tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90064418514340294402024-03-05T08:49:24.820-05:00This Perfect Messembracing the chaos, one spill at a timeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-12189081538778292592019-03-28T20:04:00.000-04:002019-03-28T21:23:21.836-04:00Faster Than a Speeding BulletWhen Jack turned 3 he became obsessed with superheroes. Without ever seeing a superhero movie or even a superhero cartoon, he was drawn like a magnet to any and all paraphernalia bearing a superhero logo. He clutched Superman water bottles to his chest at Target. He could not live without the Batman key chain at the gas station. He cried real tears for Justice League waffles at the grocery store.<br />
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He fastened his blankie into a cape until he became the owner of a <i>real </i>superhero cape and he quickly amassed a collection of superhero action figures, jammies, plates, cups, costumes, undies and the like, owing mostly to the fact that he has <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/07/grandparent-detox-5-step-method.html" target="_blank">approximately 18 grandparents</a>. <br />
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During Jack's third year he decided he wanted to dress like a superhero. He <i>only </i>wanted to dress like a superhero. Not just for Halloween or playtime, but also for errands or church or Christmas parties or nice restaurants or family pictures. Thank goodness we did not have a funeral to attend that year.<br />
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Jack's super hero outfits were very well thought out. He did not simply throw on a cape and call it a day, oh no. He insisted on wearing his superhero pajamas - preferably Batman or Superman - with the coordinating underwear pulled on OVER TOP OF the pants because obviously superheroes wear their underwear on the outside of their outfits. He then generally accessorized with capes, masks, belts and rubber rain boots to top it all off.<br />
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It chagrined me to no end that his closet resembled an untouched rack at Gap Kids while he ran around in grimy pajamas with holey underwear on top.<br />
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At first I begged. I threatened. I bribed. I pleaded with him to wear a cute little polo shirt or darling button-up. Finally we settled on the rule that he could not wear superhero outfits to school or church, but besides that we became accustomed to seeing Spiderman at the dinner table or Green Lantern running through the backyard, which is why I was rather surprised one day when he walked downstairs wearing long pants and a long-sleeved blue button-up with his hair neatly slicked back like a tiny professor on his way to a lecture.<br />
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I had no time to inquire about his choice of outfit that morning however, because I was 8 months pregnant, running late to an OB appointment and the sitter had not shown up. Plan B was to throw Jack and one-year-old Henry into the car to accompany my on my appointment, hooray!<br />
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Turns out this was the perfect appointment on which to bring my 3 and 1-year-old because this was the appointment in which the nurse needed to perform a "fetal non-stress test." I am still unsure as to the purpose of this test, but I do clearly remember it involved me supine in a reclined chair with several monitors strapped to my belly while the nurse gave explicit instructions to "stay as still as possible for 30 minutes or we will have to start the whole test over!"<br />
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The nurse exited the room as I lie incapacitated and the look that spread across my toddlers' faces can only be described as sheer delight. Henry immediately reached for a magazine and began meticulously ripping it to shreds page by page. Jack took a running leap for the rolling stool, caught it with his belly and crashed headfirst into the opposite wall. They were having the time of their lives.<br />
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After spinning, zooming and performing any other stunt he could think of with the rolling stool Jack announced that HE NEEDED TO GO POTTY RIGHT NOW I CAN'T HOLD IT I HAVE TO GO NOW! At this point the test was almost halfway through, the room resembled an unkempt confetti factory and I would have rather taken a dozen glucose tests than risk moving and having to repeat this process all over again. In desperation I pointed to the single-stall restroom across the hall, "Ok, there is the potty. Do you think you can go all by yourself?" He nodded. "Just don't touch anything!" I shouted as he marched his little sharply-dressed self out the door.<br />
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A few minutes went by and Jack did not return. Several more minutes passed and I began to panic with the thought of all the things that a little boy might get into when left to himself in a gynecologist's bathroom. Visions of rubber gloves and overturned urine samples and mountains of unwrapped feminine products filled my head.<br />
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When the nurse finally returned to unplug me, I frantically grabbed Henry, mumbled an apology for the sea of crumpled magazine pages she was left wading in and rushed to the bathroom.<br />
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I flung open the door to find my 3-year-old, standing very proudly, hands-on-hips, in full Superman regalia.<br />
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"What??...How??...When??" I stammered. I noticed his khaki pants and button-up shirt discarded in a pile on the floor.<br />
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"Jack, were you hiding your Superman outfit UNDER your regular clothes??"<br />
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"No, Mommy," he answered earnestly, "I was being Clark Kent."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note: This is the exact photo I took of my child upon returning home from the doctor's office.</td></tr>
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To this day I'll never know how I failed to notice my child smuggling a red cape and chunky plastic belt under his clothing to the OBGYN.<br />
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---<br />
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Every year, since he was 3, a superhero costume of some type has topped Jack's birthday list. When he was 4 he requested the Flash. We threw a Ninja Turtles birthday party the year he turned 5. He asked for a Wolverine costume when he was 6 and by the time he turned 7 he was back to Batman again ("but this time Batman with muscles already in the costume!").<br />
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But something shifted between year 7 and 8. It was gradual, practically imperceptible day-by-day. The tiny super hero figures in their basket were moved from the shelf to the closet to make room for football cards and baseball gloves. I saw his brawny Batman costume less and less. He began to wear his Baltimore Orioles jersey more and more. He began flipping on ESPN as soon as he woke up so he could "check the scores from last night." <i>There was a game last night? How is there </i>always <i>a game? How does he know about this game? How, at 7 years old, does he suddenly know more about sports than I have learned in my entire life??</i><br />
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I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised when his 8-year-old birthday wish list was sadly devoid of any superhero gear whatsoever. In fact, all he really wanted to do was go to a Greensboro Grasshoppers baseball game. His grandparents ended up taking him as a birthday treat and the night they picked just happened to be, ironically, super hero night.<br />
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"How fun is that, Jack? Which costume are you going to wear for Superhero Night at the baseball game?"<br />
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He looked at me utterly horrified. "Ugh, no, Mommy, superheroes are for babies."<br />
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And there it was. Suddenly, my little boy who refused to take off his superhero costume now refused to put one on.<br />
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It's at this point in the post I should bemoan the passing of time. It would be a perfect spot to joke that these moments fly past "faster than a speeding bullet!", but the truth is that I started writing this post almost two years ago when Jack turned 8. He'll be 10 this summer. It is one of many posts filed away in an unpublished archive and I can't remember where I was going with it.<br />
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I recently received a notification saying my domain name was set to expire so I could either pay a small fee to keep it or lose this small piece of myself to the invisible expanse of the interwebs. Of course I couldn't let that happen. North Carolinians might be lost without my brilliant review of the <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2013/12/the-polar-express-great-smoky-mountain.html" target="_blank">Polar Express Train</a>.<br />
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I began this blog when Jack was 3 and I was a young mom stuck at home for long stretches of time, deeply in love with my children, but desperately needing to connect with other souls who were sharing my experiences.<br />
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He is no longer that 3-year-old. I am no longer that mom.<br />
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He gradually dropped his obsession for all things super-human and I steadily began to reenter the world of people who slept through the night. Then School happened. And field trips and playdates and little league and ballet and date nights and girls' nights and life.<br />
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And I realized a whole year had gone by without me sitting down to write a blog post. My kids got older and grew from adorable toddlers into actual people and it began to feel invasive to share their stories so freely. Instead I tried writing about a <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2017/10/the-hungry-ghost.html" target="_blank">hungry ghost</a>, but it just wasn't the same. <br />
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When Jack turned 8 I sadly thought that his Superhero days were behind us.<br />
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But every now and then I'll catch him: digging the muscled Playskool heroes out of the closet, quoting <i>The Dark Knight</i>, reenacting a scene from the latest Marvel movie with his brother. (Just don't tell him I told you.)<br />
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In many ways he is still that 3-year-old. And I am still that mom.<br />
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I still need connection and a creative outlet, although this blog is not those things for me anymore.<br />
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I would love to write in a more regular capacity again one day, whatever that might look like, but currently my writing is limited to lunchbox notes and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thisperfectmess/" target="_blank">Instagram captions</a>. I don't like leaving things undone, so I guess you could consider this my official farewell blogpost, even though this site has essentially been left unattended since 2016.<br />
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Thank you to all of you who read my stories and shared yours with me.<br />
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I am forever grateful for this perfectly messy space.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-67294133904322433702017-10-30T11:36:00.002-04:002017-10-30T12:31:18.799-04:00The Hungry Ghost<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thecookbooknerd/" target="_blank">credit</a></td></tr>
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<br />
When I worked as a waitress I once had a table complain about me because I was "too smiley." That is a true story.<br />
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I waited tables in high school and all through college. I had a lot of stories. Like the one about the irate father who became practically hysterical when I told him I could not bring his young daughter a grilled cheese sandwich. "I know it's not on the menu, but HOW HARD IS IT??" He helpfully offered me his own recipe, "Just put some CHEESE between some BREAD and WARM IT UP FOR CRYING OUT LOUD."<br />
<br />
"Sir, this is a Chinese restaurant. We don't have any bread. Or cheese."<br />
<br />
It was a fun job.<br />
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It's always fun when your sole source of income is dependent on the whims of people who may or may not become enraged when you tell them that fried rice costs extra.<br />
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Admittedly, I approached it with the same sort of enthusiasm one might muster for an appointment to get a mole removed. I suppose I could have had a more positive attitude, but someone had already complained about me being too smiley.<br />
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My last waitressing job was at a P.F. Chang's China Bistro adjacent to a large shopping mall. One evening, right before the dinner rush, I noticed the hostess leading a well-dressed middle aged man to one of my tables. She handed him a menu and plopped down an extra in front of the empty seat across from him.<br />
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There was nothing unusual about this scene, many people choose to be seated while they wait for the rest of their party, but I did notice he appeared to be having an audible conversation complete with hand gestures, pauses and an occasional burst of laughter. At first I assumed he was wearing one of those bluetooth earpieces that were suddenly so popular. It was 2003 and important people couldn't be bothered to actually hold their flip phones to their ears while milling about in public anymore.<br />
<br />
As I approached the table the gentleman was still deep in conversation. I placed a beverage napkin by his elbow (or "bevnap" as we in the biz call it) and leaned in to politely signify I was ready to take his drink order.<br />
<br />
"Oh hello," he acknowledged, turning to me, "I'll have a Diet Coke and she'll take some unsweet tea," he motioned to the empty spot across the table. "You do have Sweet 'N Low though, don't you? She likes to add it to her tea."<br />
<br />
I nodded and suddenly felt an uncomfortable chill down my spine, because now I had a clear view of both his ears and there was no earpiece in either of them.<br />
<br />
While at the beverage station I tried to make sense of the odd interaction. Surely he ordered a drink for a close friend who was on her way...but the talking? Had they started making Bluetooth earpieces so small they fit inside the entire ear? Maybe it was some kind of new telephone implant.<br />
<br />
My lone patron was still chatting away when I approached his table with the drinks. "Thank you so much," he said as he reached to pour sweetener and stir the tall glass of iced tea on the opposite side of the table, "I think we are ready to order."<br />
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"Um, ok," I replied hesitantly.<br />
<br />
"I'll take the Beef and Broccoli and what would you like, dear?" He glanced up at the empty chair and waited.<br />
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I waited.<br />
<br />
He waited some more.<br />
<br />
"How about Chang's Spicy Chicken?" I suggested helpfully. It was one of our most popular dishes.<br />
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"Oh no, Sally hates spicy, don't you, Sally? Well, do you know what you want? I thought you had decided already! Oh, really? Hmmm, that does sound interesting." He turned to me again, "What do you think of the Mu Shu Pork?"<br />
<br />
Sometimes when we find ourselves in situations that we cannot seem to make sense of, we simply react with the most normal instinct that is programmed into our social schemas. If I saw an alien from outerspace taking a walk through my neighborhood I would like to think that I would run and hide, but it seems I would probably just wave and say, "Hi, how are you? That is a lovely dog you have there." So, when asked my opinion on a dish for his invisible friend, I did not exclaim DOES IT MATTER?? THERE'S NO ONE THERE TO EAT IT!!!<br />
<br />
Also I was still hoping for a decent tip. The only way to secure a good tip from restaurant patrons is to happily go along with whatever they say. <i>What's that? You ordered your Lemon Chicken without lemon sauce and now it just tastes like plain chicken? Shame on the cook! He should telepathically know the exact dish you were visualizing in your head! I'll refund your money immediately.</i><br />
<br />
"The Mu Shu Pork is delicious," I answered.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgUAbT7vJ6tA2Ou_bA1mG38bJC-lHaz0EoBhQyGC9MeaBZB8Ww8NmBFHxcXrf2sewm8qoPTVgyie4Z7_tIOL2lhvdy1AUq0jm_lTxzFRWwT-8Ppw9RyishI9n3ou6thi8rV-wyq3D0Biq/s1600/1910225_515043022518_5590_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="423" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgUAbT7vJ6tA2Ou_bA1mG38bJC-lHaz0EoBhQyGC9MeaBZB8Ww8NmBFHxcXrf2sewm8qoPTVgyie4Z7_tIOL2lhvdy1AUq0jm_lTxzFRWwT-8Ppw9RyishI9n3ou6thi8rV-wyq3D0Biq/s1640/1910225_515043022518_5590_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have zero pictures of me waiting tables because film was expensive and we were not going to waste it on pictures of ourselves in dirty aprons. But here is me at a restaurant in college. Taken by the only person we knew with a digital camera. Thanks, Jeff!</td></tr>
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A well-known fact in the restaurant world is the only thing worse than a bad customer is a restaurant manager. I'm not saying all restaurant managers are condescending jerks, I've known some lovely ones, but if I were forced to choose between being stuck in an elevator with a restaurant manager or with Hannibal Lector, I could at least have an intelligent conversation with the cannibal.<br />
<br />
I approached my manager who was stationed at the bar, completely absorbed in a football game on tv. "Um, excuse me," I began. He turned, clearly annoyed at the interruption. I went on, "There's this man at one of my tables and he's with his girlfriend, but the thing is, his girlfriend isn't real."<br />
<br />
The manager blinked. I continued, "Like, there's nobody there. He's just talking out loud to a chair. He's ordering food...for the <i>chair</i>." I emphasized 'chair' really dramatically, just letting the impact of the situation take full affect.<br />
<br />
"So."<br />
<br />
I wasn't really expecting a non-reaction, although I probably should have. "SO, either he's totally nuts or his girlfriend's a ghost. And I don't really feel comfortable waiting on crazy people. Or ghosts."<br />
