tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72119979376737837372024-03-05T12:44:03.993-07:00Snailbug AlleyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-20891407568478663752012-06-03T20:05:00.000-06:002012-06-03T20:21:32.421-06:00happy to be livingYou know, sometimes life throws you a curve. Okay, truth be
told, life is just one long, big curve. But every once in a while maybe one or
a couple of those curves puts things into perspective. <br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Curve One:</i></div>
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I worked a full shift on Friday, and when I came home Danielle
wasn’t home. No biggie. Happens often. In fact, more often than not. It seems
our employers have it out to get us. My employers work me when she’s not working,
and her employers work her when I’m not. So I wasn’t upset when she wasn’t
here. No big deal. Her car was here, but she wasn’t. Again, no big deal. I
assumed she was with her friend, but I had no idea where she was. Well, the
evening came to a close. It got later and later and I began to worry. See, it’s
my job, this worry thing. And I take my jobs seriously. Late into the evening I
texted her and she responded that they were on their way home. From where? I
had no idea, but I rested easy. She was okay. An hour later, she still wasn’t
home. The easy rest turned into restlessness. From where could they be coming
and not be home an hour later? I called her. No answer. I called her friend. No
answer. St. George is a little place. At this point, my imagination went
completely into a flying frenzy. I finally called her friend’s mother. She told me they
had gone to a play in Springdale. Oh. That’s why it was taking so long to get
home. Again, I rested easy. A half hour later, no Danielle and imagination on
fire. I was physically sick wondering where my baby was. A few minutes later,
she called. She was two doors down and had left her phone in her car. Relief. A
flood of tears. And then I could breathe easy. </div>
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<br />
<i>Curve Two:</i></div>
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Then today, I was eating dinner with Danielle, Marissa, and
Carl. I made chicken fried steak. The Pioneer Woman on TV made it look so dang
easy. As it turned out, the chicken fried steak wasn’t great, but the gravy was
groovy. Oh man, score! I’ve never made good homemade gravy before. High five,
me! As I was eating, I took a big bite of the steak. As I swallowed, it was
actually a bit much for my throat. I thought: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no biggie, I’ll just swallow hard rather than be unladylike and wretch
it up. </i>Wrong choice. It wouldn’t go down. Next plan: take a drink of water
and MAKE it go down. Second wrong choice. Instinctively, when I couldn’t
breathe, I began choking. My kids tell me that I made a noise they’d never heard
come out of a throat. All that came up was water. Nothing dislodged. I ran to
the sink continuing to choke. Everyone at the table stood up. “Do you need the Heimlich?”
I’ve often wondered whether or not I would have the presence of mind to
indicate to another human being the “universal sign” for: I’m choking. Save me.
Yes, indeed it came to my mind rather strongly. But I discovered that I must
have dislodged it enough for a speck of space for air because as I gasped, I
found a wisp of air. I shook my head and continued to choke and gasp
alternatively. After a few seconds of that charming activity, the offender came
up. And then I could breathe easy.</div>
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So I wish a lot of things in my life. I wish Life had
obediently followed my carefully constructed plan; but today perspective has spoken.
Today I’m really happy to be breathing easy. I'm just happy I’m alive. And I’m happy my babies are alive, and I’m
happy my baby’s babies are alive. Life is good. Live it, love it, breathe it. </div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-29917159614925471372012-05-25T22:14:00.001-06:002012-05-25T22:14:42.801-06:00I graduated!!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43tWcwFHRqE3uGhnaFai9EgvIAk4f8Pxfr21dM7QNc5WEdCFeVbYz9SBrKlNpquO0YStvuO0-ww1aQ_owOmj9LfBgsJlwehbNaHNJarxf97aTn0jH4Bfcx_AgLpb0DlPHBkAfBqKugw/s1600/IMG_9197-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43tWcwFHRqE3uGhnaFai9EgvIAk4f8Pxfr21dM7QNc5WEdCFeVbYz9SBrKlNpquO0YStvuO0-ww1aQ_owOmj9LfBgsJlwehbNaHNJarxf97aTn0jH4Bfcx_AgLpb0DlPHBkAfBqKugw/s640/IMG_9197-1.jpg" width="425" /> </a> </div>
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So even though most anyone who will read this already knows,
I still want to document this important event. I graduated!!! Whoa!! What?!
Yeah, I know. I’m still talking to myself about it. Oh, and to Miley. Sometimes
late at night when I’m staring into the dark of night wishing I was asleep,
I’ll start talking to Miley. One recent conversation went like this: “Miley.
Hey, Miley! Are you asleep? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m </i>not
asleep. Do you wish I was asleep? Do you wish I’d quit talking to you in the
middle of the night. Hey! Guess what?! I graduated! Yeah. Me. I have a degree.
A-for-real bachelor’s degree. Are you listening to me? Miley!!” She didn’t even
raise a paw. I guess she’s getting used to me babbling during the night. Not
only do I talk about it in the middle of the night, I also have some real panic
moments still. It just doesn’t feel right to be hanging out with nothing
pressing waiting for my immediate attention. It also doesn’t feel right to
lounge around. I wonder if I’ll get beyond that. </div>
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Speaking of babbling, how about getting back on track here.
Graduation. The day before graduation I took my last final and came home. Rissa
was here. I started making a grocery list with the intention of going to the
store before Shauntel and the grandbabies arrived. I didn’t want to miss their
arrival, so I was hustling to try to get out of the house right away. Rissa
started questioning everything I was doing. “Why are you making that meal? I
don’t think Shauntel would like that. I don’t think Belle would eat that. How
about we rethink this grocery run. Maybe you should wait until she gets here.”
I argued with her, telling her I had nothing in the house for them, so I should
at least go buy milk and some snacks for the babies. And that became my plan,
but then I remembered that Shauntel likes to have some homemade wheat bread to
eat, so I said maybe I should just make that right now. Rissa wholeheartedly
agreed. Too wholeheartedly. There even seemed to be relief in that
wholeheartedness, but right at that moment, I realized that I hadn’t really
eaten that day because of my final, etc., so I picked up something and started
eating. Danielle came in the room and said someone was at the door. </div>
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Me: “That’s nice. Go get it.” </div>
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Danielle: “I think it’s for you.
You should get it.”</div>
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Me: “I have a full mouth. You get
it. I’ll be there in a minute.”</div>
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Danielle: “No. Mom! You need to get
it. It’s for you. I see flowers.”</div>
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Good grief! These girls were being difficult to me. So I
gulped and went to the door. And there standing in front of me was Kristen’s
boyfriend, Bruce, with flowers. Not that I wasn’t happy to see him (I really
was, and it was the first time he had ever come for a visit!), but I knew if
Bruce was standing before my eyes, Kristen was somewhere near at hand. Oh my
goodness! What a wonderful, fun moment. I started screaming and hugging and
dancing all at once. Kristen appeared from the bushes, and the screaming and
hugging and dancing went on. They had all been planning this moment for two
months. All of them had been keeping it a secret from me that they were coming.
Well, they sort of kept it a secret. All of them slipped up at one time or
another, but I only managed to catch one of the slip-ups. </div>
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About a month before graduation I got a phone call from the
Dean of the School of Arts and Letters. The nice woman on the other end called
to tell me that I was the valedictorian of the English department and that I
would be speaking in convocation. I have to admit that I was a little
surprised. I have one A-, and I was certain that A- was going to protect me
from this honor. I was crazy ticked off when I got that A- in Advanced Oil
Painting years ago, but then I came to adore that A- because I was sure it
would be the thing that would save me from a speech. Where are all the 4.0s
when you need them? About a week before graduation, I was called in for an
interview to be the speaker at commencement. Right about now, can I say,
“Whoa!! Stop it!!” See here’s how I look at it. I worked really hard my whole
educational career, and then they decided to punish me by making me speak in
public. And so I went to that interview. And, what can I say? I flubbed it.
Okay, maybe not flubbed it, but I was outright honest and told them I’d rather
speak in convocation. The valedictorian speaker in commencement was awesome.
They definitely made the right choice with him. He was so awesome, I wish that
I had a transcript of his speech. </div>
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So graduation day finally came. I practiced that speech
every day for a week. Did I hear you say nervous wreck? Who? Me? I was calm as
a clam. No!! Not true! I’m an English major, not a communications major. We
English majors like to play with words on paper, not in the air in public. So I
arrived with my little cue cards, and I sat down by my friend, Jessica. She
told me I needed to be on the stand. She pointed out where I should be. I left
and sat on the stand, and a couple minutes later, Jessica showed up with my cue
cards. I would have left my brain behind if it was possible. Thanks, Jessica!</div>
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As I started my speech, I looked over to the second row
where four beautiful young women and three beautiful little girls sat watching
me. And I felt so blessed. How grateful I am for my four daughters who have
become my four mothers. They have protected me, advised me, and loved me all
along the way. </div>
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I got through the speech fine, and the day was finally over.
