-05-31T18:47:00.004-04:002014-06-01T00:16:21.837-04:00Peeling Carrots"It just feels less special without Jimmy in this world, doesn't it?" I ask my husband while peeling carrots and after two mixed drinks.<br />
<br />
"Yes. Yes it does," he admits in a lower register than usual.<br />
<br />
I don't care if I make it awkward. Jimmy's name is as common around my household as it ever was. I bring him up from time to time and so far the only downside is having Abby ask me if I'm crying because of "Uncle Jimmy" every time I blow my nose. Sometimes, Honey, it really is just a sneeze. <br />
<br />
For the most part, I carry no weight of sadness on my shoulders. I no longer live through that day of hearing about him being gone over and over again like a loop of a YouTube video. I am able to function as a mom, wife, daughter, and friend. But other times, when I'm doing dishes or peeling carrots with my grandmother's vegetable peeler, I go there. And it's not always a bad thing.<br />
<br />
When a favorite person of yours is no longer here to look forward to seeing, hugging, clinking glasses with, Instant Messaging, or just setting your eyes on, the world is on a forever tilt. The day you learn you can't be with him anymore is the day minutes shift and smush down onto a record that has a finite number of lines on the vinyl. And that feels right. Your mortality is in visual and that's alright too. It doesn't feel like a thing that is to be feared or guarded against but more like a fine tuning of your time left.<br />
<br />
Yes, I wish I made it to his apartment for that drink we talked of having. No, I don't regret doubling back for that awkward conversation and even more awkward hug I gave in his driveway one summer day when his thoughts were elsewhere and his spirit was low. Yes, I want to climb through the clouds to hear him tell me if any of this dying business hurt and was he scared when he knew nobody was coming for him. Yes, my God yes, do I wish I could've been there for him like he has always been there for me. There would've been nothing to stop me from getting to him in time. Not. One. Damn. Thing. But that wasn't negotiable, nor is it worth any time spent in regret. <br />
<br />
But, holy sh*t do the days show their palor and the conversations I have with others mark his absence like they should. I don't try as hard to make an impression because the one I wanted to impress is gone. Maybe there is freedom there. For some time later. <br />
<br />
My world -this world- is missing someone so, so special and that's hard to get used to. It will always feel off, I think, and maybe that's just how it's going to be.<br />
********************************************************************** <br />
<br />
Our last Instant Message Conversation:<br />
<br />
<div style="background: #F7F7F7; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Jimmy: Hello my favorite niece. Just wanted to say
thank you for your kind happy Father's Day greeting. I had a great day. Hope to
see you soon and as a reminder, we both have a birthday coming up soon. Yours
is joyfully anticipated, mine is being met with all the eagerness of attending
a Dahmer family reunion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: #EDEFF4; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: #F7F7F7; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Jimmy: Are you smiling? Hope so. Could not love you
any more. oooxoxoxox Uncle Jimmy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="background: #EDEFF4; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<abbr class="livetimestamp" data-reactid=".1c9.$db=2id=1205270119619329.0.0" data-utime="1360537526" style="border-bottom-style: none;" title="February 10, 2013 5:05 pm"><b><span style="color: #999ca5; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt;">February
10, 2013 5:05 pm<o:p></o:p></span></b></abbr></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Erin: p'ville just sold again a few months ago.
it was the highest sale in our neighborhood overall, awesome! i'm now
"following" it on this site so i can find out when it goes on the
market again. leave it to me to follow a house on the interwebs. maybe it has a
twitter account? it totally should xoxo love you, uncle jimmy! xoxoxox<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="background: #EDEFF4; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<abbr class="livetimestamp" data-reactid=".1c9.$db=2mid=11360579260340=2985a6889a00a8e8964.0.0" data-utime="1360579260" style="border-bottom-style: none;" title="February 11, 2013 4:41 am"><b><span style="color: #999ca5; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt;">February
11, 2013 4:41 am<o:p></o:p></span></b></abbr></div>
<div style="background: #EDEFF4; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: #F7F7F7; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Jimmy: Awww....So exciting. We'll get that house
back, yet! My biggest regret was letting it go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Erin: No regrets, you had to. Boomps was still
"in it" and holy moly as much as we love him, a ghost him would just
be too much. We will ke track of it and maybe stak it until it's ready for us
again. xoxo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">*keep
* stalk My editor is still asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="background: #EDEFF4; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<abbr class="livetimestamp" data-reactid=".1c9.$db=2mid=11379189087132=2931499eb56f4fe1583.0.0" data-utime="1379189087" style="border-bottom-style: none;" title="September 14, 2013 3:04 pm"><b><span style="color: #999ca5; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt;">September
14, 2013 3:04 pm<o:p></o:p></span></b></abbr></div>
<div style="background: #DBEDFE; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #3e454c; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Erin: Dear Jimmy, I miss you so much I can't stand
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574767565428481632.post-42879798911750071542014-05-29T11:00:00.002-04:002014-05-29T11:00:53.324-04:00A Letter to MyselfDo you want to run? Let's hold hands and run with coyotes.<br />
<br />
Do you want to sing? Sing until light lifts from your skin like an easy sunrise.<br />
<br />
Do you want to sit quietly and watch? Then grab your blankets, watch those tiny lizards in the grass, and narrate their funny, busy pace to find each other.<br />
<br />
Do you want to walk among the ones just like you? Then go. Go to where you feel them, hear them, see them. But don't walk. Run. They might be leaving soon because it's getting hot and one of them forgot sunscreen. Run toward the ones just like you because that's a start.<br />
<br />
Then turn the other way and bump into all the rest. Be uncomfortable and green. Nobody cares if you're not where you think you should be. We all have a parallel me - the one we planned on and the one who says "that's horsesh*t" to her children. Push yourself to stand there - <i>all there</i> - every stretch of your 5 foot 6 inches without hunching like a scared kangaroo. Honor your expression as much as theirs for both are valid. This place won't last forever. Three years has already turned into one down, two more to go. There is rich, exciting fabric to weave yourself into where some won't notice and others won't forget.<br />
<br />
Go and be here while you still can. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIdRLmsMtHZxw068LVLg0HtVEwqb3SjiyS0sHLqVzSftFNoMyiN7N-CJ3ecgPl49ef4u8L0gXnrwcWOb16klEvESx5r5NGet87Of2N-ZbS-dAcHRIUvqQ2qKNcqLXL2MV2KQAHltsPLc/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIdRLmsMtHZxw068LVLg0HtVEwqb3SjiyS0sHLqVzSftFNoMyiN7N-CJ3ecgPl49ef4u8L0gXnrwcWOb16klEvESx5r5NGet87Of2N-ZbS-dAcHRIUvqQ2qKNcqLXL2MV2KQAHltsPLc/s1600/DSC_0036.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Because you still most certainly can. OSMAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09516772645440098038noreply@blogger.com0