tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42154453037613273752024-03-12T19:26:01.623-06:00my unconquerable soulMandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.comBlogger425125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-79052233918693485142015-03-07T09:28:00.003-07:002015-03-07T09:28:38.976-07:00This is Their World, Where Can We Go? Talking to Kids about Pornography<div style="text-align: left;">
This week I was able to find a way to share something that I am incredibly passionate about with my friends and family on social media - the rampant disease that is pornography use and addiction in our society. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtSUQx4Lj2JAcFZNnH9F39-yy4ROxOymzSg-zGIxQTAizvPBq8wWO3Vq_1lWs5jsPPSZ3Go02IaSyg3wIvO4P1Y8DBG3oSZInbr9gzVO_BhUm5DgI6zV7KmNmJ7in0wByASfxk4yP2NQ/s1600/mandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtSUQx4Lj2JAcFZNnH9F39-yy4ROxOymzSg-zGIxQTAizvPBq8wWO3Vq_1lWs5jsPPSZ3Go02IaSyg3wIvO4P1Y8DBG3oSZInbr9gzVO_BhUm5DgI6zV7KmNmJ7in0wByASfxk4yP2NQ/s1600/mandy.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Caption: <span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">I got involved for my kids. Protecting them no longer means keeping quiet. We can no longer leave things unsaid. </span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">The average age of exposure to pornography is under 11, and getting younger every year. Teaching kids about our natural feelings of sexuality, and how exposure to pornography distorts them, will help quell curiosity and protect their impressionable minds.</span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"> </span><a data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$entity0:0" href="https://instagram.com/fightthenewdrug/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(63, 114, 155, 0.298039); color: #3f729b; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;">@fightthenewdrug</a><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$text1:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"> </span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$entity1:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">#pornkillslove</span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$text2:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"> </span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$entity2:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">#fightthenewdrug</span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$text3:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"></span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$entity3:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">#repthemovement</span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$text4:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"> </span><span data-reactid=".8.0.1.0.1.0.0.1.0.0.0:0.1.2:1.$text4:0:$entity4:0" style="color: #222222; font-family: freight-sans-pro, proxima-nova, 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;">#streetteam</span></span></td></tr>
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Before you click off of this post (because, really, who wants to talk about pornography? Those who are fans of it only seek it out in the darkest corners and loneliest spaces. Those who know its evil feel uncomfortable at the very thought of pornography; the ease with which it is accessible in our modern lives, the damage it does to its viewers, the false and sickening way it portrays sex and sexuality), let me ask you this:</div>
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<li style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://fightthenewdrug.org/get-the-facts/#sthash.GFpmtMBa.F648dfBt.dpbs" target="_blank">Did you know</a> that social scientists have estimated that the average age for initial exposure to pornography is between 8 and 11, and getting younger every year? </li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Did you know that neurologists have likened the effects of pornography on the brain to that of cocaine in a drug addict? These effects greatly increase in intensity and injury on developing, adolescent minds. </li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Did you know that child pornography is one of the fastest-growing online businesses, and is a 3 billion dollar industry? And that more and more teens are sharing homemade pornographic videos with peers, both privately and publicly, in order to seem cool and sexy? </li>
<li style="text-align: left;">Did you know that pornography use and sex trafficking are inexorably linked, and that behind the "fantasy" that pornography strives to create is slavery, drugs, disease, and rape? </li>
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The topic of sex and pornography was largely glossed over when I was young and the internet was a fairly new phenomenon, but in today's world <b>you CANNOT properly protect and educate your children without discussing pornography and the truth about sexuality*</b>. </div>
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After I posted my anti-pornography statement this week, I received a few messages from mothers of young children who asked me what I was teaching my children about pornography, and when. As a person who has spent a lot of time in the past five years learning about addiction and the recovery process, as well as a lifelong pervert (honestly, I was <b><i><u>SO</u></i></b> curious about the opposite sex and sex in general growing up that I'm frankly surprised that I am a fairly normal human being today), I have spent a great deal of energy learning about the damning effects of pornography use, and how to talk to my kids about it so they won't have to sneak Cosmopolitan magazines under their bed in order to get <i>any </i>information about sex (no matter how false it is! Honestly, have you ever flipped through a Cosmo as a normal, sexually active adult? That ish is BANANAS! B-A-N-A-N-A-S). So I thought I would share my answers to those questions publicly for anyone who has doubts about when and how to talk to their children about this modern plague. </div>
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<b>1. The New Pornographers</b></div>
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The first time I sought out a simple and honest way to answer this question, I wasn't sure how to even begin to approach it. After years of research and thought, however, I have discovered that I cannot explain pornography to my children until we have discussed sexuality. This topic makes many adults cringe (or is it just me? I have honestly had to practice saying "Penis" and "Vagina" in the mirror without looking like I was going to throw up so I could do this thing without setting off my kids' bullcrap detectors), but I promise that practice makes perfect - so start when they are young! This is the way I have explained sexuality to my girls: </div>
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<b>You were born so special. God gave you your body, and your brain, and your talents. And he made you perfectly so that, as you grow up, you will get to become a wife and a mommy just like me! And when you are a mommy, I will be your kids' GRANDMA</b> (I had to include that part - the idea of me as a grandma never ceases to amaze and delight my kids somehow. This is where I have left off so far with my four-year-old in the Pornography department. Right now I am still working with her on good touch/bad touch, body confidence and establishing the power she has over her body. More on that later)<b>! </b></div>
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The age to begin delving into the actual subject of pornography will vary - I felt good about beginning this discussion when my oldest was six. Obviously you should use your judgment and start this part when you feel your child is ready (don't wait until YOU are ready for them to be ready, or you may never start! These talks take courage, period).</div>
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<b>God also gave you a very powerful gift - the gift of attraction. This can come as a feeling in your body, or just powerful thoughts. It makes you want to love and kiss and touch and maybe someday marry another person. This attraction can especially come when you look at someone or a picture of someone whom your eyes and brain and body like. And it is such a blessing! Attraction happens to boys and girls and makes it so someday you can get married and have babies and create a family. </b></div>
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<b>But Satan has a plan to take you away from the life God wants you to have - he wants to use this powerful gift of attraction against you. Have you ever heard of pornography? Pornography is an image or video of people who are meant to confuse your brain and body into feeling attraction. And it is a LIE! It is Satan's way of taking the beautiful gift God has given you, the one that will someday make you a wife and mommy, and using it to hurt you. Sometimes pornography is one person without any clothes on, and sometimes it is many people looking at or touching each other. Looking at pornography will hurt your body and your spirit. It isn't your fault that you are attracted to these images - God made you with a strong attraction to other people and their bodies. I just want you to know that pornography is a lie made to confuse you, and that you have to be careful how you use the powerful gift of attraction/sexuality that you have been given. There is going to come a day when you see pornography, so I want you to know what it is when you see it so we can talk about it. </b></div>
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I then have gone through a list of ways and places that my child might run into pornography, and what to do when it happens. </div>
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That is it - the bare bones of the pornography discussions that I have had with my kids so far. And, yes, I definitely meant to say DISCUSSIONS, plural. When we drive down the road and see an advertisement for lingerie, we talk about pornography. When someone says or does something lewd on the television, we talk about pornography. I want the word and its meaning to become something real to my children, so that WHEN they encounter it (and if you believe that it is an IF and not a WHEN, then, I'm sorry, but you're kidding yourself), they will not be confused and excited. They will be able to call it what it is, skip the titillation, and instead be able to walk away. AND they will know without a doubt that they can come home and talk to me about it. Because Mom NEVER SHUTS UP about pornography! I never want shame to be a part of the conversation. I don't want them to feel ashamed of their desires, their bodies, or the things they see or mistakes they make. I just want them to be able to call it what it is. </div>
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<b>2. Body Talk</b></div>
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I don't believe there is a magic age for teaching kids about sex (I still haven't discussed the actual mechanics of sex with my oldest. We have talked about sex, but only in general terms), but body talks should, in my opinion, start young and be frequent. Also, these talks should be brief. It doesn't need to be (read: it SHOULDN'T be) a lengthy or uncomfortable sermon on modesty and private parts! It should become a part of your every day dialogue. i.e. When your daughter puts her arms around her brother in WinCo and he squeals like a pig, you can gently say, "That's his body. Please listen and respect him when he tells you 'No'." Or when that same daughter is pointing at her brother's penis in the bathtub and laughing, you can say, "What's so funny? That's just Finn's penis. You have a vagina and you don't see him laughing at you!"</div>
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When my son started reaching down and touching his junk while I changed his diaper, I told him the name for what he was holding. Now he cheerfully walks around my house calling things "PEE-DIS", and I am perfectly okay with that. </div>
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When he is closer to three, as I did with his sisters, I will start to talk to him about how his body is great and amazing and a gift from his Father in Heaven, but that it is private, and all bodies are private. We will discuss how boy and girl private parts are different, how they are similar, and that, while nudity is okay in our home it is absolutely not okay outside of it or on the TV or computer. This is when I will let him know that if he ever sees a naked body outside of our home, he should tell me immediately. </div>
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This age is also when I start checking out<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Your-Belongs-Cornelia-Maude-Spelman/dp/0807594733" target="_blank"> this book</a> from the library a few times a year. There are many like it out there, but I like how simple and easy this one is. It lays the foundation for good touch/bad touch basics and teaches children that they are allowed to say no if they don't want to be touched in any given moment. </div>
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Until my children are closer to puberty and seem less comfortable being mostly naked all over my house (that day has to come eventually, right?), I am not worried about them sharing the bathtub or changing time. Hopefully I will get a sense for when to transition through the coming phases (I assume that some of these shifts will be quite subtle, while others will be more obvious, as was the moment when it became clear that my oldest child was too cognizant to bathe with daddy any longer; she looked up at my husband mid-shower and said "Daddy, your private is <i>yucky</i>" with an evil grin on her face) as I continue to have an open dialogue with my kids about sex, sexuality, and pornography. </div>
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Please share your thoughts and techniques with me if you are comfortable doing so - heaven knows I am no expert! I am just a mom who is passionate about having these difficult discussions with my children in order to help them navigate this crazy, messed up world we are passing on to them. I have read books and articles and news stories on this topic, and the more I learn the more I feel that the only way I can help them become sexually healthy adults is to be their confidante and sounding board as they mature. </div>
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Sharing ideas about these topics isn't easy for many of us, especially those of us who had what one friend so lovingly called "the traditional, Puritanical Mormon upbringing" that I have had. But sex and sexuality are natural and healthy and beautiful, and I never want my children to believe otherwise.</div>
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And if you are not currently a mother or want to do more to learn about/fight against pornography in our world, check out <a href="http://www.fightthenewdrug.org./">www.fightthenewdrug.org.</a> </div>
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More Fun Links: </div>
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<a href="http://www.upworthy.com/parents-let-their-kids-know-about-how-vaginas-and-penises-work?c=ufb2" target="_blank">Silly Sex Talk Video</a> </div>
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<a href="http://www.mormonchannel.org/blog/post/his-grace-there-is-always-hope?cid=social_20150306_41607096&adbid=10153184714372450&adbpl=fb&adbpr=94574597449" target="_blank">Hope for Addicts</a></div>
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<a href="http://national.deseretnews.com/article/2129/how-to-talk-to-your-kids-about-porn.html" target="_blank">Kids Need The Pornography Talk</a> </div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Good-Pictures-Bad-Porn-Proofing-Todays/dp/0615927335" target="_blank">Good Pictures, Bad Pictures Book</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>*<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Note: Because of my LDS faith, I will be discussing the truth about sexuality in religious terms. However, whether you believe in God or not, this post still applies to you and the children in your life! Find your own way to bring it up and don't shut up about it until your kids are old or you are dead. </span></b></span></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-43268118407477920402015-01-14T14:26:00.003-07:002015-01-14T14:35:18.645-07:00[Good] Enough Already!<div style="text-align: center;">
You guys. I was looking through my blog for the first time in FOREVER (insert Frozen Sing-Along here) and I found this post that I wrote almost exactly a year ago but never posted. I remember why I didn't post it. It felt preachy and intense and even silly, since I hadn't posted on my blog in so long. Who is even reading this now, after years of neglect? I don't know. And today I don't care.<br />
(JUST KIDDING READER!! I LOVE YOU! COME BACK TO ME!!!! I'LL NEVER LEAVE YOU AGAIN, PROMISE!!!)<br />
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...well, there goes my dignity! Oh, right. Never had any. Well, good. That makes this easier.<br />
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I re-read this un-posted post today, and I'm so glad I did. I'm posting it now just for me, because I needed to read it today. I hope you like it. Or at least don't hate me for getting my Big Girl voice on for a minute.<br />
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______________written 1.22.14____________<br />
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Today I was driven to the blog for the first time in far too long, and it wasn't because I am dying to share pictures and stories of my insanely adorable (and sometimes just plain insane) children or tell you all about our big move back to Idaho or holiday updates or even my yearly New Years Resolution stuff. </div>
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Today I got mad because, for the five hundredth time this year so far, I heard someone refer to another person as a<b> "good mom"</b>. </div>
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Why, after months of blogospheric oblivion would this phrase drive me online? </div>
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Because enough is enough. <br />
Ladies, I'm talking to you. </div>
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We live in a world of scarcity, it's true. Every woman I know wakes up and begins running the numbers...</div>
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"Shoot, I didn't get <i>enough</i> sleep."</div>
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"I don't have <i>enough</i> time."</div>
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"Is there <i>enough</i> money?"</div>
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"I don't look good <i>enough</i> to be out in public." </div>
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"I'm not good <i>enough</i>. I'm not smart <i>enough</i>. And, gosh darnit, people don't like me <i>enough</i>."</div>
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With all of the comparisons we put ourselves up against every day, whether it be our neighbor who has the same amount of kids we do and a husband who works the same hours yet <i>she</i> always seems to be put together and <i>you </i>always feel one toddler tantrum away from driving your minivan off of a cliff a la Thelma and Louise, or the hundreds of images and messages we see everyday online from friends, celebrities, media, etc. that seem to whisper (and sometimes, shout), "Look at me. I'm better than you. I have it together. I still fit in my size two jeans. I never yell at my kids. My sweet children's lips have never tasted Kraft macaroni and cheese. Young Winston and Arabella took violin lessons before they learned to walk and never, ever pooped out of their diapers and up their backs and onto my designer jeans. I mean, can you even <i>imagine</i>?!" </div>
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Here's the truth.</div>
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There are no "good" parents and "bad" parents. </div>
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Yes, there are awful, despicable people who abuse, neglect, under-nourish and mistreat their children. That is a sad, sickening fact. </div>
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But these parents are <i>ABUSIVE</i>. </div>
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And, no, it is not abusive to feed your kids a non-organic apple or let them run around the house in their underwear or tell them "no" 100 times a day.</div>
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As for the rest of us non-abusive parents, we are all. just. PARENTS. </div>
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Even if some days you turn on Nickelodeon and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, and don't <strike>blow dry</strike> <strike>wash</strike> <strike>brush</strike> touch your hair, </div>
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YOU. ARE. <i>ENOUGH</i>. </div>
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You are enough every day that you are trying to be better than you were the day before - win, lose, or draw. </div>
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You are enough if you have parenting goals, even if every morning starts with, "I will NOT lose my temper at my children today!" and ends with </div>
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"<b>GOOOOOOOOO TOOOOOO BEEEEEEED</b>... <span style="font-size: large;"><i><b> </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>OR <span style="font-size: x-large;">ELSE</span>!!</b></i></span>" </div>
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You are enough if you are trying to notice your children, their hopes and fears, and remain close to them through their transitions and changes. </div>
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You are enough if you have a three year old that still refuses to use the potty, so you are back to diapers for the <i>fourth</i> time because it's her body and not yours and you don't control when and where she pees no matter how hard you try! ...At least that's what I've been trying to tell myself for the last week.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioq6ImWSg3gAMXzKgSDtczLOeDgSb_Yez7KHApxyEdH0QNjSKa3XSGsozO7U6g_XUkoFDMwYbtMDErSgLL1TE_qjL7WhbyGeNWEsh1WSYMlfAKELqm3d0jc_StI4osLkDKWALbBtc_Zns/s1600/MothersDay.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioq6ImWSg3gAMXzKgSDtczLOeDgSb_Yez7KHApxyEdH0QNjSKa3XSGsozO7U6g_XUkoFDMwYbtMDErSgLL1TE_qjL7WhbyGeNWEsh1WSYMlfAKELqm3d0jc_StI4osLkDKWALbBtc_Zns/s1600/MothersDay.png" height="320" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Borrowed (stolen) from <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/09/are-you-a-good-mother_n_5295998.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This jam goes out to all of my non-mommy friends, too, who worry about
what others think or wish that things could be different or are tired of
feeling guilty for whatever reason. Guess what? You are enough, with or
without kids, in your skinny or fat jeans, with six million friends or
just three good ones. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The labeling and put-downs and endless, endless competition has got to stop! These labels just tear us down, collectively, and weaken us. We are women. Whether or not you have children, we are a part of the most influential group in the world. We run the world (girls!). Instead of looking at a picture of Jessica taking her son to the park on Instagram and thinking, "Ugh Jessica you freaking show off! Crap. I can't remember the last time I took my kid to the park. I suck." let's try thinking "Go Jessica's kid! You slide down that slide with your bad self!" or whatever your inner monologue sounds like. Apparently today mine is one Jive Turkey. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What if we embraced our differences, loved ourselves, and made motherhood a community that didn't allow comparisons and labels? Being called a <i>Good Mom</i> isn't going to mean anything in twenty years. Why? Because there is no way to measure it! What is <i>good </i>to you is someone else's mediocre (have you ever attempted a Martha Stewart craft that wound up looking like it was made by a person with hooks for hands? Then you will know what I am talking about). Also, you CANNOT control your kids. I repeat: YOU CANNOT CONTROL YOUR KIDS. You control the consequences of their actions when they are young. You control what they are taught and how they live, but you cannot take their agency away forever. If you want a measure of a <i>good mom</i> do you look at who logged the most hours? Or was the nicest? Or gave the most punishments? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Your kids are going to be adults someday and you need to impart to them the knowledge they need to succeed. Whether facebook called you a <i>good mom </i>will not matter in the long run. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You know what will? Whether your kids enjoy their relationship with you. The number of hugs and kisses and <i>I love you</i>'s given in a day, a week, a year. Whether you kept trying, even when things sucked. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-57842530450529607572014-12-30T10:08:00.000-07:002014-12-30T10:08:21.255-07:00Merry Christmas and All That<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is a copy of our family's Christmas Letter/Card this year. Just in case you were interested. And if you weren't, well...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
move along. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll wait...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe frameborder="0" height="288px" src="https://onedrive.live.com/embed?cid=56F740D667DB0CFE&resid=56F740D667DB0CFE%21158&authkey=ACybcSjm98wsNak&em=2&wdStartOn=1" width="476px">This is an embedded <a target='_blank' href='http://office.com'>Microsoft Office</a> document, powered by <a target='_blank' href='http://office.com/webapps'>Office Online</a>.</iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t really have time to come up with a cute Family
Christmas Card this year, so I found a form-letter online that I’m going to use
to send you Christmas Greetings from the Tietjen Family. I have never really
done this before, so please bear with me a moment…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Greeting,]
</span>–nailed it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Open
by warmly expressing interest in audience’s past year, followed by assuming
their interest in your family’s current happenings.] </span>–What he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Begin
listing family members one-by-one, cataloging accomplishments, major occurrences,
and the <b>High Point</b> of each person’s
year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">Editor’s
Note: Be sure to leave out embarrassing and inconsequential details, as making
your family seem ordinary and less-than-perfect will surely turn your reader
off. There is nothing so unattractive as one’s humanity showing.] </span>…okay…
that’s a bit harsh. Oh well, that should be easy?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Klayton</span></b>:
K is just about to finish his last semester as an undergraduate with a major in
History, a minor in French, and a glare that will melt the flesh off of your
face à la Indiana Jones’s last crusade if you dare ask him what he plans to do
with such a useless degree. He has spent a particularly intense fall semester
as a full time student taking 22 credit hours while working three jobs and
spending two months of his “free time” coordinating the sale of his property
management business, a six-year-old venture that he is not too terribly sad to
see the back of. His application letters to graduate schools are all “in the
mail”, so to speak, and he is eagerly awaiting the Golden Ticket to four more
years of college that one of these institutions of higher learning is sure to
offer him. Preferably attached to a bar of chocolate, but we will take what we
get. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">High Points</span></b>:
Making the Dean’s List for all three semesters of school he attended in 2014
(apparently in college being on the Dean’s List is a good thing) and
binge-watching TV shows on Netflix much-too-late into the night with Mandy (see
below).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Mandy</span></b>: Never one to waste an opportunity, Mandy has
spent much of the past year having an elaborate nervous breakdown due to
stress, lack of sleep, and dangerously high amounts of caffeine intake (mostly
intravenously and/or via fistfuls of chocolate chips taken on the hour, every
hour). She, too, has worked multiple jobs this year, including office manager
(see extinct property management business), online content author, and,
recently, a seasonal retail worker at her local Kohl’s. Oh, and she also mothers
three children (see below) and even occasionally glimpses her spouse
(above). Mandy placed first in her age
group in a 10K this summer, which enabled her to strut around like she was cool
for a good forty-five minutes, until she accidentally strutted past a mirror.