<br />
The manager stroked his chin. He had this habit of rubbing the soul patch under his lip, as if he were constantly checking to see if it were still there. I liked to believe it was because growing that inch of facial hair was his greatest achievement in life and I wanted nothing more than to rip it off his stupid face.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, well," he finally replied, "If the crazy dude pulls a knife on you or tries to drag you out of the restaurant, just don't make a big scene. Wouldn't want to interrupt the other guests." He laughed as if he had just told the funniest joke of his life.<br />
<br />
"I hope he stabs <i>you </i>in your stupid chin," I muttered under my breath because I am really good at insults.<br />
<br />
Failing to gain any support from management I relayed the situation to some of my fellow servers. The restaurant was getting busier, but the employees still had time to carry on a conversation. When the restaurant becomes so slammed the servers can only bark commands at each other we refer to it as "in the weeds" as in "Please run my apps to table 11, I'M IN THE WEEDS!!"<br />
<br />
Sometimes I still use it on my family during the dinnertime hour at our house. "No, I can't get you a glass of water right now," I yell while manning 3 different pans on the stove, "I'M IN THE WEEDS!!"<br />
<br />
Between "bevnaps" and "in the weeds" you have basically leaned all there is to know about working in a restaurant. You have me to thank if you ever get the urge to serve ribs at Chili's.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the other servers were pretty impressed by my story. Every night there was always this unspoken competition over who had the best crazy customer story. Tonight I was going to blow everyone out of the water.<br />
<br />
"You know," one guy pointed out, "maybe this is part of some sort of new hidden camera show, like Punk'd but with regular people." His theory was not half bad and I suddenly wished I had taken the time to wash my hair that day or at least worn the shirt without the soy sauce stain on the sleeve.<br />
<br />
I figured I might as well go all in. If this were a hidden camera show then I was going to win an Emmy for "Sweetest and Most Cooperative Victim on a Prank Show" and if the guy was a complete psychopath set on murdering me after his meal, I may as well spend my last few hours having fun.<br />
<br />
The order finally came up and I brought it to the table. Mu Shu Pork is a dish consisting of sliced pork stir-fried with mushrooms, bok choy, eggs and probably some other ingredients that become difficult to distinguish once they are all tossed together in a flaming wok. This mixture is then served along side paper-thin Chinese pancakes with the intent of wrapping the mixture inside the pancake to create a sort of Chinese burrito.<br />
<br />
Because PF Chang's is such a classy, distinguished restaurant, they have a strict policy that guests are not to wrap their own Mu Shu. Oh no, the servers are specially trained in the art of Mu Shu wrapping using only two large spoons because hands would be gross. The whole process of presenting the Mu Shu, dividing the filling into 4 equal portions and somehow maneuvering said portions into perfectly wrapped burritos using only spoons, takes anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes and always seems to need doing while the server is already in the weeds and her other tables are giving her death stares while she painstakingly forms Chinese tacos as the waiting table sits awkwardly.<br />
<br />
As I worked my Mu Shu magic, Harry narrated my every move for Sally. (I decided to secretly call him Harry because obviously.)<br />
<br />
"Would you look at that, Sally? She's putting the filling in one of those taco shell things and, well I'll be, she's wrapped it up in a bundle! That sure looks delicious, Sally." <br />
<br />
I placed the first Mu Shu wrap on a plate in front of Ghost Sally. I noticed her ice tea remained untouched, the condensation rendering her bevnap a soggy, pulpy mess.<br />
<br />
"So," I attempted some smalltalk as I wrapped the final Mu Shu, "How long have you and Sally known each other?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"We've been seeing each other for a while now," he replied.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh yes, it's nice to see people," I winked, tossing my unwashed hair back over my shoulders in case Ashton Kutcher might be watching.</div>
<div>
<br />
The story of Harry and Sally would be pretty good if it ended right there, but it gets even stranger. After Harry finished his Beef and Broccoli (and Sally's poor, cold Mu Shu remained untouched), he stood up, knelt down on one knee and began proclaiming his love to the empty chair.<br />
<br />
At this point I felt very invested in this relationship, so I immediately ran over and asked, "Oh my goodness, what is happening?!"<br />
<br />
"She said yes! Sally said yes! We're getting married!" Harry joyfully exclaimed.<br />
<br />
I replied the only way I knew how, "Yay! Let's have cake!"<br />
<br />
I brought him some cake on the house and Harry visited each nearby table to tell them the good news.<br />
<br />
Since you're wondering, yes, Harry did leave a good tip and one of the busboys took Sally's leftovers home for himself. Maybe ghosts don't like Mu Shu, but broke college kids sure do.<br />
<br />
My manager was very confused and slightly annoyed when I asked him to take the cake off of Harry's bill. "You want us to buy an engagement dessert for the man sitting by himself? Where is his fiance?"<br />
<br />
"Well, technically I suppose she's a ghost, but love breaks down all boundaries, you know what I mean?"<br />
<br />
It wasn't the best job but I sure got a lot of stories out of it.<br />
<br />
I'll admit my ghost story is not very scary,<br />
<br />
...but the thought of having to wait tables again?<br />
<br />
That is something of which I am truly terrified.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-36041246624623463272016-11-30T13:45:00.000-05:002016-11-30T21:57:24.044-05:00While the Kids are Away, Mama will...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have reached a point in my motherhood journey in which I have 2 free mornings a week while my 3 children are attending their respective schools. As I typed that line I swear I just heard a choir of angels harmonizing on a high note together.<br>
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TWO FREE MORNINGS. Oh, I had big plans for those two free mornings when I sent all my little ones off in August. I can brunch with friends! I can run errands in peace! The house will be spotless! I can download all 2,604 pics off my phone and print them out in nice little coffee table books! AND THAT WILL JUST BE THE FIRST DAY!!!<br>
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It is now November. I did go to brunch one time and I organized a closet, so there's that. I think my sweet husband also had similar expectations of a tidy house and a showered wife on my free mornings. Sometimes he will helpfully suggest tasks I can accomplish on those days. "Um, Honey, Sweetheart? You know that giant pile of stuff on our dining room table you said you were going to take to Goodwill? Well, it's been there for about 3 weeks and I was just thinking that you could maybe, possibly take it while the kids are at school?"<br>
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"OH MY GOSH IT'S ON MY LIST YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I DO ON MY FREE MORNINGS I DON'T KNOW WHERE ALL THE TIME GOES."<br>
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But seriously. Factoring drop off and pick up times, I have about 3 child-free hours on preschool days and they are the fastest hours of my life. Kids-in-preschool-minutes are as fast as getting-a-massage minutes. They are even faster than kids-are-finally-asleep-let's-break-out-the-chips-and-watch-netflix minutes. It's amazing how I get anything done with those minutes whipping past faster than I can fill up my cart at Target.<br>
<br>
Still, just to prove to my husband and anyone else who dares question my time management skills, I have carefully documented everything I accomplished this morning while the kids were at school.<br>
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<b>STUFF MAMA GOT DONE</b></div>
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<b>9:20</b> Pull in the driveway after dropping kids off. Alanis Morrissette is on the 90's station; sit in the car until "You Oughta Know" is over, obviously. Sing loudly. Sit in the car through 2 more songs because the 90's was such an awesome decade.<br>
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<b>9:30</b> Go inside and sit on the couch. Stare out the window and think about all the stuff I'm going to get done today. I have 3 whole hours ahead of me. I probably even have time to repaint the guest room.<br>
<br>
Get out my phone to check email. Check Instagram instead. Oooh, someone has reposted a throw pillow giveaway! You can never have enough throw pillows. Click on over to the throw pillow account where I discover this sweet woman is actually selling the darling throw pillows to fund the adoption of her Ugandan daughter. Stalk her blog and read her entire lifestory. I now feel we are BFFs.<br>
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<b>10:15</b> WHAT? It's 10:15? Guess I should unload the dishwasher and clean up the kids' breakfast dishes. As I unload the forks I notice the silverware drawer is a complete disaster. I cannot stand to live with a crumby, disorganized silverware drawer for one minute longer. I feel so accomplished as I am cleaning the silverware drawer!<br>
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<b>10:50</b> Realize I still haven't checked my email. Go to check my email and notice a Facebook notification. It is a notification for an event that I did not sign up for. A friend I haven't spoken to in 15 years is hosting an online party for products I do not wish to buy. That notification felt like a mean trick.<br>
<br>
But look! Someone has shared an article, "12 Things Successful People Do Before Breakfast." I definitely want to be successful before breakfast. I begin to read.<br>
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1. WAKE UP EARLY. Does it count if my kid woke me up at 5:45am but I gave her the iPad and stayed in bed til the last possible second?<br>
<br>
2. EXERCISE Well, I haven't technically eaten breakfast yet, so I could still get that in!<br>
<br>
3. SPEND QUALITY TIME WITH FAMILY Yes! I definitely snuggled with my daughter at 5:45 while she watched the iPad.<br>
<br>
4. MEDITATE Stared out the window thinking about all the stuff I was going to do today, CHECK!<br>
<br>
5. CHECK EMAIL Oh shoot.<br>
<b><br></b>
<b>11:05</b> In a fervent effort to be successful before breakfast I change into yoga pants and a tank top. I am definitely going to exercise this morning! I am feeling a little hungry, so I think it would be okay to eat breakfast before exercising just this once. I go to the kitchen to make a protein shake, but somehow eat half a brownie and a slice of cheese instead.<br>
<br>
<b>11:25</b> CHECK EMAIL! I AM SO SUCCESSFUL! I DELETE THE JUNK MAIL! I SIGN UP TO BRING NUT-FREE, EGG-FREE, GLUTEN-FREE COOKIES TO THE CLASS PARTY! I'm sure there's a recipe on Pinterest for nut-free, gluten-free, egg-free cookies shaped like Santa hats or something. Oh hey, look! There's a clearance sale at Anthropologie!<br>
<br>
<b>11:45</b> Write a blog post about how much I get done on my free mornings.<br>
<br>
<b>12:20</b> Freak out because I have to go pick up kids in 15 minutes and I have not yet painted the guest room or even showered.<br>
<br>
<b>12:36</b> Relocate Goodwill donations from dining room table to trunk of car where they will sit for 3 more weeks.<br>
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<b>12:45</b> Arrive at preschool with no make-up and wet hair. I'm annoyed that those tricky minutes have all escaped me yet again, but I'm also feeling strangely relaxed. It was probably all that meditating I did.<br>
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<br>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-35712963564668210362016-08-31T23:14:00.001-04:002016-09-24T23:40:35.371-04:00When Motherhood Changes and You Do Too<div>
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Three years ago I was lying in bed at 5:45am staring at the ceiling and wondering how long I could let the baby cry and still be considered a good mother. I already knew what the day held and I didn't want to do it. It was the same routine on repeat, like the movie <i>Groundhog Day</i> but way less funny with way more bodily fluids.<br />
<br />
The baby lived on my chest, wrapped tightly against my body, over and over, in a cloth that stretched approximately 75 feet. I loved the way her tiny form nestled into mine. I would lean my head to inhale her sweet baby scent and use every last bit of restraint to keep myself from stuffing her into my mouth where I would keep her for eternity, which is something that makes perfect sense when you're running on post-partum hormones and 2 hours of sleep.<br />
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I loved babywearing. For the first 30 minutes. At minute 31 my cozy wrap began to feel more like a straight jacket. I could feel beads of sweat forming in places I couldn't itch and my vertebrae began violent protests and threatened to leave my spine to join another part of the skeletal system because they certainly did not sign up for this nonsense. I couldn't agree more and if I could have used them to form a third arm I would have, because I clearly did not have enough as it were. I couldn't hold a newborn and chase after a toddler and help a preschooler draw a lion, except not that kind of lion.<br />
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So the baby slept in the wrap on my chest and nursed in the wrap and I probably would have driven around with her in the wrap except it was too hard to maneuver my arms around her body while steering. I would like to suggest post-partum women be sent home from the hospital with some kind of supervisor.<br />
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Having a baby was the hardest thing I've ever done. Having a bunch of babies in a row made me fantasize about going to jail so I could be left alone in a small room with nothing but a bed and a Bible. </div>
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<i>Lock me away, Your Honor!</i> <i>I'm guilty!</i> Guilty of not enjoying every minute of having babies. I probably enjoyed 30% of the minutes. The other 70% was just hard work. Long, hard, exhausting, cry-your-eyes-out, pray-for-strength-to-get-through-the-day work. Was it worth it? Unequivocally, absolutely, YES.<br />
<br />
Do runners enjoy every minute of a marathon? Do medical students enjoy every minute of residency? Admittedly, I have done neither, but I imagine people take on hard things not because they are fun or easy, but because somewhere deep down they know that the hard things are really the only things worth doing. It's the hard things that show you who you really are, what you are capable of and where you draw the strength to keep going. There is often unspeakable joy hidden in the midst of hard places and the only way to find that joy is to do the work it takes to get there.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we take on hard things not by choice, but by circumstance. Either way, the result is the same. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, as they say. Of course, that still doesn't mean we should enjoy every second of our near death experience.<br />
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<br />
The quickest way to make a new mom feel like a failure is to tell her "enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!"<br />
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<i>Really?</i> I wanted to say to that older woman with fresh makeup, leisurely making her way down the produce aisle. <i>May I smear some yellow poop in your hair? How much would you enjoy that? You know how long I've been awake? Twenty hours. That's 1,200 minutes. Every night I pray for time to speed the frig up.</i><br />
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It's been seven years since I had my first baby and three since I had my last. I feel like I've crossed over this bridge of diapers and sippy cups and naptimes and I can't believe I'm already on the other side.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although, when it comes to photos, some things never change.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 out of 3. I'll take it.</td></tr>
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I see a young mom with a new baby and I'm nostalgic, longing to hold my tiny babes one more time. I still want to put her baby in my mouth, but I also feel a sense of relief, maybe even a feeling of accomplishment that I have pushed through all those endless hours. I have this urge to lean over and whisper "enjoy every minute! It goes so fast!" I've almost forgotten all the hard work and tears and one million ounces of breastmilk that it took to get me to this place. Instead I tell her "you're doing a great job! Your kids are amazing! Yes, I would love to hold your baby while you rescue your toddler from the third story of the playplace."<br />
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I may have crossed the first bridge, but there are still many miles to go. And this place I'm in right now? I think I'm going to like it here. Here are some things I've done today that at one point I was convinced I would never do again:<br />
1. Took a shower. Alone. Without someone crying. Including myself.<br />
2. Rode in the car with 3 other people and only buckled my own seatbelt.<br />
3. Walked around for several consecutive hours without a human person attached to me.<br />
4. Enjoyed an actual conversation with my kids because they are clever and funny and amazing.<br />
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There are still hard days and there are good days, but most often the days are some of both. The hard work to enjoyment ratio seems to be balancing out a bit though. This motherhood gig doesn't always get easier, but it changes and becomes different, and that's usually what you really need anyway.<br />
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As for me, I'd like to think I'm older and wiser, but probably I'm just older and less anxious. I know some things now. I know that whether you choose to sleep train or not, your child will sleep eventually. I know that despite your effort to raise your baby solely on breastmilk and organic broccoli, one day you will walk in the kitchen and find her dipping cheetos in maple syrup. I now know that my opposition to my 3-year-old wearing his Batman underwear over his clothes was not worth the fight.<br />
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When I look over my shoulder I see the days that seemed to last an eternity evaporate in an instant. I know it goes so fast, but I also know it's impossible to enjoy every minute.<br />
