tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36459711568480664912024-03-13T13:34:49.241-04:00Splashes & SplurgesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-8432902327728032832014-02-05T14:57:00.003-05:002014-02-05T14:57:37.882-05:00And now there is Danny.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKD6F_i3cj7242e4n5W715x0MLGLQgdNu01cOcjaZYs754nYyYuuuixiXfRX7vpO1-E5wqn5vHP2c4eTTAUpBSbPlj6VYFXhSf3FynSE6dr7lAglsKgzIWl-EEtkMKWJrRZi0ge6AbZ8/s1600/Kids+Tree+1+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKD6F_i3cj7242e4n5W715x0MLGLQgdNu01cOcjaZYs754nYyYuuuixiXfRX7vpO1-E5wqn5vHP2c4eTTAUpBSbPlj6VYFXhSf3FynSE6dr7lAglsKgzIWl-EEtkMKWJrRZi0ge6AbZ8/s1600/Kids+Tree+1+copy.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><br />
It's been two years and a lifetime since I've written a post. I tell myself I'll get back to it. Write about the galloping Anna does around the house with her imaginary horse, yelling "Ya" like Brave. How Ava is planning the 8th birthday party of the century that would put the Queen's gala to shame. How Peter wears his big red boots to bed and back. And Danny, sweet Danny, how he's at that infant age of noticing everything, noticing me, as if for the first time every time.<br />
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Times are busy, sleep is scant. But this is the best kind of life.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-8497909954838079522012-02-18T15:57:00.001-05:002012-02-18T15:57:58.202-05:00And then there was Peter.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've missed writing. Things have been a little...busy... around here.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Teeth have been falling out (Ava's). Teeth have been turning grey (Anna's). And then they've been turning back to white again.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there's the matter of this little guy. He is as happy in life as he is in this picture.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since him, there have been tender midnight moments (lots and lots of those) and precious big sister moments. Moments of overwhelming joy and gratitude. <i>Could it get any better?</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there have been moments I really thought <i>this is it. This is a nervous breakdown.</i> In those moments it all feels a little too much-- work, responsibilities, unknown, known, bills. Reminds me of that 5th grade science experiment on saturation points: how many more drops can we add before it spills over?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even in those moments I am rational enough (usually) to recognize the correlation: lose shuteye, lose perspective.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I do what works for me: have a good cry, go for a run, get quiet with God, take a hot shower. Usually in that order.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the breakdown moments are really few and mostly far between. I appreciate them though, because they never last for long but they always leave an impression.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Besides, there's no time for feeling bad. Not when this sweet little face-- and two others that are almost identical to it-- smile wide (teeth, no teeth, and all).</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-43663220915306010482011-08-24T14:54:00.003-04:002011-08-24T16:25:11.364-04:00kindergarten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx0JKBpeMpMdtlY1EqIXLwFc9VoLkSkEXnLDOtBKGjapopsV-SirQqall387JXtBTwbIhVeVUge29_Zco941eNnwxaKkcbO0kttlACnXbe9sjH4RHlfmXZe1QchxExJlNe0q-HDSRJfM/s1600/Ava_2006_Halloween.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx0JKBpeMpMdtlY1EqIXLwFc9VoLkSkEXnLDOtBKGjapopsV-SirQqall387JXtBTwbIhVeVUge29_Zco941eNnwxaKkcbO0kttlACnXbe9sjH4RHlfmXZe1QchxExJlNe0q-HDSRJfM/s320/Ava_2006_Halloween.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Ava:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I would tell you how much I will miss you when you start Kindergarten on Monday, but I know that will make you sad. So instead, I will just hug you tight and smile at you big and tell you how much you will love Kindergarten and how excited I am that you get to experience it. I will look you in the eye and keep you there until you believe it, too. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You will love it, it is true.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it is also true that I will miss you in the daytime. I will miss you in the noontime. And I will miss you those moments in between. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a very young girl, I considered time and its passage something to be mourned. I focused on the "never again will I's" rather than the, "oooh, what's coming next?". </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first, having you in some ways made it worse. But watching you grow and learning from your curiosity and general acceptance of "things" has made it much much better.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I now realize that time and its passage is something to be thankful for.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you God for keeping us healthy and safe that I may be there to watch my daughter say her first word, take her first step, sing her first song, run her first race. Thank you for allowing me to see her first jump from the diving board and watch her fall asleep for her last summer nap. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you God for getting us to her first day of Kindergarten.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(And Ava, I hope you're not too upset that you're new backpack won't be here in time for school. But I have a feeling that using your old, familiar green one will be just fine with you.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you. I can't wait to see what's next.</span><br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-13969036422480887732011-03-03T15:08:00.001-05:002011-03-04T07:59:34.803-05:00They's Travels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgu2XecFwJSiMVOK414_6sFBIlMww6BeRXDn4ijVMUYlC7tXiQuZolgunJF0OI_ispMdUSjcViBYhAju7Gmmb-j_OOFakRqwc-gsQTw2R63sw2e4g-SaIkIHxsD8lbAw_6Nd_10m4Fdo/s1600/DSC05676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgu2XecFwJSiMVOK414_6sFBIlMww6BeRXDn4ijVMUYlC7tXiQuZolgunJF0OI_ispMdUSjcViBYhAju7Gmmb-j_OOFakRqwc-gsQTw2R63sw2e4g-SaIkIHxsD8lbAw_6Nd_10m4Fdo/s320/DSC05676.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Ava (nearly five) and I were reading <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Woolly-Stops-Train-Farmyard-Tales/dp/0746063067">"Woolly Stops the Train"</a> the other day. This particular book is great for a lot of reasons but it's particularly handy right now because there are simple sentences on top, and more involved sentences on the bottom.<br />
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She takes the top and I take the bottom and it doesn't seem like all of the pressure to read is hers. In fact, she usually takes on the encouraging role "Wow, mommy. You have exclamation points in yours! Great job."<br />
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Sweet.<br />
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Anyway, at one point when we came across the word "they" in the book (and she paused) I cued her with, "This is a word we've seen on earlier pages" and proceeded to show her.<br />