Mandy turned thirty last month and decided to celebrate with an elaborate big
screen viewing of <i>The Goonies</i>,
inarguably the greatest film of her or any generation. She also was recently called to be the Primary
Chorister at church, a job that she is intensely excited about but trying
really hard to play it cool so just don’t blow it for her, okay?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">High Points</span></b>:
Receiving her Bachelor’s Degree (English Literature – don’t even say it.
Serious side effects of <i>her</i> glare include
facial-flesh-melting <i>AND</i> low sperm
count) in the mail and throwing elaborate parties for any and every occasion
she could think of (although, oddly, not for said college graduation). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Avery</span></b>:
Having turned seven in May, Avery spends most of her time planning her upcoming
marriage (I won’t embarrass her by naming the groom-to-be, but if we could go a
day without discussing her eventual nuptials I would be so, so pleased), discovering
how the world works and then passing on the info to her ever-attentive little
sister. Avery is enjoying school immensely (except for homework, but that’s not
technically school and anyway no one <i>ever</i>
cares for homework… so I guess all of this really goes without saying),
especially recess (Duh) and reading time. Avery has discovered her love of books
this year with the help of friends like Junie B. Jones and Roald Dahl (and the
fact that Mom pays her $1 for every chapter book she reads. When you’re seven,
$1/book is hitting pay dirt, hard). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">High Points</span></b>:
Her elaborate BYO Stuffed Animal birthday extravaganza at our local zoo,
beginning gymnastics classes with a friend, and our road trips to Washington,
Oregon, Nevada, Utah, Arizona and South Dakota where she got to see
sorely-missed friends, family, and Mt. Rushmore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Carter</span></b>:
If you took all of the energy emitted by the sun in a given moment and infused
it into a firecracker which you then shoved up a unicorn’s butt, you would have
a portion of Carter’s explosive, sparkly, and warm personality. Carter’s
perfect day looks something like this: Wake up. Eat breakfast (Immediately. No
seriously. Now. Mom. Is breakfast ready yet? I’m hungry. Mom….) Have a play
date with her best (“best best best best”) friend. Eat lunch. Take a
seventy-five minute bath. Make Finn cry by giving him one (ten) too many hugs.
Hang on her big sister’s every word. Sing fifty-five songs (forty of which are
Carter Originals; the others are from Frozen, obvs). Eat dinner (two bites).
Eat dessert (two helpings, please). Go to bed (code for make Big Sister giggle <i>late</i> into the night). Repeat. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">High Points</span></b>:
Her Unicorn-themed forth birthday party, every time she got to see Brooklyn and
Xavery, playing soccer and beginning gymnastics, and anytime the camera was on
her (girl can mug for a photo like no one’s business). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Finn</span></b>:
This year Finn went from sleeping more than he was awake to
“Holy-crap-will-you-ever-go-to-sleep-?-Please-I-am-begging-you-stop-climing-into-everything-!-Oh-no-,-he-fell-down-again-.-Finn-please-get-down-put-it-down-sit-down-you’re-grounded!!!”
This year Finn taught his parents that little boys truly are different than
little girls in more than just the diaper department. Finn loves: saying hi to
strangers, giving high fives, saying “CHEESE!” for the camera, throwing
everything on the ground, taking baths, being INTENSELY adorable and <b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">climb-ing-on-to-ev-ery-thing</span></b>. Finn dislikes:
nursery, being told “NO!” and any food that isn’t candy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">High Points</span></b>:
One word: Halloween. Finn figured out the racket that is Halloween in about
four seconds, flat. After that he would waddle up to each door without help
(mom and dad just slowed him down), hold out his pumpkin-shaped Halloween bag,
say “TRIHH-TREEEE” (roughly translated- Trick or Treat), smile, receive the
forth-coming compliments from the adoring masses as well as his (well-deserved)
handful of candy, say “TAAY TUUU” (thank you) and shout “HAAH HAOWEE!!” (Happy
Halloween. Or, more likely, “See you, Suckas!!”) over his shoulder as he
toddled back to his stroller. He would then imperiously ride to the next
driveway, where he would repeat the process. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Once
you have given way too much information on each family member, insert more
formalities about wishing readers health, wealth, happiness and all of that
other nonsense here.]</span> Riiiight… Listen, this thing is getting way too long.
No one is still reading at this point, anyway. I’ll just skip this part. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Close
with something clever and memorable.]</span> Ummm Thanks for, like, reading and
stuff? …I really hope I’m filling this thing out correctly… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Expression
of Fondness,]</span> Peace out, you guys!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">[Your
Family’s Name Here]</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Brush Script MT"; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The
Tietjen Family <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-84622629807494504352013-10-28T09:42:00.001-06:002013-10-28T09:42:24.888-06:00morning wisdom: the carter edition<div style="text-align: center;">
"Dada, sometimes your panties is inside-out.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes they inside-in. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My panties is inside-in.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
[Pulls out wedgie]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now they inside-out."</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3ISz9AbYDrW5H6weEkSEFRXAKKBokc0SCQ2fzGE-oo8PmY4MGiQKdyu2JVDl7AsqXLn9fhLeovrJxrcAD7TsNSo41SCq2Yji-5KZxdH8BWAKON139s7GJVol56hO86pxNMcCq_S7Mmo/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3ISz9AbYDrW5H6weEkSEFRXAKKBokc0SCQ2fzGE-oo8PmY4MGiQKdyu2JVDl7AsqXLn9fhLeovrJxrcAD7TsNSo41SCq2Yji-5KZxdH8BWAKON139s7GJVol56hO86pxNMcCq_S7Mmo/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cupcake Carter in her Halloween Costume 10.13</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-17205909631333318362013-09-26T21:39:00.000-06:002013-09-26T21:40:51.913-06:00pudge fudge nudge budge sludge judge grudge trudge <div style="text-align: center;">
This little man is blowing my mind/melting my heart too, too much lately. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which, really, only leaves, like, a spleen and liver and stuff...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let's just say I'm not 100% most of the time. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So you'll please forgive me if I, like, forget your name or trip over aboslutely nothing. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I <i>am</i> a walking Medical Miracle, after all. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh6BV-CSHE-r5R1paaPSu5JYYG2pXkoWepGGorN58O8iLcxdLb6WBBuGjBJcS4zGtkeq320HsLG6A0fc-3zytIDGMPAs6EzLpPVtESDnZBBbQnmhSYzQggDJKsBRxfVvCkODnjNKQtnY/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh6BV-CSHE-r5R1paaPSu5JYYG2pXkoWepGGorN58O8iLcxdLb6WBBuGjBJcS4zGtkeq320HsLG6A0fc-3zytIDGMPAs6EzLpPVtESDnZBBbQnmhSYzQggDJKsBRxfVvCkODnjNKQtnY/s400/photo+(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That face! That pudge! I'm a goner. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This guy is rolling, scooting on his belly, smiling and laughing, sleeping through the night, and winning <b>Biggest and Best Owl Eyes </b>awards the whole world over. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And just last night he <i>discovered his toes</i>. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>SWOON.</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Honestly, I couldn't possibly love him more. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Because he's changing so quickly, I find myself anxious to spend all of his waking hours staring at him.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Usually while doing this, I secretly wish that Avery's nightly prayer ("And please bless that Finn will stop
growing and stay little and cute forever.") would come true.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQL2iw_Nm0PfG_AXijMTOfPaOes88rkMjr_4jq9F4Fp9W0KYVpvBAMx-mUv73yE4X1s03FtiMfJDRtfFJi3JorQrc4J7XNhLNHMY8VlHa8HPN3QW18XkHT_6SI952b_cr090nT6vkgko/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQL2iw_Nm0PfG_AXijMTOfPaOes88rkMjr_4jq9F4Fp9W0KYVpvBAMx-mUv73yE4X1s03FtiMfJDRtfFJi3JorQrc4J7XNhLNHMY8VlHa8HPN3QW18XkHT_6SI952b_cr090nT6vkgko/s320/photo+5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll eat you up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...Just kidding. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That would be tragic. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Because, however fun it is to have this teensy roly-poly-pudgy-wudgy guy in my life, I can't wait to see how he will change and grow tomorrow. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the next day. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You know, as long as looking at his adorable cheeks doesn't, like, collapse my lungs next. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-42387555411176216612013-09-03T11:04:00.002-06:002013-09-03T11:04:58.426-06:00first aid in the first grade<div style="text-align: center;">
Call a medic. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My heart is broken. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The summer has flown by and my baby is in the first grade. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IuI05Z9KZEFPWuaTGk8UYWWXVS-7toH06Pmq78PED3-tEc2OtpuYKgDcReUyNGl2Cn_yMEkGk1IgkpHxEIj9XTNZntSkX44lC9fXIxq0F5DKC3BRxlQzBRRkHtM3cvTC7YZkbv2Nz74/s1600/IMG_0937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IuI05Z9KZEFPWuaTGk8UYWWXVS-7toH06Pmq78PED3-tEc2OtpuYKgDcReUyNGl2Cn_yMEkGk1IgkpHxEIj9XTNZntSkX44lC9fXIxq0F5DKC3BRxlQzBRRkHtM3cvTC7YZkbv2Nz74/s320/IMG_0937.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And isn't she the cutest ever? She picked out every single thing from her leopard leggings to her fox earrings. And she made me straighten her hair even though it's rainy and humid which equals frizzzzz. She is the most beautiful thing around. Darn it- I'm pretty sure this caption stopped being a caption a long time ago. It is now officially a short story. Not even a good one. But let me skip to the end... Blah blah blah and then you find out that The Lottery is a drawing to decide who will be stoned to death in the village square.*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which means she is gone. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
All. Day. Long. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And I miss her already. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*If you didn't get the joke in my caption, then congratulations! You are not a huge nerd. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">...Also, I apologize, but I may have just ruined the ending of one of America's greatest short stories for you - <a href="http://sites.middlebury.edu/individualandthesociety/files/2010/09/jackson_lottery.pdf" target="_blank">The Lottery by Shirley Jackson</a>. </span></div>
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Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-59656952656343224982013-08-16T00:27:00.001-06:002013-08-18T17:40:52.585-06:00if I could turn back timeToday was another of those days when I felt like Finn was growing leaps and bounds before my incredulous eyes.<br />
All at once he felt a little heavier, a bit longer. He talked more, touched more, was more patient with the ever "loving" (i.e. mauling) Carter. He even noticed when K got home from work, tracking his every movement and smile hugely at him for fifteen minutes straight.<br />
<br />
I mean, I know that he is always changing, but some days his growth seems to hit fast-forward. And every single time it leaves me reeling (and pathetically humming <br />
<i>Slipping Through My Fingers</i> to myself). <br />
<br />
How many more days and weeks do I have before he's crawling out of my reach? <br />
How many more times will I get to scoop him up in my arms and sing to him (without spraining something and/or being told, "Stop! You're embarrassing me," that is)? <br />
How many more times can I get away with plastering Instagram with his sweet cheeks before I'm lynched by an angry mob of my peers? <br />
<br />
Not enough.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=13/08/15/2647.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/13/08/15/s_2647.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
Tonight I teared up (That's right, I'm a crier. And I'm not ashamed! ...much) as I snagged him for a late-night feeding, running over with gratitude to be a mom: to be his mom and Avery's mom and Carter's mom. <br />
<br />
The life of a mother with small children is so bleepety-bleeping frustrating and tiring too often. <br />
But nothing, <i>nothing</i>, could outrun, outweigh or outdo the joy of being Mom. <br />
<br />
But, Time (Do you mind if I call you Time?), listen. If you could slow down just a little... Just so I have these days where I glimpse his not-too-distant future (the one where he's riding his bike up and down the street one day and getting married and starting a family of his own the next) a little less often... Well, then maybe I could skip the panic attacks (and sappy <i>Abba</i>-inspired montages) and enjoy life more fully. <br />
<br />
...some days that just feels impossible. <br />
<br />
Yesterday at Finn's four moth check up, the doctor said two little words that I never before imagined would strike such poignant fear in my heart: Solid Foods. <br />
<br />
My throat felt dry and I nearly shouted at the poor doctor with a frightening look in my eye (judging by his slightly-terrified reaction): "I'm not ready!!"<br />
<br />
How have we come to this little milestone, I ask you?<br />
<br />
And why did it freak me out so badly?<br />
<br />
Most importantly, where has Time gone?!<br />
<br />
...turns out that Time is a real jerk.<br />
<br />
So I guess it really is up to me to be the one to slow down life, put down distractions, and get down with my little ones while they're still little. <br />
<br />
And while they're still mine. <br />
<br />
Today there's Time enough for that. <br />
<br />
<br />
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />
<br />Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-10375852438164926142013-08-05T01:40:00.000-06:002013-08-05T02:06:37.626-06:00R.E.M. and My Apocalypse<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Please read this post knowing that until fairly recently, I thought any saying ever put up on a Pinterest board with a rippling pond in the background or on a motivational poster with a picture of a kitty cat hanging on by his <i>wittwe cwaws</i> was pure and utter garbage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> I am very, very ashamed to say that I also believed that anything anyone got in life, they probably deserved. I had a limited, black and white perspective on life, and that included on myself. I was never, ever <i>anything</i> enough - smart, funny, pretty, interesting, worthwhile - not ever. An internal dialogue of criticism and scarcity is something that I continue to struggle with. But today I want to share some pretty serious things that are on my mind -- Please tune in again next time if you want to skip the Self Help portion of this station and get back to the regularly scheduled Looney Tunes reruns that are my usual fare.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Nj9dcH0SjmchZLZxnyZjvIGz7TSryr3Pv4Hqt9ax9iTc3hCT5rHVxrVgmnMGoHki4zgLKzdsCV0cJrfdr4Tmq675GKoR57mZiOxdNJJ03vkfftIjkTKlusjfrx6yrzRFPvylfVbYsnE/s1600/hang+in+there.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Nj9dcH0SjmchZLZxnyZjvIGz7TSryr3Pv4Hqt9ax9iTc3hCT5rHVxrVgmnMGoHki4zgLKzdsCV0cJrfdr4Tmq675GKoR57mZiOxdNJJ03vkfftIjkTKlusjfrx6yrzRFPvylfVbYsnE/s1600/hang+in+there.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I remember this wittwe kitty when I'm feewing bwue. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Today marks the three year anniversary of the day that my life fell apart. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Do normal people celebrate such macabre milestones?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Huh. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh well. I certainly never claimed to be normal. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">This date will be forever black in my calendar- a day I probably should reserve for mourning. Or crying. Or at least eating my weight in Ben and Jerry's. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> But, instead, here's how I [try to] see it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Our lives are a battle for control.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We battle to control ourselves, the people around us, and the elements. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Two out of three are a complete lost cause. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But still, we try. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">...let me back up a little bit...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> <a href="http://www.brenebrown.com/" target="_blank"><span class="st">Brené </span> Brown</a>, famous (and absolutely brilliant and wonderful) <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame.html" target="_blank">TED speaker</a>, author, and shame researcher, writes about living a whole-hearted life from the perspective of the enlightenment she found through a mid-life spiritual awakening (i.e. nervous breakdown).</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I can definitely relate. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Three years ago demons I didn't know existed popped out of the woodwork of the life I had built to destroy every ounce of peace that I had. It left me without appetite for days, broken and shaking, and on my knees begging for mercy and relief in endless, pleading prayers. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm sorry for the discomfort of this retelling. And the lack of specific detail given. Unfortunately judgment is so easy -- at least it's something I struggle with -- and I would hate to share my very real, raw truth with someone I wasn't looking in the eye. In my experience, though, we each have wounds concealed, and so I hope acknowledging mine without divulging exactly where I was tripped up and exactly how much blood I lost will suffice. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We all know and love and possibly