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I won't give you unsolicited advice on potty training or discipline practises, but if you ask I will tell you to just lean into it, all of it: the joy, the pain and everything in between. It's all part of the maternal package. Just embrace the chaos, the mess, the snuggles, the belly laughs, and if you can't because you need to go cry in a closet for a little while that's ok too.<br />
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Now I am (mostly...sometimes) the one who gets up first. I now wake them up to start the day. I miss my babies, but I am <i>loving </i>these kids.<br />
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I don't know what tomorrow may bring, but if I've learned anything from motherhood it's this: these days with these little people are more than I could have hoped for and nothing like I expected.<br />
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I have less control than I think and more grace than I deserve.<br />
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I don't have a plan and I don't have answers, but we have each other and all I know to do is lean in and count it all joy.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-14827305922518762712016-07-05T11:09:00.001-04:002016-07-05T11:25:07.147-04:00Our Disney Cruise: Important Life Lessons and an Ungodly Amount of Frozen Yogurt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was bitten by the travel bug young. In my late teens and early twenties I spent my summers finding excuses to travel the world. I spent one summer teaching English to school children in rural Nepal, another holding babies in a Romanian orphanage. In college I spent a semester abroad, running all over Europe and painting a lot of naked people. Hashtag long story.<br />
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Most of my journeys were missions-related, focused on helping others or a cultural exchange of sorts. Of course, it's probably safe to assume that no life was changed as much as my own. I was a travel junkie chasing the high of self-discovery. No books or classes or teachers taught me more than what I learned stepping outside my comfort zone into a world of new customs and possibilities.<br />
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Still there comes a point in every journey, no matter how enthralling, in which you stop and very loudly ask yourself “WHY DID I THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA??” Maybe things are not quite going according to plan or you’re just a little homesick. Maybe you got head lice from a Chinese airplane or you just miss ice cubes because why are Americans the only people in the world who don’t drink things at room temperature??<br />
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But time tends to erase the unpleasantries from your mind until you're mostly left with a picture-perfect-postcard impression of your journey and a longing to return to that idyllic space.<br />
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When my youngest was born I had a 3-year-old, a 1-year-old and a newborn and it was so hard that I wanted to run away except I would have missed all the little stinkers too much. I longed for an escape to all those exotic places. Instead, for whatever reason, I decided that 3 was surely the magic age at which having children becomes easier and that when Elise turned 3, life would stop being so crazy and we would take a fabulous trip to celebrate our survival of the baby years. (I would like to suggest that when one is surviving on 2 hours of sleep a night, one’s loftiest goal should be to get oneself dressed by noon, not construct universal truths based on zero scientific evidence.)<br />
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So I researched and planned and finally booked a Caribbean cruise for our family, a Disney cruise to be exact, because the Disney cruise commercials promise the children will be completely entertained and the parents will be entirely relaxed. I knew cruising wasn’t exactly the “real, authentic” travel I fell in love with, but who cares about cultural exchange? I was just looking for a nap. <br />
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Finally, after weeks, heck, <i>years</i> of anticipation and preparation we sailed on the Disney Dream in March. We were excited. Like, <i>really </i>excited. I couldn't wait to island hop and to share the wonder of new experiences with my kids. I was especially excited to spend the mornings on the adult-only pool deck while the children were sequestered to the Disneyriffic Kids' Club. </div>
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It only took about 10 minutes after checking in for us to very loudly ask ourselves WHY DID WE THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?? Harsh reality smacked us across the face in the form of our 4-year-old flinging his tiny body on the floor of the main deck during Mickey's Bon Voyage party. </div>
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"Sweetie, don't you want to see Mickey dancing with all his friends?"</div>
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"NOOOOOOOO!!!!" </div>
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"Would you like to wear this flower necklace and look at the ocean?"</div>
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"NOOOOOO!!! I want to go HOME! I MISS MY LEGOOOOOOS!!"</div>
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The ship was fabulous. The service was impeccable. The food was all-you-can-eat. We did, however, overlook one tiny detail as we planned this dream vacation: we still had to be parents and our kids were still going to act like kids. In the midst of all the excitement, we had somehow forgotten <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2016/06/how-to-travel-with-kids-without-losing_22.html" target="_blank">everything we had ever learned about traveling with kids.</a><br />
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A tantrum at home? That's normal. A tantrum on a cruise? We had barely entertained the possibility. It was as if we were expecting our children to be so grateful for this opportunity that they would come to us bearing gifts saying, "Mother, Father, you are the best parents in the world and we promise to mind our manners the entire trip! And we especially promise not to growl at crew members or do anything else that causes you to die of embarrassment."<br />
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You will be shocked to discover that our kids gave us no such guarantee. In fact, our middle child decided that this trip would be the perfect time to announce that he hates water. On a boat. With 18 pools. Surrounded by ocean.<br />
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When we went ashore at Cozumel to see the fascinating, educational Mayan ruins, our oldest complained that there was nothing exciting about some old rocks and is it time to eat tacos yet? How about now? Is it time now? When are we having tacos? (Also, it turns out the tacos were "ok, but not as good as real, American tacos.")<br />
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Perhaps most crushing of all was our children's reaction to Kids' Club. The Oceaneer's Club, more commonly referred to as Kids' Club, is Disney's answer to in-house childcare and this particular kids' club included everything from Tinkerbell's tree house to a <i>Monster's Inc.</i> factory playground to life-sized replicas of <i>Toy Story</i> toys in Andy's Room. All kids love Kids' Club. All kids want to spend hours in Kids' Club while their parents sip Pina Coladas poolside. All kids except our kids. Our kids just wanted to be with us the entire trip. I mean, I can't blame them, we are pretty cool, but it would have been nice to sunbathe without a wet body laying across my chest.<br />
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On the bright side, their dislike of Kids' Club was a useful threat when they started to act up. Several times a day we would find ourselves yelling, "If you don't shape up, we're sending you to KIDS' CLUB!!"<br />
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"Noooooo, not Kids' Club!!"<br />
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Of course, it wasn't all meltdowns and sibling spats. We were enthralled by the nightly entertainment, particularly <i>Aladdin </i>the musical. "Star Wars Day" is one we won't quickly forget, especially Jack who was selected for Jedi training and had the opportunity to dual with Darth Vader himself.<br />
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The kids still talk about the dolphins and sea turtles we were able to touch at the conservatory on Grand Cayman.<br />
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And their very favorite thing of all? It wasn't playing in the surf at Castaway Cay. It was not the late night dance party or Pirate Night or even the fireworks display.<br />
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My children will tell you that their most favorite thing of all was the poolside frozen yogurt machine.<br />
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This particular machine consisted of chocolate, strawberry, vanilla and banana yogurt and it opened around 10:30 each morning, so starting at 6:30am we spent the first 4 hours of our day telling our children it was not yet 10:30. At the beginning of the week John and I tried to be good parents and practice restraint by limiting our kids to one cone or so an hour. By the end of the week our attitude was more along the lines of "just whatever, eat until you barf."<br />
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By some miracle not one child barfed the entire trip, a fact made even more miraculous when you consider Henry's diet the entire week consisted solely of frozen yogurt and butter packets.<br />
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So what I'm saying is, if you want to experience the magic of a Disney Cruise without actually going on a Disney Cruise, all you need to do is buy a frozen yogurt machine, set it up by a baby pool in the backyard and continuously stream Finding Nemo on your iPad. You're welcome.<br />
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I suppose as the months and years roll by, the unpleasantries of this trip (a.k.a. our whiny weirdo kids) will also fade as the sweet memories take up a more permanent residence. I don't mean to give the impression that this vacation was a disappointment - it wasn't - but it was a learning experience, and that is one thing travel always <i>is</i>.<br />
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I miss the kind of traveling I used to do, or perhaps I miss my 20-year-old self, wide open, ready to change the world, braced to discover myself in the process. Even if I could abandon my responsibilities to trek the African continent, something tells me it wouldn't be the same. That 20-year-old traveler is fourteen years long gone.</div>
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Traveling revealed my weaknesses, but also showed me how much I was capable of, which gave me confidence. Traveling left me inspired, full of wonder and oddly content to embrace my smallness in the world.<br />
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One night on the cruise, as I lay in bed, feeling the sway of the ocean and listening to my children giggling to each other, I had an epiphany of sorts: the same things I miss about travel, I've found in my kids.<br />
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I've got three amazing adventures right here at home with me. I don't need to leave my doorstep to be pushed and challenged, to learn and grow. I try to teach and guide them when all the while I am the one changing, stretching.<br />
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All I need to do to embrace mystery, to be in awe of creation is to peek in the bedroom across the hall. When I do, I feel oddly content to embrace my smallness in the world.<br />
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I didn't find exactly what I was looking for on this trip. Instead, this trip taught me that everything I was hoping to recapture, I already have.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-71620486749019680242016-06-22T22:54:00.003-04:002016-06-22T22:57:50.772-04:00How to Travel With Kids Without Losing Your Mind<i>I'm honored to be posting at <a href="http://www.agreatparade.com/" target="_blank">We, A Great Parade</a> for my friend Shannon who recently gave birth to her third child. Shannon is witty, eloquent, compassionate and always keeps it real. Join the parade on her <a href="http://www.agreatparade.com/" target="_blank">blog </a>or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shannonkevans/" target="_blank">Instagram</a>; her writing will uplift & encourage you and also make you come up with a list of excuses to visit Iowa so you can be real life BFFs.</i><br />
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Family trips sound good on paper and look precious in the photos, but somewhere in the reality of the actual vacation it becomes clear that even though you would not hesitate to throw your body in front of a moving train for these people, if you have to be in a room with them for one more minute you just might die.<br />
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Obviously there are sweet moments too: the look on your child's face the first time he sees the ocean or the can't-catch-your-breath-from-laughing card game around Grandma's dining table. We travel with our kids to make memories, to escape our routine and to connect with them through new experiences.<br />
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It won't all be perfect, but there are some things we can do to ensure we come home with the same number of brain cells we left with.<br />
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Click over to <a href="http://www.agreatparade.com/2016/06/how-to-travel-with-kids-without-losing.html" target="_blank">We, A Great Parade</a> to read more!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-9302822794237091912016-05-23T23:42:00.000-04:002016-05-23T23:42:55.865-04:00To the Teacher Who's Wondering if You're Making a Difference<i>I recently came across this letter I wrote last year for my first grade teacher's retirement celebration. I decided to post it for two reasons.</i><br />
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<i>1) If you are a worn-out, stretched-too-thin teacher wondering if you are making a difference in this overwhelming, underpaid profession you have chosen, the answer is YES. You may not hear about it for nearly 30 years, if at all, but you never know the life-changing impact you might have on someone just by doing your job.</i><br />
<i>2) Think about someone who has made a difference in your life - a teacher, a mentor, a friend. Have you ever taken the time to tell them the difference they have made? You don't have to write a novel. Look them up, write an email, send a Facebook message. Take the time you normally spend on Zulilly and let them know. It will mean the world to them, I guarantee. </i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm in the second row with the pigtails. Not sure what I'm doing with my face, but I suspect I'm feeling quite smug about having the ruffliest collar in the class. </td></tr>
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Occasionally throughout life, the question comes up: who was your favorite teacher?<br />
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Hands-down, without hesitation, since I was 6 years old, my answer has always been Mrs. Gordey.<br />
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I was in Mrs. Gordey’s first grade class in 1990. Funnily enough, I don’t remember the particulars of learning math or science that year. I barely remember reading groups or spelling tests, but what I do remember has stayed with me for over 20 years.<br />
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I remember her laugh. I remember the way she would throw back her head with laughter when one of her students innocently and unwittingly said something funny. We must have all been hysterical too, because her classroom was always filled with joy. Or maybe that was just her way of showing how she took delight in each and every student.<br />
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I remember the fun. When I was in first grade, I couldn’t wait to go to school each day. I was so excited to see who might get “cornfused” about something and be allowed to sit with the coveted box of Cornflakes on their desk for the morning. I remember “Crazy Hat Day.” I remember accidentally/on purpose saying the banned word “ain’t”, the punishment for which was to pet a stuffed yellow lion on the teacher's desk. I remember all the stories about Mr.Gordey; apparently, he was so skinny that he had to wear skis in the shower so he wouldn’t wash down the drain. (I thought she was kidding, but I was never quite sure.) I can still sing all the words to the silly songs she taught us. I remember earning stickers, wearing buttons and especially, I remember the day that Mrs. Gordey slid down the slide.<br />
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I remember the life lessons. She showed us through words and actions that each student was special and important in their own unique way. She told us to “Do right, even if the stars fall.” She demonstrated the unconditional love of Christ every day. <br />
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When I was in first grade, Ms. Gordey asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her that I wanted to be a writer, a “poetess” to be exact. She encouraged my pursuit. When the assignment was to write a story, she let me write a poem instead. She even allowed me to sign my name “Poetess Anna” on several occasions. The goal of my 6-year-old life was to write poems that made her giggle.<br />
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But I did not become a poetess. I became a teacher.<br />
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When I was in college I chose elementary education as my major because 1) I was not sure I could make a living as a poetess and 2) when thinking about the people who had most influenced my life up to that point, I could not deny the impact of Mrs.Gordey.<br />
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Mrs. Gordey ignited the spark that lit my lifelong passion for learning. She saw my potential and I strove to make her proud. A laugh and a hug from Mrs. Gordey was better than any gold star. The confidence that was instilled in me in the first grade has lasted my whole life.<br />
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I can only hope to have the honor to take what Mrs. Gordey gave me and pass it on to another. I became a teacher because of Mrs. Gordey.<br />
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I am currently on a break from my teaching position as a stay-at-home mom while I raise my three children, but even as a mother I endeavor to impart the lessons I learned in my first grade classroom 25 years ago. I try to laugh with them, to have fun with them and most importantly, to show them how to love God and love others.<br />