I graduated! It took 34 years from start to finish, but I finally finished. I
have a bachelor’s degree in English: Professional and Technical Writing. I keep
saying it like I’ve never heard it before, like it’s some kind of surprise or
something. I keep telling Danielle: “Did you know I have a bachelor’s degree?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom. I know.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkVmpG970y0FDR6KEuJhvsDRJJCUkrB1FRWVIaCf6UAq2-PdpW69stFLZ97HIml8h6tcXh0iZOlTaoV4OSMDx_T8Z7sc0OqEm7ScozGFPMrVvu4vLZmYlHfWQdPaPnpb4L7S1Mt6dow/s1600/IMG_9175-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkVmpG970y0FDR6KEuJhvsDRJJCUkrB1FRWVIaCf6UAq2-PdpW69stFLZ97HIml8h6tcXh0iZOlTaoV4OSMDx_T8Z7sc0OqEm7ScozGFPMrVvu4vLZmYlHfWQdPaPnpb4L7S1Mt6dow/s400/IMG_9175-1.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Me with all my girls. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGZ64i-O1hWHmF4kV-_UEBsNAyK42DnbQF-SKwtOPcsxourhG1pKzelXWdtQDLhSxgN9usIWEJeHn8yNzC3GGxDDGAn-VCzVp08R-R19VLE0FbdC3LuLQ96fUE9mEA47YEEh1yGjiuw/s1600/meandjessica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGZ64i-O1hWHmF4kV-_UEBsNAyK42DnbQF-SKwtOPcsxourhG1pKzelXWdtQDLhSxgN9usIWEJeHn8yNzC3GGxDDGAn-VCzVp08R-R19VLE0FbdC3LuLQ96fUE9mEA47YEEh1yGjiuw/s400/meandjessica.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Me with Jessica. </span></div>
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So I had all of my girls together for a few days, and we did
some fun things together, but mostly we just did what we do best. We hung out
and lounged around and laughed a lot. It was a wonderful time. I am my happiest
when I’m surrounded by these lovely people. I guess I should graduate more
often. What degree should I go for next?</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-58445130196417310632011-12-24T07:00:00.010-07:002011-12-24T10:26:31.576-07:00addendum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>These two are tireless. They're having such a jolly season.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-BIbej5CVPN9RPOFG6-8NVWdr6vXYX3uKAjN_Ah_FLkk0OzRuQ2Qs-oBp-mJYIYZZ5XZPIXF3rFupetYh6sWIQEnecBxh2QbjksvXFQAWZng7CQB_TDW4o0FNP7op9lcwQ9KnnxVow/s1600/backseat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-BIbej5CVPN9RPOFG6-8NVWdr6vXYX3uKAjN_Ah_FLkk0OzRuQ2Qs-oBp-mJYIYZZ5XZPIXF3rFupetYh6sWIQEnecBxh2QbjksvXFQAWZng7CQB_TDW4o0FNP7op9lcwQ9KnnxVow/s400/backseat.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <i>In the back seat of my car.</i> They meant to scare me, but I just laughed and then took them to church with me. I hope they enjoyed it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>In the office.</i> I hope you guys are paying some bills while you're in there. Or at least doing some homework for me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And at last!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqjjwkPLleZunu3aD-7IpOUBbNGkF5IrX3J1NdXpq6r9op0wuCbYP1fGCtAlOnbHG5M3t94IeGWOocKPE5UgAypSUDrSfFtZSNO2U-jWJKr8Cj9Esgj6I9EqoawF5WuYe9LXmgNtG0w/s1600/cello%2526guitar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqjjwkPLleZunu3aD-7IpOUBbNGkF5IrX3J1NdXpq6r9op0wuCbYP1fGCtAlOnbHG5M3t94IeGWOocKPE5UgAypSUDrSfFtZSNO2U-jWJKr8Cj9Esgj6I9EqoawF5WuYe9LXmgNtG0w/s400/cello%2526guitar.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The elves have been caught!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Merry Christmas, everyone!</span></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-70052132297590619642011-12-12T22:18:00.006-07:002011-12-12T23:30:04.554-07:00traditions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPFcGCw-8xa7LSxeRRs0DTHC3VlZ0MyfgHBQjq1j9Cm0wsS93k8PEu0hmJJvK4FIbE0n2zzd70h_nZI0_-xyU-9MJeEJgLcnQsGGAivz6zX226NO6IoRI_cHh31Wgmws9R0Xvr29qXg/s1600/ondisplay.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPFcGCw-8xa7LSxeRRs0DTHC3VlZ0MyfgHBQjq1j9Cm0wsS93k8PEu0hmJJvK4FIbE0n2zzd70h_nZI0_-xyU-9MJeEJgLcnQsGGAivz6zX226NO6IoRI_cHh31Wgmws9R0Xvr29qXg/s400/ondisplay.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Please note that Santa is "going down the chimney." Yeah, we're funny.</i></span></div><br />
We have an interesting tradition around here. It's not necessarily a Christmas tradition, but it has recently seeped its way into a sort of Christmas tradition. Let me explain.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we pick an object and we hide it, usually in plain sight, but in some very strange places. You know like finding a brush in the frig or something. I don't even remember what our original hiding object was. I only remember the details around it. <br />
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Whatever this object was, I said, "I don't want it."<br />
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Danielle said, "I don't want it either."<br />
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"Okay, fine. You can have it." I pretended not to understand her response and left it in her room. <br />
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That object made its way back and forth and showed up in some of the strangest places. Then eventually someone must have hidden it really well because we can't for the lives of us figure out what the object was or who hid it last. Since then, we've had variations on the hide-the-object game from time to time. Some certain objects of the hide-the-object game are best left undescribed, but this new one's a winner.<br />
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At Christmas time, we always put out this cute reindeer that you see pictured above. While Annabelle was here at Thanksgiving time, she was playing with the horse you see in the picture. (Imagine Annabelle's voice here in a high pitch as if she's talking to a baby: "It's just my size. Ohhhhh.") The horse belongs to Danielle. She actually uses it as a chair at the computer. I know. So normal. When Annabelle was so enamored with the horse, I brought out the reindeer. Annabelle was nearly beside herself with joy, and it became a playfest.<br />
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Well, lazy people don't always put things away, and the horse and the reindeer continued to hang out with us long after Annabelle left us to our quiet, boring home. One day I came home and this is what I found.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zlj2K-2jW7dZcodjtQKg0Y3Xf_lJ8xwkWK6wkw-SOUK_Xp_CKlbBoxGHq4jKxBn3gpcV4bYU6y-p0AgZm1ETwXc3bYxWak2QeOYursloPiW4rXKKZFF9CzAHYFgkKr57BNRsV3uC-w/s1600/familyroomchat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zlj2K-2jW7dZcodjtQKg0Y3Xf_lJ8xwkWK6wkw-SOUK_Xp_CKlbBoxGHq4jKxBn3gpcV4bYU6y-p0AgZm1ETwXc3bYxWak2QeOYursloPiW4rXKKZFF9CzAHYFgkKr57BNRsV3uC-w/s400/familyroomchat.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>It seems that the reindeer and the horse had decided they were tired of being sat upon and they decided to sit upon. Anyway, I had a good laugh, left the room, and when I returned I found this.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4Rd01q6Dnh7GLDFK43MUaOO1dxpqiwmG5QXfg2pXhcW1m57C4LCctvObCROGzykPBvdTTkLrWkg6_17iFnWkJa49qA5ghh_-Cc8ZQzXQlnWkj5nWtVT0DtAXLoAkcUCaZsBGW7Fqnw/s1600/makingout.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4Rd01q6Dnh7GLDFK43MUaOO1dxpqiwmG5QXfg2pXhcW1m57C4LCctvObCROGzykPBvdTTkLrWkg6_17iFnWkJa49qA5ghh_-Cc8ZQzXQlnWkj5nWtVT0DtAXLoAkcUCaZsBGW7Fqnw/s400/makingout.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apparently their relationship had moved to the next level. "Making out not allowed!" I cried, but I giggled as I left the room. Upon returning again, I found this.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyycu_tFLjN7a8aaTHPZd4y1fw5L35Hd4JJ4ZSKPTlicJ1QTud80RfEI3W1brp-YyOWsQzNbQoVNQGX6OlaT8FkYar-OIPNd5eeq3Gl8icid2npAbrArJ2_7UrTEB7nYYKU8Ve7oRjNg/s1600/kitchen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyycu_tFLjN7a8aaTHPZd4y1fw5L35Hd4JJ4ZSKPTlicJ1QTud80RfEI3W1brp-YyOWsQzNbQoVNQGX6OlaT8FkYar-OIPNd5eeq3Gl8icid2npAbrArJ2_7UrTEB7nYYKU8Ve7oRjNg/s400/kitchen.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Apparently, all that making out had made them hungry, and they decided to go make a snack. During all this moving around, I never actually saw who moved them. For all I know, they moved on their own. Anyway, the game had begun; and since then, these two good friends have really gotten around. Here are a few of the places they've been in their travels.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrk6x0qldNS2hjDaP0j9MB1BuHKe36P-kokNXnh8kPAXI-BaJwNpLnjTGxzSE2TW9vmq4VArGdnL2Wu8ZwDBSwKILgTdVMuFQ5dUaMRj9aOZodxojK_XhE4kxMkVCiNjAa3KvVuM1eQ/s1600/bedroomdoor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrk6x0qldNS2hjDaP0j9MB1BuHKe36P-kokNXnh8kPAXI-BaJwNpLnjTGxzSE2TW9vmq4VArGdnL2Wu8ZwDBSwKILgTdVMuFQ5dUaMRj9aOZodxojK_XhE4kxMkVCiNjAa3KvVuM1eQ/s400/bedroomdoor.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Waiting at the bedroom door to scare the daylights out of the occupant when she emerged.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxUp5qONJeNFrivv-PeuzQ9f_-MQ2JMShxBrFzTy4Co1y_8E7lW5C4YonieJ0hcdIkSL7kd1e1bwXXZghOzCcHWfP9gcu_xfLRthyOb6owOO7wx5IsNaGl7XzdETKg5fIUDQXo_ZrPg/s1600/garagedoor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxUp5qONJeNFrivv-PeuzQ9f_-MQ2JMShxBrFzTy4Co1y_8E7lW5C4YonieJ0hcdIkSL7kd1e1bwXXZghOzCcHWfP9gcu_xfLRthyOb6owOO7wx5IsNaGl7XzdETKg5fIUDQXo_ZrPg/s400/garagedoor.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Waiting at the back garage door to scare the daylights out of whomever might come through the door next.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosC6WR2Be-dH0RIh4IfPUooy96Xdozj6PQoNVxkn9OBfjm__HqOhukcPnemQ9eViJhH6b89PZr9YehHusds-bKGmubdMmCKgI1r8lDhS-tw7fR1VNsEX3OkVbQ8Yw6m2LIhnQq0E2gw/s1600/frontdoor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosC6WR2Be-dH0RIh4IfPUooy96Xdozj6PQoNVxkn9OBfjm__HqOhukcPnemQ9eViJhH6b89PZr9YehHusds-bKGmubdMmCKgI1r8lDhS-tw7fR1VNsEX3OkVbQ8Yw6m2LIhnQq0E2gw/s400/frontdoor.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i>Waiting at the front door to scare the daylights out of whomever might dare to visit</i>. They seem to have a thing for doors.