are people who have encountered infertility, marital problems, struggles
with faith, terrifying medical emergencies, loneliness, death,
addiction, illness, and countless other trials where life just doesn't
quite go to plan. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I have never been quick on my feet when it comes to my plans going awry. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But working through the fallout of my dark day has meant making peace with my control
issues.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The serenity prayer goes something like, "God give me the
strength to <span class="st">accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." </span></span><br />
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;">Stuff like this, as well as the oft-overused "One day at a time", <i>definitely </i>used to sound unbearably cheesy to me, but I now understand what they are getting at and how the spirit of these mantras applies to my life. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTI6LecWxXdl3ErOkDU4SD91LmccQ_5oHY8L_8U1bUzPvs8WDwQMyTjF223HKV1gKbklj7YvcWU426JJcT_UTmpNDtE8N4b1fmbHRl9PEWMpV-YEOM0D3coqwoI4RZLfYrD0qmdRb7M7g/s1600/4f1293d4ef7a9ce39708a9ecc27ddb55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTI6LecWxXdl3ErOkDU4SD91LmccQ_5oHY8L_8U1bUzPvs8WDwQMyTjF223HKV1gKbklj7YvcWU426JJcT_UTmpNDtE8N4b1fmbHRl9PEWMpV-YEOM0D3coqwoI4RZLfYrD0qmdRb7M7g/s320/4f1293d4ef7a9ce39708a9ecc27ddb55.jpg" width="223" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lame! But true.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <span class="st">Everything about me is just a little bit different than it was three years ago. Not because we're all always changing, which is true, but because my faith has been tested and my eyes have been opened to the fact that <i>Everybody Hurts</i> (sing along with me... "sometimes" ...Stuck in your head now, aint it?). The things that hurt us are different but the instinctive reactions are the same: close up, shut off, try to make it stop, fill gaps with anything and everything we can, avoid, lash out... </span></span><br />
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;">Fight or flight is not just for the unwitting prey of jungle cats, my friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;">But the only real solution is to give up control. And since no one on earth is perfect, that means that no one is trustworthy enough to be given control. That's where I have found the real life application of the Atonement of Jesus Christ in my life. Now, the Atonement is something that I have heard and read and studied and prayed and thought about my whole life, but I know that I never really understood what it meant until I was finally given a personal experience that I couldn't survive alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;">As I struggled for months with my disaster fallout, reading one sentence finally clicked everything together in my mind and allowed me to piece together the answer to all of my questions: How am I supposed to let go of control? How can I ever have trust - for myself or my loved ones or my future? How can I keep from becoming so broken ever, ever again? Will I ever be whole? </span><br />
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="st" style="font-size: small;">This was the sentence: "</span><span style="font-size: small;">The love of God, yours for Him and His for you, will help you form one relationship to which you can give yourself without reservation."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">That was it - the key to beginning to unlock the answers to my aching, up-at-night, tear-soaked-pillow questions. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I have always believed these the following: God is perfect. He made me. He loves me. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And because those things are true, I don't have to worry about protecting myself by fighting with or fleeing from pain and disappointment. I don't have to worry about screwing up everything. I don't have to worry about the choices of others hurting me. I don't have to be afraid of my future, whatever it may bring. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I just have to take one day at a time living my life, trying my best, choosing the best things I can, and trusting that God will take care of the rest. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> Because, really, I have no other choice. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Trust me, if I could, I would snatch up the Life Steering Wheel for myself and everyone around me in a heartbeat! I would be so darn good at fixing other people's problems and making other people's choices!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Or so I'd like to think. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> But I only can control me- my choices, my reactions, the things I fill my life with. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">And that's where the <i>one day at a time </i>part kicks in. Every day as I pray I promise to give control to God and ask for help and peace in return. So far, I have been blessed beyond reason, even though my life is far from perfect. </span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Uc1kAgTKwgeUlxNWfb2DAq6zGb2oMfWNZAUrzwm6qyS3OVC4Zf2HvY6wHjijRhCEmSbmGOrH0asj2A3VRwRyuDf3zq4sHXOelf6SBwAV-QE-SW0fvnyefTNEVPnwF6PA0DHu_sR2A8/s1600/8eab0249a761d81b9a941ab646e1ed7e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4Uc1kAgTKwgeUlxNWfb2DAq6zGb2oMfWNZAUrzwm6qyS3OVC4Zf2HvY6wHjijRhCEmSbmGOrH0asj2A3VRwRyuDf3zq4sHXOelf6SBwAV-QE-SW0fvnyefTNEVPnwF6PA0DHu_sR2A8/s400/8eab0249a761d81b9a941ab646e1ed7e.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A new kind of Serenity Prayer.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Most of us will have one day, or perhaps many (but gosh, I hope not) days in our lives that level our world. Fragile buildings of relationships, trust, confidence, happiness, safety- all can be destroyed without so much as a by your leave. And in those moments we will feel alone and covered in dust, scrapes, and probably more than a little asbestos, with the choice to pick up the salvageable pieces, dust ourselves off and rebuild, or lay down, take a deep, satisfyingly carcinogenic breath, and die.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I just want you to know that </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">with Christ, there is always, always, <i>always</i> hope. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> And, to me, there is nothing cheesy about that.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It feels as though my life revolves around the events of my black day three years ago. Although a large part of me would be glad to have the power to erase that day from my and your and every calendar, I have to admit that the End of My World as I Knew It ([and I Feel Fine]... now try getting <i>that</i> song out of your head!) became the foundation upon which I am, with the help and strength that my faith brings, rebuilding everything I can. And I believe I am building it all a little stronger, a little brighter, a little taller. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My buildings all still have weak spots - glaring vulnerabilities that I try to embrace or crappy craftsmanship that I have marked for remodel if only I ever get the time/patience/balls. There are buildings that I have rebuilt slowly, with fear of collapse and a vivid replay of the awful destruction I have already survived in every brick and beam. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">But I kept building.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Because I don't have to be afraid of collapse. I don't have to feel the pain from old scars.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I just have to choose to trust God. I have to do the best I can today, and hang onto the knowledge that God is aware of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Every day. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">One day at a time. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">P.S. To order your own motivational t-shirt (the ones that I print in my mom's basement) please send $5 to 5555 <i>Hang In There Wittwe Kitty</i> Lane; Unicornia, OR 55555</span></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-24390310531866212702013-07-31T16:21:00.000-06:002013-07-31T21:55:34.315-06:00sister, sister. birthday, birthday.<div style="text-align: center;">
Finn was born two days too early. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I mean, he was born three and a half weeks early, of course. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But, you see, my girl's birthdays are 5.16 and 6.17, so if Finn had been born two days later, his birthday would be 4.15. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which would just be really cool and nerdy. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know what you're thinking- with a mom like me he has zero chance at the cool thing and already has a place reserved for him among nerd royalty. I'm good with it. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Anyway, Avery's birthday came quickly after Finn came home, but we had a plan to make her sixth a special day AND keep me sane! It worked brilliantly.There were balloons and presents and doughnuts and school and then a small party at a ceramic art store nearby. The store took care of more balloons and cupcakes as well as an hour of painting for my little artist and her little friends. They each got to take home their work of art (once it was fired and all shiny and pretty), then we went back to our place to play Sardines and that one game where everyone sits on their balloon and the first to pop it wins! I think it should be called Butt Balloon, but that probably sounds more like a game to see who can smuggle more cocaine across international borders, so... not appropriate for six-year-olds.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe next year. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We capped off the night by leaving Cartie with the Kestners and taking Av and her best friend, Drew, to dinner. Avery's choice? Sushi! In Portland just about every sushi restaurant involves a conveyor belt that travels around the restaurant space delivering sushi to each table. You pay per plate, and it is Avery's favorite thing ever. I guess it makes sense- what kid wouldn't love feasting their eyes and their bellies on delicious, fresh (?) sushi all night long? They both tried octopus and shrimp sashimi and calamari - they had an amazing time. Avery isn't a huge cake fan (or maybe I just used my powers of influence for evil - cake is boring) so we hit up a fro yo shop on the way home. All in all, it was as good a six-year-old-double-date-with-your-mom-and-dad as anyone has ever had!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know it's not <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2008/05/you-say-its-your-birthday.html" target="_blank">as </a><a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2009/05/and-they-lived-happily-ever-after.html" target="_blank">elaborate</a><a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2010/05/its-party-its-party-for-avery.html" target="_blank"> as</a><a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2011/05/party-dont-start-til-i-walk-in.html" target="_blank"> birthdays</a><a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2012/05/science-house.html" target="_blank"> past</a>, but I think she had a really lovely day anyway. And there's always next year! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Avery's Sixth Carter's Third</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
We celebrated Carter's third birthday a few days early, since it fell during our yearly trip to San Diego. We decided to throw a big nursery bash in the park. AND we decided to do it the day before we left for a week-long vacation, which, in hind-sight was not my most brilliant plan-- boy did we sure need that vacation when we were done, though!<br />
Carter was so excited that she smiled from ear to ear all day. She asked frequently what we were doing next, and every time I would go down the list: "First we'll eat your special doughnut, then we'll open your presents, then playtime, naptime, and then... your birthday party!" She would respond, "Yeah! And it's my party. It's Carter's party. It's just my party! And not Avery's!" She never said this in a mean or taunting way- it was honestly as though she could hardly believe her luck! And it was the most adorable thing I've ever heard each and every time she said it.<br />
The poor middle child.<br />
<br />
We set up Carter's party at a local park and had loads of three-year-olds along with their older and younger siblings join us! We played Duck, Duck, Goose; Freeze Dance; Red Rover, Red Rover (again, completely age-inappropriate for the littles!! But we had so much fun trying to organize it- I highly recommend you try to teach all of the toddlers on your block a game that involves running into each other at full speed. It's awesome.); and Ball Pop. K was in charge of the games, and he really rocked it. All of the kids had a great time, especially when we pulled out the Ice Cream Sundae Bar (more my territory). The littles got cones and the biggies dished up ridiculous amounts of cold goodness and sugary toppings. Carter's favorite part was absolutely the present opening hand-in-hand with the constant attention. She really loved knowing that it was<i> her </i>own special day, and that had <i>me</i> smiling from ear to ear.<br />
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Happy Birthday my wonderful, hilarious, special, beautiful girls!</div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-12594543286232451482013-07-30T08:24:00.017-06:002013-07-31T21:55:48.910-06:00B Y O Horn<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Is it just me, or is it pretty hard to make friends?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There's all of that small talk and feeling things out at first. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Then there's time spent building up things in common to talk about, and then talking about doing together, and then actually doing together.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Parents of young kids often make friends with other parents of young kids in order to trade stories, recipes, child-rearing secrets, and petty gossip about how other parents are royally screwing their kids up. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">These friendships are good, but so often it takes lots of work to make something really real stick. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> So meeting someone that makes you instantly comfortable, with whom a first-meeting feels like the middle of a long-time-running conversation, with comfortable silences and blithe banter peppered throughout...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">well, I would consider that about as rare as a unicorn sighting. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I recently moved in next to a unicorn.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">(A unicorn who, as she reads this, is surely rolling her eyes and cursing the day she met me. Deal with it, Lady.)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">This unicorn first rescued me from a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day involving Avery, a neighbor girl's hair and a pair of scissors. From there she went on to save me from pregnancy illness and exhaustion, boredom, depression, and ever feeling ordinary. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Who could possibly feel ordinary with such a friend?!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I have been able to make some great friends since our move here nearly
a year ago, and I feel like I owe a lot of that to being so at home in my little
corner of our little street -- something I am sure I could not have done without moving near my insta-friend.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I mean, not only is she extraordinary and so thoughtful and a good person and all of that dumb crap, but she is hilarious and adorable and witty. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>AND</i> she can reach things on the top shelf!! And I mean the tippy-top! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I can't believe I didn't mention that last one first. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Living across the street from her has been a dream.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Just over a month ago, when she told me that she and her family were leaving our little corner of Skid Row for a better job and better house with better pay in far-off town (...okay, it's only two and a half hours away, but still!), I cried so hard and so long that it was like the end of <i>Old Yeller</i>, <i>Armageddon</i>, <i>Titanic</i>, <i>Romeo + Juliet</i>, <i>My Girl</i>, <i>Beaches</i>, <i>Steel Magnolias</i>, and season 3 of <i>Downton Abbey</i> all rolled into one. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Of course, I did my best to pretend to be happy for her (don't worry- she didn't buy it), but there was some ugly, ugly crying going on. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Thankfully for the past few weeks I have been able to pull off an oh-so-casual "Don't Cry Out Loud" act and put on a mostly-brave face through all of the packing and final weeks of being a unicorn's neighbor. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">But the truth is that I am heartbroken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Their house was empty by noon on Saturday. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> I spent the weekend away from our place in the daylight hours, dragging my family anywhere-but-here, just avoid the empty windows from across the street.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I have spent endless hours, too, dreaming up a move that we can't afford to a different street or city or suburb just to avoid missing them so much and so often. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">And it's only been a few days. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">So for now I'm stuck here missing our kid's crazy playtime, our daily chats, weekly movie dates, quarterly girl's nights out/double dates, and the constant stream of laugh-our-faces-off texts.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> ...actually, I <i>don't</i> and<i> won't</i> miss that last one since I am determined they continue. I mean, just because that crazy couple-from-every-Nicholas-Sparks-book-turned-movie couldn't figure out the whole letter-writing thing doesn't mean <b><i>our</i></b> long distance opposite-of-bromance will fizzle! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I guess all of this is my way of publicly declaring (i.e. convincing myself) that I don't have to go back to a unicornless existence just because of a big, dumb Uhaul truck.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">P.S. I know. There's a "horny" joke in here somewhere with the whole unicorn thing that I am a little too sad to make, so I will just reference it here so you don't think I'm losing my touch. </span></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-72044787437992391592013-07-24T23:13:00.000-06:002013-07-25T07:37:46.984-06:00I be on my Suit and Tie: Finn's Blessing Day<div style="text-align: center;">