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To which she replied, "Wow, 'they' really gets around. Quite an adventurer that word is."<br />
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I never thought of it that way, but I like it! Adventures aren't IN the words, they ARE the words!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-61687695019618736412011-02-04T14:49:00.002-05:002011-02-04T14:51:32.068-05:00Making It Her Own<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you watch American Idol, then you know the judges often tell the contestants to make the songs "their own." Which, I never really understood. Until last night.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is my darling Anna making the song <i>Wonderful Tonight</i> by Eric Clapton totally her own.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Note: </b>She usually sings it all on her own, without us having to prompt a verse...but I think having us do it for this edition was part of her "own-ness".</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Credit:</b> Thank you blueberry pancakes for providing hair and makeup </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lyrics (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where Anna Starts):</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">...that you just don't realize how </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">much I love you.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We go to a party </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And everyone turns to see</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This beautiful lady</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who's walkin around with me</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then she asks me</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you feel alright</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I say, "Yes, I feel wonderful tonight" </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-4865346479093854552011-02-03T13:24:00.001-05:002011-02-03T14:41:33.477-05:00Twenty QuestionsI got my haircut last night, which always feels like a fresh start. And while I was waiting for my highlights to set in, I picked up this month's issue of Oprah magazine.<br />
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Immediately I was drawn to these two articles, which were eerily timely for me considering my state of mind lately:<br />
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<ol><li>The first article listed <a href="http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Martha-Becks-20-Questions-That-Could-Change-Your-Life_1/1">20 questions</a> we should ask ourselves everyday. I can see how many of them could begin to help me think differently about my own thought patterns and routine behaviors. I'm going to try and keep them close by, picking one or two to focus on each week.</li>
<li>The second was about <a href="http://www.oprah.com/spirit/How-to-Unleash-Your-Creativity">unleashing your creativity</a>; how it lurks within all of us, we just have to find it. I can see how the two articles could complement one another well in my circumstance. I need to work on changing some thought patterns AND reinforce it with NEW action to make the changes permanent.</li>
</ol><div>In the meantime, I'm going to weed out some old pillow cases and see what kind of Valentine's Day garland I can make so that hearts abound around here. Wish me luck. I don't cut straight lines and I definitely do not sew.</div><div><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-16912543797595966342011-01-25T15:58:00.002-05:002011-01-25T16:03:34.867-05:00A Hat, A Neck, A Big Round Belly<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW583OwnQmA_0yqtl4pyvUWtZxWrTXBubMqDHksHbnCm02l0iwzeeePVTZVoWF8l_V-kn7Y5Dc2YV1FSRuKUIjR0uuK_B-EL0Y3t4cyiR5X47KtT2jskhhSeF9F_FqtSErz2BopW86k9U/s1600/DSC06483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW583OwnQmA_0yqtl4pyvUWtZxWrTXBubMqDHksHbnCm02l0iwzeeePVTZVoWF8l_V-kn7Y5Dc2YV1FSRuKUIjR0uuK_B-EL0Y3t4cyiR5X47KtT2jskhhSeF9F_FqtSErz2BopW86k9U/s320/DSC06483.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Ah, the number five. You remember learning to write it, don't you? First the hat, then the neck, then a big round belly.</div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Well, this jolly-old-number has brought nothing but frustration and disappointment to my four-year-old (almost five-year-old) daughter for the past year. It is THE ONE number that she just <s>can't</s> couldn't get right. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><i>Mommy! It doesn't look like a five it looks like a three! </i>Voice quivers in fear.</div><div><br />
<i>Mommy! I. can't. do. it!</i> Foot stomps in anger. </div><div><br />
<i>Mommy, the belly is going the wrong way! </i>Tears fall in frustration.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Well, it all came to a head last week. I couldn't take it anymore. Ava + I were going to get our lives back. She was going to persevere and OWN that number once and for all.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was afternoon + little sister Anna was napping. I was straightening up after a morning's work in my office; Ava was beside me pencil + composition notebook full of blank pages in hand. Sun was streaming in bright white streaks through the window. A pretty day but cold. So cold you were okay being inside, appreciating it in warmth.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Ava's afternoon challenge was to practice our phone number. She cheerily announced that she wanted to give it out to all of her classmates so that they would have it, just in case. (I realize this could be very bad for a couple of reasons. But the most immediate being that our phone number has a five in it.)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So she began.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Usually when we get to the foot-stomping-tear-streaming-throat-yelling part of number five writing, I tell her <i>maybe we need to take a break. </i>But today, I decided to try a different approach.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">When she was ready to give up, to throw in the towel and pick up a puzzle instead, I stopped her. Told her no, that we were going to write the number five. I told her that today was the day she was going to get it. She protested, confused. This wasn't the way it usually went. Usually, we had a little talk about how everything happens in time, how she will conquer five soon, how she wouldn't someday be seven unable to write five.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It wasn't something I had planned, this perseverance approach. But it suddenly felt like the right thing to do. I sat her down and told her we would write the number five twenty times.</div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Twenty times! That's too many! I can't do that.</i></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Yes, you can. And, you will. </i>I told her.</div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She sat at the table and was so flustered she couldn't even grip the pencil correctly. She stood up to leave. I sat her back down. She cried. I told her to get started. Firmly. She got up to leave again. I sat her on my lap and kept her there.