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As a teacher I learned something that Mrs. Gordey has known for decades. I learned that you cannot teach a child anything until that child knows you truly care. You cannot instruct a child’s head until you capture his heart.<br />
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Mrs. Gordey has captured the hearts of hundreds of children. Those children are forever inspired and impacted just by knowing her. Mrs. Gordey has made the world a better place, one tiny heart at a time.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-86244653849958341262016-02-11T11:22:00.001-05:002016-02-12T10:07:28.398-05:00Finding Love by Letting it Die<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpeDPu9BpsDlYpEsXf4l3Jo-J-qyP64_MvI63MQXGxo4pz0YwxHLnZiRjYCkF7GTka_tHvHkPqCov69Pmk4zQqqxznSzY67izIiyE1A1xdI3x2kRGw7R-gY0D81OccNgDJU4Zj-1HpS5k/s1600/IMG_3354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpeDPu9BpsDlYpEsXf4l3Jo-J-qyP64_MvI63MQXGxo4pz0YwxHLnZiRjYCkF7GTka_tHvHkPqCov69Pmk4zQqqxznSzY67izIiyE1A1xdI3x2kRGw7R-gY0D81OccNgDJU4Zj-1HpS5k/s640/IMG_3354.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Charleston they eat pimento cheese at breakfast, lunch and dinner and the women wear sundresses in November.<br />
I think I've found my people, y'all.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
John and I recently celebrated our 10-year anniversary with a quick trip to Charleston, South Carolina. Neither of us had ever been and we spent the better part of a long weekend savoring low-cuisine, enjoying historical tours, sampling multiple varieties of pimento cheese, wandering the old city and sneaking several plates of our hotel's complimentary dessert buffet back to our room. Do you notice a theme here?<br />
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One of the most magical things about our relationship is that neither of us believe in the concept of spoiling one's appetite, especially on vacation. And when you are in a city known for it's culinary <span style="background-color: white;">flair, </span>it would be a sin to miss even one meal. Or tea time. Or cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres. Or midnight snacks from the mini-bar. <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/09/when-food-is-art-alinea-chicago.html" target="_blank">We are faux foodies, after all</a>.<br />
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I was definitely looking forward to the slow pace, the quality time, and of course, the good eats. I did have one troublesome thought nagging at the back of my mind though. We have been together for so long and we know each other so well, I was a little worried that we might run out of things to say by noon on day one. I've learned <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/10/how-to-not-hate-your-spouse.html" target="_blank">how not to hate him</a>, but had I forgotten how to date him? When you know every single detail of someone's life, what else is there to talk about?<br />
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I planned activities during the day to keep us busy - a horse-drawn carriage tour through the city, a ferry out to historical Fort Sumter - but it was actually the mealtimes that had me most concerned. There are only so many comments one can make about the bread and butter while waiting for the food to arrive.<br />
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Ever the planner, I decided the best course of action would be to Google "questions to ask your date" because the internet has the answer to all of life's problems. Sure enough, several options popped right up and one night at dinner, when the inevitable conversational lull reared it's ugly head, I decided to use one.<br />
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I pulled out my phone. John inquired as to what I was doing.<br />
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"It's a list of date night questions," I answered and he looked at me quizzically with raised eyebrows. "What? I'm just trying to keep the spark alive! Now tell me, what movie reminds you of us?"<br />
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He laughed. "Let me see that." And we both scrolled through together. We asked the questions, some silly, some serious, some slightly inappropriate (those answers whispered in hushed tones). We giggled and we laughed so hard we risked choking on our crab cakes. We reminisced and we waxed nostalgic about years already spent.<br />
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And you want to know something funny? We did not learn one new thing about each other that evening. He knew my answers before he asked the questions, and I asked him questions just because I like to hear him tell the story - "when did you know you loved me?" "what is your favorite memory of us?" "tell me how you think I'm more beautiful than Scarlet Johanssen" (I <i>may </i>have ad libbed a few).<br />
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C.S. Lewis once eloquently wrote that "People get from books the idea that if you have married the right person you may expect to go on ‘being in love’ forever. As a result, when they find they are not, they think this proves they have made a mistake and are entitled to a change — not realizing that, when they have changed, the glamour will presently go out of the new love just as it went out of the old one...This is, I think, one little part of what Christ meant by saying that a thing will not really live unless it first dies. It is simply no good trying to keep any thrill: that is the very worst thing you can do. Let the thrill go — let it die away — go on through that period of death into the quieter interest and happiness that follow — and you will find you are living in a world of new thrills all the time."<br />
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I was worried that the thrills were gone, and it's true that the butterflies have long since died, but they have been replaced by a quiet familiarity, a warm fullness that comes with having a partner who knows you to your core. I had forgotten that there is actually a deep comfort in the ability to sit in <span style="background-color: white;">easy </span>silence with another person. Words are not always necessary. </div>
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Our relationship has matured to the extent that all it takes is one look to know what the other is thinking. One glance may say "get this child out of my face before I go all Joan Crawford-wire-hanger crazy." Another gaze might communicate the overwhelming gratitude and love felt for this life we've created together.<br />
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That night it happened to be one calculating glance as we sauntered past the hotel dessert buffet. One look which said "obviously we need to try everything...in the comfort of our own room of course, not as the gluttonous couple who just sat down with eight plates of dessert" and just like that we were piling up plates of cheesecake, chocolate pie and cookies, and making a mad dash to the elevator for our getaway. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcDfjf45ae5d1pwvJhTyH8IM4xpzzGOvUaPJH8MGeIqsc_RDuAT240Z5t36LFo5MuB0DgHvZpfnTUPssjkRXjzaxVfjd3BDaqOTELCtpbfh3G_oL-K8f6szkcvrJ_mW2GIO7BUn4T-zRU/s1600/IMG_3436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcDfjf45ae5d1pwvJhTyH8IM4xpzzGOvUaPJH8MGeIqsc_RDuAT240Z5t36LFo5MuB0DgHvZpfnTUPssjkRXjzaxVfjd3BDaqOTELCtpbfh3G_oL-K8f6szkcvrJ_mW2GIO7BUn4T-zRU/s640/IMG_3436.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food, it seems, is our love language. And we speak it so well.</td></tr>
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I love our quiet, mature love.</div>
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It's a world of new thrills all the time.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-44636344522662625952016-02-03T12:40:00.000-05:002016-02-03T12:40:04.263-05:00The Salad Dressing Formula that Will Change Your Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am a salad dressing snob.<br />
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It's true. I never even liked salads until I was practically in my 20s. At 19 years old I had a chance encounter with a Caesar salad tossed with a dressing made from scratch and a choir of angels sang from heaven with each bite. I finally understood what all the fuss was about and my life was changed forever.<br />
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After that I accepted salads into my life, but I still avoid bottled dressings like the nasty little devils they are. I will eat high-fructose gummy worms with reckless abandon, but don't you dare put preservatives in my dressing. Do not even try to feed me Hidden Valley Ranch or I will gag. I'm sorry, it's just what dressing snobs do.<br />
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Without dressing, salad is just some leaves and a sad carrot. I mean, who would actually eat a cucumber by itself? It's the dressing that separates us from the rabbits, my friends, and if you've spent years drowning your salad in Wishbone, I'm about to change your life too.<br />
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Vinaigrettes are the healthiest and easiest salad dressings to make. You can never go wrong with straight up oil and vinegar, but if you want to take your salad up a notch, here is a no-fail, one-minute, super spectacular salad dressing formula:<br />
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<b>3 parts Oil + 2 parts Vinegar + 1 part Flavor</b></div>
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{with salt & pepper to taste}</div>
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Use 3 Tbsp oil, 2 Tbsp vinegar and 1 Tbsp flavor for a smaller amount of dressings - good for one salad for a crowd or for a couple days worth of individual salads. You could also make enough to have on hand for a week or two if you combine 1/2 cup of oil, 1/4 cup vinegar and 2 Tbsp flavor. Keep in mind that some vinegars are stronger than others, so if it's too tart you can add more oil, or if it's not strong enough just add more vinegar.<br />
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Personally, I like to throw it all in a mason jar and shake it til it does that emulsify thing because 1) a blender is too much work to clean 2) whisking makes my hand tired and 3) you can store leftovers in the same jar so woohoo! less dishes. <br />
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Here are some of my favorite combos:<br />
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Oil + Balsamic Vinegar + Honey = <b>Honey Balsamic Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Sherry Vinegar + Strawberry Jam = <b>Strawberry Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Red Wine Vinegar + Mustard & Honey = <b>Honey Mustard Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Lemon Juice + Parmesan Cheese = <b>Lemon-Parmesan Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Apple Cider Vinegar + Maple Syrup with a generous pinch of cinnamon = <b>Maple-Cinnamon Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Rice Wine Vinegar + Soy Sauce (add in some garlic, ginger and sugar for fun!) = <b>Asian Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Oil + Lime Juice + Cilantro and Garlic = <b>Cilantro-Lime Vinaigrette</b><br />
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Finally, I feel I must end with a disclaimer: Though I am a self-admitted salad dressing snob, if I come to your house I will happily eat your bottled stuff because I love you more than I love hating bottled dressing. Just to clear that up.<br />
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Secondly, even though I occasionally have dreams about ranch dressing made from scratch, there are some days when it is just too hard to mix 3 ingredients together. On those days I do have some bottled dressings (gasp!) that have fooled me into thinking they are home-made.<br />
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My favorites are:<br />
-<a href="http://www.walmart.com/ip/Braswell-s-Balsamic-Herb-Vinaigrette-9-oz-Pack-of-6/17769391" target="_blank">Braswell's Balsamic Vinaigrette</a><br />
-just about anything from <a href="http://www.tessemaes.com/" target="_blank">Tessamae</a><br />
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Happy Mixing, friends!<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-29984544494351032002016-01-24T22:45:00.000-05:002016-01-25T13:19:44.770-05:00Parenting Explained in 5 Simple GraphsI pride myself on being well-prepared for new experiences. <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/08/planning-chicago-trip-scenes.html" target="_blank">Whenever we travel</a>, for example, I giddily spend months planning the optimal itinerary, which I then type up in a color-coded daily schedule making sure to ignore all the eyerolls from my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants husband.<br />
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Naturally, when I was expecting our first child, I reasoned that if a successful vacation simply depends on adequate forethought and research, shouldn't childrearing follow suit?<br />
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At around 8 months pregnant, after memorizing each page of <i>What to Expect While Expecting</i>, it suddenly dawned on me that I had no earthly clue what to do once the baby actually arrived. None of my friends had babies yet and the internet was not quite so chock full of unsolicited advice back in 2009, but thank goodness for books. Surely after populating the planet for thousands of years, humans had arrived at some sort of general consensus regarding the best practices for raising offspring, and I was confident that wealth of knowledge was shelved, ready and waiting for me, at my local Barnes and Noble.<br />
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A day or so later I found myself at the bookstore, casually selecting a few reads on parenting, my decisions mostly based on the attractiveness of the book covers. After all, won't these books mostly repeat the same things? How much could there even be to write about raising an infant? (Though I can't be certain, I believe at this point God was sitting somewhere up in heaven laughing his head off.)<br />
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That night I got my very first taste of parenting. I sat in bed, leafing through my copies of Dr. Sears' <i>The Attachment Parenting Book </i>and <i>Babywise</i>, two books which are essentially the oil and vinegar of the parenting world. As I read, I began to feel panic surging in my chest. It was like the feeling you might get if you had stayed up all night studying for a biology test only to find your exam is on chemistry. It was like ordering pizza and getting a plate of beef lomein. It was like spending 9 months revelling in all the attention and joy that comes with a first pregnancy and then OH MY GOSH I'M HAVING A HUMAN PERSON AND THESE BOOKS ARE CRAP.<br />
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"JOHN!" I hysterically yelled at my husband.<br />
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"What's wrong? Is it the baby?"<br />
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"YES!"<br />
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"What happened? Did you have a contraction? Did your water break? ARE YOU IN LABOR LET ME PACK SOME BAGS."<br />
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"No, no, it's what these <i>books </i>have to say about the baby."<br />
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"what."<br />
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I clutched one book in each hand, wildly gesturing while John adopted the posture of a deflated balloon, a mildly irritated deflated balloon. "You see, <i>this </i>book says if we sleep with the baby he will become a horrible person and <i>this </i>book says if we DON'T sleep with the baby he will become a horrible person!!"<br />
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I suppose I was expecting inspired words of wisdom from my husband who was attempting to watch a riveting baseball documentary, but all I received was silence and a slow blink which in no way assuaged my mounting concern.<br />
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"These books say the EXACT OPPOSITE thing! How am I supposed to know which one is RIGHT? I mean, I know there's no manual for parenting, but isn't there at least supposed to be a book that everyone agrees on with instructions that tell me EXACTLY WHAT TO DO??" (Though I can't be certain, I believe at this point God was clutching his sides, rolling on the floor.)<br />
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I learned an important lesson that night: parenting is a crapshoot. To be honest, in my 6.5 years of raising tiny people, I haven't learned much else, but I've taken what I have learned and turned into 5 highly informative (though severely under-researched) infographics on parenting, just in the hope that anyone googling "baby has been screaming for 2 hours now what" might find some solace.<br />
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First up, having a baby. Forget everything those parenting books have told you. Having a baby comes down to two things:<br />
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Lord help you if the baby doesn't take a pacifier, but at least you will have extra strong biceps from all the bouncing and swaying. Unfortunately, neither your toned arms nor your honed tracking skills will prove to be the slightest bit useful in the toddler stage.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basically, you're screwed. </td></tr>
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I have had at least one child in the toddler stage for the past six years or so and still have not developed any telepathic abilities whatsoever, despite being given ample practice opportunities several times a day. I can't even figure out what I did at breakfast this morning to make my 2-year-old scream as if her entire family just died. Was there not enough butter on her toast? Was it too toasted? Should I have cut it into squares instead of triangles? These are the great mysteries of life.<br />
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On the upside, my nearly-4-year-old ran up to me recently holding 2 halves of his snack exclaiming, "Mommy, my granola bar breaked and I didn't even cry!!" and I swear, <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/01/three-is-more-terrible-than-two.html" target="_blank">I have never been more proud of him.</a><br />
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Calm down, I know that girls can play with Legos (mine does) and boys can dance around in a sparkly pink tutu (mine does, and don't ever tell him I told you), but currently the majority of my time is spent picking stray specks of glitter off my clothing while listening to the boys replace every noun and/or verb in every song with the word 'poop'. <br />