6.2.13</div>
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There's nothing like a baby blessing to exhaust everyone in sight! ...I mean... count your blessings?</div>
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Either way, man did we have a good time! My parents came to stay for a long weekend, K's parents came over for the blessing, and we had lots of amazing friends around to help us celebrate Finn's first ever Big Day! I don't remember much about anything (1. Thank heaven for pictures and 2. Like YOU would remember anything nearly two months later when you were running full-time on four choppy hours of sleep for weeks on end! You don't know<i> </i>me!), but I remember feeling lots of love to be so blessed with such good people in our lives. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five. </td></tr>
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Finn looked so handsome in his white-knit-shorts-tuxedo (loads classier than the tuxedo t-shirt that K wore to bless him in), and he loved spending the long weekend being held and 'ooh'ed and 'aww'ed over.There were quite a few firsts for him that weekend, too. First trip to the ocean. First time meeting his namesake (Finn's middle name is Michael for my dad). First time having a luncheon in his honor. ...first time wearing a knit short-xedo?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa's here!!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael, Adam Michael, and Finn Michael.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pooped.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud grandparents! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE uncle. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No seriously, he pooped.</td></tr>
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Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-53067260799159296952013-07-24T18:07:00.005-06:002013-07-24T19:09:34.651-06:00About a Boy, part 2. Also known as Virtual Insanity<div style="text-align: center;">
Let me begin by saying that the NICU is a place where miracles happen. </div>
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I have seen too many wonderful people do amazing things in the NICU to ever doubt that the people who work there are angels and saints.<br />
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And now that I've said that, I can also tell you that the NICU is @#!*% on earth.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He just found out he's NICU-bound. Not. Happy. </td></tr>
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Everyone in the NICU has a very important role to play. <br />
First, NICU nurses. Most of them are the salt of the earth, as good as it gets, the best and the brightest. And each and every one I have met is like the cliche General in a war movie-- Kind eyes, heart of gold, gruff manner, and endless stories to tell, all with a similar theme: "I have seen and done it all. And you are not the first." This demeanor is surely meant to reassure the NICU parent (more on them below).<br />
<br />
The
doctors in the NICU are like hospital Deity. Often referred to in reverent tones, all-knowing, but
rarely seen in the flesh. Finn's doctor called me every morning at 8am to brief me on Finn's condition,
but I only spied him in his physical form twice as he made his rounds. I nicknamed him Dr. Pepper because he
would rattle off conditions and diagnoses at me without stopping for
breath and condensed a would-be 15 minute conversation into two and a
half head-spinning minutes of pure medical jargon and best case scenario timelines that were never met. Naturally I presumed his speed and optimism were products of his doctor diet: just as mere mortals are mostly water, <i>his</i> body mass was 2/3 caffeine. <br />
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Then there is the NICU parent. As a NICU mom you are riding a constant wave of highs and lows, not helped in the slightest by the post-pregnancy-hormone-freak-show that besets all new moms. But NICU moms are driven to new heights of crazy. There is no baby to cuddle, no reassurance that sinks in, and no satisfaction. Nurses and doctors greet you with grim faces, soothing tones and detailed descriptions of the best case scenario.<br />
They use phrases like "Any day now..."<br />
As a NICU parent, "Any day now" is not your friend.<br />
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When Finn entered the NICU it was with endless "any day now" reassurances<br />
"Everything is fine. His breathing is just a bit more labored than we would like. I'm sure it's nothing. Any moment/hour/day now he'll be back in your arms."<br />
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**Side note: I have started and stopped this blog entry about fifteen times now. I think it's safe to say that even now, more than three months later, I still find Finn's ultimately successful stay in the NICU an acutely painful experience. I had hoped to breeze through this one, but I am struggling- sorry if this post is a bit more depressing than delightful...**<br />
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Finn's would-be brief NICU trip began about an hour after he was born early Saturday morning. Within an hour he was hooked up to breathing equipment called a CPAP. The CPAP bubbles up from a vacuum basin of water and blows humid air into the nose in a more forceful way than a traditional oxygen nose cannula.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The truth about CPAP: Looking at this still makes me cry.</td></tr>
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But as the day progressed, Finn's breathing did not. On Saturday night, a small hole was discovered in his lung. This hole was not a deformity, but had formed as a consequence of lung immaturity-- My poor little guy's lungs just weren't quite ready to breathe on their own yet. The doctor quickly inserted a tube in the left side of his rib cage to release air that was escaping into his chest cavity from the hole in his left lung. </div>
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Because of the tube, Finn was in a good amount of pain, so he was placed on an IV of nutritive fluids (so his body was spared the burden of digestion) as well as morphine. With the air being let out of his chest, his lung should have been able to expand properly as he breathed. <br />
But breathing became much too tiring after a while.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avery meets Finn.</td></tr>
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On Sunday night I got the call while I was resting in my room:<br />
Finn had stopped breathing for five minutes. <br />
Nurses had tried to stimulate him into breathing on his own again.<br />
Nothing had worked.<br />
Doctors worked quickly and Finn was intubated. <br />
He was now on a ventilator (a machine that breathes for you).<br />
<br />
The pain and trauma of first labor, then surgery, NICU admittance, constant "breastfeeding" dates with plastic bottles and a giant yellow boob vacuum, blood draws, an endless parade of people with charts coming to poke and prod at my incision and lady parts, and watching my new baby stuffed and sewn like a living taxidermy project were too much already. I am not (too) ashamed to say that this call broke me to pieces. <br />
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I was wheeled down to the NICU where nurses repeated the information I was given on the phone slowly and more than once. I wasn't listening very well. All I could think was, "It's getting worse. He's not going to make it. He's not getting better. He's not getting better." Over and over.<br />
I sat by his teeny tiny clear plastic bed and cried.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robot lung.</td></tr>
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Those post-delivery hormones are no joke, friends. <br />
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The final player in the cast is the starring role: Baby. Finn didn't open his eyes for days, then he would open just one, and then both, but only for moments at a time. It took nearly a week for him to open them long enough for an onlooker to get more than the merest peep of his peepers.<br />
Breathing, eating, surviving-- They all went the same way. It took time, he worked up to it, and then, suddenly, he caught on. He was surviving.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter, Finn. Finn, your worst nightmare.</td></tr>
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By Tuesday night things had turned completely around. Doctors felt confident that he could be taken off of the ventilator and was put back on CPAP, and then an oxygen cannula, and then room air. His chest tube was removed- his body had healed the tiny hole and his lungs were expanding fully. He was slowly given little bits of milk, and then more, and more, through a tube that traveled into his nose, down his esophagus and into his stomach as IV fluids were weaned. And then he got to try to eat on his own once a day, then twice, as his digestive system was worked up to full feedings. He had turned a corner and he never looked back. <br />
<br />
<br />
Now, I have dates and details for Finn's progression, but the thing that really sticks with me was the timid uncertainty and blazing hope that accompanied each step forward. God is in the details, and the details that stand out are his weak body growing stronger, healing, learning, and finally taking over the responsibilities it was created to perform.The NICU really is a place for faith and miracles.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQI-bBAOKmM-KdGLC2P4K1x5SW7pK9g3B3n94p7Qaloo8VoUDVJzXoVKPRupLWfug5k56Wdqh5bMm-x2U8Db1zdpPjow7A4jQyvLg5YhTu6djOI8fPUJEgVShtXRWhVydfhSyRlEbXUM/s1600/photo(68).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQI-bBAOKmM-KdGLC2P4K1x5SW7pK9g3B3n94p7Qaloo8VoUDVJzXoVKPRupLWfug5k56Wdqh5bMm-x2U8Db1zdpPjow7A4jQyvLg5YhTu6djOI8fPUJEgVShtXRWhVydfhSyRlEbXUM/s320/photo(68).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My three NICU babies- Av (top left), Carter (top right), and Finn.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm sorry if this is a weepy retelling of NICU events, because there were a lot of fairly happy and easy times (and at least one billion blessings) in the NICU, too. After the corner-turning on Tuesday there were hours every day spent holding and rocking and feeding and introducing. My mom (bless that lovely, lovely woman) was there for more than a week after Finn was born, taking care of my family while we did the hospital thing (for five days!) and then the traveling-back-and-forth-between-home-and-hospital thing. Adam (uncle extraordinaire) came and went daily along with neighbors and friends who assisted with blessings and brought gifts and happiness.<br />
<br />
One of the brightest spots of the NICU days were when the girls came to visit. They learned to wash their hands while singing Twinkle Twinkle to be sure to kill all of their mutant little kid germs, would have their temperatures checked, and then were cleared to come in and adore their new brother. Finn's big sisters were (and are) so in love with him that it rendered one incoherent with giggles just to be near him (Avery) and the other so uncharacteristically reverent and shy that I worried about alien abductions (Carter). They would whisper and coo at him. They would put their finger in his palms and smile from ear to ear to have their hand held by Finn. They would interpret his every movement and sound to mean something very significant and important ("He likes me!" "He wants me to hold him!" "He is so happy!"). They were smitten.<br />
<br />
On the night that Finn came home it was late at night about two weeks after he was born. I found the sitter on our couch and the girls like this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlik_HjS5xnm6P9xysvNxtK3tGs5apBex0W53Av89X63ZWz329tkKIgzAr1JFsWe3PgXyjmdQ2vwutDR82482aRHhc1yLeQB2IFyaCBh1DT-RLDuNY4hG_gJZwL1fnePlJMJHLtWC3ss/s1600/photo%252828%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlik_HjS5xnm6P9xysvNxtK3tGs5apBex0W53Av89X63ZWz329tkKIgzAr1JFsWe3PgXyjmdQ2vwutDR82482aRHhc1yLeQB2IFyaCBh1DT-RLDuNY4hG_gJZwL1fnePlJMJHLtWC3ss/s320/photo%252828%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homecoming.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They had tried so hard to wait up for him! They are the sweetest big sisters you will ever meet. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_sQbZ3YCoNt0ZEYp9GupVl5ekt3g1rkdfBxfh2TlNaab-vIOFCrBwMIiKSZEOfKE7lrLODME8iH7o3UWl0vYj6mpg6Eq_1F-UHPwPd2eQMKC9FIr90UsAlDF_vpG3zco1dan9HEuorw/s1600/photo(25).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_sQbZ3YCoNt0ZEYp9GupVl5ekt3g1rkdfBxfh2TlNaab-vIOFCrBwMIiKSZEOfKE7lrLODME8iH7o3UWl0vYj6mpg6Eq_1F-UHPwPd2eQMKC9FIr90UsAlDF_vpG3zco1dan9HEuorw/s320/photo(25).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adoration at home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Anyway, the NICU is best told in pictures, I think, because the hours are long and the visits too brief and the terms complicated but it's all love and hope and happiness in the end. Here are just a few of my favorite NICU shots. And here's to never, ever going to that awful, blessed place again!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5TzKHSfsmlxysomGw_hHpdwREY758iBzPQ6pUaO0Si03gEsZmTWrtgR2Z2cUg3aDY0GeiozrEQjkeS8EKQhN9EnPr3DftcQNsJUw02cs9CuLgLv4DXiVYJ1uq4ru_ccS6cFtMMmXtCg/s1600/photo(12).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5TzKHSfsmlxysomGw_hHpdwREY758iBzPQ6pUaO0Si03gEsZmTWrtgR2Z2cUg3aDY0GeiozrEQjkeS8EKQhN9EnPr3DftcQNsJUw02cs9CuLgLv4DXiVYJ1uq4ru_ccS6cFtMMmXtCg/s200/photo(12).JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVfgY2r3FwN-CurPioNa3WuWHk9JHYuFNiF98zwCKMiKy9z-c-ha_lRxEESIMpTMqqSE1jAptaRhnWt0_2fpxJHcAgM22Oasew7fLBnD3WCNr9zSphPczWY4eA9kG9F1eTBqsBfhTTrw/s1600/photo(67).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVfgY2r3FwN-CurPioNa3WuWHk9JHYuFNiF98zwCKMiKy9z-c-ha_lRxEESIMpTMqqSE1jAptaRhnWt0_2fpxJHcAgM22Oasew7fLBnD3WCNr9zSphPczWY4eA9kG9F1eTBqsBfhTTrw/s200/photo(67).JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-58286525141596048612013-07-14T02:21:00.002-06:002013-07-14T02:25:51.668-06:00What's in a Name?<div style="text-align: center;">
Once again, folks, it's embarrassing story time. </div>
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First of all, a confession. </div>
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I am a closet Glee fan.</div>
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Gulp. </div>
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I know. I know.</div>
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It's so dumb. </div>
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And completely morally bankrupt.</div>
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And I know I shouldn't like it. </div>
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But I do. </div>
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I really do. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The singing. <br />
The dancing. </div>
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...Fine. I'll say it. </div>
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I'm a whore for musicals. And I don't care who knows it.</div>
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There.</div>
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</div>
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Anyway, you needed to know that because I just heard about <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/07/14/showbiz/glee-star-dead/index.html" target="_blank">Cory Monteith's untimely death.</a></div>
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May he rest in peace.</div>
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And being sad for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finn_Hudson" target="_blank">Finn </a>got me to thinking about my own little handsome Finn. </div>
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So I think it's time to share the story of how Finn became Finn!</div>
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...no, you perv. Not THAT story.</div>
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I meant how we chose his name. </div>
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Yeesh. </div>
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(Fun flashback: check out <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2010/07/chop-and-change.html" target="_blank">how Carter got her name</a> here, just in case you are still wondering what the he** I was thinking with that one.) </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPc1m4ocfvQrFY2tUZ-ESqmJsSEHzwfPyGbw6dwXoqDaGChz946ryBHuV2UCNMyxrz1h73K2yCDFK8_weKwI-99c2n9EKTAMMlNg7L2hZLl6dn1RVSdUIZFLG3JZ6BNFguVndZLsoopXY/s1600/970600_10151675873464089_735884527_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPc1m4ocfvQrFY2tUZ-ESqmJsSEHzwfPyGbw6dwXoqDaGChz946ryBHuV2UCNMyxrz1h73K2yCDFK8_weKwI-99c2n9EKTAMMlNg7L2hZLl6dn1RVSdUIZFLG3JZ6BNFguVndZLsoopXY/s400/970600_10151675873464089_735884527_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ooh! Intrigue! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So far as I have declared Finn's name to family and friends, thankfully (sorry, but all of the head-tilting, eyebrow-raising, you-are-a-cruel-and-terrible-parent commenting from family and strangers alike really do take their toll after you name a girl Carter) I have only heard "Cool!"s and "Love it!"s. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And a whole lot of, "Oh! Like the Finn on Glee?" </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nope, sorry. Not that Finn. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Or, "Oh! There's a Finn on Adventuretime!" </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Umm what time is Adventuretime, exactly? And is that AM or PM?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And then there's always, "Oh! Because you're Irish, right?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What? Who, me? Or K? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Either way, no. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nor is he named after the brother of Ferb or Phineas Nigellus (although that <i>IS</i> what I plan to call him when I am cross with him because I am what they call a NERD). </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is the cold, hard truth about the name Finn. It <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2010/07/chop-and-change.html" target="_blank">also</a> comes from a rather embarrassing place.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A book. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And not even a cool or trendy or particularly meaningful book. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It comes from a girlie book. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A teenaged girlie book. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYJNm9v6yZ_qen9-EAMn8trAV50UzX375pCjNiR_kgUa1ncH1HLA1cnio0J7LZWmmQ8fyIc6b-1RHdewSSnJ8TWFU_CcjIOv-BvU-gEDRsB5bS_vU8DaCvq9tGRZqFHsxpwgeaNHTaj0/s1600/1044058_10151674334864089_1527491577_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYJNm9v6yZ_qen9-EAMn8trAV50UzX375pCjNiR_kgUa1ncH1HLA1cnio0J7LZWmmQ8fyIc6b-1RHdewSSnJ8TWFU_CcjIOv-BvU-gEDRsB5bS_vU8DaCvq9tGRZqFHsxpwgeaNHTaj0/s400/1044058_10151674334864089_1527491577_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noooo!!! Please, don't let it be Twilight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the winter of 2009 I read a book by Shannon Hale called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enna_Burning" target="_blank">Enna Burning</a>, the sequel to a book I love and own called <i>The Goose Girl</i>. The plot of this book is not important (nor is it terribly interesting), but while reading I first found and fell in love with the name Finn, who in the book is, "A Forest boy who secretly loves Enna. He is quiet and gentle; although,