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I modeled the number five one time. Had her study it and practice it five times before I turned the page over. A blank page. I told her to write the number five. She cried louder.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">A hat, a neck, a big round belly.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She got it fifty-percent right. Not good enough, not for her.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She cried louder and I told her we weren't leaving until she wrote it twenty times.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She composed herself and started again, stopping herself at the big round belly--the part where she usually went the wrong way. She <i>thought</i> about it. She went the right way.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Success.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">After her tenth twenty, she cruised to the finish.</div><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>Mommy, I'm doing it! </i></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The bright white streaks are no longer streaming through the window now. They are streaming through her. Ava is aglow. </div></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I wish I had captured her face on camera as she inhaled that page full of five's and recognized the writing as her own. It wasn't just a smile, it wasn't just a grin. It was a realization settling deep in her bones. Strengthening her. Framing her.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The truth is, it <i>felt</i> like the right thing at the time, but I wasn't sure it <i>was</i> the right thing. Until that moment. Every time before that, when I allowed her to walk away from the table, I thought I was preserving her confidence.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But here was <i>my</i> realization: Up until that day, <b>I wasn't preserving her confidence. I was artificially preserving her perfection</b>--a practice that I have personally perfected. <i>Can't do it perfectly? Don't do it at all!</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">When I made her sit at the table and work through discomfort and fear (made her persevere) I was showing her how to abandon the perfect five and accept the five that was perfectly hers. In that moment, over and over and over again. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Because ultimately, I want her to know the value of <i><b>seeing it through, </b></i>not just the value of <i><b>it</b></i>, want her to be able to apply the empathy that is gained in the struggle, want her to enjoy the satisfaction that rises out of the sacrifice, want her to accept the rewards + recognition that result from the (hard) work. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Of course this strategy cannot be universally applied. I'm not going to trek her to the top of a snowy mountain and force her to ski down it. Nor am I going to hand her the periodic table and make her decode it. I don't want her to persevere in a relationship if it's not good for her. Some things, you have to walk away from.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But not the number five. And not lots of other difficult and uncomfortable experiences that await her. But yes, there are some things she will just have to walk away from. And I pray to God that she has the confidence, the faith, and the experience to do that too.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-58441592308659153432010-10-25T10:58:00.000-04:002010-10-25T10:58:51.110-04:00Perception<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxEGrTOsrG9xktg2y0okVoMKs5IdDubpje_4cxmIgy4NKY3Jf5bI5r-vYOZv0M2oohNt4g2u0cfr-mJA1eDEe5ykpBodSuLKuzK0FftdvZ6ENdUDezo015JYwAX8N3SVOD8DNeE_gc4U/s1600/DSC05697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxEGrTOsrG9xktg2y0okVoMKs5IdDubpje_4cxmIgy4NKY3Jf5bI5r-vYOZv0M2oohNt4g2u0cfr-mJA1eDEe5ykpBodSuLKuzK0FftdvZ6ENdUDezo015JYwAX8N3SVOD8DNeE_gc4U/s320/DSC05697.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>As much as a week before the marathon I wasn't sure I'd be able to run it. I had developed a nagging hip flexor strain that wasn't improving with time or rest or advil or ice. In fact, the discomfort (which had spread to my quad and my knee) got so bad it woke me up out of a sound sleep a week before the race.<br />
<br />
I lay in bed and brought myself to tears thinking that all of this training and hard work would be wasted. But what brought on a rush of tears was the possibility that my sweet little girls wouldn't see their mommy cross the finish line. I wanted them to be proud of me, to see what hard work can accomplish. I envisioned my 25th mile, knowing that Ava and Anna in their sweet little voices would be cheering for me. I was crushed to think that wouldn't happen.<br />
<br />
I steadied my breathing and as quickly as the tears came on, they stopped. I had a different realization.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Teaching my girls how to handle disappointment was just as valuable a lesson as crossing the finish line of a marathon. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b><br />
I felt peaceful as I mulled this realization over. I had been perceiving my injury as a personal failure. I had done something wrong, wasn't careful enough, wasn't "strong" enough to just run through it. I messed up.<br />
<br />
In my mind, not running=failed.<br />
<br />
I worked over the next several days on two things:<br />
<br />
1. Receiving treatment on my injury from a sports-related physician.<br />
2. Changing my perception and accepting that not running was not failing.<br />
<br />
To help with #2, I asked myself these questions, <i>"How would you want your daughters to feel if this were them? How would you want them to react? What advice would you give them?"</i><br />
<br />
And this is how I answered it:<br />
<br />
<i>I would want them to feel peaceful. I would want them to not be discouraged and to not be hard on themselves. I would want them to love themselves and get the care and the rest that they need, trust in God's plan, and surrender the outcome. I would want them to smile big and say to themselves, as they say now when milk spills or the last bite of cake drops on the floor, "well, sometimes that's just the way the cookie crumbles." </i><br />
<br />
We all know how this story ends. I ran the marathon. Fast. I crossed the finish line.<br />
<br />
And there, waiting for me at the end were two of the most beautiful and kind and sensitive and sweet little girls I have ever met in my life.<br />
<br />
I am quite sure that surrendering the outcome (and having more tape on my body than a piece of Ava's artwork) had something to do with my readiness to run. I am resting the injury now, which isn't an easy thing to do. But I know I will be stronger on the other side of it and I am looking forward to moving my body in different ways while it heals and gaining new perspectives along the way.<br />
<br />
Considering the pain and fear and challenges and illnesses that too many people are dealing with today, writing about a hip flexor injury seems rather insensitive. As does the disappointment of my daughters not seeing me cross a finish line. Whoopdeedoo.<br />