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxq_9tN-Ne5xHw_VcOkJ3aJslMOXShWbTR-rk5xh2TNFocYthGu6a3pI-icqQi6fIzzerfFVWfyv80Igmoyr4GIezmKwtoRXmN5Q7dLv6yLRojk28PgDdGvwFflep3DVXJDFnlUhxCMg/s1600/bed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxq_9tN-Ne5xHw_VcOkJ3aJslMOXShWbTR-rk5xh2TNFocYthGu6a3pI-icqQi6fIzzerfFVWfyv80Igmoyr4GIezmKwtoRXmN5Q7dLv6yLRojk28PgDdGvwFflep3DVXJDFnlUhxCMg/s400/bed.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>Taking an afternoon nap.</i> Note that they are under separate blankets. We have chaste animals around here.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNdJW-7VRztJcJwexo1hcVDLyQ9gBrPSGFJXBfvPZc10RRZUwnNi_eJ1eConB2dY1NAPmCIbAKjFDVqcHmmV-MmYywJlT6sNYhPqB_VoRkCZPJaVjdLqD4nCrr2cxYPrFQR2l4SNcIw/s1600/car.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNdJW-7VRztJcJwexo1hcVDLyQ9gBrPSGFJXBfvPZc10RRZUwnNi_eJ1eConB2dY1NAPmCIbAKjFDVqcHmmV-MmYywJlT6sNYhPqB_VoRkCZPJaVjdLqD4nCrr2cxYPrFQR2l4SNcIw/s400/car.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>Waiting in the backseat of Danielle's car to scare the daylights out of the driver</i>. And scare they did! (Sorry about that.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlFVXkFZ-s0C33MneXYUOMWhCJBQylBFEhe6m0Xm4j7TlKrZO4L8nm0tbMy2C-hy0fwyZk07mcaN7B41FXeFi5oeOkCIn4EkqI0e1pq1SFpD_gLjuPtA10HtNJAhkGpMogauMiTRekQ/s1600/closet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlFVXkFZ-s0C33MneXYUOMWhCJBQylBFEhe6m0Xm4j7TlKrZO4L8nm0tbMy2C-hy0fwyZk07mcaN7B41FXeFi5oeOkCIn4EkqI0e1pq1SFpD_gLjuPtA10HtNJAhkGpMogauMiTRekQ/s400/closet.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i>In a closet looking through the shoe box.</i> I guess it was time for a re-shoeing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSE9NhCGw8PShJ2j9-hNz88Qd2j2kaoO2TjtjCDGo-Grrk2k6umH0LuebYaN-BYffD5HB0Rf3b6SHATJkPWZTxMPG7SL0t6XQKIGTPaZmmgVAlaAdNHXgNgPpvWR6EbjW3V5TiUcDqA/s1600/mastercloset.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSE9NhCGw8PShJ2j9-hNz88Qd2j2kaoO2TjtjCDGo-Grrk2k6umH0LuebYaN-BYffD5HB0Rf3b6SHATJkPWZTxMPG7SL0t6XQKIGTPaZmmgVAlaAdNHXgNgPpvWR6EbjW3V5TiUcDqA/s400/mastercloset.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i>In another closet.</i> It's really sad that you're not getting the full effect of this one so I must elaborate. I came home from playing in the Messiah concert. I walked in, put my instrument away, stood in the hall as I sent a text, and looked about for Miley. <i>Hmmm. Rather odd. Where is that little runt? She always comes running when I come home. Ah. There she is.</i> She came running out of the master bedroom. I greeted her and then remembered that I wanted to get my special snowflake that I hang from my rearview window and get it hanging before the season got away from me. I went into the master bedroom, opened the drawer to a chest of drawers, and retrieved my cute snowflake. By the way, said chest of drawers is right next to the closet, and said closet door was open. I walked away and put the snowflake in my car. When I came back in, I wandered back into the master bedroom, and Miley was running around in the closet like a little nit-wit. Then I saw the reindeer and the horse---with riders! Danielle and her boyfriend had been waiting for me to find them in the closet all that time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJ-87oD0JS3s_FLXZRAW4DbJTcZRDV3PFPXExrrUm9JF-s5j02x8p2K_6K24nwkvBQy2yPDb3OO8JlgfVSLVxfyxMKxdf3aiSxgkJDj3dYGOufa4OqfSBAB-ewf11XI-r8xh_uvH2wg/s1600/tv.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJ-87oD0JS3s_FLXZRAW4DbJTcZRDV3PFPXExrrUm9JF-s5j02x8p2K_6K24nwkvBQy2yPDb3OO8JlgfVSLVxfyxMKxdf3aiSxgkJDj3dYGOufa4OqfSBAB-ewf11XI-r8xh_uvH2wg/s400/tv.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i>On top of the tv.</i> Look at me! No, look at me!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRoCgD8EA3GUN1KEQiSNvNBp9lOrbNRjbfr1pxr701YBJLLsolY4TWRYcjGdaZcYcHCkkbNNwX8FkrT2Syipo5FvGdHx0ptrub2OuyM6SOCJy3Wsdaw81q02YJYvjcC0x1U91Oi_1Aw/s1600/shower.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRoCgD8EA3GUN1KEQiSNvNBp9lOrbNRjbfr1pxr701YBJLLsolY4TWRYcjGdaZcYcHCkkbNNwX8FkrT2Syipo5FvGdHx0ptrub2OuyM6SOCJy3Wsdaw81q02YJYvjcC0x1U91Oi_1Aw/s400/shower.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i> In the shower waiting to scare the daylights out of me!</i> And scare they did! Chaste, remember chaste. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_m7rhc8KhjZniBWk5Kxz2B6yMWcDc7Nz5o5tSrW-CKlj34V8ve4ItdgJBjlVRUZO79OQ4ojO4PSq8ThCCba746LrOQsbjmzsfJfR6-HVD8pbaW4f0152Vznw44cXYxjWDOG7uYgTJQ/s1600/tub.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_m7rhc8KhjZniBWk5Kxz2B6yMWcDc7Nz5o5tSrW-CKlj34V8ve4ItdgJBjlVRUZO79OQ4ojO4PSq8ThCCba746LrOQsbjmzsfJfR6-HVD8pbaW4f0152Vznw44cXYxjWDOG7uYgTJQ/s400/tub.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>In the tub. </i>I guess they didn't appreciate being thrown out of the shower. They weren't cleaned up yet. And hey, wait a minute. It looks like they're making out again! Hey! CHASTE!<br />
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And now for my two personal favorites.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJOaMpPN5j5r6ypwtT7qU2m_m8rNOV5aiHSaofW5KnHC009gpVWIS3WdtxNAKViXZpYbIaHUUUvQ8jOw72AAwJvccVv11wOL4i9m3W5aaCkQ59fNMIcRlb8NP_HDpakmU2GDm1XZcHA/s1600/bannister.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJOaMpPN5j5r6ypwtT7qU2m_m8rNOV5aiHSaofW5KnHC009gpVWIS3WdtxNAKViXZpYbIaHUUUvQ8jOw72AAwJvccVv11wOL4i9m3W5aaCkQ59fNMIcRlb8NP_HDpakmU2GDm1XZcHA/s400/bannister.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><i>A ride down the banister.</i> Doesn't it look like they just said, "Race you to the bottom" and then slid away? Never mind that the reindeer got to slide farther. It was fun for both of them. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90fLi0UYoXatngOcZO4jH1bYBhVeekamTG7ZQEJgf8z6rQuktbGWV7JbipovybST4HLNi8_Kmq1nsV7A1lFcvIyQpZIUroCdD6AR3qMVmsLO4OfxEiiA7vWRJJL_1yPNglDXngJenMg/s1600/pianoharp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90fLi0UYoXatngOcZO4jH1bYBhVeekamTG7ZQEJgf8z6rQuktbGWV7JbipovybST4HLNi8_Kmq1nsV7A1lFcvIyQpZIUroCdD6AR3qMVmsLO4OfxEiiA7vWRJJL_1yPNglDXngJenMg/s400/pianoharp.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>And today they're making beautiful music together. <br />
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It's anyone's guess where they'll show up next.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-58494350949836830792011-12-05T12:02:00.006-07:002011-12-05T12:13:43.916-07:00christmas elves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7-ESgbj8ocAzHfMObhQHUWW4o2RPErj0S2H4tBFNW6v5nDZMlFlhjkxgy0JWmRqN6AOEMzejKtxpBJzGOa_dSN4WltKCviv7Xs4NQMI7j-UBdN3RuMCI6RDwl7vFt3Wuv7mD4BKFtg/s1600/DSC03018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7-ESgbj8ocAzHfMObhQHUWW4o2RPErj0S2H4tBFNW6v5nDZMlFlhjkxgy0JWmRqN6AOEMzejKtxpBJzGOa_dSN4WltKCviv7Xs4NQMI7j-UBdN3RuMCI6RDwl7vFt3Wuv7mD4BKFtg/s400/DSC03018.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<i>Putting up the Christmas tree.</i> The very thought makes me shudder. I've had nightmare encounters with non-compliant Christmas trees. One such nightmare went like this: <br />
<br />
I checked all the strings of lights, and they all worked perfectly, so I wrapped them around the tree. After putting all the ornaments on, I plugged in the tree, only to find an entire section of the tree unlit. I checked for connections. Everything was fine. If you remove a string of lights, you pretty much have to remove all the surrounding ornaments first, or else you're likely to knock them off and break them, so I removed the ornaments. Then, I removed the offending string of lights and replaced it with another string, which I tested first, of course. I plugged the lights in again, and what do you think? An entirely different string of lights was unlit. At this point, it was just too much, and I collapsed on the floor in a fit of tears. People magically disappeared to rooms unknown in the house and didn't resurface until I had managed to fix the tree and regain my dignity. Now, it would be one thing if said nightmare only happened once, but this nightmare has repeated itself in varying forms more than once or twice. Therefore---Christmas tree---shudder.<br />
<br />
Well, this year, with school, a brand new granddaughter to love, and practicing for the Messiah concert, Christmas tree = shudder = forget it. Well, at least, if it doesn't equal forget it, it at least equals put it off. Yesterday when I was busy in the kitchen making Sunday dinner, my daughter returned from church, and said, "How do you like the Christmas tree?" Imagine a shudder here; I assure you there was one. My response was: "Christmas tree! What Christmas tree? I haven't had time to to put up {shudder} a Christmas tree." She opened the sliding door into the living room, and there to my wondering eyes did appear a sleigh full of toys . . . wait, wait . . . a Christmas tree! A fully decorated, absolutely beautiful, more beautiful than I've ever made it, Christmas tree. Wow!<br />
<br />
Thank you Christmas elves. What a beautiful gift!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-65401724392861714722011-11-28T23:04:00.007-07:002011-12-10T16:58:30.628-07:00welcome<div style="text-align: center;">Announcing:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Annalise Lichelle Neve</div><div style="text-align: center;">born: November 21, 2011</div><div style="text-align: center;">weight: 7 lb 14 ou</div><div style="text-align: center;">perfect in every way</div><div style="text-align: center;">and look at all that hair!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9xSWYEMfyJgtEjp6ODhTjS22QDiJWnh05xkztymkdYGd3z4WVAL4CXBENGMGzoJIyvUqioq3c6XPlxA5wpmu6cGwCeQhc7C4QNod6-mtIlZycvStN_lBhH7aGJrXfBs7YkrBU2JJMA/s1600/annalise8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9xSWYEMfyJgtEjp6ODhTjS22QDiJWnh05xkztymkdYGd3z4WVAL4CXBENGMGzoJIyvUqioq3c6XPlxA5wpmu6cGwCeQhc7C4QNod6-mtIlZycvStN_lBhH7aGJrXfBs7YkrBU2JJMA/s400/annalise8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Su6hYFT_XsVsn1IZsI3loKDt491TzBp3zbT9ugFlun-CLaO5Lh66TViYX5ux6Vf42fJurSwQv3ovkcTz55EdbRd8eFTijG0WQcoiHqVLRo25knoBf0KtOaI4c-u2D4eFVk12_R70FQ/s1600/annalise1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Su6hYFT_XsVsn1IZsI3loKDt491TzBp3zbT9ugFlun-CLaO5Lh66TViYX5ux6Vf42fJurSwQv3ovkcTz55EdbRd8eFTijG0WQcoiHqVLRo25knoBf0KtOaI4c-u2D4eFVk12_R70FQ/s400/annalise1.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgycxZXnPn1UbCCsXbanCTJMibq51GhL0oOhJusoM4ct2E_GiqyZrDXTE0_w5k-KPYieiuW6QB_U7KYJvDvjjjJOWLALxftt4E358WREhtBuCPa7Wp-YJ8l7LN94Uk1YZBye_E0K-bg/s1600/annalise7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgycxZXnPn1UbCCsXbanCTJMibq51GhL0oOhJusoM4ct2E_GiqyZrDXTE0_w5k-KPYieiuW6QB_U7KYJvDvjjjJOWLALxftt4E358WREhtBuCPa7Wp-YJ8l7LN94Uk1YZBye_E0K-bg/s400/annalise7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Sweet little Annalise is one week old today. And as you can see, we've managed to keep our Girls Only Club intact.<br />