forced by war, to fight to protect his friends and home, with grim
determination." (Wikipedia)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Gripping, right? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A little mysterious. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A little sexy (what IS a forest boy, anyway? I'm sorry, but all I can picture is this...)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaBkLcpeS4IJuuh1M-c_Ov3HcCu9KkS5Mv3W9dOnck3DgQXDF_E2fj2JibdbHJ9xV9GaxGPqqHy_obSzohw4yK1uLAZIodMq0tt3qPcp4r1jFfkL7XrQwP0VrXuCeXn1Mid-ReWbgDd8/s1600/tumblr_lrbirflYbw1qjaynno1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAaBkLcpeS4IJuuh1M-c_Ov3HcCu9KkS5Mv3W9dOnck3DgQXDF_E2fj2JibdbHJ9xV9GaxGPqqHy_obSzohw4yK1uLAZIodMq0tt3qPcp4r1jFfkL7XrQwP0VrXuCeXn1Mid-ReWbgDd8/s320/tumblr_lrbirflYbw1qjaynno1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If Iiiii were the Kiiiiing of the Forreeeeest!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
All forest boys aside, I wrote down the name and have hung on to it ever since. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If Carter had been a boy (man this sentence is starting out like a gender-confused teen's girlfriend's distraught diary entry..."maybe he/she would love me! LOL OMG ETC"), she might be named for this quiet, gentle and grim (also known as the life of the party) forest boy. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So, yeah. <br />
There's the truth.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...But forget that. I can't tell strangers that when they ask.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Strangers would never understand about Forest Boys. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So this is what I am telling people (also the truth, but not really). </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Oh! That's a neat name! How did you land on that?"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Well, kind-but-nosey-stranger, my husband's favorite book growing up was Huckleberry Finn (true)! And so we fell in love with the name! Huzzah for English-Teacher-Approved, non-embarrassing-to-reference Literature!" </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huckleberry_Finn" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a> says of our fictitiously fictitious namesake; "Huck [FINN!] is an archetypal innocent, able to discover the "right" thing to do
despite the prevailing theology and prejudiced mentality of the South
of that era."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Score! I'll take innocence and integrity for 500, Alex! What a role model!!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...wait...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The author... names him 'the juvenile pariah of the village'
and describes Huck as 'idle, and lawless, and vulgar, and bad,'
qualities for which he was admired by all the children in the village,
although their mothers 'cordially hated and dreaded' him."</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDe3auRR-_Sy7d4tu3pQDQFb8WKztQgMxwgcDe02ePnDclpC-GCyi-0qqKmYHuzjaKxgFms3ImUS5k0Q4Bij7wuuu2r49WfXjEnECKqGGzLpzLK4TTibQJl18vttOi_boHCBqyFqZBjrA/s1600/1069845_10151688890694089_162722844_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDe3auRR-_Sy7d4tu3pQDQFb8WKztQgMxwgcDe02ePnDclpC-GCyi-0qqKmYHuzjaKxgFms3ImUS5k0Q4Bij7wuuu2r49WfXjEnECKqGGzLpzLK4TTibQJl18vttOi_boHCBqyFqZBjrA/s400/1069845_10151688890694089_162722844_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gulp.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, hide your kids and your wife. My Finn is coming to a village near you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Still coming soon- Finn's NICU Story. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-3740672492325942942013-06-28T03:44:00.001-06:002013-06-28T03:44:23.387-06:00About a Boy, Part 1. Also known as WHOOSH! There it is!<div style="text-align: center;">
Time flies when you have three kids! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And, yes. That is all of the excuse-making you will get out of me for being absent for... yeesh! I haven't written in quite a while!!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But all is forgiven if I post never-before-seen adorable baby photos, right? Right. <br />Wait for it. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's coming. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Finn's Birth Story, Part 1</span> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluKAv2ljnGqhOIWvZusJJnU_b_JcLFX2jABaE7edcfG7njTJA0PCOILxONc8_vivhuC-8zu63sagmzmGJ1M34NlKN74G6SkAZpgukvkyhPud0LwchnFSTsaGNdKcauzpeU7mScJtToM4/s1600/photo(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluKAv2ljnGqhOIWvZusJJnU_b_JcLFX2jABaE7edcfG7njTJA0PCOILxONc8_vivhuC-8zu63sagmzmGJ1M34NlKN74G6SkAZpgukvkyhPud0LwchnFSTsaGNdKcauzpeU7mScJtToM4/s320/photo(2).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkey love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Once upon a time there was a woman enjoying her third pregnancy. It was her least-complicated pregnancy to date and she was very grateful. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And then things took a turn <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2013/03/hyper-active.html" target="_blank">for the worse</a>. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so that is how the fair maiden (just roll with it) was put on bed rest for the foreseeable future.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Weeks after her sentence to jammies and sheets and frustration, and after countless acts of service from sainted neighbors and ward members, the maiden thought she had learned patience and humility pretty darn well (So enough already!! Please?). One fine day (let's call it April 12th just for the heck of it) her blood pressure spiked and she found herself checking into Providence St. Vincent hospital for an overnight stay with urine tests and blood draws and ultrasounds galore (be warned- it gets more graphic than "urine tests" from here on out. Read on at your own risk). Everything seemed to be going fine: The baby looked good and the maiden (seriously unsure how much longer I can call myself maiden with a straight face) felt okay enough for someone hooked up to a bazillion (rough estimate) tubes and wires. Her Prince (oh yeesh- that may have been my breaking point) was with her throughout the experience, and they watched Cupcake Wars and ordered hospital room service (not as bad as it sounds) and enjoyed spending a kid-free (besides the one sitting on said maiden's kidneys) day together. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Until... say it with me... things took ANOTHER turn for the worse. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Switching to first person because I'm sick of maiden-me and so you must be, too.)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That evening around 10pm I unplugged myself and baby from all of the monitors and grabbed my IV pole (the stripper pole's less-admired cousin) for a routine eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant bi-hourly bathroom trip. I then used the restroom, went to wash my hands and...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
WHOOSH!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now, before this moment in time I had seriously thought the cheesy "MY WATER JUST BROKE!!" scenes in movies were exaggerated. All of the pregnancy books make sure to point out that something like 98% of women don't experience their water breaking until they are already in labor big time, where a little WHOOSH-ing is barely noticeable. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Welcome to the 2%. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Although I already had two children, we must remember that I had never before been in labor. Suddenly I was gushing fluids and I. Freaked. Out. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"K-k-k-k-klayton?" I called from the restroom in a shaky voice I didn't recognize. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To K's great credit, his response was to run into the bathroom. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And, in the interest of full disclosure, I honestly didn't stop shaking for the rest of that night and well into the next day, so undone was I (and there go all of my Tough SuperMom Points). </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
After I got back into bed and called the nurse, she informed me that it appeared I had been having mild but regular contractions (honestly didn't notice), and it was decided that she would call my doctor. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That was when the first of what I like to call the Legit Contractions hit. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now, like everyone else on the face of the planet, I have heard my fair share of birthing Tall Tales about the pain and agony and trauma of child birth. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But I can say without a doubt that I was unprepared to experience that LC. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And those horrendous birth stories AREN'T DETAILED ENOUGH. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Holy crap, do Legit Contractions hurt. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There aren't enough Mother's Days in the year- I'll just leave it at that. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHgj6PFZVBXyt4WGxrbu_dMPTnXswvheAyGTWUDtQItV2OyL6MpgWpvhs9NonTCc3nw1UX99Caj5g6ZJlTwiRhf3pvQAoPyDYpcwwyEblrDx97h9dnyErihFa-AcBkoBRGfF-TWVI_7w/s1600/photo(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHgj6PFZVBXyt4WGxrbu_dMPTnXswvheAyGTWUDtQItV2OyL6MpgWpvhs9NonTCc3nw1UX99Caj5g6ZJlTwiRhf3pvQAoPyDYpcwwyEblrDx97h9dnyErihFa-AcBkoBRGfF-TWVI_7w/s320/photo(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slayer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So my (sweet, angelic, wonderful) doc was called at 10-something on a Friday night. I had eaten dinner that evening, not at all expecting to have surgery that night (I was deemed an unsuitable candidate for VBAC given my terrible habit of having pregnancies/child-births that go horribly awry), and because of the anesthesia-caused risk of vomiting/choking, one cannot have anything in one's stomach during surgery (unless you want to go all of the way under, which is probably not a good way to go if you, you know, want to meet your newborn child and all of that). So my surgery was planned and prepped for around 2am on Saturday, the 13th of April. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I don't want to dwell on this, but can I just say that laboring for four hours with no intention of actually giving birth is super overrated? Thanks, I needed that. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometime around 1am my big brother, Adam, showed up to bring our camera and hang around to meet his new nephew (can I also say that my brother is wonderful?). I'm not sure how fun it was for him to be in the room with his laboring sister, but he Instagrammed a picture of the experience, so I assume he isn't too traumatized.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTkPQEbOSQYtrkq_OtpDywkbaGEfuPTPN7GFqtC9JVtM7n-RnrZqHed0WUG2SqXFZCHLZiSOINjqZUtorFUbHrZPdAkcSRt1Zl2B8I5u2Easj-K1fb0Gs2-Mdvjd6-EwNmXm3pT7vlv4/s960/photo(5).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTkPQEbOSQYtrkq_OtpDywkbaGEfuPTPN7GFqtC9JVtM7n-RnrZqHed0WUG2SqXFZCHLZiSOINjqZUtorFUbHrZPdAkcSRt1Zl2B8I5u2Easj-K1fb0Gs2-Mdvjd6-EwNmXm3pT7vlv4/s320/photo(5).PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey guys does my hair look okay?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Around 2am I said goodbye to Adam and K and I was rolled into surgery (an experience which I would very much like to forget were it not for the whole Laying-Eyes-on-my-Perfect-Baby-Boy-for-the-First-Time memory attached to the whole My-Guts-are-Currently-Laying-on-That-Table-Over-There moment). I was 36 1/2 weeks pregnant when my 6lb 15oz baby boy was born. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFoEtU37-yRQmnpgx4duHahssI8UYAEXQ0Yq24CXiCbrZnvBc1XkYWVJczu88NI4rWBAoF6od1ANk4SRrxMz7gN_TuQFUXbVGZDff7uwueh9TS0Gil-1ByLW0fZ31NAPo8JETCS7-XLI/s640/Finn+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFoEtU37-yRQmnpgx4duHahssI8UYAEXQ0Yq24CXiCbrZnvBc1XkYWVJczu88NI4rWBAoF6od1ANk4SRrxMz7gN_TuQFUXbVGZDff7uwueh9TS0Gil-1ByLW0fZ31NAPo8JETCS7-XLI/s320/Finn+018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite the welcome, eh?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I heard him cry and looked around a bit deliriously as he was handed across the partition to K. Blinking quickly (stupid Mommy tears) my eyes roved over his dark black hair (so much of it! All my genes) and sweet, smushed face. He was perfect- I could tell. It was then that my Grinch moment happened, of course, and my heart swelled 10 sizes to not only incorporate this little man's sisters, father, grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends, family... but Finn, too. My guy. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOiyLZiq8F4JpvsO42jDer4Gx2p9yA716_m9zGfWKCuBnCHlnwGaTwL1K3uZ5OaNFOpIJ65gOjsMMXQZWi7TZMeWxdXGRP7dl7AA6wByRviIwA4m-tdN4BR5g-0OKv3rnaAzdrERLFaM/s960/photo(2).PNG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOiyLZiq8F4JpvsO42jDer4Gx2p9yA716_m9zGfWKCuBnCHlnwGaTwL1K3uZ5OaNFOpIJ65gOjsMMXQZWi7TZMeWxdXGRP7dl7AA6wByRviIwA4m-tdN4BR5g-0OKv3rnaAzdrERLFaM/s320/photo(2).PNG" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They always take them back too soon to do tests and wipe-downs and suctions and all of that. I craned my neck to watch them. Then K left with the nurses and my sweet, sweet Little Man as they replaced my guts (although, really, while they were in there they could have removed the spare tire. I swear <i>I </i>didn't put it there...) and stitched me up. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsH8299m6DQHGgPNLy3ArNfvCX20bfp3LfC-izTh5lW-d-HUjYHZftEQ-OQhuAZdR_bG2fkbMI7Z0oycgAAyC-EfJr0TczI1Wd1BvJcLosToQcIMj_izNVfKP3RRas_LHLCqdyF5mC-zM/s1600/photo(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsH8299m6DQHGgPNLy3ArNfvCX20bfp3LfC-izTh5lW-d-HUjYHZftEQ-OQhuAZdR_bG2fkbMI7Z0oycgAAyC-EfJr0TczI1Wd1BvJcLosToQcIMj_izNVfKP3RRas_LHLCqdyF5mC-zM/s320/photo(5).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tick tock.</td></tr>
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When they finally wheeled me back into my room, where Adam and K were holding and OOhing and Ahhing over Finn, I got to hold my sweet little bundle for the first time. I felt is soft skin and furry little back... </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9qusrif-qB5BlhTWvPjjrhV6KMsHNXVSIGGpdbXwFLDEaJBQDuSLpa1WNqgnGEarl4CTsVTpCqbsokwttA6fhZRWPo_F8MrtN5Ry97Rtnop7MzfGjssRHBlLA_Y6sXezU38y2YeJ_pY/s640/Finn+038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9qusrif-qB5BlhTWvPjjrhV6KMsHNXVSIGGpdbXwFLDEaJBQDuSLpa1WNqgnGEarl4CTsVTpCqbsokwttA6fhZRWPo_F8MrtN5Ry97Rtnop7MzfGjssRHBlLA_Y6sXezU38y2YeJ_pY/s320/Finn+038.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much love and a shower cap.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
And that was when, just moments after I finally got him in my arms, they told me that he was still having trouble breathing (STILL??!! How long was I in there with All the King's Horses and All the King's Men?) and they wanted to send him to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit for monitoring. </div>
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They were sure it was nothing.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He would be back with me soon, probably. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I tried not to panic. I had done the NICU thing before, right? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Twice already, in fact. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I could do this again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This time was different. </div>
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I would have him back soon, right?</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K6mdT58HLp0VkiqsBSl8G27Q4Wg0hAIYlKMrLRuNTMD2R3E6F0-9KtPdDqaeTuOAFw1BJGG-YOmi5jFdAIBeag9YeI7YLuJ2NB-Yxi2uCSXVnd1y1JCZkd5NDPFpsQeBnuFr_mDZdeI/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K6mdT58HLp0VkiqsBSl8G27Q4Wg0hAIYlKMrLRuNTMD2R3E6F0-9KtPdDqaeTuOAFw1BJGG-YOmi5jFdAIBeag9YeI7YLuJ2NB-Yxi2uCSXVnd1y1JCZkd5NDPFpsQeBnuFr_mDZdeI/s320/photo+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not so fast...</td></tr>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...Although this tale has a very happy ending, it doesn't start just yet...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />To be continued in the next thrilling episode of "About a Boy"! </div>
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<br /></div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-16235354046914392672013-03-16T17:56:00.003-06:002013-03-16T17:56:54.138-06:00hyper-active<div style="text-align: center;">