<br />
But the underlying realizations it prompted in me--acceptance, gratitude, selflessness-- will have much wider and deeper application in my life. I promise you that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-75649824058637551322010-10-17T19:58:00.001-04:002010-10-18T20:01:36.078-04:00Boston QualifiedI did it.<br />
<br />
I ran my personal best in the Baltimore Marathon yesterday: 3:38:38<br />
<br />
My friend Erin and I have been rising at 4:15a most weekdays and every Saturday for the past four months to run in the dark, the heat, the cold, the heat, the wet, the heat--all so that we're back before the kids have been up for too long. We've run hills till our quads screamed and so fast till our lungs ached.<br />
<br />
And it was worth every bit of lost sleep, every ounce of ache and pain.<br />
<br />
I have much more to say about the race and especially the the last four miles (which really came down to an out-of-body experience.) This wasn't my first marathon, but it was definitely my most...memorable. So I really will get back to write more later this week. And post some pictures too.<br />
<br />
But I also want to note that my little brother, who just started running in MAY, ran the marathon too. And I mean ran it. He didn't stop, didn't walk, didn't give up once.<br />
<br />
So now I'm going to hobble up from this seat and make my way to the couch. And I'm going to <s>force</s> allow myself to do nothing but sit. For a bit.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-81180852058653361242010-08-30T18:02:00.001-04:002010-08-30T21:41:21.491-04:00Spirit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6np1MuTNfQNZmSy7IOHDCWosAOjNiG7uBlZ6tbJznlT29jC90hU5yDCGHwMJt8TgKS56laTnol_axPDg2JWq4v-UlMKhxmZaoZrb7xOZNh6gD6khW6E1BiYCwL_hd-qFSwuZl2IZY8Y/s1600/JesusontheCross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6np1MuTNfQNZmSy7IOHDCWosAOjNiG7uBlZ6tbJznlT29jC90hU5yDCGHwMJt8TgKS56laTnol_axPDg2JWq4v-UlMKhxmZaoZrb7xOZNh6gD6khW6E1BiYCwL_hd-qFSwuZl2IZY8Y/s320/JesusontheCross.jpg" /></a>It's been a busy summer, but it's been a fun one. In the midst of it all, we moved. I wish I could say that we're settled in.<br />
<br />
I mean, we're happy and spread out. Which counts for a lot.<br />
<br />
But we're nowhere near unpacked and put away.<br />
<br />
The neighborhood is wonderful and the people are great. Everything you hope for in a home for your children. There's one set of neighbors that we haven't met yet. They have a dog and drive a minivan, cut their lawn and go to work. I've exchanged hello's with the woman a few times--usually before sunrise on my return from a sweaty and out-of-breath hard run. But nothing more than that.<br />
<br />
Until yesterday.<br />
<br />
Anna had woken up early that morning, so we were dressed and fed and on the driveway with sidewalk chalk by 8a.<br />
<br />
Anna was puttering around, chalk in one hand, a stick in the other. Talking about bikes and birds and pointing to "peens" (airplanes). It was a beautiful morning. Quiet and bright, but soft-feeling.<br />
<br />
Ava was sitting on the pavement, describing the picture she was drawing. This will be hugely relevant in a minute. It was a very intriguing and moving picture, one that you wouldn't expect from a four-year-old. Hearts and flowers and people, sure. But not this.<br />
<br />
As Ava and I were talking about her picture, I hadn't noticed that our neighbor (I'll call her Jane) had gotten into her car and began backing out of her driveway.<br />
<br />
Ava and I were still discussing her picture when I looked up to wave to Jane, only to see her out of her car now, walking up to our house.<br />
<br />
"I'm so sorry I haven't been over to meet you or your girls yet," she began.<br />
<br />
I immediately put her at ease, reminding her that we hadn't exactly been over to meet her yet, either.<br />
<br />
Then we got to talking about the girls and preschool and our decision to send Ava to our Catholic parish preschool. She said that she and her husband had made the same decision for their children and didn't regret it for a minute.<br />
<br />
Then, we started talking more about her kids. I had seen two college-age boys and asked her how the transition from K-8 school to competitive high schools was for them. She answered me and then hesitated for a minute before beginning again.<br />
<br />
"But for my daughter...do you know about my daughter?" she asked.<br />
<br />
I shook my head sensing there was pain there.<br />
<br />
This is when she started to tear up, telling me the story that would break my heart right there on that perfect early summer morning: her 14 year old daughter had died from a brain tumor less than two years ago. She attended high school for two weeks before falling too sick to continue. She passed away two months later.<br />
<br />
She admitted that the loss was a big reason why she had not been over to see us yet, "one of the first questions that people usually ask is how many children we have. I dread having to answer that."<br />
<br />
I touched her arm, "Faith must be a very important part of your life now."<br />
<br />
"It is," she said. "Every week Father Donald tells me something that I need to hear. Like last week, he told us all that we are reunited with our loved ones in heaven. I've heard it over and over and I can't hear it enough. I've been holding onto that all week. I have to."<br />
<br />
Then I began to tell her about the picture that Ava had just drawn, was in the midst of drawing. <br />
<br />
"Jane" I started, "do you know what Ava started drawing while you were walking to your car this morning and then was finishing as you were walking up our driveway?"<br />
<br />
She looked at me, intrigued.<br />
<br />
"She was drawing Jesus on the Cross. When I asked her why she was drawing Jesus, she told me because she 'thinks about him a lot'...about how he died and then came back to us. As you were parking your car in front of her house, we were talking about His spirit. That even though we can't see him, He is always with us."<br />
<br />
There was more discussion after that. About heaven. Ava understands that heaven is a beautiful place, "a place where you get to do all of your favorite things all of the time." It's not a scary place for her at all. Thunderstorms she'll run from and scream at, but heaven is peace to her.<br />
<br />
I can't convey in words the experience that Jane and I and our daughters--all of them--had that morning, but we were all together on that driveway, among the bikes and the birds and the "peens."<br />
<br />