<br />
Last Monday was quite the day. Marissa had been in labor forever. I'm pretty sure that's how she felt because that's how I felt just waiting and fretting at home. One good thing did come out of the wait, however. I went into a cleaning frenzy in a futile attempt to try to distract myself from my overdeveloped ability to worry. It didn't actually distract me, but I certainly accomplished a lot.<br />
<br />
Finally, around 5:00 p.m., I received this text/picture message:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JTjbMW2IkVpVbgcAG9OS4w38aD-H0oDuNUouE6iAdvd5ZZPGv1xjKkhHofjCvp9DRnAS7PW4uznCSRhkCzrCaWYe_DzzCT2680ZJIX5v-eyiWSgWHodXZl1xRQTFvEquAkKwPBktMg/s1600/textannouncingLise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JTjbMW2IkVpVbgcAG9OS4w38aD-H0oDuNUouE6iAdvd5ZZPGv1xjKkhHofjCvp9DRnAS7PW4uznCSRhkCzrCaWYe_DzzCT2680ZJIX5v-eyiWSgWHodXZl1xRQTFvEquAkKwPBktMg/s400/textannouncingLise.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> annalise lichelle neve 7 14. 20 inches</div><br />
I probably don't need to tell you this, but I burst into a flood of tears. My baby and my baby's baby were fine. I got to that hospital before they even had time to move them from the delivery room.<br />
<br />
As I entered the room, a nurse was cleaning Lisie up. The nurse turned and looked at me as I walked through the door, "That's who she looks like!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKSKOoiUOLcdVP4A9S8Q6oEbC6He2vMVdfSBxWVSEZPbDFawZgDoTuJk06u9xwmQSepfe6cb02IBrhd6hdqy44RSWY6_CzDPDqSvtYz12tjt7YaQhmFwMRNe-b1rl1DboXLmuEFsrsg/s1600/grandma+and+lise1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKSKOoiUOLcdVP4A9S8Q6oEbC6He2vMVdfSBxWVSEZPbDFawZgDoTuJk06u9xwmQSepfe6cb02IBrhd6hdqy44RSWY6_CzDPDqSvtYz12tjt7YaQhmFwMRNe-b1rl1DboXLmuEFsrsg/s400/grandma+and+lise1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Welcome to the family, sweet Annalise. We're sure happy to have you.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*all pictures except the text/picture message by <a href="http://photosbydc.blogspot.com/">dcphotography</a> </span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-35658282011675589072011-08-13T10:15:00.008-06:002011-08-13T11:19:21.588-06:00move on<div class="MsoNormal">Today marks the one year anniversary of the date of my divorce. When I married thirty-one plus years ago, I never dreamed that my road would bring me here. It didn’t occur to me at that point in time that marriage and life could be anything but blissful, wonderful, and fairy-tale perfect. I’ve been down a long, rocky road. I’ve learned and grown a lot. I’ve survived some tough, painful experiences. Sometimes when I get down in the dumps about the waste of my youth, I’m sure that if I could just contact my young self, I’d issue a strong warning: “Run away fast! There’s nothing here but hurt!” But then I always come back to that happy place, that place in my heart where my girls live, and I know that if I was really confronted with the full knowledge of those thirty years and the possibility of warning myself, that no, I wouldn’t stop myself. I might raise my arm ready to shout at myself: “Go now! Before all the hurt begins!” But then I know I would quietly turn away from my young self and allow myself to move on through those thirty years because life without my babies wouldn’t be life at all. They're the best thing that ever happened to me. I’d live it all again and again just so I could have the privilege of loving, raising, and knowing my girls, my best friends, the joy of my life. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCL1yv6oe9kCI2ebjzAP0_Qen8qpIUJNNf9VzSSs_xICaUhi6ERuT4KEyYo1GEDq-HVeUlXa2onkAtXp7OZCniofkPZ6cbhzODCBUlpYZPjHDU17z4OuXhogAhSNxbiG2_h66iBaBGA/s1600/meandthegirls1993.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCL1yv6oe9kCI2ebjzAP0_Qen8qpIUJNNf9VzSSs_xICaUhi6ERuT4KEyYo1GEDq-HVeUlXa2onkAtXp7OZCniofkPZ6cbhzODCBUlpYZPjHDU17z4OuXhogAhSNxbiG2_h66iBaBGA/s400/meandthegirls1993.bmp" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">me and my girls--1993</span></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-13062188047662879092011-08-11T22:07:00.001-06:002011-08-11T22:07:28.006-06:00tiny diaperThis isn't even mine to blog about, but shucks, I just can't help it. When I went to visit Shauntel last time, I took her a little diaper pail---you know the kind---with a foot pedal. Annabelle was intrigued with it and asked me what it was. I told her it was a bucket. She commenced to figure out how to operate that foot pedal, and pretty soon she had it down pat. She made herself busy picking up toys, and whatever else was nearby and convenient, and threw them in the bucket. Then she'd giggle madly, dump it out, and start all over again with a whole new set of things to throw in "grandma's bucket." <br />
<br />
As time always does, it got away from me, and I reluctantly left and came on home to this quiet little abode with no little giggles, no pitter pat of tiny feet, and no newborn cries. Just a couple of days ago, I got an email from my daughter explaining to me Annabelle's continued use of the "bucket." Shauntel had just changed Lydia's diaper. Annabelle picked it up, ran off to her room, and came back empty handed. She stood in front of her mom and gleefully reported: "I put the tiny, stinky diaper in grandma's pocket."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6DWSLZiG7v4SU5E87PZ9zR5snei-tx6PTDkjClmtPJS5nOEtcEyoCgzL5-q713p4MMKG5piN7VTDPoZLyKUaG7J9thU68rxPKEgIsTjgWbTk_nF2Yn1l-nKdL28O_LmXDyMmy7MLTw/s1600/BelleLydiagazing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6DWSLZiG7v4SU5E87PZ9zR5snei-tx6PTDkjClmtPJS5nOEtcEyoCgzL5-q713p4MMKG5piN7VTDPoZLyKUaG7J9thU68rxPKEgIsTjgWbTk_nF2Yn1l-nKdL28O_LmXDyMmy7MLTw/s400/BelleLydiagazing.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Beautiful photo of Annabelle and Lydia from <a href="http://meandtheredhead.blogspot.com/">Shauntel's blog</a>.</span></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-57324068448609670082011-08-08T23:19:00.001-06:002011-08-08T23:19:52.823-06:00same legs, different babyNow that Shauntel has had two babies, I think that we can pretty much verify that she creates beautiful babies. (You know, with a little help from Jess, of course.)<br />
<br />
When Annabelle was born, I was just stunned at how much she resembled her mommy. It was like holding and loving and gazing on my sweet little baby Shauntel all over again. Annabelle has grown a lot in these past two years, and she certainly has her own wonderful personality and looks now. But wow, as a baby she was just Shauntel all over again.<br />
<br />
Cue Lydia. It's hard to believe it, but once again, Shauntel has produced another carbon copy of herself. Once again, looking on Lydia is like looking at my baby Shauntel. Lydia is beautiful and lovely and perfect in every way, and I can hardly wait to see how she grows into her own little self, who she'll become, the lovely person that I know she'll be. <br />
<br />
I miss those days, being a mommy. My babies were and are the joy of my life. How nice it is that the joy is now extending into grandchildren. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYHoAJYNbkgcoSKZW4YXlkCKkVSQEgyDEV79lt-42-osuEOk4aXUUdKk595OZ6hkAzwWEk8KV4ZzroKmMlcKSYOLW17Q_tC1j0PWTxM5LILTG6RGviQNA0TYWPIdarpRTg__gKxtJ8Q/s1600/Shauntel+skinny+legs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYHoAJYNbkgcoSKZW4YXlkCKkVSQEgyDEV79lt-42-osuEOk4aXUUdKk595OZ6hkAzwWEk8KV4ZzroKmMlcKSYOLW17Q_tC1j0PWTxM5LILTG6RGviQNA0TYWPIdarpRTg__gKxtJ8Q/s400/Shauntel+skinny+legs.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is my baby Shauntel, roughly 29.5 years ago. Check out the skinny legs.</span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejF9TyicJsILctNdPutrx8tt8RSFtQcmhouxFXrCxCqfsS4fDyoCmWaeVEKzuFIYKYdxYUxlbXJshCBkCYvH8Ad8oUZfuB68leLnfy44LIwD9FVYhFO-O1Hw6V0sS6UXCNhqePBhfKA/s1600/lydialonglegs.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejF9TyicJsILctNdPutrx8tt8RSFtQcmhouxFXrCxCqfsS4fDyoCmWaeVEKzuFIYKYdxYUxlbXJshCBkCYvH8Ad8oUZfuB68leLnfy44LIwD9FVYhFO-O1Hw6V0sS6UXCNhqePBhfKA/s400/lydialonglegs.PNG" width="191" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is my baby's baby, Lydia. Same legs, different baby. </span></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-7158749418519572392011-08-02T14:12:00.002-06:002011-08-02T19:45:14.706-06:00more statsOnly crazy people take classes during summer semester. I am a crazy person. I took nine credits, which is kind of like taking eighteen credits during a regular semester. I had American Literature, Early British Literature, and one writing class. Now, I love to read, and I love to write, but. . .well, like I said only a crazy person would knowingly submit themselves to this much work: I read 31 short stories, 37 poems, 1 selection from an autobiography, 2 plays, and 17 pieces of non-fiction/essays. I wrote 1 annotated bibliography, 3 critical analyses, a recommendation report, and 6 essay/short papers. <br />
<br />
That's a total of:<br />
<br />