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"Twinkle, twinkle little POOP! How I wonder what you POOP!" All the day long, friends, ALL.THE.DAY.LONG.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm the tooth fairy! No, I'm the POOP FAIRY!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"</td></tr>
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There's a lot of information in parenting books, but certainly none that prepared me for broken granola bars, poop jokes or spending half the baby's infancy bouncing him under a humming vent in a dark bathroom. They never told me that my kids would fight over who gets to sit on my lap WHILE I WAS ON THE POTTY.<br />
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They also never prepared me for how completely and utterly these babies would overwhelm my heart. They never painted a picture of early morning cuddles or kitchen dance parties or contagious giggles (because every now then a poop joke is actually kind of funny). They never warned me about a love so fierce and deep it <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/08/the-moments-that-moms-need-most.html" target="_blank">transforms you from the inside out.</a></div>
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Experience is the best teacher and there are some things you just can't learn from books.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Fortunately, internet graphs are always spot on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">(Though I can't be certain, I believe I just heard laughter.) </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-35156335993257486962016-01-07T23:24:00.000-05:002016-01-07T23:24:10.965-05:003 Ways to Embrace the New Year without Making a Resolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't usually make New Year's resolutions, which is odd considering my great love for to-do lists, but I tend to live by the motto "if I'm not going to be spectacularly successful at something, then why even bother doing it?" This is something I'm working through. <br />
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Goals are not a bad thing and I've made them in the past. When I was in middle school I made a list of all the characteristics I hoped to find in a future husband, including such deal-breakers as <i>He must be at least 6 feel tall</i> and <i>His last name must be at the beginning of the alphabet </i>(my maiden name began with W and DANGIT I was sick of being called last for everything!) Several years down the road I landed a <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/08/nine-when-youve-been-married-as-long-as.html" target="_blank">6' 3" </a><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/08/nine-when-youve-been-married-as-long-as.html" target="_blank">dreamboat</a> </span>and added an 'H' to my monogram. I'm not saying it was all due to my teenage requirements, but probably. Thank goodness for goals because I could have ended up married to 5 foot 10 inch man named Wilson and that would have been a disaster.<br />
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Every year I feel like I <i>should</i> make resolutions, but every year I put it off til January 3rd or so and by then IT'S TOO LATE because everybody knows you can only have resolutions if you start them on January 1st. (This is something I'm working through.)<br />
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But this year, in the spirit of fresh starts and middle school husband requirements, I made a list of New Year's Resolutions:<br />
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1. Read at least 20 books without pictures<br />
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2. Watch all my DVR'd shows, even those episodes of CSI that have been there for 3 years</div>
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3. Stop eating dinner over the sink and also lose 12 pounds</div>
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4. Make it through the whole year without hitting the house with my car </div>
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5. Pee without an audience<br />
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Now it is January 7th and I have already failed at #3 and #5 and I'm sure my bumper will have a fresh new gouge come February and WHO AM I KIDDING RESOLUTIONS ARE A BUNCH OF CRAP so please pass the Krispy Kremes.<br />
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The truth is, at this season of my life, I don't have the energy to strive to become a smarter, skinnier, better version of myself. Quite frankly, I don't have <i>time</i>. I feel like I need to have another baby just so I can watch some TV. Managing dinner and bills and permission slips is difficult enough without tacking on organizing the closets or cutting out sugar and, honestly, if I stop eating over the sink I might starve.<i> </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I didn't resolve to keep the house clean.<br /></td></tr>
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Do resolutions make you crazy? Are you in a season that requires more grace and fewer goals? Instead of making our lives "better", can we simply recognize the beauty and perfection that exist in the harried, imperfect lives we already have?<br />
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This year, as an alternative to resolutions, here are 3 ways we can embrace the new year. </div>
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<b>1. Join the #onebeautifulthing Instagram challenge </b></div>
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Instagrammers are coming together weekly to "look for beauty in the nitty gritty of everyday life. It’s in the piles of laundry waiting to be washed. While most of the time people look at that as a huge chore and something to put off, instead, look at it as an opportunity that your family is together and home and spend time praying for each child as you wash, dry, and fold the clothes." Also, there will be winners and prizes so GAME ON, erm, I mean let's get going on that beautiful laundry. </div>
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Find more info on #onebeautiful thing <a href="http://www.meghantucker.com/new-year-new-beauty-onebeautifulthing/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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<b>2. Make a "101 Things in 1,001 Days" List</b></div>
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Whoa. I know. That's a lot of numbers and I hate lots of numbers unless they're in my bank account. But don't worry, the 101 Things are FUN things that you actually want to do, no cleaning out closets here! Instead you might decide you want to take a cake decorating class or reread a book series or plan a <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/08/when-you-cant-stand-your-husband-baltimore-orioles.html" target="_blank">Mediterranean cruise with a dashing Italian tourguide named Alessandro</a>. (Oh come on, everybody wants to do that last one.) And the best part? You've got 3 YEARS to get it done! </div>
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The Lazy Genuis explains more <a href="http://www.thelazygeniuscollective.com/blog/101-things-list-intro" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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<b>3. Choose One Word for 2016</b></div>
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Someone wrote a whole book about this very thing, but obviously since it has no pictures I haven't gotten around to reading it yet. Thankfully <a href="http://myoneword.org/" target="_blank">there is a website</a>! "'My One Word' is an experiment designed to move you beyond the cycle of broken resolutions. The challenge is simple: lose the long list of changes you want to make this year and instead pick ONE WORD. This process provides clarity by taking all your big plans for life change and narrowing them down into a single focus. Just one word that centers on your character and creates a vision for your future."</div>
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So this year I will be instagramming <i>beautiful things</i> (because Instagram is my latest obsession and you should totally <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thisperfectmess/" target="_blank">follow me so you can see pics of my laundry</a>), I will be making a list of <i>fun things</i> (because lists are my favorite) and I'll be focusing on the <i>small things</i>.<br />
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My One Word I have chosen for this year is 'small.' Small is not very glamorous or poetic or inspiring, but it's just what I need right now, because in a society where bigger is better, it's oddly refreshing to turn my attention to the small.</div>
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Small tells us to notice the beauty in that laundry pile. Small says to write because you love it, not because thousands will read it. Small says that it's the mundane acts of packing lunches, driving carpool, and reading one more bedtime story that build on each other to create a life of stability and joy. </div>
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One day there will be time for clean closets and quiet meals and even locked bathroom doors. There may even be room for big things one day - ambitious goals have their place too - but even if not, we can be faithful in the mundane; we can show up everyday for the people that need us - our children, our partners, our friends, even strangers. And isn't that the mark of a great life anyway?</div>
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This year I will be focusing on doing small things with great love. So if you need me, I'll be here, hanging with all my small people...taking pics of the laundry pile.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-60026484533525510442015-12-23T23:10:00.000-05:002015-12-23T23:10:01.063-05:00Holiday Slacking at the Grove Park InnA funny thing happened last December. After Thanksgiving we began some renovations on the main living area of our home which were supposed to be completed in 2 weeks, but ended up taking 9. (Guess how many people were surprised when I told them this? Approximately zero people. It would probably be smart for contractors to start factoring Murphy's Law into their timetable estimates.) <br /><br />You would think that we would be angry or at least disappointed that our home was in such disarray at Christmas. In fact, it was the most relaxing, stress-free Christmas of my adult life. It turns out, not having a functional living space is the perfect excuse for being the ultimate Christmas slackers. <br /><br /><i>Sorry, kids, we can't have a tree this year, there's no where to put it!<br /><br />No, we can't host any parties, we've got nowhere for people to hang!<br /><br /> Elf on the Shelf? All the exposed nails just make it too dangerous for him this year.<br /><br />Send out Christmas cards? Nope. Can't. We have no mailbox. </i><br /><br />AHEM. I may have gotten slightly carried away with all the Christmas slacking.<br /><br /><br />Consequently, our house was in sad shape. The stockings were anti-climatic.<br /><br /><br /><div>
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Our tree left something to be desired.<br />
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The holiday aesthetic was lacking to say the least.<br />
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However, come January 1st, all I had to put away was some felt and 3 large socks. It was glorious.</div>
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Unfortunately, this year our house is in pristine condition. With the absence of precarious stepladders and menacing nails poking through the floors, I panicked at the thought of carrying out our usual holiday tradition: cramming in so much holiday bustle and sparkle and cheer that I end up a hysterical Christmas zombie who <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/11/finding-goodness-in-cracks.html" target="_blank">cries at cracked cheesecakes</a> and yells things like "I swear, if you kids <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2013/12/the-polar-express-great-smoky-mountain.html" target="_blank">do not stop shaking those jingle bells</a> YOU WILL BE GETTING NO PRESENTS!!"</div>
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So in an attempt to ride the wave of holiday slacking as long as acceptably possible, we we decided to delegate Thanksgiving. For years my mom has talked about spending Thanksgiving with the whole family in the mountains of Asheville, NC, particularly at the lovely, historical Grove Park Inn. This year we took her up on it.</div>
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Built in 1913, the resort sits nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The impressive stone structure was constructed in the popular Arts and Crafts style of the time, giving the inn a rustic mountain-lodge feel complemented by touches of artistic charm found in ornate carvings, stained-glass light fixtures and literary quotes impressed upon large stones throughout the resort. Or, as Cormac McCarthy described it in a novel "a cool room high in an old rough pile of rocks." Same same.<br />
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The Grove Park Inn was conceptualized by Edwin Riley Grove and was built with the fortune he amassed by selling a treatment for malaria called "Grove's Tastless Chill Tonic." The tonic was so popular it became a household name and sold more bottles than Coca-Cola in the 1890s. <br />
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We had a lovely, relaxing Thanksgiving this year and if anyone asks what I am thankful for I am going to say malaria.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best marketing campaign ever. #fataspigs</td></tr>
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We spent our three-day stay exploring the grounds, snacking at the Gingerbread Bar, keeping Elise out of mischief, frequenting the buffets, viewing the dozens of gingerbread houses on display and sipping hot chocolate on the terrace. And eating. Did I mention eating?</div>
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Since I was not performing the usual Thanksgiving tasks of basting a turkey or washing dishes or consoling the child who got the short end of the wishbone, I had time for other things. Like taking pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. As in, your finger may need a rest after all the scrolling you are about to do. </div>
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Every November GPI hosts the National Gingerbread House Competition and the top ten entries in each division (adult, teen and child) are displayed around the hotel until the new year. Ironically, of all the displays, there were only a handful that were actually houses. This year the entries included a gingerbread peacock, a gingerbread choir and a gingerbread ice queen whom Elise insisted was Elsa from <i>Frozen</i>. Luckily, Elsa was located right by the elevator so we got to spend 10 minutes looking at her every time we left the room.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gingerbread "Elsa"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grand prize winner of the gingerbread house competition. <br />
Probably got bonus points because it was an actual gingerbread <i>house</i>.</td></tr>
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It was no surprise that of the dozens and dozens of themed trees throughout the resort, Henry's favorite was the "farm tree". Like Elsa, we also spent quite a bit of time around the farm tree, and Henry, in an attempt to recreate the magic of the Grove Park Inn, stuck all his animal toys in our Christmas tree when we got home. Elise has not yet attempted a gingerbread Elsa.</div>
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Along with the edible houses (and non-houses) the GPI put their own little spin on gingerbread by creating a magnificent hot chocolate bar constructed entirely of gingerbread and other confections. Naturally, cocoa and gingerbread people were available to purchase at the Gingerbread Bar which helped reinforce for my kids an important childhood truth: when Mommy says no, Grandpa says yes. </div>
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It took an entire 30 seconds after arriving at the resort for me to exclaim "this is great! why doesn't everyone do this for Thanksgiving??" It turns out, everyone does do this for Thanksgiving.<br />
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On Thanksgiving day the inn was teeming with people of every age, from near and far, dressed in their holiday best. It was crowded, but the atmosphere was festive and jovial, like the scene in <i>White Christmas</i>, when all the soldiers arrive for the big show and there is dancing and singing and Bing and Rosemary Clooney smooch behind the tree. If we had only brought our feathered fans, my siblings and I could have done an inspiring rendition of "Sisters."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother and sisters are missing from this group photo. I think they got distracted by the gift shop.</td></tr>
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Of course, it wasn't all magical cocoa moments and endless buffets and majestic mountain views. Actually, it was mostly those things. There was the occasional tantrum and every night Elise did crawl into my bed and lie across my face, but I realized that by removing myself from the role of holiday coordinator-of-all-things, I was actually able to relax and enjoy our time together.</div>
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Nonetheless, as soon as we got home there was baking to be done and presents to be wrapped and parties to attend. I'm sure you will be shocked to hear that I have a hard time taking things off my plate (both literally and figuratively). There's always a new recipe I want to try and just one more string of lights I want to hang and a color-coded gift spreadsheet I can't wait to type up. </div>
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But I always overestimate the number of days in December, so by the time Christmas Eve rolls around I'm kicking myself for all the stupid, fun plans I've made because now I'm exhausted and if anyone is mean to me I am going to cry so hard at them. </div>
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It seems the only way I can take things off my plate is if the plate is pried out of my type A, overachieving fingers. </div>
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Still, there are some tasks that can't be negotiated and if mama doesn't do it, it doesn't get done. All the same, I need to find moments in this busy season to channel my inner slacker. I may not have a Gingerbread Bar, but by golly I can make some darn good hot chocolate and force the kids to watch <i>White Christmas</i> with me. </div>
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And I suppose if that doesn't work I can always call my contractor. </div>
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Merry Christmas, friends. The weary world rejoices on this day and I wish you peace, rest and a big mug of cocoa with the ones you love.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-59341951134512016852015-11-30T00:08:00.001-05:002016-02-04T10:46:57.800-05:00Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Bundt Cake with Chocolate GanacheWhy I would make a terrible food blogger:<br />