May God Bless You Today too...and may you feel His spirit and love all around you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-70255423780187883132010-03-10T10:35:00.004-05:002010-03-10T11:07:13.564-05:00Randomness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52Wqw_sABpe-WVA5RmaRnJ2fMxZN2kINnkoDMJyMcVeUvMLX1_rT8fzBe6Hd2_z1jo8TgIdU3bS1aH3l52jcxYH7UmkUOMK-KEILx5dkgr7ZL7JRET4cw9Ly5qTesAnOCHqUaoq76_Tg/s1600-h/spring.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 90px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52Wqw_sABpe-WVA5RmaRnJ2fMxZN2kINnkoDMJyMcVeUvMLX1_rT8fzBe6Hd2_z1jo8TgIdU3bS1aH3l52jcxYH7UmkUOMK-KEILx5dkgr7ZL7JRET4cw9Ly5qTesAnOCHqUaoq76_Tg/s320/spring.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447033344063857746" border="0" /></a><br />Spring is coming it's coming IT'S COMING.<br /><br />And bringing lots of inspiration with it, such as:<br /><br /><ol><li>A perfectly pristine car interior. This morning, as I was getting out of my salty cheerio-infested, blankets-and-burpcloths-everywhere car in the Starbucks parking lot (with a handful of garbage to toss mind you) I was face to face with the interior of a cute little uncluttered Honda next to me. Not a speck of dirt or crumb to be seen, only a stylish little black and white clutch perfectly perched in the back seat.</li><li>Books. Not just any books, but ones that I MADE. Tonight I will attend the second of a two-part bookmaking class. Finally, I can stop spending (tons of) money on journals that don't quite meet my need and actually make them myself. Next up? Letter press. </li><li>Ballet-dancing with my daughter. She loves it (ballet that is, not necessarily ME dancing with HER). We've got a pad out on the deck that works just perfectly for spinning and plie'-ing. She's teaching my how to tondue later this afternoon. </li><li>Little mouths talking. TALKING! Little baby doll is sounding out all kinds of words and is quite delighted with herself for it. Her favorite? <span style="font-style: italic;">Good Girl, Go Go Go!</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">You (ooh) did it!</span> I'll get a video posted of it soon.<br /></li><li>Outdoor Running. For a while, we weren't sleeping (long story), feeling well (even longer) or running (treadmill just doesn't count sometimes). BASIC NEEDS WERE NOT BEING MET PEOPLE. But now? Long strides, crisp fresh air, and miles and miles of wide open road. It feels sooooooooo good.</li></ol>How about you? What's inspiring you?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-73118396964129619012010-02-18T11:32:00.012-05:002010-02-21T08:07:29.778-05:00snowed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_Kr7jQNsbZcxMX8hPojLpQhI9XD4YPLd8p4wvK1oJ6bXrji-z-Si6timHnHkjjbDP4cLq8I_IILHk3Cc2uWy1rDQfMeWq-sn_bxgYHR7TOXiJSadRXnI-EiyF_Kr1M9-GJ4EJIygUVY/s1600-h/DSC04761.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_Kr7jQNsbZcxMX8hPojLpQhI9XD4YPLd8p4wvK1oJ6bXrji-z-Si6timHnHkjjbDP4cLq8I_IILHk3Cc2uWy1rDQfMeWq-sn_bxgYHR7TOXiJSadRXnI-EiyF_Kr1M9-GJ4EJIygUVY/s320/DSC04761.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440046111253305682" border="0" /></a><br />It's a different sound today, but it's still a great one (see previous post). Do you hear it? It's the trickle trickle trickle of snow mountains MELTING and the ever so slight whisper of the wind blowing. The sun is out, the sky is clear, and the windows. are. OPEN.<br /><br />We're still digging out from 60+ inches of snow that fell in less than five (five!) days. It's been two weeks since the last snow fall, or has it only been a week. I'm not sure. It's all a blur. Either way, our street has yet to be professionally plowed and that seems a little ridiculous to me after 14 DAYS. Fortunately, all of the neighbors put aside petty gripes and engaged in some team-building after the first snowfall*. We managed to shovel, yes shovel, a path out of our street, which I never considered a particularly long street until we had to shovel it. It's the Amazon people.<br /><br />Oh, and the three-point turn that was the death of me in drivers ed has got NOTHING on the 10-point turn required to get out of the driveway. I'm getting so good at it I'm considering a NASCAR career, except that I guess in NASCAR you just drive really fast. So, never mind. But I'm considering a career in something that requires skilled maneuvering. UPS maybe? I do have a fondness for brown...<br /><br />So what do you do when you're snowed in up to your ears and its near Valentine's Day so there's sugar and chocolate everywhere and your three-year-old has an <span style="font-weight: bold;">especially</span> sweet tooth? You join her in eating it, bounce off the walls for a bit of exercise, and then give it up for Lent.<br /><br />(Oh, you can also make really kick-a*s tunnels, too).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyJsAoEdA2sDHc6SyFDzVybbWxqAhv9SKVtspbQfPggVdYBk1CwkqHndDzNwDGGwI7Tir-KpvShh0LE0k0S6mS19_W4w9JSa8vNi0WCfuLEJdF29RlxBtJF6Vv1_Qpxtj7256DSxN1xk/s1600-h/DSC04722.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyJsAoEdA2sDHc6SyFDzVybbWxqAhv9SKVtspbQfPggVdYBk1CwkqHndDzNwDGGwI7Tir-KpvShh0LE0k0S6mS19_W4w9JSa8vNi0WCfuLEJdF29RlxBtJF6Vv1_Qpxtj7256DSxN1xk/s320/DSC04722.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440046459127225410" border="0" /></a><br /><br />*The first snowfall dumped 38 inches in about 24 hours. The second snowfall (three days later) dumped 26 inches and brought 50 mph wind gusts with it).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-88686655848714461692010-01-26T14:41:00.004-05:002010-01-26T16:57:20.244-05:00pretty sure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rOz-Z_ovWvpN-W6w1epZSzx1S9rpNOauUiS-t0xIJVjoHg209j90gvqeKhxvXBSN5Pb3EXFNuAC0wtOp9dkOh9WtmG8q499M8PEVQRS7QLb_ea2eZV0ACKjI_WAGf5kaqX2mi-X_bv0/s1600-h/DSC_0123.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rOz-Z_ovWvpN-W6w1epZSzx1S9rpNOauUiS-t0xIJVjoHg209j90gvqeKhxvXBSN5Pb3EXFNuAC0wtOp9dkOh9WtmG8q499M8PEVQRS7QLb_ea2eZV0ACKjI_WAGf5kaqX2mi-X_bv0/s320/DSC_0123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431140212968375618" border="0" /></a><br />Do you hear that?<br /><br />Of course you don't because there is NOTHING to hear!<br /><br />It is quiet. Silent. Void of any crib shaking, doll breaking, how-many-more-minutes-do-I-have-to-sleep asking.<br /><br />My girls are actually asleep at the SAME TIME. (and I'm not saying this out loud, but it's been more than 10 minutes.)<br /><br />So what am I doing? Well, I poured a cold cup of coffee, microwaved it pipin' hot, and should've saddled up to the computer to work, to write, to plan but instead, I'm writing to you (well, those of you who are left) because I've abandoned "should've" for this decade and am pursuing creative.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">:: Pre-Nap Entertainment::</span><br /><br />Our friend Melissa left some treats on our doorstep this morning. It took big sister all of about three seconds to hone in on the prize treat: m&m chocolate chip cookies. I've got to hand it to the kid. She's got more restraint than I do, "Mommy, can I have one after my lunch?"<br /><br />Sure thing kid, but I'll be damned if I'm waiting til after MY lunch to have one.<br /><br />We finish up lunch, crumbs and kidney beans everywhere (little sister's contribution to clean up efforts) when big sister pipes up like Rod from the Price is Right<span style="font-style: italic;">: Come on down, your the next contestant on the Price is Right! </span>except her version goes like this:<br /><br />"Guess what time it is, mommy!?!"<br /><br />"Oh is it nap time already?" Her father is rubbing off on me. I mess with that little girl waaaay too much.<br /><br />"Nooooooooooooooooooooo Mommmmmmmmmy!" (panic ensues) "It's time for my cookie!" There are tears.<br /><br />"Oh...I almost forgot."<br /><br />She smiles, "Mommy, you were just teasing."<br /><br />Busted.<br /><br />"Hey, why don't you go potty first. I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy your cookie more if you get over the pee pee dance."<br /><br />"No. I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy it more if I don't."