886 pages read + 35 pages written in 8 weeks = 1 crazy person who was really happy to leave and go see this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWst21P1SMIrk3kwBeHouzXwgXNJxtGCr_EP7P8l5tKAcIhheTQBpShsX4y1hcOdGS9KxjdB9BgMRChQs70VBYZgKHviCE0UzoWNIzK6JHjFH3DVBX_GL13sF26eMSrewH8NTFggUMA/s1600/DSC_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWst21P1SMIrk3kwBeHouzXwgXNJxtGCr_EP7P8l5tKAcIhheTQBpShsX4y1hcOdGS9KxjdB9BgMRChQs70VBYZgKHviCE0UzoWNIzK6JHjFH3DVBX_GL13sF26eMSrewH8NTFggUMA/s400/DSC_0018.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-77457243218950571442011-08-01T10:28:00.003-06:002011-08-01T10:32:50.142-06:006,951,732,593So I don't know if you know this, but there are 6,951,732,593 people in the world, you know, give or take one or two. And of those almost seven billion people in the world, these two are the most beautiful children in the world: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOqQot-ea2DdJzKb6bMO4zvKmPYqdRSOnNNH42K0frVJOxkC6bnafFsQi81IY5dGsO_FeRcH_nHMT05bTsUvXbVHHRz0Nu0E1PWr8qE_CdfIKgzHtCymXMqv8yQUEaobc014pu9H3mw/s1600/Belle%2526Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOqQot-ea2DdJzKb6bMO4zvKmPYqdRSOnNNH42K0frVJOxkC6bnafFsQi81IY5dGsO_FeRcH_nHMT05bTsUvXbVHHRz0Nu0E1PWr8qE_CdfIKgzHtCymXMqv8yQUEaobc014pu9H3mw/s400/Belle%2526Lydia.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br />
Objectively speaking, of course. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-765585914430882582011-07-30T21:00:00.001-06:002011-07-30T21:01:11.322-06:00grandma's perfect angels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERm53pLEFm43dRUA7nQxrWqw-KxH03L2b7_6oJ6dUOSsetedAWl2hoRub-yoYE6CIldYd7oRaBCOm18RRQXheeqzRZhT9XgyDwX7rr_kXeZWJEUEuyDaVYzti9wfZOldxTnk35chePA/s1600/grandma%2526Belle%2526Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERm53pLEFm43dRUA7nQxrWqw-KxH03L2b7_6oJ6dUOSsetedAWl2hoRub-yoYE6CIldYd7oRaBCOm18RRQXheeqzRZhT9XgyDwX7rr_kXeZWJEUEuyDaVYzti9wfZOldxTnk35chePA/s640/grandma%2526Belle%2526Lydia.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRD-NGjVSRIFDTDKHOZ0FO_0SHRNqY_KCGa6WCjAi_GZSFZwKcEyRRS4pGGqBTsTKPyezM9LVrzqf8Rhp39vcvCiyAMeXC7wVBk-9CHag-qFEkoQkMy16AFPFsWehDO_7vsGPvCM3OQ/s1600/grandma%2526Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRD-NGjVSRIFDTDKHOZ0FO_0SHRNqY_KCGa6WCjAi_GZSFZwKcEyRRS4pGGqBTsTKPyezM9LVrzqf8Rhp39vcvCiyAMeXC7wVBk-9CHag-qFEkoQkMy16AFPFsWehDO_7vsGPvCM3OQ/s640/grandma%2526Lydia.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-36620171716716102802011-07-27T16:55:00.003-06:002011-07-28T00:22:10.385-06:00go, go girl power!!!!!<div style="text-align: center;">the sweet newness</div><div style="text-align: center;">the newborn cry </div><div style="text-align: center;">the newborn yawn </div><div style="text-align: center;">the tiny hands</div><div style="text-align: center;">the soft and so kissable head</div><div style="text-align: center;">the mouse/dinosaur sounds</div><div style="text-align: center;">the grateful sucking sounds as a tiny belly fills</div><div style="text-align: center;">the beauty of newborn innocence</div><div style="text-align: center;">the miracle of birth</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">i've seen it personally six times now</div><div style="text-align: center;">and it never gets old</div><div style="text-align: center;">and i'm always so happy to see each one as it makes its debut</div><div style="text-align: center;">and it's always such a miracle</div><div style="text-align: center;">and i love each baby as much as the last</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">welcome to the family, my sweet new granddaughter</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_XNGfYNbWG2jjphQSBSeyH1X3ua4qp9M3Kg5cfrO-KBHFZxW-pJNDSH6xHrIuZkQntM7bhx80cXWu7yqsUP9YA6SfcbRjbWXci0CQqwmqk_8vA5n-U074pAS5YAPybjUEa1nAieAtQ/s1600/lydia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_XNGfYNbWG2jjphQSBSeyH1X3ua4qp9M3Kg5cfrO-KBHFZxW-pJNDSH6xHrIuZkQntM7bhx80cXWu7yqsUP9YA6SfcbRjbWXci0CQqwmqk_8vA5n-U074pAS5YAPybjUEa1nAieAtQ/s320/lydia.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="color: #e06666; text-align: center;">Lydia Lou Cheney</div><div style="text-align: center;">July 20, 2011</div><div style="text-align: center;">8:59 p.m.</div><div style="text-align: center;">8 pounds12 ounces</div><div style="text-align: center;">21 inches</div><div style="text-align: center;">perfect in every way</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-33228984389299611552011-06-02T08:27:00.010-06:002011-06-08T23:25:03.890-06:00tender mercies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANjj2E9-qEcyLcUnCC4dbnm61-TmB0O5Fbe0S-OjpyUKiI8ERAUTls36OKkgotBRidquc3gQxXjL172HiQoffnkhvL63LyBez8pzeKZuxsMKc0p6xeXMIET_YbBUuE_YGgUzIQQ7yRA/s1600/DSC02908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANjj2E9-qEcyLcUnCC4dbnm61-TmB0O5Fbe0S-OjpyUKiI8ERAUTls36OKkgotBRidquc3gQxXjL172HiQoffnkhvL63LyBez8pzeKZuxsMKc0p6xeXMIET_YbBUuE_YGgUzIQQ7yRA/s640/DSC02908.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
One year ago today, I filed for divorce. Yeah, I know I've been tiptoeing around this subject, but there it is, out in the blogosphere. One year ago, I decided that thirty years was quite enough. In the year that has passed since then, I often think of the tender mercies that I was blessed with during those very tough months leading up to the final bang--the I am done; I'm not taking any more of this--and in the year since as I have adjusted to a new life.<br />
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For months, no really years, I knew that this was coming. But how does one prepare for such a thing? How does one strengthen one's heart to deal with heartache of this magnitude? Well, one doesn't. But instead, tender mercies arrived on the scene, just when I needed them.<br />
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<i>A trusted couple.</i> When I began this journey toward what I knew was going to culminate in divorce, I knew I needed help. This was certainly uncharted territory for me, and I needed someone to back me up, point me in the right direction, help me think straight. I went to some friends, a happily married couple that I knew I could trust to keep in confidence what I would tell them. I knew I could trust them to help me find my way. I knew they cared about me, and having them in my life at that time was comforting. A trusted couple, my tender mercy. <br />
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<i>Miley. </i>Miley is a tender mercy. Miley came into my life almost three years ago. One of my daughters was experiencing heartache herself at the time, and I, along with her older sister, decided that she needed a dog in her life. Enter Miley. I fully intended to give her this sweet little dog, but within a month of having her in my home while waiting for the right opportunity to give her to my daughter, she became mine. She chose me as her mommy. If you could see this little pup look at me, sometimes you would swear that you were seeing adoration in her eyes. During those horrible months while I knew so much, said so little, and acted so well, I had Miley for comfort. When no one was around, sometimes I would collapse on my bedroom floor in a ball, where I would sob uncontrollably. Miley always came and found me in those troubled moments. She curled up beside me, concern in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mommy. I don't know what's wrong, but I love you." I'm sure that's what she was thinking. Miley, my tender mercy.<br />
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<i>A sweet friend.</i> One day at church, a friend of mine looked at me, and before she could even think about what she was saying, she said, "You don't look so good. Something's happening. Are you okay?" Well, my acting was pretty flawless to everyone else, but not to this very good friend. She could read it in my face despite the fake smile, the fake happy facade that I had so well crafted. I poured it out to her, and for the next several months, I ran to her open arms in sobs many times. She was always there for me. Many times she stayed up late listening to me and probably went to work dog tired the next day, but she was a real friend. She listened. She comforted. She counseled. She loved. My sweet friend, my tender mercy.<br />
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<i>A caring teacher.</i> After I informed my children of the situation, my youngest and only daughter still living at home went running to a very special teacher. I somehow knew that she was going to do this, and I alerted this sweet teacher ahead of time that trouble was likely headed to her understanding and caring arms. This teacher and friend listened to my daughter, comforted her and cared for her. She loved my baby when my baby needed her most. A caring teacher, my tender mercy.<br />
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<i>A couple of good school friends.</i> There are a couple of girls at school who have become good friends to me. They listen to me whine and complain, and they give me wise counsel. They may be about half my age, but they seem to be twice as wise. A couple of good school friends, my tender mercy. <br />
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<i>A kind neighbor. </i>Neighbors are a dime a dozen, right? Well, I have a neighbor whose price cannot be named. He has made it his business to be in my business. Now that might sound annoying, but I assure you it is nothing of the kind. He cares about my daughter and me, our safety and happiness. No one has assigned him to take care of us, and no one is paying him to watch over us. He quite simply is a genuine good human being who cares. He notes our comings and goings. He reprimands the neighbor boys when they trespass into my yard and heckle my dogs. He comes over and fertilizes my lawn. He services my lawnmower. He taught me how to take care of the yard. I don't have an edger, so periodically, he just shows up, edger in hand, and makes the ugly ragged edges nice and neat. Upon changing the timing of the clock that waters the lawn, he found it to be nearly broken, so he did some searching and found me a new one at a good price. If that wasn't already enough, he installed the clock. He spent many hours in my garage and my yard properly installing it, and then he apologized! He apologized for being in my way and being so slow! He comes over, unrolls the hose, and waters the dry spots. Periodically, he comes back and moves it around. Then he apologizes to me for letting it get that way! One day, he saw me out walking Miley at night. A couple of days later, he showed up at my door with pepper spray. "You put that in your pocket when you walk." A kind neighbor, my tender mercy.<br />