So, this is baby number three for me. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And my first two pregnancies had their fair share of complications. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...okay, that may be understating things. Especially in <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2008/01/top-5-days-of-2007-in-pictures.html" target="_blank">Avery's</a> <a href="http://you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2008/04/mothers-day-preemie-style.html" target="_blank">case. </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, okay. <a href="http://www.you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2010/06/on-day-you-were-born.html" target="_blank">With</a> <a href="http://www.you-wont-feel-a-thing.blogspot.com/2010/05/bed-bound.html" target="_blank">Carter</a>, too. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But this pregnancy has been going really well! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...until now.</div>
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A couple of weeks ago, I started having blurred-vision headaches and incredible swelling limbs.</div>
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Blood pressure spikes. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My doctor officially declared me sick with Pregnancy-induced Hypertension. </div>
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You can call it Toxemia. </div>
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I call it The Worst.</div>
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Times three. </div>
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<br /></div>
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They sent me to the lab. And then the hospital for monitoring when my headache wasn't going away. Everything seems to be fine. But now I play the waiting game. Now I have to <span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>rest</i></b>. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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"Rest" should sound really awesome! Seriously. What thirty-three-weeks-pregnant-with-two-other-little-kids-running-around-stay-at-home-mom doesn't want more rest?! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But when "rest" means things like feeling like garbage and accepting neighbors and ward member's help with kids and meals and vacuuming (embarrassing!!!) and the like, it really stinks. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My very sweet Relief Society President told me this week in no uncertain terms that she understands that accepting help is hard but, "If you don't let people serve you, you're the jerk."</div>
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At least I'm pretty sure she said jerk. </div>
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Either way, that was the gist of the message. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And she's not the only one who gave me that message this week. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And everyone is right, of course. I love being able to help other people! I guess everyone has to take their own turn being helped.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But I don't have to be happy about it. </div>
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Seriously, you can't make me. </div>
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Blegh.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When "rest" means taking total advantage of my brother on his days off, well, that stinks. He's such a good guy. When my mom called him on Wednesday night and found out I was in the hospital, I got a very concerned phone call. The call the next day, too, was concerned and so sweet. And this is how it ended: "Okay, honey, you promise to take it easy, okay? And I really will come up there if you need me- just let me know. <i>Oh, and don't let me find out that you are in the hospital from your brother again. That really pissed me off.</i> (Dead. Serious.) <pause> haha Okay! Love you! Bye-bye!!!" </pause></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
hahahaha I love my Mama. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Also, I have the best neighbors money can buy.</div>
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You know who you are. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I already knew that you were the best. I think this week you were just showing off. </div>
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Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being awesome. </div>
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</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />When "rest" also means spending lots of time worrying about little Butter Boots' health and safety...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
well, that's Officially The Worst.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so, I will rest. And go in for weekly doctor's appointments. And leave my work to others. And take advantage of everyone I know. And try to finish my final weeks of college from a reclined position. And give my girls extra hugs and my dog-tired husband extra love and my worried mother extra reassurance. And measure my BP with a little robot wrist-cuff thing that sounds like a chainsaw while it squeezes my arm and then flashes and beeps at me and tells me what I already know:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Things aren't looking so hot. Take it easy and you'll make it through. Only six more weeks. For Baby. For chubby baby rolls. For no NICU this time around. For coming home with baby sans oxygen machine. For you. For not having a Magnesium Sulfate (known in most countries as the DEVIL) IV this time. For less time in the hospital and tubes and monitors and visits and needles and medicines and stress. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-22190089828799892552013-03-16T16:56:00.002-06:002013-03-16T16:56:47.112-06:00if you don't know, now you know- Carter.<div style="text-align: center;">
I just have to share <a href="http://deargirls-lovemom.blogspot.com/2013/03/this-is-carter.html" target="_blank">this little letter</a> I wrote to my little Carter today. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm not entirely sure why I didn't just write it on this blog, but somehow I just had to address it directly to the girl who knows just about every lyric to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold" - you know, except for the naughty one. And who chooses the same breakfast cereal every morning but never does anything else I can predict. Ever. And who is often thoughtful and insightful beyond her nearly-three years but still has trouble remembering that if you walk in front of a moving swing at the park you will get hit in the face and it will knock you on your butt. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-11000755400714356122013-03-16T16:50:00.002-06:002013-03-16T16:50:45.459-06:00us kids know<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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OLD POST ALERT!<br />
I wrote this last week. ...and then my computer freaked and I lost all of it. And I got really annoyed and decided to forget it. And all blogging. For the rest of eternity.<br />
Then I calmed down and decided to re-write it. This is a shabby second attempt at posting about our lives from the perspective of, Oh, about two weeks ago, now.<br />
Stupid freak-out computer.<br />
<br />
<br />
Last week was a busy one! We kicked off the weekend with a (n evil, insane, fifteen-hour) drive to Idaho Falls. We wanted to squeeze in one last trip over before BB shows up, and we hit a wicked storm on the way! And then we dragged the storm with us for about half of our journey.<br />
What could possibly make a normally-twelve-hour trip with two small children and an incredibly pregnant woman more uncomfortable? Yep. Snow and rain and ice and wind.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh well, we made it! And it wound up being a lovely weekend. It was nice to see friends and spend time with K's family. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But both K and I had to admit that we did not miss the snow and ice and below-zero winters. Not even a little bit. It really is lovely to live in this Portland climate!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But enough about the weather. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here are a few pictures from our little trip.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8016P5hWjZF-eqkpR-mUlumH-b7Ucii8kCbeQJo5F3Zt_xuljFxHbHQN-DXbd6-RaddUM9iHHYfw2CNVI-3uVF2AYKzDYIUPhwGn9KGOHIwMN9XqqVmjoZJwDnvP6FeVtjUqmXs3f5Y/s1600/IMG_5047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8016P5hWjZF-eqkpR-mUlumH-b7Ucii8kCbeQJo5F3Zt_xuljFxHbHQN-DXbd6-RaddUM9iHHYfw2CNVI-3uVF2AYKzDYIUPhwGn9KGOHIwMN9XqqVmjoZJwDnvP6FeVtjUqmXs3f5Y/s320/IMG_5047.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's up, belly? My amazing friend Stacy made me a diaper motorcycle</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> with a monkey rider. Cutest present ever!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ16fckHkTl1CILWgiFF-Fb5b4yEY5CljErvB6_027Rss6N0Fa7VYJzXBOrULxho1Zx-SXquKOCh_NmeA4Bi2CQfdighX3wjQDD2sac1h9NBw5xGy1McKKmOnImgzWpEFwVim3cMOcdD8/s1600/IMG_5041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ16fckHkTl1CILWgiFF-Fb5b4yEY5CljErvB6_027Rss6N0Fa7VYJzXBOrULxho1Zx-SXquKOCh_NmeA4Bi2CQfdighX3wjQDD2sac1h9NBw5xGy1McKKmOnImgzWpEFwVim3cMOcdD8/s320/IMG_5041.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Snow Time!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPcMF1XyNOZEHw1W31nuKflTUop9hPrMH2KncB93Nbvmu3X3cIQbZdWzUL3yunMwvyY98zBx0IkgTZYWwZMBRBljm6ZePgD_eXrQ2DYX_i6rTbAWktLMkcM71bxDxFI1x4UhrKiA9LPHA/s1600/IMG_5052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPcMF1XyNOZEHw1W31nuKflTUop9hPrMH2KncB93Nbvmu3X3cIQbZdWzUL3yunMwvyY98zBx0IkgTZYWwZMBRBljm6ZePgD_eXrQ2DYX_i6rTbAWktLMkcM71bxDxFI1x4UhrKiA9LPHA/s320/IMG_5052.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">30 weeks</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Otherwise we spent the week trying to have some fun! We did some shopping on Monday for a few new things to make our little town house brighter and easier to live in- we really love where we are at, but it honestly sucks rocks, too. Our house has the oldest (grossest) carpet on the block, needs new doors and paint, and it just feels really dingy in there no matter what I do! While we were out of town we ran an ozone machine all weekend again to help with carpet smells (DISGUSTING! I know). Then we spent Monday running around buying a gorgeous new rug for the living room, a couch cover for our comfy second-hand couch, and brighter lights for all of our fixtures. So far it has helped a bunch! We even got the girls wall stickers that match their new bedding- darn you Target and all of your adorable crap! </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7QpOxrxxO2BYXGvDaT6GDHj-yY8-ZZhjwgAdhS_RAnxHN5b28TpSvQXVxP7HSSZ89nh9pyDyvJgiwxyxYhCkMLv9VtZ-sR32QoRdaTv-FsPOcyAm4lIQTA_Iguj1vOyXZ3BwG9JB0n0/s1600/IMG_5066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7QpOxrxxO2BYXGvDaT6GDHj-yY8-ZZhjwgAdhS_RAnxHN5b28TpSvQXVxP7HSSZ89nh9pyDyvJgiwxyxYhCkMLv9VtZ-sR32QoRdaTv-FsPOcyAm4lIQTA_Iguj1vOyXZ3BwG9JB0n0/s320/IMG_5066.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avery was not impressed with all of the errands.</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbBctfUb9CRFIAD0AF8Bd_vDm_UtePUVguCtc2pNiMAdWBfKjcYMV9J74QjBsCTwWe7wXfbrjRYCjP1L-44fqZliB_6g9_CmuxtflKgg1Ty5Wkn1vfo-MN1LTy116HgymSJpLDxU3GqI/s1600/IMG_5069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbBctfUb9CRFIAD0AF8Bd_vDm_UtePUVguCtc2pNiMAdWBfKjcYMV9J74QjBsCTwWe7wXfbrjRYCjP1L-44fqZliB_6g9_CmuxtflKgg1Ty5Wkn1vfo-MN1LTy116HgymSJpLDxU3GqI/s320/IMG_5069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A peek at the wall decals- and the most adorable scene ever! Which one is the doll?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My mom got my brother and I a pass to OMSI that lets in us, K, the kids and a few more, all for free! It's amazing. Avery especially loves OMSI- especially when she got to bring her best friend, Drew! She was especially excited to dress up like chipmunks with Drew and play in the indoor forest area - these two love playing house and have imaginations that just won't quit!- and to show him the earthquake simulation. After she did the simulation the first time we visited OMSI, she had all sorts of questions about earthquakes. Which was followed quickly by all sorts of nightmares and teary-eyed conversations about earthquakes. But I think she's made her peace with the idea now. And at least she's prepared, right?</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lvs91qn86vpA1ePXN18ez15UEOmwyU-Szb5r8YtyRldlMWSzJBD6Y1R0FIaW7WrpSaCQinFob93e8_flhH7TOFGI7dZnZKEPzw6wkgcPmz9uMY6bmykPcZI52Har38QTZeMw8i5T9aQ/s1600/IMG_5088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lvs91qn86vpA1ePXN18ez15UEOmwyU-Szb5r8YtyRldlMWSzJBD6Y1R0FIaW7WrpSaCQinFob93e8_flhH7TOFGI7dZnZKEPzw6wkgcPmz9uMY6bmykPcZI52Har38QTZeMw8i5T9aQ/s320/IMG_5088.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duck and Cover!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmimpAj_Xx5NawCYDkal3NcaqLjh8Vzb0XKrMqd7IWL6_fIHQ2P7FX9-EnpODgMmPau_xBmRjIJkbGa7q6uMwvgoCtT57jJdbnhALTXGQO7Zg6JMkUgCFFJ0Vs2GMe2SfbuWuPg9NRpGY/s1600/IMG_5084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmimpAj_Xx5NawCYDkal3NcaqLjh8Vzb0XKrMqd7IWL6_fIHQ2P7FX9-EnpODgMmPau_xBmRjIJkbGa7q6uMwvgoCtT57jJdbnhALTXGQO7Zg6JMkUgCFFJ0Vs2GMe2SfbuWuPg9NRpGY/s320/IMG_5084.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little etymologists checking out the petrified bugs.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
There is a Science Playground section indoors with all sorts of cool activities for kids under six. Carter's favorites are the sand pit and the water tables. I have to bring a change of clothes (because Carter NEVER does anything half-way!) but it's so worth it to see her having so much fun. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...that is, until she refuses to stop drinking the gross water. Seriously.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These two are besties. The end.</td></tr>
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<br />Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-11152715140972649812013-02-20T16:08:00.002-07:002013-02-20T16:08:59.711-07:00sisters are doin' it for themselves<div style="text-align: center;">
This Christmas all my mom wanted were nice pictures of the girls- especially Carter. It seems unbelievable but we hadn't taken any professional pictures of Carter since she was nearly one! And even then, she wouldn't smile at all. Not even once. </div>
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So here are a few of our favorites. </div>
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Hopefully someday soon we will be able to do a family portrait with BB, but for now I am in love with these girls and all of their energy and wildness and love for each other. It really melts this mamma's heart. Also, could they be more gorgeous!? </div>
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The answer is no. </div>
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<br />Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-71136986920499634862013-02-20T10:12:00.003-07:002013-02-20T10:18:52.951-07:00all about Butter Boots<div style="text-align: center;">
It feels so amazing to start putting together "Baby Brother"'s nursery. </div>
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Baby Brother is what the girls call my tummy. </div>
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And what Carter calls her tummy, too. </div>
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For example, if you grab Carter around the middle to hoist her up to get a drink at a drinking fountain, she will indignantly tell you, "Hey!! You're hurting Baby Brother!"</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTH4JPy1LPXX2TcvVC72Lr5i1dDGijdSNwWeN6hflD9nDDCgtvyHNrb2g7Iz5J0qhqzbxp8WcCSA9nbqqO0PBkugIZiI69q1OwQ-ugGe3ihSuZ9qK6BwF31W860llOi8Ne_cELI_iayw/s1600/IMG_4758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTH4JPy1LPXX2TcvVC72Lr5i1dDGijdSNwWeN6hflD9nDDCgtvyHNrb2g7Iz5J0qhqzbxp8WcCSA9nbqqO0PBkugIZiI69q1OwQ-ugGe3ihSuZ9qK6BwF31W860llOi8Ne_cELI_iayw/s320/IMG_4758.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aerial Belly View- January 2013</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
These two girls are so excited to have a little brother. Avery frequently reminds us that her wish came true- her wish for a brother. I think she's such a remarkably good kid, she deserves a good my-wish-came-true feeling. </div>
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Avery loves to play games, especially in the car. She makes them up constantly- the rules always changing. Lately her favorite has been scenario games, such as "What are you most excited to do when it's summer?" (the girl may look a whole lot like K, but she was meant to be live in the desert- she craves summer and sun constantly!). One day, when we were driving home from the library and playing "What do you think we should name Baby Brother?", it was Carter's turn. "Carter, what do YOU want to name Baby Brother?" Avery asked- refusing to answer the question herself because she "Couldn't think of the right name"- although she was glad to shoot down others ideas. </div>
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Carter paused for a minute, then replied, "Umm.... Butter Boots!"</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_jgRS9hZHDCmf-iDKnWe0yG5vu-8mz2BArrZgkKt32m6QqTMwEu4Fv-MKN4lEbCO_ABJcxJku7Hvqq16IAaFpCx3_3_k5iQC5zETRm87hesykkHFH9N9f_ODYTDiyUj-0tc5S5Z_r_A/s1600/IMG_4773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_jgRS9hZHDCmf-iDKnWe0yG5vu-8mz2BArrZgkKt32m6QqTMwEu4Fv-MKN4lEbCO_ABJcxJku7Hvqq16IAaFpCx3_3_k5iQC5zETRm87hesykkHFH9N9f_ODYTDiyUj-0tc5S5Z_r_A/s320/IMG_4773.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Princess Carter, the Magnificent. </td></tr>
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</div>
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We all laughed- no one as hard as Avery. After hours of pleading that we actually write the words "Butter Boots" on this poor boy's birth certificate, we decided that Butter Boots could be Baby Brother's nickname. I can't quite decide if I'm in love with this, or if I'm hoping they will forget about it. I think I'm leaning toward the former. How can the kid be dull with a nickname like Butter Boots before he even has made his big debut!?</div>
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I love it when people ask about his name- and feel honestly jealous of those who feel confident to name their baby before they meet them! I just never can- which, in Carter's case, resulted in her being called Baby Girl Tietjen for two whole days. I do have a pretty good idea of what he will be named, but we have a few names in reserve, too, in case he just doesn't look like a fill-in-the-blank. My mom begs me to at least tell her our ideas, but I have stubbornly decided not to share. So I keep telling her that we are 100% planning on naming him Thor. You know, just to make her a little crazy. </div>
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The only problem is, now K is really starting to like the name Thor. Backfire. </div>