<br /><br />End of discussion.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-36207594350911483282009-12-14T09:53:00.003-05:002009-12-14T10:01:59.549-05:00bittenThings are piling up all around me: to do lists, wrapping, presentations, reports, research, shopping, cleaning, fa la la la la la la la la.<br /><br />And all I want to do is find a corner in the woods and dream about <a href="http://planetnora.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/edward-cullen.jpg">HIM</a> <del>sparkling and beautiful and finding ME</del>.<br /><br />Oh, I got bit all right.<br /><br />BAD.<br /><br />(Love you wholly and completely, Pete).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-32588074216088084892009-11-19T20:05:00.000-05:002009-11-19T20:05:54.231-05:00Multitasking<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wdlJ439mlJxVi7S1H3U7AZ7AIRonNz7MonbxMzhBqyeSGU2dEYNdw4VjO-UgzSbMXQ5xHuSa5XS1iOzZp7sdh797eIGgLbNB_juBWzxtAHcnFf8Z5lS7-LQZC2A_vOAOAQfHWGDk_So/s1600/DSC04106.JPG"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wdlJ439mlJxVi7S1H3U7AZ7AIRonNz7MonbxMzhBqyeSGU2dEYNdw4VjO-UgzSbMXQ5xHuSa5XS1iOzZp7sdh797eIGgLbNB_juBWzxtAHcnFf8Z5lS7-LQZC2A_vOAOAQfHWGDk_So/s160/DSC04106.JPG" /></a> </div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-36229128959616019692009-11-18T15:19:00.008-05:002009-11-18T16:22:54.338-05:00New Babies....and Monsters?The little fella next door is a big brother as of today.<br /><br />While the girls napped, I baked some cookies to bring over. When Ava woke up all rosy cheeked and cuddly, I asked her if there was anything else she could think of that the big brother might need, or just something she'd like him to have.<br /><br />She thought about it and then said, "Maybe something <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> don't need anymore."<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />"Actually, maybe a monster. From my bedroom."<br /><br />I guess that means she won't be offering to shovel their sidewalks this winter, either. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-90910747534433870062009-11-16T19:27:00.003-05:002009-11-16T20:06:03.784-05:00Dear Ava,<br /><br />Recently we had quite a laugh. I was feeding Anna while you cut paper with your scissors. I looked down for a second--to make some slobbery sound at Anna or to just fall into her gigantically big blue eyes--before you started walking toward me with a look on your face that quizzically said, "the oddest thing just happened to me."<br /><br />Then, you opened your mouth and out came this: "Mommy, it didn't even hurt when I cut my hair!?" Like the big deal was that cutting your hair "didn't hurt" (which is a big deal) and not at all that YOU CUT YOUR HAIR.<br /><br />But if you <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> didn't know it was a big deal while you were doing it then you knew once you saw the look on my face, which was probably a cross between what I look like in the morning with about your age in hours of sleep and what I look like when I hear (before I see) that you cut your hair. So you started crying and I started...laughing. I started laughing and hugged you to pieces (no pun intended). I guess because, well, you were okay--no harm done--and you actually did a pretty darn good job of it. Here I'm paying {way too much} for you to get your hair cut professionally and all I need to do is give you a pair of rubber gripped, dull bladed scissors and send you to town little girl.<br /><br />love <span style="font-size:130%;">love</span> <span style="font-size:180%;">love </span><br /><br />MamaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-14387455537845894592009-10-08T19:29:00.005-04:002009-10-09T06:07:14.111-04:00RichIf you could have seen her, you would have thought she'd struck it rich. Ava bounded out of bed this morning, a morning she'd waited for an excruciating two days to arrive. The anticipation was just too much for her to take, which is why I typically don't tell her about things-- exciting things (like ice cream) and upsetting things (like shots) until they are imminent. Both because the anticipation is almost more than she can bare and because heaven forbid if plans should change. Even slightly.<br /><br />But announcing these particular events were out of my control. They were preschool events...and ever since she learned about them at preschool on Tuesday, she's been asking, on the hour, "When will it be Thursday?" Well, today it was. These were the big events, in order:<br /><br /><ol><li>School pictures</li><li>The firefighters came for a visit (and were going to let the kids, "climb all over their firetruck, mommy!". </li><li> Her day to "show and tell" </li></ol>Many of you know how fascinated my daughter is with anything having to do with firefighters. Given her peculiar fear of smoke detectors, I wonder if she hasn't made a deal with them: I'll idolize firefighters and do whatever they tell me to do so long as you promise to never ever ever go off in my presence. We try to hold up their end of the bargain by a) changing the batteries twice per year; and b) cleaning our oven regularly so that when I do cook over 400 degrees, the drippings from the sweet potatoes don't smoke us out.<br /><br />Usually when I ask her anything about preschool, what she did, what she learned, what she loved best, she replies, "I don't know." Then, later on, she'll usually give me dribs and drabs of details..."Ellie went home sick; the nurse told us to sing Happy Birthday while we wash our hands; I didn't get picked to be the line leader today..."<br /><br />And today, even with so much to tell, her response wasn't any different. But here's what I did learn from her intermittently throughout the rest of the day:<br /><br /><blockquote style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;" class="gmail_quote">She was a little nervous about the school pictures. "Why were you nervous?" I asked her.<br /></blockquote><br /><blockquote style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;" class="gmail_quote">"Because I didn't want the flash to go off in my eyes."<br /></blockquote><br />Ugh. I remember that flash. I mean, I had forgotten, but then I remembered. Then came the next detail:<br /><br /><blockquote style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;" class="gmail_quote">"Did you have to sit in a chair?" I asked.<br /></blockquote> <div> </div> <blockquote style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;" class="gmail_quote">To which she replied, "Nope. I had to sit on a stool."<br /></blockquote><br />I completely forgot about THE stool. The school-picture-taking-stool! Whoa. What a flashback. Instantly, I was six years old with a home-job haircut, sitting on the stool that was so hard to sit on (and keep still!)<br /><br />I also learned (through one of her imaginary play moments) that the firefighters must've told her that she had to wait for a second turn; that there were other children who hadn't had one yet. That kind of made me smile. She couldn't wait to get her little self all over that shiny red fire truck and she was going to try again and again and again to experience it. She's not going to let an opportunity go untapped; even if its thwarted, she's at least going to give it a try.