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<i>My babies.</i> They will always be my babies. It doesn't matter how old, how educated, how wise, or how dignified they become. They are from the start, and always will be, my babies. And they are my tenderest and most cherished tender mercy. Now that they are all grown, our roles frequently switch. They have all become my mothers. I'm really lucky to have four such devoted and wonderful mothers. They watch out for me, they advise me, they teach me, they support me, they protect me, and they love me. They are all there for me. They are my best friends of all in the whole world. I believe that we all come down here with personalized "packages," our own packages of talents, strengths, weaknesses, faults, and trials. I also can't help but believe that God took a look at my package before sending me down to this proving ground, and he said, "Enough is enough. Line up the angels, and send her the best four we've got." They are the angels of my life, the joy of my life, the most amazing and wonderful people in the world. My babies, my tender mercy.<br />
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My life hasn't turned out exactly the way I planned it, the way I carefully designed it. But life is good. I count my tender mercies, and I smile. Yes, life is indeed good.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-82166675084111283332011-05-26T14:23:00.002-06:002011-05-26T14:27:39.435-06:00Inchling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn386j238u9T4Mol2-mKy-XwscfFqfiNFkcSxYyYEgneoDaxxTNbRdageynmPXdXan_7iQbec4SteG_aGyQd_7ybQYZyx4BXpzysYBpNYXmKe-QPSSlHt0e6dtXj_y256Y0evt7SQfwA/s1600/Danielle+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn386j238u9T4Mol2-mKy-XwscfFqfiNFkcSxYyYEgneoDaxxTNbRdageynmPXdXan_7iQbec4SteG_aGyQd_7ybQYZyx4BXpzysYBpNYXmKe-QPSSlHt0e6dtXj_y256Y0evt7SQfwA/s640/Danielle+2.jpg" width="426" /></a> </div><br />
Eighteen and a half years ago I gave birth to a healthy 7 lb 12 ounce baby girl. Well, that sweet baby graduated from high school this week. I know it sounds cliche, but really, where has the time gone? And who gave her permission to grow up?<br />
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But she has grown up so nicely. She's beautiful and talented, and wow she's a good kid. She deserves the best the world has to offer, and I hope that it comes her way. <br />
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When I brought my precious little infant home, my other three children looked so big and she looked so very tiny. I started calling her Inchling, a name that has stuck even eighteen and a half years later. Congratulations on graduating, Inchling. I love you to the depths of my soul and back again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SdwW3I0AkiYe_xXV92IeqJAg9b4i1RAix8W_2u5tFisggrr21pgKeQiiT97JgXzO8UdlGEhMqdlJNfjzbte-uEU1F3GfJ4z_EP3OzFaO8H5YwQq0Y852Z9WYuF16q1q0-BM4RjHMKw/s1600/Danielle+with+Mom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SdwW3I0AkiYe_xXV92IeqJAg9b4i1RAix8W_2u5tFisggrr21pgKeQiiT97JgXzO8UdlGEhMqdlJNfjzbte-uEU1F3GfJ4z_EP3OzFaO8H5YwQq0Y852Z9WYuF16q1q0-BM4RjHMKw/s400/Danielle+with+Mom.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-5052940836463773852011-05-15T21:44:00.005-06:002011-05-18T09:19:31.118-06:00turn offSo school's finally out and I can turn off my brain. All my hard work paid off with an electronic report card of five pretty A's. And now I get a short three-week break before I return for summer semester. So what do you suppose I did to start off my break? Here, I'll give you a hint:<br />
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Yup. I got in my car and went for a long weekend visit to see my grandbaby. We had so much fun, but we kept getting into trouble. One night Grandma was helping this Little Miss take a bath. She was so excited to have a new bath supervisor that she went into party mode. Tub toys were flying everywhere, and the floor got a bit wet. She thought that was so funny that she started a new game called "Grandma, see if you can catch the soaking wet wash cloth when I madly throw it around." Pretty soon the floor was in possession of about a third of her bath water. But she was laughing so hard! How could I resist that belly laugh? Pretty soon Mommy came in to investigate, and Grandma got in trouble. "Grandma, you're banned from bath duty!" <br />
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Then one morning, Grandma was being just plain lazy and didn't get up the minute the Little Miss did. She knelt down next to me and said something like, "Grandma's makeup bag." This is what resulted:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlXTIz6Hru2Vjn-sYjnpURqlfOdH2XlFNR59MDc55XYNikTVF6SKkkyZLaiwHvKFqM2mUA_gCeQQMlomqy2ujAXnUwR0nwqPXyj5Us8SotJMeL8QoYt9cNiLsJFc7BFeUcnqbt50oRw/s1600/DSC02887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlXTIz6Hru2Vjn-sYjnpURqlfOdH2XlFNR59MDc55XYNikTVF6SKkkyZLaiwHvKFqM2mUA_gCeQQMlomqy2ujAXnUwR0nwqPXyj5Us8SotJMeL8QoYt9cNiLsJFc7BFeUcnqbt50oRw/s640/DSC02887.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Then her mommy came to check on her. "Grandma! What's this?"<br />
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"Uh . . . waterproof mascara?"<br />
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Well, all great fun has to come to an end, and pretty soon it was time for me to go home. My daughter always sings a song to the Little Miss at bedtime, and the last night when it was time for bed, she had a special request. "Grandma sing song?" I was honored to be chosen as a guest soloist in her bedtime ritual. She lay down in her bed with her blanky, white, sheepie, and bear and looked up at me as I sang.<br />
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About two-thirds through my solo, she said, "Turn off." <br />
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I paused. "Turn off what, Sweetie?"<br />
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"Turn off song. Mommy sing song."<br />
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<i>(sigh)</i> I guess I'll stick to English as my major.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> P.S. This sweet Little Miss will soon be big sister to a new baby in July and cousin to a new baby in November. Yay!</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-87519408234699724842011-03-18T11:48:00.005-06:002011-04-23T17:52:00.822-06:00i love books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocGkzwW0lexhJkEz2IVVWxJl6ggH5y_dtbRo23VC80y3dzzB91S1LsbIxmuKeR6fAwDLhUKktw-CmHti0Wryv1A8qqRsrkIdf-uYRxR3HEBZUbgT62UahVe0OB9BYOmdIn4ePtmzkSA/s1600/Mileylearningtoread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocGkzwW0lexhJkEz2IVVWxJl6ggH5y_dtbRo23VC80y3dzzB91S1LsbIxmuKeR6fAwDLhUKktw-CmHti0Wryv1A8qqRsrkIdf-uYRxR3HEBZUbgT62UahVe0OB9BYOmdIn4ePtmzkSA/s400/Mileylearningtoread.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I love books. I love to smell books. Whenever I pick up a book or a magazine, I have to smell it. In fact, I have one textbook that is good for only one thing: smelling. I love to hold books. I love everything about books. Books! Books! Books! And as you might guess, I love to read. Reading opens up the world. There is so much to read, so much to learn.<br />
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I taught all of my children to read before or during preschool. One of my girls was reading by the time she was three. She thought life was really unfair that her two older sisters could cuddle up with a nice little book and read, and she couldn't, so she insisted that I teach her to read. When my youngest daughter was learning to read, I routinely babysat a friend of hers. This little girl thought she was really getting gypped because she could only sit and listen while my daughter read. So, of course, I taught her to read too. Her mother now blames me for her daughter's love affair with books and learning--a burden of blame I will gladly shoulder.<br />
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And so you see, naturally I think everyone should learn and love to read. Miley turns three next month. Do you think I've carried this a little too far?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-69152810483173513472011-02-14T09:50:00.001-07:002011-02-14T10:15:47.759-07:00happy valentine's day!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrhMx1mW-lWtAbbtVcjzZDUNBaFAmwDMWI3GxX6bHkUN0yBqbpgrAUieRig8-AHiU84cCTY5q1d_OcKVN_sKi1qSST6eTuYO8UsoZJXdy1bW9HDI2A-8mkOqVd1IIwBSCBpVT4Lhfjw/s1600/DSC02858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrhMx1mW-lWtAbbtVcjzZDUNBaFAmwDMWI3GxX6bHkUN0yBqbpgrAUieRig8-AHiU84cCTY5q1d_OcKVN_sKi1qSST6eTuYO8UsoZJXdy1bW9HDI2A-8mkOqVd1IIwBSCBpVT4Lhfjw/s320/DSC02858.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Have you ever had a bus pull up to your house? No. I mean have you ever had a bus pull up to your house and <i>un</i>load kids into your living room? Bet you haven't. Well, that's exactly what happened this morning. A busload of good lookin' kids unloaded into my living room and sang to me.<br />
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Best Valentine's day ever. Ever.<br />
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Thanks, DHS Madrigals!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxMt-uvMPMu6BbVq4F2HnczdMvlys7ScKe94tq0L3rjmCSKK0Z_a7goyvMs0XbUdoyvtM4VghILfO-pQRP60w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">P.S. I don't think I have a career in videography waiting for me. </span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-16541811528376365212010-12-25T22:27:00.007-07:002011-04-23T17:52:22.127-06:00merry christmas!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKrz9kYwpjMkHBfiEgVo3-muls9064U5S9u7usefu8DTZuHhOw4uoP-yocR9b40E6SSyEGPA1-AAPprqCuebuu3ploGI56kfzUoXdp_q2AFnDilc-AToRaVPW7U9dJxHAC9u9UlrXuA/s1600/DSC02784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKrz9kYwpjMkHBfiEgVo3-muls9064U5S9u7usefu8DTZuHhOw4uoP-yocR9b40E6SSyEGPA1-AAPprqCuebuu3ploGI56kfzUoXdp_q2AFnDilc-AToRaVPW7U9dJxHAC9u9UlrXuA/s320/DSC02784.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