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1) It generally only occurs to me that a recipe is good enough to merit its own post after I'm halfway through eating it.<br />
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2) If I do try to construct a fancy food presentation for a photo, my children believe that is their cue to stick their faces within one inch of the dish.</div>
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Case in point:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is literally the only time my children want to have their pictures taken.</td></tr>
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In fact, my daughter was determined to maul this bundt cake the way a rabid wolf might attack anything that moves. I am not joking when I tell you I threw a handful of M&M's on the kitchen table to distract her and then ran away with the cake in order to take a photo. <br />
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In a panic I searched for the perfect backdrop. I knew I had mere seconds to accomplish the task at hand; Elise devours M&Ms with astounding speed and ferocity. I can't imagine where she gets it from.<br />
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I finally settled for the rug in our foyer. Yes, the surface on which people wipe their muddy feet was the perfect place to set my scrumptious dessert. <br />
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Meanwhile, another child began yelling from the bathroom "COME WIPE MEEE!" Ignoring his cries for the sake of art, I frantically arranged the plates to create the illusion of 2 things we never actually use while eating: tablecloths and restraint. <br />
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In a frenzied cold sweat, I positioned myself above my masterpiece and whipped out my camera phone. Unfortunately, despite my feverish pace, I was too slow. I watched as a tiny hand reached past my foot to grab the artfully placed fork just as I snapped the photo. The life of a food blogger is super glamorous, you guys.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pic proves that all you really need to be a food blogger are some killer Instagram filters.<br />
I'm coming for ya, <a href="http://joythebaker.com/" target="_blank">Joy the Baker</a>.<br />
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3) I post a fantastic Thanksgiving recipe the week after Thanksgiving.<br />
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It's ok, you could still make it for Christmas. Or for Tuesday. Whenevs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So glam. So delish. </td></tr>
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My friend Alev made this Pumpkin Bundt Cake several years ago and it was so good I hounded her for the recipe until she gave it up. I've made it every autumn since because I like to steal other people's best recipes and pretend they are mine.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As a food blogger it is important to take lots of close-up pictures, giving the distinct impression that you are a professional baker, and to also hide the fact that the unpictured cake has been completely decimated. </td></tr>
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If my remarkable food photography has not already convinced you to make this dish, please allow me to explain the gloriousness that is bundt cake. Bundt cake is obviously a fabulous dessert, but it's even light and muffin-y enough to pass as a suitable breakfast item. You can skip the ganache if anyone objects to their breakfast being glazed in chocolate. Or you can just not invite those people to breakfast.</div>
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Also, pumpkin counts as a vegetable so you could totally eat this for dinner too. <br />
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Finally, did you know that 'ganache' is harder to say than make?? Seriously, SO easy. You will be ganaching all the food after this.<br />
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There. I hope I've convinced you. I'll just leave you with this one final, stunning photo and accompanying recipe. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm sure "Martha Stewart Living" will be calling any minute.<br />
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PUMPKIN CHOCOLATE CHIP BUNDT CAKE</div>
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Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a mixing bowl combine: 3 cups flour, 2 cups sugar, 2 tsp baking soda, 2 tsp baking powder, ½ tsp salt, ½ tsp cinnamon</div>
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Add the following and blend until well mixed: 1 cup melted butter, 4 large eggs, 2 cups pumpkin purée</div>
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Stir in: 1 (12 oz.) package of chocolate chips</div>
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Bake in well-greased bundt pan for 1 hour until toothpick comes out clean. Remove from pan and cool.</div>
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CHOCOLATE GANACHE</div>
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Bring 1 cup heavy cream to a boil, pour over 8 oz bittersweet chocolate (do not use chocolate chips). Cover with foil for 5 minutes, then whisk together. Pour over the cooled cake!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-42443928053872705852015-11-17T10:49:00.000-05:002015-11-18T08:21:52.962-05:00Love Your Neighbor as Yourself...Unless it's Kinda HardI want to turn off the news. I want to snuggle my kids in their beds and read stories and forget about all the hurt that exists outside our very door. I want to avoid debates and uncomfortable conversations and just stick with sharing silly stories of <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/07/the-beach-with-kids-just-like-brochure.html" target="_blank">motherhood </a>and <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/09/the-very-worst-pick-up-line.html" target="_blank">awkward pick-up lines</a>. But there’s one story I can’t stop thinking about, a story that is nagging my mind and haunting my thoughts every time I try to get on with my comfy life. <br />
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This story is about a man who was beaten, robbed and left for dead on the side of the road. As he is lying helpless, 2 men walk by. They are respected figures in their community; they are religious leaders, but they walk on past. Perhaps they do not have the time to help or do not feel the obligation to this stranger who is so far removed from their busy, privileged lives.<br />
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A third man walks down the road. The thing about this third man is that he is of a completely different nationality and culture than the stranger. In fact, their cultures despise each other. Even still, the third man helps this stranger. He puts all of his own plans on hold and spends the day tending to the stranger’s wounds, giving him a ride back to his town, finding a place for him to recover and footing the bill for the entire ordeal. Even more remarkable is that just by entering the stranger’s land, the third man could have been killed, his people were that hated. He risked it all to help a stranger. <br />
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I probably don’t have to tell you that this story is the parable of the Good Samaritan that Jesus told in the Gospel of Luke when asked “who is my neighbor?”<br />
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The Samaritan gave his time, his money and risked his very life to help a man he had been taught to fear and hate. <br />
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And Jesus says “Go and do the same.”<br />
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I fail every day at finding Jesus in the needy, the neglected and the marginalized. How easy it is to see a homeless person and think “addict.” A welfare recipient becomes a “freeloader.” A refugee becomes a “terrorist.”<br />
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I don’t want to spend my life espousing Christian platitudes that fall apart when I’m forced outside my comfort zone. My greatest hope as a parent is to teach my children to love God and love others. Not “love others who look like you.” Not “be kind and have courage…unless you’re scared of the unknown.” Not “do unto others…unless it gets in the way of your own self-preservation.” <br />
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It’s hard. There are so many questions unanswered, so much pain, so many reasons to shut our doors to refugees in need.<br />
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But I can’t ignore the one truth that I know for sure: <br />
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“Love your neighbor as yourself.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvCaIm8yKREqCKJTCGRqisfiMehw5S-poNg_hUPxleZvRiohay4Gib68otB9h-Re91OFEktfLoghCcN_cl_OETrqnVrEjb-ixelvjAsy59n37XWKGQOLrlC6VTyRgNY5NhyrY8irsG5Wq/s1600/refugees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvCaIm8yKREqCKJTCGRqisfiMehw5S-poNg_hUPxleZvRiohay4Gib68otB9h-Re91OFEktfLoghCcN_cl_OETrqnVrEjb-ixelvjAsy59n37XWKGQOLrlC6VTyRgNY5NhyrY8irsG5Wq/s640/refugees.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Syrian refugee family living in my city. Click<a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/2015/02/150227-syria-refugees-resettlement-north-carolina-cultures-war/" target="_blank"> here to read their story</a>.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-81634154642407112492015-11-06T10:59:00.000-05:002015-11-06T10:59:08.088-05:00Finding Goodness in the Cracks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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*Originally published on <a href="https://www.mops.org/blog/finding-goodness-in-the-cracks" target="_blank"><i>Hello, Dearest</i> for MOPS International</a><br />
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When it comes to a Thanksgiving feast, there is only one thing more important than preparing the traditional eats: making sure everything looks perfect enough for a magazine photo shoot. Because if you can’t impress your friends and family with your impeccable food presentation and themed tablescapes, then what is the point of the holidays anyway? <br />
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At least, those were the thoughts that lurked in the back of my head a few years ago as I prepared to host a dozen or so relatives for Thanksgiving dinner. The menu was planned, extra linens were purchased and approximately 72 trips to the grocery store had been made. Only one thing could stand in the way of my perfect Thanksgiving celebration: pumpkin cheesecake. You see, there was one flaw in my cheesecake that bugged me to no end each year. Every year I baked it; and every year it cracked.<br />
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I usually disguised the crack with artistic swirls of whipped cream, but that year I was determined to make a picture-perfect pumpkin cheesecake.<br />
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I stayed up late one night researching no-fail, no-crack cheesecake baking methods. Some recipes swore by the water bath technique. Others suggested adding a little cornstarch to the batter. Whatever tricks and tips the recipes recommended, they all preached the importance of cooling the cheesecake very slowly. <i>Whatever you do, DO NOT open the oven door while the cheesecake is baking.</i> <br />
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So that year, with the help of my eager 3-year-old son, we put all of the advice to work. We added cornstarch to the batter as we discussed his favorite part of preschool (lunchtime). While preparing the water bath, we debated the very best superhero (verdict: Superman) and as we added the finishing touches he confided in me his future ambition (to be a toy salesman). Finally, we popped the cheesecake in the oven and shut the door with our fingers crossed.<br />
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Periodically, I peeked through the oven window. My cheesecake was progressing beautifully! I turned away to continue other preparations only to hear a little voice behind me, “Look, Mommy! Our cake is going to be so yummy!” I turned and to my horror, saw my son peering in at the cheesecake, <i>with the oven door wide open</i>.<br />
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I screamed. I stomped. I threw a dish towel on the floor. I may have banged my head against the refrigerator. It was not pretty. And then I saw little tears beginning to well up in my son’s eyes, “I’m sorry, Mommy, I just wanted to peek at our yummy cake.”<br />
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Needless to say, our cheesecake came out of the oven with a crack that year. Actually, it was more like a giant crater. And somehow, despite the crack, it was still delicious. In my quest for perfection I had missed the goodness in the cracks.<br />
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A perfect cheesecake is not nearly as important as the act of baking with someone you love. What is on the table is not nearly as important as who is around it.<br />
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I apologized to my son for my dramatic outburst and promised myself to never again get so carried away by cheesecake, which is no small undertaking considering the power that cheese and cake possess when they join forces. Funnily enough, the crack in our pumpkin cheesecake has become a Thanksgiving tradition just as much as the dessert itself. I no longer try to hide the crack, instead it reminds me not to focus on the imperfections, but on the beauty in the flaws.<br />
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This year, let us be thankful to gather hand-in-hand with the people we love. Let us celebrate the goodness that comes from acknowledging our shortcomings. Let us be thankful for those who love us, cracks and all.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-28427598492866730002015-10-29T10:07:00.005-04:002015-11-03T11:12:46.992-05:00How to Not Hate Your Spouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are few certainties in this world. However, in my experience, one of those certainties is whenever you start to become overconfident in an area of your life, that is generally the time the universe decides to give you a swift kick in the pants.<br>
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For example, one time a friend of mine asked for advice on dealing with her misbehaving 3-year-old. My own 3-year-old happened to have a good Wednesday that week so I was feeling particularly confident in my parenting skills. I don't remember what words of wisdom I bestowed upon her that evening, but I will never forget my son's preschool teacher pulling me aside the next day to tell me that my 3-year-old had spent the morning acting like a rabid dog and had clawed another child's face so bad he drew blood. <br>
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I immediately texted my friend and told her to please ignore all of my previous advice. "Instead, just <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/01/three-is-more-terrible-than-two.html" target="_blank">throw out all the granola bars </a>and maybe get a tattoo that says 'this too shall pass' on the inside of your hand so you will see it whenever you get the urge to face-palm."<br>
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So you see, I'm a little hesitant to share advice. Especially marriage advice. Because it may cause my husband to claw at my face like a rabid dog. <br>
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I kid! I kid! <br>
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Actually, John and I recently celebrated our 10-year anniversary. I have been married 10 years to the funniest, smartest, most loving guy a girl could ask for. But sometimes I forget. Sometimes I forget all those things under the stress and strain of everyday life. <br>
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All of his stellar qualities I fell in love with become commonplace as the days pile on and the weeks become months of needy babies and dirty laundry and home maintenance projects. <br>
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And when life takes dips into drudgery, as it often tends to do, resentment rears its ugly head. And who gets the brunt of this anger and frustration? None other than the partner I pledged to walk through life with. <br>
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What can be done to uproot these seeds of bitterness before they grow into full-fledged hate for your spouse?<br>
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This is where the advice part comes in, but even with 10 years under my belt I can't help but feel unqualified to offer martial wisdom. Luckily, this is not my advice. This advice was given to me by a speaker I heard several years back. I honestly don't even remember who she was, but I've never forgotten what she said.<br>
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Her advice for a happy marriage was simple: index cards.<br>
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Yes, index cards.<br>
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It works like this. Let's say you've asked your spouse to take some chicken out of the freezer so it can thaw for dinner. He forgets. As the five o'clock hour (or <i>the dark time where dreams go to die,</i> as we call it in my house) approaches you discover his oversight and you are gripped with the horrible realization that there is no dinner and delivery pizza will take at least 45 minutes, so you might as well throw some cereal boxes on the table and let the children duke it out over who gets the last of the Lucky Charms.<br>
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Did I mention this scenario was hypothetical? Anywho, in such desperate moments, we inevitably look for someone to blame and our spouse is the obvious scapegoat. Rather than giving the benefit of the doubt, our thoughts immediately turn sour. <i>I can't believe he forgot such a simple request. If he wasn't so preoccupied with work, he would have remembered. If he was thinking about my needs, he would have remembered. He's so selfish. He doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about us.</i><br>
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It sounds silly, but admit it, we've all fell victim to letting those little lies invade our head. Sometimes, when I'm trapped inside my head, I convince myself that the lies are truths.<br>
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This is where the index cards come in. That speaker, all those years ago, shared that she had written down truths about her husband on a set of index cards so that when she felt the lies in her head, she had some solid truth to use against them. She would read through her cards until she was no longer mad, and the bitterness never had a chance to take root.<br>