<br /><br />I was also pleased to hear that she asked where the lady firefighters were. I don't consider myself a feminist in the radical sense, but I must say, in this world, I'm psyched to have a daughter who only sees what she CAN do, not what only other people do. (Although I want her to be a firefighter about as much as I want to imagine the day she leaves home. In fact, her daddy has already made her, at three years old, SIGN an agreement that states: I will let my daddy come to college with me and sleep on my floor all the days I'm there.)<br /><br />And then, there's show and tell. Ironically, she had planned three weeks ago to bring in her fire hat and her firey red dancin' shoes for the occasion. I guess the stars were aligned with the firefighters coming for a visit and all.<br /><br />Now, as I write, she's upstairs getting a story and a song (or two, or three). Probably asking her daddy questions like, "What dangerous things did you do as a little boy?" and, "Why were the firefighter's hats <span style="font-style: italic;">yellow</span> today?"<br /><br />And when I go to bed, I'll remember how excited Ava was when she woke up in the morning. How in love with the day she was before she even knew what it would bring. She did strike it rich. She strikes it rich every single day.<br /><br />I think she's onto somethin'.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-27767336683246980792009-09-15T10:18:00.003-04:002009-09-15T19:32:57.709-04:00a morning in the lifeMonday morning began the way it usually does:<br /><ul><li>I get up at 4 am, feed Anna<br /></li><li>Sitting in a corner at Starbucks, working and drinking decaf by 5 am <br /></li><li>Walk back home at 7:50 am</li><li>Kiss husband goodbye as he leaves for work, brace for three year old's full-on jump/dive into me<br /></li><li>Three year old asks, "What do you want to do now, Mommy?"</li><li>I tell her she needs to eat breakfast, go potty, then we'll play til Anna wakes up<br /></li><li>There's a bit of protest, but that's what we do, in that order<br /></li><li>Anna wakes at 9 am. I feed her</li><li>We go to the park. I run 6 miles with the girls (figure that's about 60 pounds to push); I'm a glutton for punishment, that's all there is to it, really<br /></li><li>Then we head over to the playground<br /></li></ul>On this particular morning, the playground is wet, which means Ava's shorts (and a little bit of her underwear) are wet, too. I take off her shorts before we get into the car to head home.<br /><br />We're heading home when I remember that we need diapers. And sunscreen for vacation. Pete needs V8 juice. Fifty dollars, gone like that, in the amount of time it takes a traffic light to turn from green to yellow--about three seconds.<br /><br />I decide I better get gas before I get anything else (there goes $3o more). With a full tank, we head to Target.<br /><br />I get the girls out of the car. The parking lot, surprisingly, doesn't feel like the county fair on derby day. It's actually...calm. The sun is hot and bright and everything shiny is sucking it up and spitting it back out. We're squinting from all sides.<br /><br />Ava's hand is in my hand, other hand is occupied with Anna's increasingly heavy carrier, and we three make our way across the pavement. We get to the automatic doors at Target when this little voice at my side says, "Mommy. It's okay that I'm in my underwear." Just like that--a statement, an affirmation, nothing remotely like a question.<br /><br />"Well, look at you. You are in your underwear, aren't you?" Elmo and rainbows were everywhere.<br /><br />We don't know what else to do except laugh, so that's exactly what we do. We laugh and laugh and laugh all the way back to the car, into her wet shorts, and back into Target. Again.<br /><br />I should've just let the kid stay in her underpants for crying out loud. But this is what happens: I go into scare-tactic mode and imagine that every grown person in Target is some twisted pedophile who will find out where we live all on account that Sesame Street is currently advertised across my daughter's hiney. <br /><br />So, I scold myself the entire time we're in Target for being so ridiculous. I forget the V8 juice but pick up body soap (which, it turns out, we don't need), tell Ava that, no, she cannot have another fishing pole, I don't care if it's Spiderman, that goes for chocolate milk, too, and don't you dare rip off the straw so that I have to buy it, and anyway, that does not mean you'll be able to drink it. I quickly reclaim my gentleness and gently remind her that we're going on vacation in a couple of weeks and if we always bought what we wanted, we probably wouldn't be able to afford a vacation and a whole lot of other things, like squishy bars or ice cream. This satisfies her and we check out.<br /><br />Skip Skip Skip to my Lou, Skip Skip Skip to my Lou, Skip Skip Skip to my Lou all on a Monday mornin'.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-80037052283822230032009-09-09T18:42:00.003-04:002009-09-09T19:29:23.844-04:00a memoryWhen Pete and I were planning our wedding, we contemplated a videographer. Well, I did. Prompted by a recent viewing of an old friends' wedding (one that I wasn't able to make) on DVD.<br /><br />We had a photographer lined up, but didn't we need a videographer, too? Afterall, our children would want to watch it someday, wouldn't they? I came up with other reasons, too. Won't video catch things that I'll be sure to miss on such a busy day? And it'll capture other things that I don't ever want to forget! And then there's the thinking that you need something just because it's available, or because other people decided they needed it so you must need it to.<br /><br />We were driving somewhere, Pete and I, as I agonized over the cost, the benefit, the logistics. He tolerated it for a while, but then very calmly and simply turned to me and said, "We don't need a videographer. Some things should be remembered exactly as you remember them when they happened. Some things are just better stored in our memory than on a disc."<br /><br />In a second, I knew he was right. He was absolutely right. I did not want to remember that day through the lens of anything or anyone other than my own memory. And as for our children and what they'll miss because of it? Well, we have some fantastic photos--and every now and then, little love will crawl up onto my lap and ask me to tell her about the day we got married. So we look through the photos and I tell her my stories and then she tells me some of her own. I wonder what we both would have lost if I left it up to technology to tell the story of our wedding.<br /><br />I was reminded of this whole experience yesterday when I took her to her first day of 3 year old preschool. I walked into the doors and there were all the moms, clicking away as their baby moved from center to center to touch and feel and smell everything that was new and<br />right-sized, and primary colored. Some were crying (screaming), some were laughing, some were quietly taking it all in. And there I was, mom in her blue jeans, infant in her arm, and her 3 year old by her side. No camera.<br /><br />For a second I felt that grip of failure. It's my daughter's first day of preschool and I didn't bring a camera to capture it? What was I thinking? How did I not prepare for this?