On Christmas Eve my children all used to gather together in one bedroom and sleep together. They stayed up late, laughing and giggling, and just generally getting excited for Christmas the next day. Then in the morning, they stomped around upstairs to wake their parents up nice and early. This tradition was repeated year after year, with minor changes. When they got older, they started setting an alarm clock to be certain to get up early. I snuck in the room and turned it off, but they were very clever children. They set more than one alarm clock, and I never quite found them all.<br />
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Another important part of this tradition was the ringing of the bell. See, after the children had been banished to their sleepover, Santa Claus knew that all were tucked in for the night, and so he (or possibly she) came and delivered presents. Then he tromped past their bedroom door with a bell and rang it wildly proclaiming, "Ho, Ho, Ho!! Merry Christmas!!" to the (not so) sleepy occupants within. Even after my girls grew beyond the believing stage, good ol' Santa still tromped past their door with that bell. They did begin to note that Santa's voice had an unusually high pitch, and Santa had to try to go bass to correct that anomaly.<br />
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There was the year that my baby was the only remaining believer, and she was scared spitless of that jolly fat man in his red suit. After Santa stomped around merrily declaring his season's greetings, he stomped away, opened the deck door, said goodbye, and disappeared into the night. Conveniently enough, I was close on hand, and I opened the door to ask if they had heard that Santa was there. As the door opened, my poor little girl was scrambling as fast as her little arms and legs could carry her into the arms of her oldest sister. She had the most petrified expression I think I've ever seen. Aw, the memories. <br />
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Well, that tradition has carried through the years without fail. As they got older, the sleeping arrangements changed. Married kids brought their spouses and everyone began the night together, waiting for the sound of Santa's jolly voice. Then the married kids would clear out, the others would vow to stay, and then one by one they would slink off to more comfortable arrangements (their own beds).<br />
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Last week we had our mini Christmas while everyone could actually be together. We went through all of our regular Christmas traditions and held our own little mini-Christmas a week and a half early. We had the most wonderful time. It was delightful to have my sweet year-old granddaughter around, ripping at paper with her childlike awe. Then she lovingly and adoringly laid her head on the things she loved best. Fabulous memories. <br />
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Which brings us to last night, Christmas Eve 2010. Santa laid out the presents, but the child in residence hadn't gone to bed yet. In fact, the child's boyfriend was still hanging out. They were busy having a midnight snack. So Santa forgot all about the bell ringing tradition and trotted off to bed. Not twenty minutes into this long winter nap, a very strange thing happened. The ringing of the bell!!!! accompanied by a truly male voice saying, "Ho, Ho, Ho!! Merry Christmas!!" I was like a little girl. I began to giggle, and in my head I saw visions of Santa Claus. I could see him tromping down my hall, proclaiming his season's greetings. It was truly a magical moment, a moment of child-like glee. I bounced from my bed and into the hallway, but alas Santa had made off into the winter night already. My daughter and her boyfriend were all that remained in the hallway, and they rushed toward me: "Did you hear? Did you hear? Santa was here!!" <br />
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It was always so much fun for me to do the tromping and the ringing and the proclaiming, but this year, I found out how absolutely much fun, how absolutely magical it is to be on the inside receiving the magic. <br />
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Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!!!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-13966935013817001212010-10-11T21:13:00.003-06:002010-10-11T21:16:04.799-06:00the caretaker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMd0myoToAqYz6QbngYlcx3jONmjz26mOi7IeaIFO7TTyvMqD7ckyMOlXCk3bKIGhPouCsLpQElhNTu1ZfM5j9rhyphenhyphenrMK_D7oKKXgI19ZdMJahbrI9NRcuuJO0exqV9VMqeZl0dWPT9A/s1600/IMG_8652+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMd0myoToAqYz6QbngYlcx3jONmjz26mOi7IeaIFO7TTyvMqD7ckyMOlXCk3bKIGhPouCsLpQElhNTu1ZfM5j9rhyphenhyphenrMK_D7oKKXgI19ZdMJahbrI9NRcuuJO0exqV9VMqeZl0dWPT9A/s640/IMG_8652+-+Copy.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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My daughter had some minor surgery this past week, and I went up for the weekend to take care of her and my granddaughter. Of course, in true Soodle fashion, she came home and acted as if nothing had happened. The doctor told her to go home and rest with an icepack, but did she? No. The only way that would have happened would be if I had first conked her over the head and knocked her completely out. It was sort of like the time when she got her wisdom teeth out. The doctor told her to go home and rest and not to eat anything crunchy for the day, you know, stick to soft stuff like mashed potatoes. I guess she heard potato and added chip to it because the first thing into her mouth was a chip, and it was pretty much downhill from there. <br />
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So anyway, I was up for the weekend to "help." This is where I'm supposed to complain about how hard it is to keep up with a one year old, how much work they are, how much trouble they are, and all that jazz. I think the following pictures will explain just exactly how overworked I felt. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUc-naZJqKULSHEHFb7Z6yFhFhcm0fZB0q-eaq8TFm78_V__wU_VaqHIkzMIxKHAXIfEPOWFldiNsIPgU5kMI6cCCfDvDtN_hK90BmP0oqUwWwkdBVkxuudFcyEEOuwJSbRqUBcKijQw/s1600/grandmabelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUc-naZJqKULSHEHFb7Z6yFhFhcm0fZB0q-eaq8TFm78_V__wU_VaqHIkzMIxKHAXIfEPOWFldiNsIPgU5kMI6cCCfDvDtN_hK90BmP0oqUwWwkdBVkxuudFcyEEOuwJSbRqUBcKijQw/s400/grandmabelle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I miss you sweet thing. <br />
<br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-85343798653766743402010-09-18T14:27:00.005-06:002010-09-18T14:39:31.749-06:00mowing the lawn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoTgqOQpNCBD_CqWJAZZ1-T9fubB_gYyjwTVbKluX3xBIrfk3nfCIN2pI5LPHf6YdsbPZqWlwwhg7ru2AI7AWIYMItfsw2xEg_lJVooJGsFOgk-nsyaFMifaku339absbK_tDfJyIgA/s1600/roses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoTgqOQpNCBD_CqWJAZZ1-T9fubB_gYyjwTVbKluX3xBIrfk3nfCIN2pI5LPHf6YdsbPZqWlwwhg7ru2AI7AWIYMItfsw2xEg_lJVooJGsFOgk-nsyaFMifaku339absbK_tDfJyIgA/s320/roses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518353030935155490" border="0" /></a>I mowed the lawn this morning. It has been a really long time since I mowed a lawn, and it took me way back. I was sneaking up on teenhood. My father had just had a heart attack and was in the hospital. His condition was stable, but to a kid, stable was just another word for “not very well.” My dad owned a landscaping/mowing business. Well, to be precise, he had a job with the Union Pacific Railroad, and on the side, he ran a one-man landscaping business. So when he landed in the hospital for weeks, that left his business unattended. It just wouldn’t do to have those people take their business elsewhere so my mother and I attended to mowing lawns. Day after day, I threw all my strength into that work, pushing that lawnmower up and down, up and down. See, in my little head, I somehow felt like I was making an unspoken deal with God, a plea really. I figured if I worked really hard, then God would make my dad well. I worked so hard that one day my mom suddenly made me stop and rest. Apparently, my flushed cheeks and rapid breathing scared her.<span style=""> </span>It was in vain to try to keep me down, though, and I was soon back at it, making that lawnmower save my dad. Well, he did survive that heart attack and was soon convalescing at home.<br /><br />I hadn’t really thought much about this until this morning. And there I was pushing a lawn mower up and down, up and down again. My dad has been gone a long time now, twenty-four years. As I pushed that lawn mower around today I thought about him, the kind of man he was, how hard he worked, how much he loved, how life treated him. Then my mind drifted to my life, how hard I work, how much I love, how life treats me.<span style=""> </span>I’m a planner, and I had such plans and goals, such vision of how life would proceed. Then Life took over and didn’t stick to the plan, didn’t follow the outline I had so carefully crafted.<br /><br />After I finished mowing and put the lawnmower away, I grabbed some trimming shears and trimmed away the dead roses from the rosebush. Then I carefully picked a nice open rose, which seemed to be my life to this point; and I picked a barely blooming rose, perhaps my life ahead. I stood looking at that nicely mown lawn, the nice straight lines, and I breathed in the scent of freshly mown lawn. And I felt like I had really accomplished something, and it was more than just mowing the lawn. <br /><br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-22819975370303813962010-09-15T19:06:00.012-06:002010-12-28T15:39:52.445-07:00out of my mind<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wfIwriTLbGMSAhnV4O5tGAVRtSRmhgqd6xGU5TD19nc3Uk6iQBdJ_o5h57ByhbY497RqJVpK0myz1-8_KMJfNEM7tUXRPy1rAIF4KQTN4UVkGdhOSa_ysqUuQc4dbUIUpa0gT_IS5g/s1600/outofmymind.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wfIwriTLbGMSAhnV4O5tGAVRtSRmhgqd6xGU5TD19nc3Uk6iQBdJ_o5h57ByhbY497RqJVpK0myz1-8_KMJfNEM7tUXRPy1rAIF4KQTN4UVkGdhOSa_ysqUuQc4dbUIUpa0gT_IS5g/s320/outofmymind.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517314890568282674" /></a><br />