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Oh well, I guess good ol' Thor "Butter Boots" Tietjen has a bright future ahead of him. As what, I'm not sure. Exotic dancer? You have to admit, Magic Mike has nothing on Butter Boots. Either that or he'll work at Pixar or as a boom mic guy on movies and they will print his name in the credits just like that, BB and all. And people everywhere will feel sorry for him, and whatever he did to deserve the nickname Butter Boots. Or the first name Thor. </div>
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My c-section is scheduled for the morning of April 30th, so unless I finally get to experience real contractions, this little guy will share a birthday with my sister-in-law, Juliet, and my cousin, Rebecca! It's hard to feel like the surgery is inevitable, but with my history I feel grateful to know that he will be in good hands, however he comes into the world. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I have felt really, really great so far this pregnancy! I am entering the Holy-Crap-Moving-Around-Is-Really-Hard phase of pregnancy already, which makes me a little crazy. But friends who have been there keep reassuring me that pregnancy number three really let's you know who's boss. Baby Brother is a big-time kicker, which I love! It's such a miracle- baby making. Braxton Hicks have already started up in a big way, too, which is new for me. My biggest pregnancy complaint is heartburn. Constant, no-matter-what-time, no-matter-what-I-eat heartburn. But then I remember the NICU with Av, or being on bed rest for a lot of my last trimester with Carter, and suddenly heartburn seems like no big deal. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Tllu8_l3xPUawLAaJRrED63lq5Hu-t8rcMzMzu1di5SuN9fSOWzOwXtZJr4-oTqUHXdPTGSoOYKwDu2Q4Q-4iTIP3BdkyUk7ZCg06imwu5bwqzEqz881zrLsBkuFS-yjypMRWcUy6WM/s1600/IMG_4771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Tllu8_l3xPUawLAaJRrED63lq5Hu-t8rcMzMzu1di5SuN9fSOWzOwXtZJr4-oTqUHXdPTGSoOYKwDu2Q4Q-4iTIP3BdkyUk7ZCg06imwu5bwqzEqz881zrLsBkuFS-yjypMRWcUy6WM/s320/IMG_4771.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how you run to the store to buy ice at 9pm on a Wednesday night to keep your pregnant wife happy. Like a boss. In pink.</td></tr>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This morning I folded and put away all of the baby clothes for Baby Brother in his nursery. We don't have much, and I still feel overwhelmed that everything we own is pink- how different a boy will be!!- but the Robots and Sports Gear and Dinosaurs that I piled in his drawers this morning make me all giddy, and I know we'll figure it out. I was such a tomboy growing up, and am still a 13-year-old boy at heart, honestly.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I really love Robots.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But Carter is just entering her "It's PRINCESS Carter, mom!" phase. </div>
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But she's so excited to have a baby, and is constantly playing momma-and-baby with her big sister.</div>
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But, seriously, there is so much pink here. </div>
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But K is already planning on the Legos they will play together when BB is old enough.</div>
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But the mood swings that go on in this house... </div>
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...Well, I'm sure Butter Boots will be just fine. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I mean, I really do like Robots.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mCWAHXy1x8Ua0m1mBzFnIkjh9jR7Av8MUAYPkMxK0IYHc5IyJiYrIBHhYo5Ad2pp5-IiNCRJxXunq5YJT8zqZaqcls9RivzYQa6bsOaBSVHnbByb7_tEN2rcmJ_nSSeIvrGEXcfS3_w/s1600/IMG_4831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mCWAHXy1x8Ua0m1mBzFnIkjh9jR7Av8MUAYPkMxK0IYHc5IyJiYrIBHhYo5Ad2pp5-IiNCRJxXunq5YJT8zqZaqcls9RivzYQa6bsOaBSVHnbByb7_tEN2rcmJ_nSSeIvrGEXcfS3_w/s320/IMG_4831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girls, me, and a whole lot of attitude. Good luck, Baby Brother!</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I remember being so nervous about being the mother of two little girls, but, even though a baby boy is foreign territory, I feel really peaceful and excited about adding this little guy to our family.<br />
Bring it on, Butter Boots! We're ready when you are. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-29368586885284518922013-01-28T14:25:00.000-07:002013-01-28T14:29:29.861-07:00a month of suck... oops, sick<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9462g1jTg9g3bjrY9B2uuFg3IjZosPmkiG90-QdgZstni47Ql8LfXW4MDuJjiRvL8-9AYD43nPN9neezIm2xCqP59GuMHF76BI4H5AoeFowjNPVXxYYc1xWB9fK4MX2ekoZZf7KRCls/s1600/IMG_4629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9462g1jTg9g3bjrY9B2uuFg3IjZosPmkiG90-QdgZstni47Ql8LfXW4MDuJjiRvL8-9AYD43nPN9neezIm2xCqP59GuMHF76BI4H5AoeFowjNPVXxYYc1xWB9fK4MX2ekoZZf7KRCls/s320/IMG_4629.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avery played with Mom's camera phone an awful lot during her two-week convalescence. She's a big fan of the Selfie. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Yesterday was plain awful," Annie sings to Daddy Warbucks in the final number of <i>Annie</i>.</div>
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(I should know, I have played that [and every other kiddie movie we own] more than once recently.) </div>
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You can say that again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Despite all of us getting our flu shots (like good little boys and girls always do) in mid-September, the past few weeks have been a never-ending parade of the Big F Word, featuring tissues, thermometers, medicine droppers, popsicles, juice, and general misery. It started each time when runny noses and sore throats merged into 104 degree fevers, lost appetites and wracking coughs. For four days straight. FOUR. DAYS. Four days of worrying sick and wondering and force-feeeding and bathing and watching news coverage of the number of flu-related deaths climb and barely sleeping. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
First Avery. Then, two days after her fever finally broke, Carter. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60Zd_dUiPYzYplAzrARxtm6DtX685NLXq2MhWw8-2M7iejIuGi66HwxYhnUbOuvD9h9q-R3zEFp5pkholGy5Hf8So5zIHiqYtL848Z32-lfNPmc8znTO1yXHZzGlPgNSVoNL9Sqrobs4/s1600/IMG_4685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh60Zd_dUiPYzYplAzrARxtm6DtX685NLXq2MhWw8-2M7iejIuGi66HwxYhnUbOuvD9h9q-R3zEFp5pkholGy5Hf8So5zIHiqYtL848Z32-lfNPmc8znTO1yXHZzGlPgNSVoNL9Sqrobs4/s320/IMG_4685.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The worst day of Carter's flu. When it came to the end of her six-hour medicine cycle, she couldn't function at all.</td></tr>
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Klayton and I got watered-down versions of the same flu, but we were somehow better equipped to fight it off, thank heaven. We were each out of commission for just one day- the others were bearable misery. Carter has bounced back from her flu pretty well. The aftermath for teensy Av, however, has included a runny nose, hacking cough and hearing loss in her right ear due to fluid that just wouldn't drain! You know, you're average walk-in-the-park type stuff.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleeping Beauty. </td></tr>
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But I am pleased to (finally) report that all are mostly-well again and life is moving on. It has been hard to get Avery back to school since she had two weeks off for Winter Break, then about four days into school in 2013 she started getting sick and took another 2+ weeks off (plus, she kind of hates Kindergarten! I wonder what she'll think when school is three hours longer and you don't get to finger paint...), but we are all adjusting to normal, contagion-free life bit by bit. Yesterday was our first day back to church as a family, and it felt really good! The theme for February in our house is "Let's pack some pounds back onto Avery so I can no longer count each and every one of her ribs." </div>
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Wish us luck. </div>
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The moral of this story? "The sun <i>will</i> come out Tomorrow." It's just that sometimes Tomorrow is weeks away. And you will go through Costco-sized packages of Kleenex, Tylenol and Halls in the meantime. And the sun only actually comes out metaphorically-speaking because it's wintertime in Portland, Oregon.<br />
Thanks anyway, Annie. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-47537824638975056602013-01-02T16:42:00.002-07:002013-01-02T16:42:58.601-07:00New Year's News<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The past few New Year's Eves we have been lucky enough to spend with
friends and family, but this year we were facing a solo NYE, and I was
more than a little down about it. That is, until I realized something
wonderful- we could tell our kids it was midnight at just about any time
we chose, go to bed at a decent time, and still have a great night
together! It turned out to be one of my favorite NYE ever. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrWKyS8uxAIg9-n4yqVSzsxacfWrn0CLQBOQ8bD6hr3OI_W3_tywfxe2jgzkEMiF0628icihEFl7D0MlZ-0YRb2EKl6C6Fcnh_KxEXwZ82DY9Mwef6QQu_mllFSwzrnYSustflSfkUeA/s1600/IMG_0390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrWKyS8uxAIg9-n4yqVSzsxacfWrn0CLQBOQ8bD6hr3OI_W3_tywfxe2jgzkEMiF0628icihEFl7D0MlZ-0YRb2EKl6C6Fcnh_KxEXwZ82DY9Mwef6QQu_mllFSwzrnYSustflSfkUeA/s200/IMG_0390.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ebDsAo_-nFkPKLwVLDSccjAK6A6iZKyMdNwAreXJjWr6PrAxd1foaM3a8getsD89INkRRCH-PZVBcXnnQnf65HKJRiJXTUG8HtyUw1lJOlP8KGT-Kvw7MEaOW1WL9Qr9XgYmu-vSlg/s1600/IMG_0395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ebDsAo_-nFkPKLwVLDSccjAK6A6iZKyMdNwAreXJjWr6PrAxd1foaM3a8getsD89INkRRCH-PZVBcXnnQnf65HKJRiJXTUG8HtyUw1lJOlP8KGT-Kvw7MEaOW1WL9Qr9XgYmu-vSlg/s200/IMG_0395.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Avery decorated with<span style="font-size: x-small;"> her paintings. She is such a Daddy's girl lately!</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> First Avery and I decorated the house with a string where Avery hung her
favorite paintings from the past few weeks. We set the table as fancy
as we could, and planned a special meal of Caesar salad, homemade pizza
(I let the girls each make their own pie with their favorite toppings,
and I made an adult Buffalo Chicken pizza - my specialty), grapes and
sparkling cider. I even put together a NYE 2012 playlist on Spotify to
listen to throughout the night. It included hits from this year as well
as songs we couldn't get enough of from years' past. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy table set, check. Homemade pizza (Buffalo Chicken and Pepperoni and Olive) check. </td></tr>
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After we ate, K bathed the girls while I prepared our evening's activities. We filled out <a href="http://todaysmama.com/2011/12/printable-end-of-the-year-time-capsule-question/" target="_blank">NYE questionnaires</a> for each of us that we plan on reading next year- the answers for the kids were hilarious!-
and played games until about 8:30pm. The games I chose were Sardines
(kind of a reverse Hide and Seek) and Freeze Dance (always a hit!). </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bubbly and a dance party! What could be better to ring in the New Year? </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Happy New Year!</span></td></tr>
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At 8:30 we bundled up and went outside to pop poppers and shout Happy
New Year! A neighbor came out to comment on our early celebration, but
we didn't mind. She either thought it was cute or crazy, but we have a
two year old! An 8:30 celebration seemed the responsible thing to do!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fireworks in the free<span style="font-size: x-small;">zing cold!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Our <span style="font-size: x-small;">girl<span style="font-size: x-small;">s' favorite treat- chocolate-kissed raspberries! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> After our toast (man, my kids love Cheers!ing [obviously not a verb, but it's the best I could do]) and <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/275131/lucky-foods-for-the-new-year/@center/859874/new-years-eve" target="_blank">the eating of the grapes</a>, we tucked the kids in and K and I read/discussed <i>The Screwtape Letters</i> until we were sleepy. I know that makes us sound about 100 years old, but between this pregnancy and all of the late nights we had over our holiday trip to Las Vegas, it was the perfect evening. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Our yearly tradition<span style="font-size: x-small;">- <span style="font-size: x-small;">eating gra<span style="font-size: x-small;">pes at "midnight" to predict a sweet or sour <span style="font-size: x-small;">new year!</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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As I always seem to mention each year, this time of renewal and reflection is so exciting to me. I love setting goals and looking back and looking forward and all of the hope and happiness and uncertainty that comes with a brand new year. I can't wait to see what 2013 brings!</div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-80337492635496165932013-01-02T15:23:00.001-07:002013-01-02T15:23:12.841-07:00comfort and joy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our Christmas at the Cabin was white and wonderful and filled with moments and memories that we will hold on to forever! I hope that your Christmas was the same. <br />Some of my favorite yearly Cabin Christmas traditions: </div>
<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li>Chopping down the Christmas tree</li>
<li>The Christmas Eve visit from Santa</li>
<li>Avery and I making sugar cookies and decorating them with all of the kids</li>
<li>My dad reading the Christmas Story from the Bible on Christmas Eve</li>
<li>Watching A Christmas Story after the kids have gone to bed</li>
<li>Seeing a movie in the (completely teensy and CROWDED) St. George theater (Les Miserables this year- indescribably amazing!)</li>
<li>Pine Valley Christmas Sacrament Meeting - always consists of ten Christmas songs and the reading of the Christmas story by members of the congregation. So perfect</li>
<li>Waiting at the top of the stairs on Christmas Morning until all video cameras are turned on and ready to capture the present stampede</li>
<li>The after presents/big breakfast Christmas nap</li>
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This year came with a few special moments that I hope will become tradition in years to come! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Things like: </div>
<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li>The adults telling stories and sharing memories of childhood and past Christmases while we set up presents on Christmas Eve after the kids are in bed</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li> Staying up late in Great Grandma's room chatting and telling stories</li>
<li>Helping the girls wrap the presents that they got each other with extra bows and tags</li>
<li>Making and eating <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/gorgonzola-sauce-recipe/index.html" target="_blank">this sauce</a> on <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2008/06/crash-hot-potatoes/" target="_blank">these potatoes</a> along with a Christmas Ham on Christmas Eve. Mmmmmm</li>
<li>Decorating a Gingerbread House with all of the kiddos</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Having children around at Christmas is the best reminder of the wonder and excitement of this time of year, and especially of the message of the Savior of the World. What a wonderful opportunity to reflect on Him each year. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbHaFFJMGwOWJoiIY1gTKUpI9EGuKzE9LToKAmpiJUyuHc8bCrq-0GdocgW1ycNO8CQRvfFH0zWo0dqzsMv4lIQyVmJFfRknH43C-7YgQre48-iHoNg6uKUEf2GMJGTJh2vm0OabfYwU/s1600/IMG_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbHaFFJMGwOWJoiIY1gTKUpI9EGuKzE9LToKAmpiJUyuHc8bCrq-0GdocgW1ycNO8CQRvfFH0zWo0dqzsMv4lIQyVmJFfRknH43C-7YgQre48-iHoNg6uKUEf2GMJGTJh2vm0OabfYwU/s400/IMG_0319.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The three grand-kids on the sled, hunting for the perfect tree.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAmKlr7myZqqr7A-OzgJFoNnuQrFV5-NYKGKMZyylVB9BM35qvU-FIYVT47VCmPIIJ0OVF132jviZS4D7MdiLJdwFvo5IzLHDBjlGqB_8Ja6Wy8SAYUyLmGV5VhFkwPjqIyCWKyAcWZs/s1600/IMG_0325.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNAmKlr7myZqqr7A-OzgJFoNnuQrFV5-NYKGKMZyylVB9BM35qvU-FIYVT47VCmPIIJ0OVF132jviZS4D7MdiLJdwFvo5IzLHDBjlGqB_8Ja6Wy8SAYUyLmGV5VhFkwPjqIyCWKyAcWZs/s200/IMG_0325.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOFfAIe7sY5e4T1xlEpcOzRHXNOyeLGufL4kcXCtWj3U811w9L5YN8yEHmmMTV-nYpVxOOoWtuu4ijmly-bBM5jvW6XRiYEcDDvZAdIlPdAb_MTpi2eCPS-bmliIno5nNJJm_ACpF3H0/s1600/IMG_0326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOFfAIe7sY5e4T1xlEpcOzRHXNOyeLGufL4kcXCtWj3U811w9L5YN8yEHmmMTV-nYpVxOOoWtuu4ijmly-bBM5jvW6XRiYEcDDvZAdIlPdAb_MTpi2eCPS-bmliIno5nNJJm_ACpF3H0/s200/IMG_0326.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Choppers of wood.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgut3ACy440P1_HuGRDHSPhqS0Cck7czXaDieLyisw0cjj9tuUL5vhNC8PaPI8RwpgJlaMK-YyY6YjplSWwjtPRt0mJFedOo_y2hUXd5Wnpppcs80UhXbKnDjnTdQa1Y6x-ZHQqsglzs4s/s1600/IMG_0327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgut3ACy440P1_HuGRDHSPhqS0Cck7czXaDieLyisw0cjj9tuUL5vhNC8PaPI8RwpgJlaMK-YyY6YjplSWwjtPRt0mJFedOo_y2hUXd5Wnpppcs80UhXbKnDjnTdQa1Y6x-ZHQqsglzs4s/s400/IMG_0327.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEW8KECTi0OvZpmrwC0Ja_692gV2C7q2Bce7DWGJGfhabEuAQT4MbgrRtkhZpAJUMBJw-DNXHfWXIIeLvyJfiR2xMV4u-iz8PSsrgfPgi8ebvOoZ9NcqMyDYMjzJE8jtC-FJ-B-iSSCY/s1600/IMG_0328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEW8KECTi0OvZpmrwC0Ja_692gV2C7q2Bce7DWGJGfhabEuAQT4MbgrRtkhZpAJUMBJw-DNXHfWXIIeLvyJfiR2xMV4u-iz8PSsrgfPgi8ebvOoZ9NcqMyDYMjzJE8jtC-FJ-B-iSSCY/s400/IMG_0328.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister and nephew are gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBHe_QTdD0V9W0s3B6i_VIDsyL0OR0eKCBl5sFtt5v9FAiaWDS7fXm2TcsV7Bhvvk079bcEDhyYJTauhMuq0fVZ1wnB4oIzywKcZ5uqZevE1TGc5tYwqWk47H0bniZWa4xDQi4OkWFk4/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBHe_QTdD0V9W0s3B6i_VIDsyL0OR0eKCBl5sFtt5v9FAiaWDS7fXm2TcsV7Bhvvk079bcEDhyYJTauhMuq0fVZ1wnB4oIzywKcZ5uqZevE1TGc5tYwqWk47H0bniZWa4xDQi4OkWFk4/s200/IMG_0331.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEe06t6cuSJj9DZlKtuDJYotY1Liof7VH3gzrR7RgWQVkf4732yATdjbgvgLF8O7o2gQCXmw6bUq5ziWFyBUkILE3CkTviznsadyfRxsTYZoaPvvXZkU_-1ubGuJ2L1XMhzWtMz3SJaU/s1600/IMG_0339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEe06t6cuSJj9DZlKtuDJYotY1Liof7VH3gzrR7RgWQVkf4732yATdjbgvgLF8O7o2gQCXmw6bUq5ziWFyBUkILE3CkTviznsadyfRxsTYZoaPvvXZkU_-1ubGuJ2L1XMhzWtMz3SJaU/s200/IMG_0339.