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If I'm being perfectly honest, I have never written down the truths on index cards, but it's been on my to-do list for about 5 years now, so I'm sure that counts for something. In the meantime, I do have a mental list of truths about my husband always at the ready in my brain. If they do ever make it to index card form, they may look something like this:<br>
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He always opens the door for me. Even after 10 years.<br>
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He works long hours to provide for our family. <br>
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The children adore him.<br>
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He has immediately forgiven me every time I have hit the house with our car.<br>
<br>He does ALL THE LAUNDRY. <br><br>
He stands firm in his convictions and beliefs.<br>
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He does a hysterical impression of Dr. Phil.<br>
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He does a hysterical impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger.<br>
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He does a hysterical impression of the Crocodile Hunter (admittedly, that one was funnier before he died. But seriously, John should probably just do impressions whenever I'm mad at him because who can stay mad at the Crocodile Hunter?)<br>
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And just like that, with a bit of review and repetition, these truths begin to soften the shell of bitterness covering my heart, and I am reminded of why I love him so fiercely.<br>
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It's a simple little exercise, but I swear it works every time. Maybe because it's the often-quoted Corinthians passage in action: Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; <b>it is not irritable or resentful</b>; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, <b>but rejoices with the truth</b>.<br>
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Perhaps I should have more wisdom to bestow after 3,650 days of life with the same man. On the other hand, I believe I've worn the same pair of sweatpants-as-pajamas for 3,645 of those days, so maybe you're better off just sticking with the index cards.<br>
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Nothing to see here, Universe, go find some other (sweat)pants to kick.<br>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-50632172096793745372015-09-27T01:21:00.000-04:002016-07-05T11:17:53.012-04:00The Kind of Men Who Hit on Me NowOn the last day of summer vacation I loaded up 3 kids and 2 bulging beach bags and headed to the pool. We didn't get very many pool days this summer thanks to the <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/06/the-summer-of-one-million-couch-forts.html" target="_blank">Broken Leg Crisis of 2015</a>, so when I asked the kids how they wanted to spend this last hoorah, the pool was definitely their number one choice (right after I said no to Target).<br />
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Besides, the pool would be a welcome distraction from the mixed emotions about starting Kindergarten the next day. Not a distraction for Jack of course, he was fine, but to keep me from trying to <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/08/the-moments-that-moms-need-most.html" target="_blank">pull him in my lap and smell his hair</a> and force him to look at his baby book for the 18th time.<br />
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It was a beautiful eighty degree day and the pool was relatively empty save for a handful of sunbathers and a few families with small children. </div>
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I sat on the stairs in the shallow end, the water rhythmically slapping my knees and the sun warming my shoulders as I watched my kids bob up and down, playing a pool game of their own invention. The last day of summer vacation was shaping up to be a fantastic day, until the lifeguard blew his whistle to signal adult swim, and it all went downhill from there. </div>
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I held Elise's hand as we all trudged out of the water toward our chairs. As I handed out towels and snacks, I noticed a man standing about two feet away from us, staring in our general direction. He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, probably in his late 20's. I suspected he was also quite attractive, but it was hard to tell since he was wearing giant reflective sunglasses that seemed to cover half his face.<br />
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He stood there, rooted to one spot, with an unwavering gaze that caught me off guard.<br />
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My first thought was to immediately scan our surroundings for the thing which had so completely captured his attention. Was there a swarm of bees behind us? Were they giving out free ice pops at the snack bar? Were those brazen Europeans trying to sunbathe topless again??<br />
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When I could spot nothing that seemed out of the ordinary, another thought dawned on me. <i>Holy moly, he is staring at me!! </i>I became flustered and immediately aware that bending over to retrieve dropped goldfish dramatically increased the rolls in my stomach. I instantly stood up and tried to position myself in a casual, yet very skinny pose.<br />
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Most of my days are spent with little children who are unconcerned with how I look and who are actually rather fond of squishing their tiny faces into my cushy stomach. Most adult interaction is with other moms or with Mike, the very nice man who fulfills my home shop order at the grocery store so I don't have to go into the actual grocery store and push my kids around in the giant two-seater racecar cart which has the propensity to knock over the very large display of loose nuts which can be heard bouncing and rolling all over the store as they cascade to the ground and then Mike has to sweep them up as I back away apologizing profusely. <br />
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Anyway, the point is that I no longer have any idea how to behave in a situation where a young, shirtless man is about to ask for my number or tell me I'm beautiful or offer to buy me an ice pop. I just tried to stand there in my skinniest, casual-est pose, entirely ignoring my children's screams of <i>He took my granola bar!</i> or <i>When is break time over?!</i> or <i>Elise just peed on the ground!</i><br />
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I was completely preoccupied with composing a response to whatever pick-up line he decided to use. I would let him down gently of course. <i>That's so funny you thought I was the babysitter! I had no idea that tummy-slimming one pieces were what all the young girls are wearing these days! Actually, I know it's hard to believe, but these are all my kids! I'm married to a wonderful man, who is also tall and muscular and looks great without his shirt on. Thank you so much for offering, but you see why I cannot accept an ice pop from you.</i><br />
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Yes, that is what I would say. So I stood there, sucking it in, and he stared. And I stood, and he stared. I'm not sure at what point staring goes from flattering to creepy, but it probably happens a whole lot quicker with a 33-year-old mother whose 3 children have emptied the entire contents of her pool bag all over the wet cement, than it does with a 21-year-old at a bar.<br />
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I had had enough. This was ridiculous. I was SO DONE with this charade. I marched right up to Shirtless Joe, close enough that I could see myself in his stupid, shiny glasses. I gave him my harshest glare (which is about as threatening as a scolding from Mary Poppins) and tried to summon the courage to say something really snarky and clever like <i>Can I HELP you?</i> or the classic <i>Take a picture, it'll last longer!! </i><br />
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Then his friend walked up.</div>
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Shirtless Joe took off his glasses and placed them on his chair. His friend then took him by the elbow, led him across the pavement, and guided him into the water...because Shirtless Joe was blind.<br />
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SHIRTLESS JOE IS BLIND.<br />
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I know there is a lesson in this story somewhere, like don't judge a book by it's shiny, shirtless cover or pride goeth before a super embarrassing fall, but I am not Aesop.</div>
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Instead, I will take this opportunity to say THANK YOU to my husband for loving me and my squishy tummy and please don't ever leave me because the only men who stare at me these days are BLIND.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-84790128696127109812015-08-31T00:09:00.001-04:002015-09-01T13:25:19.853-04:00When You Can't Stand Your Husband's Favorite ThingPlease indulge me a minute as I begin this post with a ridiculous metaphor:<br />
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It's like sitting in a crowded auditorium in, let's say, Switzerland, watching two presidential candidates debate in German. They are arguing back and forth and the audience interjects applause or disapproval at appropriate times, and I get the feeling that even if I happened to speak German I would scarcely understand the policies over which they are debating anyway. Honestly, they could elect a St. Bernard to run the country for all I care.<br />
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Actually, a man debating a St. Bernard would make for a much more entertaining event. Certainly the St. Bernard would have wonderfully heroic stories of rescuing stranded skiers on the slopes.<br />
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I begin to imagine myself lost on a freezing Alpine mountain, overwhelmed by the looming threat of death, but looking quite stylish and not-at-all-fat in my svelte new ski suit (WHATEVER IT'S MY BLOG).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh look! It's me!</td></tr>
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Suddenly, I hear the distant bark of a friendly St. Bernard who guides me to safety. My husband is so grateful that he promises to never ever take me to another Swiss presidential debate and we spend the rest of the trip feeding each other fondue in our mountain top chalet.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Actually</span>, I'm not even sure the Swiss have presidents. Or St. Bernards. The only things I know for sure about Switzerland is that they ski a lot and eat fondue. At least they do in my blog.</div>
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I have never visited Switzerland, but I have been to several sporting events with my husband and I have found them about as enthralling and as difficult to decipher as two middle aged persons arguing in German. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of famous baseball dude. I assume.</td></tr>
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Usually when I accompany John to a sporting event there is always a moment in the car when he reaches over, grasps my hand and holds my gaze with a silent smile. I have decided he does this for one of two reasons: either he is temporarily overcome with his undying love for me or, more likely, he is offering up a silent prayer that I please, please not embarrass him with my complete and utter ignorance of all things athletic.<br />
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I like sports about as much as John likes art museums or musicals. Sometimes I feel terribly sorry that he didn't marry a wife who is more interested in sports. I bet a sporty wife would know all the appropriate times to yell things like "c'mon Ref!" or "where's the flag?!" A sporty wife would not ask him cringe-worthy questions at a basketball game like "how many more innings are there?" Or, at a hockey tournament, loudly inquire in front of his friends "does this mean they are going to do an instant death round?" If you do not understand why those questions would make someone grimace then I love you and we should be best friends. </div>
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If you know my husband at all then you know he is a die-hard fan of the Baltimore Orioles which, I have learned, is a professional baseball team. Even though we live a few states away, he manages to make it to a couple games a year and last summer he even managed to <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/08/planning-chicago-trip-scenes.html" target="_blank">con me into following the Orioles to Chicago for our anniversary trip</a>.<br />
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John has told me that he would one day like for us to retire to Baltimore. He has a grand vision of us buying an apartment downtown, becoming season ticket holders and following the O's around the country for away games. </div>
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I told him I'd rather retire to Guantanamo Bay. Then I felt bad of course, because he really is passionate about this baseball team. I mean, he swears he loves me more, but when I suggested he get a tattoo that said "I love Anna more than baseball" he wasn't exactly on board. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which way back to the hotel??</td></tr>
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He has also always wanted to visit Camden Yards (the Orioles' stadium) on opening day which, unlike the retirement plan, was something I could get behind. In fact, he referred to it as a "lifelong dream." Naturally, I encouraged him to make it happen because you must always encourage someone's lifelong dream. Consequently, one of my lifelong dreams is to take a Mediterranean luxury cruise. <i>Just think of it,</i> I mentioned to John, <i>we can revel at the beauty of the Ancient Greek ruins! We can explore antiquities in Istanbul! We will tour the colorful Amalfi Coast with </i><i>Alessandro, </i><i>our personal Italian guide !!</i> John looked at me incredulously and said, "But the O's don't play in the Mediterranean."<br />
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And that is how I ended up in Baltimore this past April on opening day with my husband and 2 boys. (Some amazing family members volunteered to keep our two-year-old and because of them our trip actually felt like a vacation, so THANK YOU, FAMILY.)<br />
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John assured me that opening day at a ballpark would be magical. He promised the excitement and electricity in the atmosphere would be unparalleled to any other game I had attended, and as we entered the gates, merging into a buzzing sea of orange and black, I thought he might be right. Maybe this was the day that the greatness of baseball would be revealed to me and I would finally fall in love with the game and OH MY GOSH ARE THOSE CRAB NACHOS?!?</div>
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My usual method of watching a sporting event generally goes something like this:</div>
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1. Focus on the game<br />
2. Immediately begin thinking of something else<br />
3. Try to clap when our team seems happy<br />
4. Combat boredom by taking periodic trips to the bathroom <br />
5. Cry happy tears of relief when it is all over</div>
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(Oddly, John employs a very similar coping strategy whenever I drag him to a musical theater performance.)</div>
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However, I was determined that on this day, on opening day, surrounded by my loves, I would be so enraptured by the magic of the game I would not lose focus for one single second. I was feeling quite optimistic when we settled into our seats. Sure, the temperature was hovering around 48 degrees and my fingers were starting to go numb, but I was ready to show my support for the team by scarfing down every last white-cheddar-and-lump-crab-covered kettle chip as the players took their places.<br />
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Actually, I couldn't help but wonder if the chill in the air was slowing down the players, who seemed to keep the game moving at an even slower pace than normal. We watched as the pitcher threw the first ball. We watched the batter not swing at the ball. The pitcher threw another ball. The batter did not swing. All of this throwing and not swinging took about 27 minutes. I'm sorry if this description is a little boring, but just imagine how it felt actually living through it.<br />
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Finally, they let the poor guy walk to first base and a new player stepped up to the plate for another round of throwing and not hitting and throwing and OH MY GOSH IS THAT A CRAB AND MAC-N-CHEESE HOT DOG? </div>
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It was. Apparently it is a legal requirement to include crab in every dish in Baltimore.<br />
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In fact, that very morning at a <a href="https://www.missshirleys.com/" target="_blank">popular local diner</a> I ordered the Crab Cake and Fried Green Tomato Eggs Benedict and declared that I had found the thing I am going to eat for brunch in heaven.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMtNDVpZvHxgWUks53FIgsJ7-2YUsPl-NbbTai6zZ2p3hwZ1IztFzGVWpXG6y0NTYw5n0yZZVie5pH0WtpOgSQqqUTbZFeDGuap6kkxc4SrBVJ2kI8ilytbqlQ6qZm5uZr8ioJZ2Y_RuQ/s1600/IMG_0834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMtNDVpZvHxgWUks53FIgsJ7-2YUsPl-NbbTai6zZ2p3hwZ1IztFzGVWpXG6y0NTYw5n0yZZVie5pH0WtpOgSQqqUTbZFeDGuap6kkxc4SrBVJ2kI8ilytbqlQ6qZm5uZr8ioJZ2Y_RuQ/s1600/IMG_0834.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They even serve a Crabby Bloody Mary because IT'S THE LAW.</td></tr>
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You know where else has a lot of crab? The Meditteranean. At the thought of a tropical paradise, I couldn't help but imagine strolling down an exotic Maltese beach, looking very stylish and not-at-all-fat in my colorful sarong and coordinating bathing suit. I am enraptured by the dazzling blue waters when my foot is abruptly and precariously caught between two jagged rocks and, horror of horrors, the tide is rising rapidly. Alessandro, our personal Italian guide, hears my screams and leaps into action, trying but failing to free my foot. All hope seems lost when suddenly, another figure emerges. "Get back, Alessandro! This is my wife WHOM I LOVE MORE THAN BASEBALL and I will be the one to save her from a watery grave!" <br />
<br />
And right before I could concoct the perfect rescue scene, I was jolted from my daydream by a deafening roar from the crowd. Everyone was on their feet ecstatically cheering for our team and I had no idea why. I didn't even know which inning it was or how many outs there were or if we were even winning or not.<br />
<br />