So I had another day <a href="http://snailbugalley.blogspot.com/2009/07/and-this-is-how-my-day-began.html">like this one</a> today. I haven’t had many days like this recently. In fact, it has been more than a month since my last migraine, since my life found a new calm and peace that has significantly decreased the incidence of this brain disorder of mine. Unfortunately and inconsiderately, this migraine started just as I was on my way out to my first class of the day. That really didn’t fit into my plan for the day, but I popped my drugs and took my body to class anyway. If the teacher would have called roll, I think I would have needed to say, “body present, mind absent.” After that class, I went to the library and finished some homework before another class. <br />
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Then I took my body to the student center where I found a couch in an inconspicuous place to lie down on. My daughter called while I was there, and she said, “What are you doing?” “Well, actually I’m lying on a couch in the student center.” “You’re what?” “Hey! I have a migraine, and I’m lying on a couch in the student center.” “Oh, that’s awesome, Mom. That’s exactly what I used to do.” Hmmm. Seems that behavior fits in. <br />
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Then I went to my other class, and my professor was wearing a shirt with this slogan on it: “Out of my mind. Be back in five minutes.” Seemed extremely apropos in the moment.<br />
<br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-47796858875062272982010-09-13T11:07:00.007-06:002010-09-13T14:31:39.878-06:00this is a test<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kycB4FA1DCqIQKmQD7LR-tRxh6ftnvbtBsP6vmznaven6nJDN2oee7DEpdzJHnO4VAdCPsCLt43oTqgo1NE7KQMgzPxSUgeXJYW-rnTnj7qquV85zO1Nw6GtErk1CL6nfGgyegmL2w/s1600/their.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kycB4FA1DCqIQKmQD7LR-tRxh6ftnvbtBsP6vmznaven6nJDN2oee7DEpdzJHnO4VAdCPsCLt43oTqgo1NE7KQMgzPxSUgeXJYW-rnTnj7qquV85zO1Nw6GtErk1CL6nfGgyegmL2w/s320/their.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516446027215214930" border="0" /></a><br />So my favorite class this semester is Elements of Grammar. As you read this, you may be cringing, or even worse, you're thinking that I'm crazy. The phrase English geek may even have passed through your lips. In class we were instructed to get in groups and create a paragraph using homophones incorrectly. For an example of homophones, see above picture. Homophones are words that sound alike but have different meanings. Our paragraph contains fifteen homophones. Can you find them?<br /><br />Last weak in class wee got a pour grade on a group assignment. We couldn't except that the grade was fare. Won of us said she wanted too dye! How could she go on living when she was grated forth in her class? She threatened two leaf school forever. We finally convinced her not to quit college over this one coarse. After awl, how hard can grammar bee?<br /><br />This was entirely too much fun. I sent this to my editor daughter, and I got back a simple email: "MUST FIX! MUST FIX!" I think it put her editor mind into a tailspin, realizing that this assignment was correct as it was, and yet it was so incorrect! School just shouldn't be so much fun.<br /><br />So how did you do? Did you find all the homophones? If you did, pat yourself on the back. You must be an English geek too.<br /><br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-14765902223209302032010-09-06T10:05:00.006-06:002010-09-06T10:29:10.647-06:00series of events<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNnZV21QjZPlUczcRfmP_17XXPELwI2f-yD9RR1-Ky1alhXu-Hc04CPXrFL-jNPrzT6AABJmiN1Fu86TAedjWVEqH7PmksgH6pYA_7J8eb_RqKnoMKsz7FFFbMxnl9GqNSEI_pqbXXOw/s1600/pillpackage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNnZV21QjZPlUczcRfmP_17XXPELwI2f-yD9RR1-Ky1alhXu-Hc04CPXrFL-jNPrzT6AABJmiN1Fu86TAedjWVEqH7PmksgH6pYA_7J8eb_RqKnoMKsz7FFFbMxnl9GqNSEI_pqbXXOw/s320/pillpackage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513836319284535426" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was just thinking about how a series of events happens, how you don't have any idea that one thing is preceding another. How it doesn't even occur to you that one simple thing could even be important. You see a couple of months ago, Roodle found a baby sparrow in her apartment parking lot. Being that she has a really soft heart for birds, she rescued the thing, and then seeing that she works all day quite frequently, she brought the little runt to me to take care of, along with a medicine dropper which we used to feed the little squirt multiple times a day until one day it happily flew away. After it flew the coop, I cleaned the cage and the medicine dropper, put them upstairs in the storeroom, and it was all but forgotten.<br /><br />So Saturday, when I fed the dogs, Chamine's pill package fell out of her mouth and right next to Miley's bowl. Miley lunged for it, and I screamed, but it was too late. She ate Chamine's phenobarbital AGAIN! This may not seem terribly serious, but the medicine is intended for a dog three times her size, and it is a lethal dose when she ingests it. I swooped her up and yanked her mouth open to try to get it, but it was long gone. I prepared her cocktail of orange juice and hydrogen peroxide, but she wouldn't drink it! The little brat! Did she remember this from last time? So I ran upstairs and retrieved the medicine dropper. I came back and secured her in a football hold, and forced the medicine down her. She was crying and yelping, and yes, I was crying too. I felt so bad. She couldn't understand that I was saving her life. All she could understand was that I was acting irrationally and forcing orange juice down her throat. The hydrogen peroxide did its job faithfully, and she immediately threw up a nice little package of lethal drugs.<br /><br />When Roodle found that baby sparrow, she asked me if I wanted to take care of it. I remember my response: "Not exactly." So she didn't bring it over . . . until early the next morning. Then with the skill of a practiced thief, she slunk into the house and surreptitiously abandoned it on the kitchen counter. I woke up to a chirping, hungry baby bird that morning. And it began. We started feeding it every few minutes for several days, and then one day, it took flight. That little medicine dropper then innocently waited upstairs in the vacant cage until I summoned it frantically. Had Roodle not brought me that baby bird, I wouldn't have had the medicine dropper, Miley wouldn't have taken the hydrogen peroxide, and . . . well . . . thanks for bringing me a baby bird one early summer morning, Roodle. You saved my puppy's life.<br /><br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7211997937673783737.post-44433501637771101442010-05-07T12:50:00.003-06:002010-05-07T15:44:35.718-06:00what did you learn today?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2X27PxljWFvVcSC4zx0uwEeLEM444LhFYFjvi0lvuNXNTtAKO7cD7uHZCvn797Z57trN6uT17qv8lNP35i3y3vtrsYu3LPb9cjN32I8aBsFGwjC8TDWo1dAgWZeGl0RVANz7z2VuKQ/s1600/DSC02661.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2X27PxljWFvVcSC4zx0uwEeLEM444LhFYFjvi0lvuNXNTtAKO7cD7uHZCvn797Z57trN6uT17qv8lNP35i3y3vtrsYu3LPb9cjN32I8aBsFGwjC8TDWo1dAgWZeGl0RVANz7z2VuKQ/s320/DSC02661.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468606420410673314" border="0" /></a><br /><br />When I was young as I arrived home from school, my daddy would say, "So, Chellee, what did you learn in school today?" I would inevitably respond with, "Aw, nothin'," To which he would say, "You might have just as well stayed home and helped yer mother then." This little scenario played out over and over throughout my youth. Even when I did learn something, I certainly didn't admit to it. That would have ruined our little after school game.<br /><br />Well, my first semester back in college is over, and it was a dooze. My daddy isn't around anymore to actually ask me what I learned in school. How fiercely I miss him--his nearly completely bald head, his hilarious and completely ridiculous bedtime stories that sometimes included toilet paper wrapped around his head, and his big, warm daddy bear hugs that nearly squeezed the life out of me. Even though he isn't here to ask, I thought I'd tell you anyway. Here is what I learned in school:<br /><br />1. College professors teach that you should teach what you intend for your students to learn, and test them accordingly. Then they put trick questions in their finals, and when you call them on it: "This is a trick question on the English language. I know the material, but the question is a trick. Which way am I supposed to answer it?" They look at you and smirk. Therefore, it isn't actually necessary to teach as you preach.<br /><br />2. If I do my homework ahead of time and hand it in, I will be punished by being given extra homework to do, and this right at the end of the semester as finals approach. Therefore, drag your feet on all your assignments.<br /><br />3. Math is more confusing than I ever knew. In base six, 5 + 5 = 14. In base eight, 5 + 5 = 12. In base nine, 5 + 5 = 11, and in base two, 5 + 5 = 1010. I expect this to come in handy every day the rest of my life.<br /><br />4. If you live in the U.S. and you are white, you are bad simply by virtue of the color of your skin. This was drilled into my head quite laboriously. Therefore, I am very, very bad because I am very, very pale skinned.<br /><br />5. I learned to make the flower that is pictured above in a presentation that a group of students did. It's rather lovely, isn't it? Possibly the best thing I learned all semester.<br /><br />So, Daddy, nothing much has changed. I really should have stayed home and helped my mother.<br /><br/>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0