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I<span style="font-size: x-small;">f cutting down the Christmas tree is wrong, they don't<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">want to be right.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdrR6BEFTDKdySYBsNAJcCcibWEAKXD_nyD6WwBFr5LVqM-qPrSHgNihRyzK4OgwW4Ym8I2LADyWOx3WdyF_QeMy6U_x5iCzkQoH8UtHQVqP-p4YZxzM0X4xP3jHHo2ybGiJ902qYhdw/s1600/IMG_0341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdrR6BEFTDKdySYBsNAJcCcibWEAKXD_nyD6WwBFr5LVqM-qPrSHgNihRyzK4OgwW4Ym8I2LADyWOx3WdyF_QeMy6U_x5iCzkQoH8UtHQVqP-p4YZxzM0X4xP3jHHo2ybGiJ902qYhdw/s400/IMG_0341.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Spencer (Unkapensa, according to Carter) is the coolest.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19zA0CXJ_S-mgjEHU9GuqKA1DQP-o93wxPqVQmijMAyfV_Z5Zp-0ym4v-XhnZ1LigLTuT2ppAnXlMkXoDro1Rvseyo-spiuA-Gvze7zb5UDoSQsgXiRL0A-Eac5Ol8ltNF0exnxBsk6s/s1600/IMG_0343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19zA0CXJ_S-mgjEHU9GuqKA1DQP-o93wxPqVQmijMAyfV_Z5Zp-0ym4v-XhnZ1LigLTuT2ppAnXlMkXoDro1Rvseyo-spiuA-Gvze7zb5UDoSQsgXiRL0A-Eac5Ol8ltNF0exnxBsk6s/s400/IMG_0343.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two cute boys. Can you believe Giles' eyes?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJC3tBNpllQ-slw_8yeKOwo8gb1bt50AmNOb0b5j89_RoF8mdG4zzUIyQouiYkMdEjDOpyuI7FI7ypnxFiZmEVU6RkHwbWDUatAZtY_ftgvNON90iWUv9yi5gGRpA0ewwlqoH2MSoKZY/s1600/IMG_0344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJC3tBNpllQ-slw_8yeKOwo8gb1bt50AmNOb0b5j89_RoF8mdG4zzUIyQouiYkMdEjDOpyuI7FI7ypnxFiZmEVU6RkHwbWDUatAZtY_ftgvNON90iWUv9yi5gGRpA0ewwlqoH2MSoKZY/s200/IMG_0344.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdw_Yzy2hpHGaRHrPV-mPWyGNkkzwT2yfCdBjsXFrcpVd2oS_cfNEwnpj51pUqOlnXM6ABGw-g0HdIAURF1g74GwnuwU3TnOS85WvT_XKOdApTaK0aJrVdZld0o4enjRDXYrfvPIPRUw/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdw_Yzy2hpHGaRHrPV-mPWyGNkkzwT2yfCdBjsXFrcpVd2oS_cfNEwnpj51pUqOlnXM6ABGw-g0HdIAURF1g74GwnuwU3TnOS85WvT_XKOdApTaK0aJrVdZld0o4enjRDXYrfvPIPRUw/s200/IMG_0346.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ05pSCBlzHrBlsThPkSZUt6tl0fNQivN8ZBj-soFMdeOT9Harixudq6yYcUGyM0QD_N4uxaliWJf7_U3EdDj97zawGcGzXGbEkcav7kdvVbIjhDzKSuHaaHn1QZo4VE1QutT5BvSGTc/s1600/IMG_0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ05pSCBlzHrBlsThPkSZUt6tl0fNQivN8ZBj-soFMdeOT9Harixudq6yYcUGyM0QD_N4uxaliWJf7_U3EdDj97zawGcGzXGbEkcav7kdvVbIjhDzKSuHaaHn1QZo4VE1QutT5BvSGTc/s200/IMG_0349.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WY4hg_fygaYyfLZtHx2IiLOlqM1K_LxPzL71FfINyvWa70C5iot2eq5MpqiWcbPIW2W6XwJBZewI9nq7YZdtdN7htPb-ZwzAT4i6yV2unwRuRbWVIGSxac3QiNSB6ySrl5EIhfVF5aM/s1600/IMG_0353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WY4hg_fygaYyfLZtHx2IiLOlqM1K_LxPzL71FfINyvWa70C5iot2eq5MpqiWcbPIW2W6XwJBZewI9nq7YZdtdN7htPb-ZwzAT4i6yV2unwRuRbWVIGSxac3QiNSB6ySrl5EIhfVF5aM/s200/IMG_0353.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Decorating a gingerbread house<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (<span style="font-size: x-small;">train) <span style="font-size: x-small;">with <span style="font-size: x-small;">toddlers </span></span>is not <span style="font-size: x-small;">for the weak of stomach.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7n6mjm0ip2yTg0-7999wWCxBumIcWTbFaB2T33AzaIZoht6UdZG4ABHEwu0AFrKimZ8abuK3eieRUDzhyphenhyphenepRUfWHDz3MY169NEjtiolyaOru0DH8ZG8kPm_kJKc_lfc-GwpIKorQIyY/s1600/IMG_0362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7n6mjm0ip2yTg0-7999wWCxBumIcWTbFaB2T33AzaIZoht6UdZG4ABHEwu0AFrKimZ8abuK3eieRUDzhyphenhyphenepRUfWHDz3MY169NEjtiolyaOru0DH8ZG8kPm_kJKc_lfc-GwpIKorQIyY/s400/IMG_0362.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Claus came to town!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWgECJJTxhAcE90Bko-BkO52kmKfnXM0Q5ayU36oE6r-JaNeToC9HfMjV7yHetCvZ5mX4CBBui321W_NEO9t1082I_WMdjiFDWZs1rnYN0NJVdb01HnN19XYx9qkvli9dVL11qi9V09o/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWgECJJTxhAcE90Bko-BkO52kmKfnXM0Q5ayU36oE6r-JaNeToC9HfMjV7yHetCvZ5mX4CBBui321W_NEO9t1082I_WMdjiFDWZs1rnYN0NJVdb01HnN19XYx9qkvli9dVL11qi9V09o/s200/IMG_0357.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMnHwa-hDEnutcdAV8bIzjh20NuwZfd1U_y8Bduoln4pWg227PYoXECgZnLGLilE4XCX8qKfmBjEcotgUslnETeoDAeGNoEElu-wueJJD_ufYaEb9Z-PHinFfHvZ5RS41l_hHsQE5UK8/s1600/IMG_0379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMnHwa-hDEnutcdAV8bIzjh20NuwZfd1U_y8Bduoln4pWg227PYoXECgZnLGLilE4XCX8qKfmBjEcotgUslnETeoDAeGNoEElu-wueJJD_ufYaEb9Z-PHinFfHvZ5RS41l_hHsQE5UK8/s200/IMG_0379.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking for <span style="font-size: x-small;">Santa/Christmas Morning Mayhem</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMsnFvvok1u9-YcRrHiSTlmOiTJWdZodlN3GLgMye9TFSpvJtUCzFYxs7cT2hW5dby8-NrJphhI-Pu26G1W3G4p_JUt2RyxUDUl-3fq-jjaIoeXBboIb6iuoPzFHolE-RAKs9VCfs4cs/s1600/IMG_0370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMsnFvvok1u9-YcRrHiSTlmOiTJWdZodlN3GLgMye9TFSpvJtUCzFYxs7cT2hW5dby8-NrJphhI-Pu26G1W3G4p_JUt2RyxUDUl-3fq-jjaIoeXBboIb6iuoPzFHolE-RAKs9VCfs4cs/s400/IMG_0370.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decorating Christmas Cookies!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip414krmSRqO1wyM_yudFSTC4vyIkr8ayoXlRsjX1TZ7ioKu8SZzYpt69JCF8gAdnRdphxhkxdOwBVjU62idS28sZDK_3W3tmjuuIg2fKfDhwgghfzqXA589rIqCdMV0gwwZaeGAnSoCQ/s1600/IMG_0378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip414krmSRqO1wyM_yudFSTC4vyIkr8ayoXlRsjX1TZ7ioKu8SZzYpt69JCF8gAdnRdphxhkxdOwBVjU62idS28sZDK_3W3tmjuuIg2fKfDhwgghfzqXA589rIqCdMV0gwwZaeGAnSoCQ/s400/IMG_0378.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avery's letter to Santa. Melts my heart. It reads: I love you Santa. I love Mrs. Claus, too. I hope you like my cookies. Love, Avery. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I hope all your days were merry and bright this holiday! </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-13620572219043417592013-01-02T14:49:00.000-07:002013-01-02T14:49:07.803-07:00all over again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSur2dkHLdIJdkQNBQdjXCmAWiuoLGITlq9pdbns7QXnpS095tbfTwFMeCFo2XPSXzGjAg9MaBK-fhuTBBA9qjVZmkNlj31gmJlhfn6MZMYQY6mykWYHoKMdRlUxwKEGfqc8HTmq0XCc/s1600/IMG_0279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSur2dkHLdIJdkQNBQdjXCmAWiuoLGITlq9pdbns7QXnpS095tbfTwFMeCFo2XPSXzGjAg9MaBK-fhuTBBA9qjVZmkNlj31gmJlhfn6MZMYQY6mykWYHoKMdRlUxwKEGfqc8HTmq0XCc/s320/IMG_0279.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lobby of K's building.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Spending the Christmas season in a new, big city has been really exciting! There are a lot of new things to see and new traditions to make. It has been especially fun for me to live near one of my family members again- Adam is just a ten minute drive from us and we love having him over whenever he has the time. We have been to see a bunch of movies with him the past few months, as well as going to see the Zoo Lights together and having him babysit the girls for us. And they are obsessed with him. Completely smitten. He's a pretty awesome uncle. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokL7iB5vSrzmCq8jDHX90MuwFJsSP048Z0dIu674CRxVnVdEHWQYtcrCk8-zfqX1cPFPVVW7z_8lCTj42C8Ho_p18-8y8tELNApc4lJ_5_SPO3dDWd7oUxm6dmLG96DA1dDX_g0IG8Vs/s1600/IMG_0269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokL7iB5vSrzmCq8jDHX90MuwFJsSP048Z0dIu674CRxVnVdEHWQYtcrCk8-zfqX1cPFPVVW7z_8lCTj42C8Ho_p18-8y8tELNApc4lJ_5_SPO3dDWd7oUxm6dmLG96DA1dDX_g0IG8Vs/s320/IMG_0269.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoo Lights 2012</td></tr>
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Of course, being in a new city has brought with it plenty of changes to our way of life, and not all of them are pleasant. Here are a few things I have noticed over the past three months that have come with moving to Portland: </div>
<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li>Suddenly friends and family members think it's okay to talk about Idaho like it's a well-known fact that my family and I have finally picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off and moved out of hillbilly hell. Dear such family and friends: NOT. COOL. Seriously, acting like I should be grateful to be away from that small and, yes, somewhat sheltered place makes you sound like an idiot. Stop talking. I miss my friends and family in Idaho dearly. I miss school. And there is nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with my missing small city life, my big house, my big yard, my teensy Farmer's Market. And, yeah, it's pretty awesome living in a big town with huge everything (libraries, shopping centers, theaters, everything), but that doesn't mean that where I live now, or where you live now or have ever lived, means that Idaho is now the punchline to your jokes. Ugh. So, with all of the love and sincerity I possess, please think before you open your big mouth. Thanks. </li>
</ul>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGfrqW5WU_dZvX5DVZbSPUk0K7afdHLsN2yEu9MNdmIvwNw89z_F8MIB4MOFdxViaUdRsxn0TEYLbmjRDUvA3c8R3thSjSy2qwLnm4D5bBf6y88Wi2iLJEyQy-Ye2WjfN8qNbGbM4hg8/s1600/IMG_0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIGfrqW5WU_dZvX5DVZbSPUk0K7afdHLsN2yEu9MNdmIvwNw89z_F8MIB4MOFdxViaUdRsxn0TEYLbmjRDUvA3c8R3thSjSy2qwLnm4D5bBf6y88Wi2iLJEyQy-Ye2WjfN8qNbGbM4hg8/s320/IMG_0261.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa time!</td></tr>
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<li>There are really great people everywhere! I have met some of the most sincerely nice and thoughtful people here in the suburbs of Portland. My neighbors are fantastic, my ward is wonderful, Avery's school is great. I hope my family and I will add to the great feeling of friendliness around here.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody></tbody></table>
</li>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13hSoub4e0mGQS_10fjFITZv-oXTFG-0-VJ6IsJMU3q7jG7-hoIxFpeN6rCpo74PkBV9sAgALkMzovKSFD2zxU8YJHU_Wdb5yAzCUozwloUgoxWq2SnDNnuESNw1hyphenhyphenbS6Gl8eUqfU8kk/s1600/IMG_0271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13hSoub4e0mGQS_10fjFITZv-oXTFG-0-VJ6IsJMU3q7jG7-hoIxFpeN6rCpo74PkBV9sAgALkMzovKSFD2zxU8YJHU_Wdb5yAzCUozwloUgoxWq2SnDNnuESNw1hyphenhyphenbS6Gl8eUqfU8kk/s320/IMG_0271.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoo Lights 2012</td></tr>
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<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li> Being a parent feels different in Portland than it did in Smalltown McMormonville, Idaho. If someone, say, in the airport or grocery store in Idaho saw me struggling with two small children, more often than not I was met with extra helpfulness, kind strangers talking with my children, telling me how sweet/cute/wonderful they are (only the truth), and once I was even given a pat on the back and a, "Great job, Mom!" from a complete stranger when I was checking out at lightning speed at Fred Meyer and Carter was crying because I wouldn't let her push the buttons on the credit card machine and Avery was doing the Imma-bouta-pee-my-pants-dance like nobody's business. </li>
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Here, I am much more prone to getting looks from Hipsters and Respectable Adults (and yes, those are two distinct groups) alike that plainly say, "Don't you know how to use a condom?", "I'm so glad I'm not you", and, last but certainly not least, "Why in Heaven's name did you leave your house, freak?" </div>
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Legit. No exaggeration here. </div>
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At the airport last week we were even put into a different line and helped very last of all of the airline's customers, and I am convinced it was because two adults and two little girls with five large pieces of luggage in Portlandese says, "I am Other. Keep far away. Do not help me. Pity me. Pity yourself if you must have contact with me." </div>
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It extends beyond the airport, too. At restaurants with our children, who are, I dare say, at least as well-behaved as any five and two-year-old out there, I have to flag down our server for water refills, let alone anything else. They like to give us our food and check and absolutely nothing more. </div>
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This difference in attitude makes me laugh more often than not, but it also makes me think about the state of the world in deeper moments- I am sad that choosing to procreate is apparently so looked-down upon! Or at least that choosing to ever dare leave your house with children is. </div>
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Again, though, my final thought here is that I would like to be a positive part of this community, especially to other mothers. Mothers here often keep their heads down and are trying to make it though, just like me. But I am going to try looking up and smiling and being kind to other people and their kids when I am running errands. I can do that much. Maybe I'll start a cool new trend, like tattoo sleeves or Priuses?! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUpoCVm7E8VbBDgcekwz077aK6dEz13OOoTYjk3MqOBAtmtqddofxPDg9b971-5eORlEY5Fmt6ueNIsby4k5iYDysQNLNshr378_2_TG0yJ1_P1MqKPCrN_VhIpG72i3AN-9p85h0ghyphenhyphenc/s1600/IMG_0280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUpoCVm7E8VbBDgcekwz077aK6dEz13OOoTYjk3MqOBAtmtqddofxPDg9b971-5eORlEY5Fmt6ueNIsby4k5iYDysQNLNshr378_2_TG0yJ1_P1MqKPCrN_VhIpG72i3AN-9p85h0ghyphenhyphenc/s320/IMG_0280.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful girls!</td></tr>
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<ul style="text-align: center;">
<li>Traffic sucks. Commuting is stupid. How are there this many people/cars/stores? Seriously, traffic sucks. </li>
<li>Finally, along with moving to a new, large city I have realized that I am not as brave as I once thought I was. And I have whined about this move a lot, when so many act like it is just a part of life. I guess I never had to do that growing up, though. Move a lot, I mean. Every house that I lived in from birth to age 18 are all in a ten mile radius of each other. And I got to be in Idaho for nearly a decade! So maybe it has just been extra-intimidating for me, especially since I felt so happy and settled in our home in Idaho. Changing everything about our location and situation has been mentally and emotionally draining (and growing a human being inside of me hasn't much helped the situation, either), and new beginnings are at the same time opportunities of a lifetime and crap sandwiches. But getting to find out how much friends and family mean with new distance and closeness, making new friends, and growing closer to my husband and children are all happy consequences of taking a leap into new opportunity that came with feelings of peace and hope when agonized over on my knees. So I hereby promise to stop complaining! </li>
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Cross my heart. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-88914182389503234282012-12-31T13:15:00.000-07:002012-12-31T13:15:12.553-07:00bringing up baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIfjtIovjuj9ta-01pGokkebkLCNqf8XbXqJ3Ygd7z8qb4aVThXTRywxxZ7jx9YDfV5pTmht_kLnBGX3yRAKrshKknXWH_TYoi8YJtYisY_TU8NWrfcDVl_9Jt3V2yE-iGu3G4EMv-18/s1600/IMG_0273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIfjtIovjuj9ta-01pGokkebkLCNqf8XbXqJ3Ygd7z8qb4aVThXTRywxxZ7jx9YDfV5pTmht_kLnBGX3yRAKrshKknXWH_TYoi8YJtYisY_TU8NWrfcDVl_9Jt3V2yE-iGu3G4EMv-18/s400/IMG_0273.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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We took a few pictures the morning of the gender ultrasound and I thought I'd share. I'm not huge on belly shots, but we thought we'd get one by our sweet little Christmas tree to commemorate the day. I still am in shock a little bit that this kicker is a boy! I mean, it's really not shocking news- it had to have been one of two outcomes. But still! A <span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">BOY</span></span>. It didn't really hit me until I got home and looked around- <i>everything we own is pink</i>! </div>
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We have a lot of work to do. </div>
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Now that Christmas is over, I am looking at my very last semester of college. I graduate this April, which will have to be a long distance affair since this baby boy is due to show up at the end of that month. I am so excited to be done with my degree, but it is definitely bittersweet- spending my last couple of semesters doing school online feels like I'm getting a fake degree. It's no fun to have put in so much work and feel kind of like a phony. Of course, the fact that I plan to do, oh, absolutely nothing with this degree might have something to do with that phony-feeling too. Not that I wish I was striking out into the work force- I love being a stay-at-home mom and we have made a lot of sacrifices to keep my job here with my kids. But still, it would be nice to DO something with all of this knowledge! All I feel capable of doing is citing some killer sources and reading copious amounts of literature in a short period of time like no one's business. Perhaps it will come in handy someday. Like in a Masters program. </div>
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A girl can dream. </div>
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The girls are so excited to have a little brother, and they pat/talk to/rub/sing to/poke my belly an awful lot. Which is really cute. And just a little silly. I just hope Carter doesn't want to keep doing it when all she's poking is too much Chinese food or a trip to the buffet in there. We are trying to prepare her for the baby's arrival, and so far so good! While we were in the ultrasound, there was a poster of nine months of pregnancy from the womb- a sort of portrait of how baby grows. Carter begged K to pick her up, pointed to each picture on the poster and said, "That's my baby brother and that's my baby brother and that's my baby brother and that's my baby brother..." And she got a baby doll for Christmas- a little pink girl baby, but still!- that she puts to bed every day and night. But I'm still pretty sure that when baby brother makes his debut she is going to be umm well, let's hope she's aiming kisses at him, and not knuckle sandwiches. </div>
Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4215445303761327375.post-29295933054909585732012-12-18T11:06:00.001-07:002012-12-18T11:06:03.913-07:00beautiful beautiful beautifulWell, he certainly isn't shy...<br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/12/18/1285.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/12/18/s_1285.jpg' border='0' width='400' height='400' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />Mandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17622350466186763415noreply@blogger.com1