<br /><br />Then, I remembered what Pete said to me, now six years ago. I caught my breath, I turned to my little one and I took in everything about her. How she smelled, where she stood, what she wore; how her eyes glanced from station to station but how she stood, so still, at my side. Five little fingers gripped tightly around mine. A bit of worry, a bit of excitement reflected in her big blue eyes.<br /><br />I kissed the top of her head and she asked me not to go. I told her I'd be back, that I'd always be back and got her started on a puzzle. I watched her at that little table for a second and I'll never forget, ever, those moments. And if I'd had a camera, I might've captured the setting and the colors but I'd have missed every one of the details that mattered.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-41823207343426824632009-08-25T12:39:00.008-04:002009-08-25T13:10:24.255-04:00a scentThere is this line in a U2 song, "Miracle Drug"...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Freedom has a scent<br />like the top of a newborn baby's head...</span><br />I won't analyze it. I'll just say that it's true. It's really really true.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I've sat down to write about a dozen posts in the past four months.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kept coming up empty. </span><br />Partly the pressure to find the perfect words to describe a perfect being; partly the pressure to find the perfect words to convey a perfect feeling; partly the pressure to find the perfect words to share an imperfect perspective. So, I've decided that I'm done with pressure. I love writing too much. And it seems these years, I have plenty to write about.<br /><br />*<br /><br />It feels good to be back. I can't make any promises about how often. That assumes, of course, that anyone is still reading. But I am back. So stay tuned. There's lots to share.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-81434431332488191722009-07-24T14:35:00.002-04:002009-07-24T14:38:53.801-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjONqvoxaoEW0Nl3i-3avxy4daSxOSo9YtwC2urcCxIvLvz74w99FkU0S7tA-L_Ce2ybrqWmYgqFYo-wbI3sEbxO98D39cUvRJipYXfezOrcA7fMKswSpYaPeYNW9NvM0lns3HUFpEelY/s1600-h/DSC02589.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjONqvoxaoEW0Nl3i-3avxy4daSxOSo9YtwC2urcCxIvLvz74w99FkU0S7tA-L_Ce2ybrqWmYgqFYo-wbI3sEbxO98D39cUvRJipYXfezOrcA7fMKswSpYaPeYNW9NvM0lns3HUFpEelY/s320/DSC02589.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362097945592078786" border="0" /></a><br />I'm planning to be back...hopefully in August. Life for everyone is busy, I know. But here, I'm just taking a little extra time to enjoy <span style="font-style: italic;">this time</span> that will go way too fast.<br /><br />Hope you're having a great summer!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-41779221596385164972009-03-14T11:16:00.003-04:002009-03-14T11:33:54.126-04:00Almost TimeWell, there have been a lot of developments around these parts. Next month at this time, we'll be reporting some really big news--little love turns three and itty bitty love will be on its way (if not here already!)<br /><br />This last trimester hasn't been without it's trials, though. Namely, the ruptured achilles tendon on my husband's left foot. He ruptured it on Valentine's Day playing basketball--moments before I said OUT LOUD to a friend, who is also pregnant, "It just occurred to me...our husband's could get really hurt playing this game!"<br /><br />Fortunately, my mom had made a surprise visit that weekend, so she was able to look after the little one while Pete and I whittled our time away in the ER. He had surgery on February 23 and just got his cast off Monday. He won't be walking for another couple of months, though we're hoping for a "slow limp" in about one and a half.<br /><br />Needless to say, I've neglected plenty, like this blog, for instance. And sparkling clean floors, which really bugs me since the nesting urge is in full effect. Oh, and all the letter writing and phone calling that I'd planned to do before the baby came.<br /><br />A good friend suggested we take out an insurance policy with the next pregnancy, since I broke several bones in my hand and wrist with number one and now Pete and his injury with number two. Hmmm...<br /><br />At any rate, I hope you all are well. I'll try to post some pictures soon of our current state--crutches, pregnant, runny noses and all.<br /><br />Spring is coming!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-13762510184480388392009-01-26T14:58:00.006-05:002009-01-28T06:10:41.862-05:00Hiney's & Rainbows<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAa6miHA7T5hXckTUSIlKvubyCs9GZKp4tUh7nGbGmHHnjvMzGUUc0rtNgM03A1KktHU51hyphenhyphenrwdJfSNU6wO70O7ok5UWd8STk45nT_yy4_JxS2J8XMJyhH5wC-oX5NwbWMcsbKtAb21Mg/s1600-h/DSC00772.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAa6miHA7T5hXckTUSIlKvubyCs9GZKp4tUh7nGbGmHHnjvMzGUUc0rtNgM03A1KktHU51hyphenhyphenrwdJfSNU6wO70O7ok5UWd8STk45nT_yy4_JxS2J8XMJyhH5wC-oX5NwbWMcsbKtAb21Mg/s320/DSC00772.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295697473940238146" border="0" /></a>The other morning little one told me she had a dream about rainbows.<br /><br />I asked her if she slid down it (a la..<span style="font-style: italic;">say say oh playmate, come out and play with me, and bring your dolly's three, climb up my apple tree. Slide down my rainbow...</span>)<br /><br />She informed me that she, in fact, had. With all of her friends.<br /><br />That is, those who sleep in bed with her: Elmo, Big Bird, Curious George, Bob, JoJo, baby, and Otto.<br /><br />She made it a point to tell me that Shamu did NOT slide down the rainbow.<br /><br />"Why not?" I asked.<br /><br />"Because he doesn't have a hiney," she said.<br /><br />I guess the <span style="font-weight: bold;">we only slide on our hiney's</span> rule has taken effect.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"></span><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Splurge: Big Girl Bed </span><br /><br />It's on its way. The big girl bed is on its way. Is she ready for it? Without question. Is her mommy? Not a chance.<br /><br />I guess that's the conundrum of parenthood: praying for them (and teaching them how) to grow and live into responsible, independent, and loving people...while at the same time wanting them to stay little for just a little longer.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3645971156848066491.post-39130912191412745392009-01-15T14:41:00.004-05:002009-01-15T14:48:23.297-05:00tid bitsWe're up to our ears in infection around here...I thought 14 months of breast feeding was supposed to get us off the hook for those.<br /><br />Still, sleepless nights (and days) and unprovoked fears haven't stopped this little one from exercising her imagination.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scene: On the phone with her daddy, who is at work</span><br /><br />Little One: Daddy, you forgot your belt today.<br /><br />Daddy: Shoot. How am I going to keep my pants from falling down?<br /><br />(Mommy's thinking to herself about what Little One might say: tape measure, tape, something obvious in a not-so-obvious way)<br /><br />Little One: I think you need to find someone else to put in there with you. That will keep them up.<br /><br />::<br /><br />Hope 2009 is off to a great, sleep-filled start.<br /><br />::Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1