However, I was composed enough to snap a picture of my heroic husband hoisting our middle child in the air to celebrate the moment.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivH8jPM946wLlkagm4e9BeVrHTQ4wNPQ0S_HD3rQuXDCQ_41e25iM0J5zDjwH_eRGqWi0jHTd4KR_IAWsrk2rPM5W_37sjNM9iuZdReOub_zuYjnk2e5AR-3cPEHKudicPEhFYpuaJ1-GN/s1600/IMG_0852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivH8jPM946wLlkagm4e9BeVrHTQ4wNPQ0S_HD3rQuXDCQ_41e25iM0J5zDjwH_eRGqWi0jHTd4KR_IAWsrk2rPM5W_37sjNM9iuZdReOub_zuYjnk2e5AR-3cPEHKudicPEhFYpuaJ1-GN/s1600/IMG_0852.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forget famous baseball dude, they need a statue of these cute guys. </td></tr>
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And, it turns out, <i>that </i>moment was my favorite part of the entire trip.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the electricity of the crowd or the phenomenal play that I will remember. I doubt I will ever appreciate the game the way he does, but in that moment I was filled with happiness and excitement simply because he was happy too.<br />
<br />
Maybe we don't need to be passionate about all the same things, as long as we are passionate about each other.<br />
<br />
Just then Jack leaned over and asked, "Did you see that double play, Mom? That was awesome."<br />
<br />
I replied with a blank stare at first and then a smile slowly began to spread across my face as I realized what I just heard. Not the thing about the double play, whatever that is, but the fact that my 5-year-old is somehow more knowledgeable about baseball than I will probably ever be AND HE THINKS BASEBALL IS AWESOME.<br />
<br />
This is huge. There is at least one other person in our family with whom John can share his love of baseball. And it is not me! Our marriage is saved.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccgFbqdLL5znITsO2N9ZEX4EihWgbJDJN3Os2ElazsnETul76pnxn-LfUVr1Tz-47kPkUQ_BnHY_AvdKXqlzWq4w33y1XkA2rj6WY1MlGy8D6gcV8KPZ4qSY_BT1u45_gf4PgpIrGrRVc/s1600/IMG_0791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccgFbqdLL5znITsO2N9ZEX4EihWgbJDJN3Os2ElazsnETul76pnxn-LfUVr1Tz-47kPkUQ_BnHY_AvdKXqlzWq4w33y1XkA2rj6WY1MlGy8D6gcV8KPZ4qSY_BT1u45_gf4PgpIrGrRVc/s1600/IMG_0791.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I reached over, gave Jack a big hug and said, "Yes, that was an awesome double play." <br />
<br />
And, with a sigh and a smile, I let my mind wander where it pleased.<br />
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I should probably start planning that Mediterranean cruise.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFQcXwDqS3QMmvTvQtwN0Luv64fBRuM7Ixojbq1KBVb6gXolwQ6FZiFv6YZ7_tho-RyCMQXaJmyA9RQXj8rQU1tnI5CchEhfGTRg2PeRonok4ufjq18z-9JIdCxH_QIso9Vs-qFCFyXhR/s1600/IMG_2911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFQcXwDqS3QMmvTvQtwN0Luv64fBRuM7Ixojbq1KBVb6gXolwQ6FZiFv6YZ7_tho-RyCMQXaJmyA9RQXj8rQU1tnI5CchEhfGTRg2PeRonok4ufjq18z-9JIdCxH_QIso9Vs-qFCFyXhR/s1600/IMG_2911.JPG" width="476" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHFuvKgrty3bRARM31KkQ9wfrgGpl6XH_ovwwIqVJVrZxyLveRdu0A1eoe3jqgshKe1lf6yLDKY11cG9eFNUeE8E8KLvX3Bsx6xWmAQXXiB2YdzONGaOg1ps3JskIKcQHmcXuxflOH0-e/s1600/IMG_0819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHFuvKgrty3bRARM31KkQ9wfrgGpl6XH_ovwwIqVJVrZxyLveRdu0A1eoe3jqgshKe1lf6yLDKY11cG9eFNUeE8E8KLvX3Bsx6xWmAQXXiB2YdzONGaOg1ps3JskIKcQHmcXuxflOH0-e/s1600/IMG_0819.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bye, Baltimore! I'm sure we'll be back!<br />
Just not for retirement.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-80758669538980982872015-08-15T22:47:00.000-04:002015-08-25T23:57:07.505-04:00The Moments that Moms Need MostIt was Saturday night. The kids were finally in bed. The mess called dinner had been wiped up, rinsed off and the dishwasher hummed softly. The bathwater had been drained and the plastic toys stacked precariously along the sides of the tub.<br />
<br />
I gathered discarded clothing and forlorn playthings in my arms as I made the trek up the stairs. There was a baseball game on TV. My husband sat engrossed, directing the players as if they could hear him (a quality I've always found endearing, personally). It was the top of the 8th inning, which meant absolutely nothing to me except that the game would last at least 30 more minutes, which really meant that I would have 30 minutes ALL TO MYSELF.<br />
<br />
The thought of 30 restful minutes by myself with no interruptions sent me rushing up the stairs with the hurried enthusiasm of a young child who has discovered his mother's stash of sour gummy worms and must stuff them all into his mouth before she gets out of the bathroom. #truestory<br />
<br />
I jumped into bed, burrowed in the covers, surrounded myself with pillows and propped my laptop on my knees. This is my go-to form of relaxation, "internesting," as John calls it. I sighed deeply, relishing the moment, and flipped open the computer screen, ready to kick off a killer Saturday night. <i>What first? Should I catch up on some blog reading? Organize my photos? Right after I check Facebook...</i><br />
<br />
And then I heard it. That one sweet word which is so filled with love and tenderness, until it is uttered after 9:00pm with the same inflection as a dying cat.<br />
<br />
"Maa-mee? Maaaaaa-meeeeeeeee??" the little voice pleaded, peeking around my bedroom door.<br />
<br />
<i>GAAAHHHH!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! WHY???? </i>is what I wanted to yell very loudly, but instead, with uncanny restraint that should probably earn me some sort of medal, I quelled my exhaustion and frustration enough to hiss between clenched teeth, "NOW WHAT IS IT?"<br />
<br />
"Mommy, I just want to give you one more good-night hug."<br />
<br />
I eyed him suspiciously. This was approximately his 27th request since being tucked in. Against my better judgement I ever-so-tenderly barked, "ok, fine, but make it quick."<br />
<br />
My son slowly sauntered over to my side of the bed. He set his worn, blue blankie on my lap, wrapped both arms around my neck and squeezed tightly. My laptop slipped off my knees as I returned the embrace. Maybe it was because he had just turned six, or maybe it was the way his once-tiny body now practically ran the length of my own as he crawled in beside me, but something sent a pang through my heart as I watched him.<br />
<br />
"Do you wanna hear all the X-Men I know?" he asked. Stall tactic number 28.<br />
<br />
"How do you know about X-Men?" I replied, taking the bait.<br />
<br />
"My friend from swim lessons. He knows all of them. There's Wolverine and Cyclops, they're good, and Magneto is the bad guy and he has the coolest superpower..."<br />
<br />
But I was only half listening. My brain was confused. Wasn't he <i>just </i>two years old, toddling around the house with a paci and this same raggedy blanket? I must be really exhausted. I blinked and shook my head to clear the fog, but there he still was, nearly 4 feet tall and using words like "magnetic forcefield." He will be starting real, official, <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/10/kindergarten-is-kicking-my-butt.html" target="_blank">all-day Kindergarten</a> in a few short days. He is reading and writing, swimming and biking. I can see the young man he is becoming and yet, here he still sits with all his baby teeth, rubbing the silk of his old blankie.<br />
<br />
On a whim I reached up and gripped his tiny bottom tooth with two fingers. To both of our shock and amazement, it wiggled.<br />
<br />
"JAAAAAACK!" I screamed, breaking out of my stupor, "YOU HAVE A LOOSE TOOTH!!!"<br />
<br />
A dumbfounded giggle was all he could manage until his father walked in the room. "DADDY!! I HAVE A LOOSE TOOTH!!"<br />
<br />
I glanced at John and immediately recognized the same look of throat-catching disbelief spreading across his face; not that he couldn't believe his son's tooth was loose, but that he had failed to realize our firstborn child was now old enough to have a loose tooth.<br />
<br />
I am not normally the weepy mama. I didn't shed a tear at the first preschool drop-off or when they moved to big boy beds or even at any of their births. It's not that I'm an unfeeling robot, I think it's more that I have a control freak tendency to brace myself against these typical tear-jerking moments. Conversely, something sappy will catch me off guard and I will end up weeping into my potato chips over a Hallmark commercial. Or the stupid <i>Giving Tree </i>book. <i>Don't you see, kids? The tree gave EVERYTHING to the boy </i>(sob)<i> and the tree was </i>(sob)<i> HAPPY. Is this not a metaphor for our lives??</i><br />
<br />
This is probably why I did not need a tissue for preschool graduation, but now I began to choke back sobs over one tiny wiggly tooth. And don't tell him I told you so, but John suddenly needed his t-shirt to wipe something out of his eyes.<br />
<br />
Jack glanced between the two of us, not sure what to make of the sudden outburst of emotion. "Um, are you guys ok?"<br />
<br />
"WE JUST LOVE YOU SO MUCH, BUDDY!" we yelled "LET'S HUG!!"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_orRowLdYDQlD6gDCjoAshbYy1UvN4e3s5L2bFcKx3O0w0gTBOqvAc30cDBDAwtThPtRERVz2JgyIj6q4gi_D7tO_Im9OiQoAKApciWHF5huaacyKr_u9h8IysvuhtK2pM8EvbQyUJX4/s1600/IMG_3175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_orRowLdYDQlD6gDCjoAshbYy1UvN4e3s5L2bFcKx3O0w0gTBOqvAc30cDBDAwtThPtRERVz2JgyIj6q4gi_D7tO_Im9OiQoAKApciWHF5huaacyKr_u9h8IysvuhtK2pM8EvbQyUJX4/s1600/IMG_3175.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took this to remember <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/03/you-can-choose-your-friends-but-you.html" target="_blank">these brothers</a> with all their baby teeth.<br />
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Also, I may print it out and clutch it to my chest as I uncharacteristically weep throughout the entire first day of Kindergarten.</td></tr>
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Then Henry, unable to sleep with all the commotion, came barreling in to investigate and it took all but 5 seconds for the boys to end up a tangle of limbs and giggles, steamrolling my nest of pillows in the process. Also, the term 'boys' includes their 6 foot 3 inch father, whom it appeared was having the most fun of all in this spontaneous wrestling match. </div>
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I tried to shush in between belly laughs, <i>Shhhhh! You'll wake up the baby!,</i> although it almost seemed a shame she was missing all the fun...almost.<br />
<br />
The baseball game was over, as were any hopes of a restful half hour to myself, only now, it didn't so much matter to me anymore.<br />
<br />
I did not get the chance to relax that night, but when I finally did go to bed, I felt invigorated and inexplicably happy.<br />
<br />
I suppose there is no rest for the weary mom, but instead we have <i>these moments.</i> And these God-given moments are even better. <br />
<br />
These moments of laughter fill me up until my heart overflows with contentment. These occasions of togetherness are the answers to a prayer I didn't even know my heart had prayed and they keep me going day after day. These bittersweet instances remind me of the brevity of childhood and leave me longing for more of <i>these moments.</i><br />
<br />
These are the moments that I need most. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-20314463726646218842015-07-29T00:23:00.001-04:002015-08-25T23:52:37.001-04:00The Beach with Kids: Just Like the Brochure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Before we had kids a vacation meant going somewhere fun and doing <i>whatever </i>we wanted. </div>
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Should we spend hours strolling along the cobblestone streets of Rome? <i>Why not!</i> Should we spend the day napping on a sun-kissed seashore in St. Lucia? <i>No one's stopping us!</i> How about an exhilarating trek along the Great Wall of China? <i>Yes, yes, yes!!</i> </div>
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Of course, we never actually did any of those things before we had kids. I spent some time wondering why we didn't go on more vacations before we had kids and then I realized we probably didn't <i>need </i>more vacations before we had kids. </div>
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I think Alanis Morisette would call that ironic.</div>
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Now we go on vacation <i>with </i>our kids. A vacation with kids essentially means parenting in a different location. </div>
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Should we bring along enough snacks to feed a small army?<i> We'd better!</i> Should we do four loads of laundry in four days? <i>Unless we want our luggage to smell like urine!</i> How about going to a nice restaurant? <i>Yes, <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2013/08/the-great-chick-fil-slime-disaster.html" target="_blank">Chick-fil-a is very nice</a>! </i></div>
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This month our family took a trip to the beach. Here we are ready to "relax" on our "vacation":</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQiGhl1LfgGb06wB2jfsPIjV0ddVqdRgwnV_ts8pD5YcFrKkR5MOdl_-BE9_qak0pXKEk7LDsZyWprSVrdjrFMuvB32eyp2H3VdNrJ7HKzUJtNY9i8sXu9JBDokykpRL0ELYSaY3yPjMt4/s1600/IMG_2120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQiGhl1LfgGb06wB2jfsPIjV0ddVqdRgwnV_ts8pD5YcFrKkR5MOdl_-BE9_qak0pXKEk7LDsZyWprSVrdjrFMuvB32eyp2H3VdNrJ7HKzUJtNY9i8sXu9JBDokykpRL0ELYSaY3yPjMt4/s1600/IMG_2120.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids carried their shovels.</td></tr>
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We packed so much gear that the minivan barely made it up the slight incline of our driveway. The children <span style="background-color: white;">peeked out of their car seats f</span>rom behind walls of collapsible beach chairs, duffel bags and sand toys, and every time we turned a corner in our over-stuffed vehicle, Jack was buried by an avalanche of beach towels. Henry thought we were actually <i>moving </i>to the beach.</div>
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We rented a beach house with 13 other extended family members and when we arrived we discovered that our bedroom was so small we literally had to move the furniture into the living room and store our luggage in the car in order to have enough sleeping space for everyone. And one child still had to sleep in the bed with us every night. Of course, by "sleep" I mean unconsciously flail around. </div>
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Here is a photo of how John and I blissfully awoke each morning:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroMWTklOxjHnkXV-NLPNOGpOh-jMDAe9HGi7LnXvlYG1c6UVvFmgjmHQrz1t-XctBfCHtQX-0L8-Yc5lloJeAitNzPbSX0MFPqdFePU1HOJbCcdi6i0LptoHS0_I5kgG_tNdRyQs-Z0UN/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgroMWTklOxjHnkXV-NLPNOGpOh-jMDAe9HGi7LnXvlYG1c6UVvFmgjmHQrz1t-XctBfCHtQX-0L8-Yc5lloJeAitNzPbSX0MFPqdFePU1HOJbCcdi6i0LptoHS0_I5kgG_tNdRyQs-Z0UN/s1600/IMG_1894.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Everyone was usually ready to hit the beach by 11am which, taking into account that the kids woke up at 7, means that it only took 4 hours to eat breakfast, not shower and put on swimsuits. It took me less time to get ready for my wedding.<br />
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Here is what a typical day at the beach looked like for us: </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQ7dWQwVZEN6BGdvAEAWvJLn1Q6L911_aSZUTqePEJO5ySZkjiaU2kLJy-F5l6O0RnsbeONPrYM3BqBMJpnNv49rA_dAKoA-L6iTs_wCDYldkGe8xmTnpoAssbdt_O-hgkwj685JqU_jC/s1600/mommygraph+beach3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="627" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQ7dWQwVZEN6BGdvAEAWvJLn1Q6L911_aSZUTqePEJO5ySZkjiaU2kLJy-F5l6O0RnsbeONPrYM3BqBMJpnNv49rA_dAKoA-L6iTs_wCDYldkGe8xmTnpoAssbdt_O-hgkwj685JqU_jC/s1600/mommygraph+beach3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I told you<a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/07/mommygraphs-part-2.html" target="_blank"> I was obsessed</a>.</td></tr>
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At least we were finally able to lay back and relax after setting up camp on the shore. KIDDING.<br />
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On our first full day of vacation, loaded down with enough equipment to be mistaken for pack mules, John and I hiked the seemingly mile-long trek to the beach and exchanged glances which asked what vacationing parents have wondered for years, <i>Is all this even worth it??</i><br />
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"Just like the brochure!" John suddenly exclaimed and I dropped my end of the beach tent for giggling so hard. It was all we could do to stumble down the rest of the sandy path, pausing between fits of laughter. The children raced ahead, approaching the blue-green water with giddy anticipation.<br />
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As soon as our feet hit the shore, the kids took off towards the foamy surf and luckily, thankfully, it only took a moment to remind us why we came in the first place.<br />
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If all the lugging and sweating and slathering was the price for sweet little sandy toes and salty kisses, we were happy to pay. The craziness of life can't always be escaped on vacation, but there is something about the sea that allows you to embrace it, even enjoy it. Our kids may be the reason we need vacations, but vacations wouldn't be the same without them.<br />
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The ocean reminded us of something we've always known: the best memories are made in bare feet, on a summer seashore. So we swam in the surf and played in the sand. We built castles and attempted to tunnel to China. We took walks at dusk and gathered nautical treasures. We stayed up too late and ate way too much ice cream.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also, we are so fun we plan theme nights. (This is baseball night.)</td></tr>
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We were cramped, sandy and tired...and so happy to be a part of the best kind of memory making.<br />
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We decided it was all worth it. The beach is always worth it.<br />
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Well, maybe:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrWfH3Faq0TK4fWbFtiXEBI5QHhB3yfFgRGMhwj1fJcNlsWC5BUsEGhLmYKAPwAwy6dAoPFU5ZYoepqxoWZMDGJTap6Lp6lQN7cchIlKx97eRB6Zzf7iDwE__-jf7lDtfvm0Zu_PmPGxx/s1600/mommygraph+beach2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrWfH3Faq0TK4fWbFtiXEBI5QHhB3yfFgRGMhwj1fJcNlsWC5BUsEGhLmYKAPwAwy6dAoPFU5ZYoepqxoWZMDGJTap6Lp6lQN7cchIlKx97eRB6Zzf7iDwE__-jf7lDtfvm0Zu_PmPGxx/s1600/mommygraph+beach2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am <i>still </i>finding sand in my toddler's ear.</td></tr>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 13.8599996566772px; letter-spacing: 0.200000002980232px; line-height: 24.6399993896484px;">Embrace life's little messes by following along on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thisperfectmess" style="color: #b3cb66; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">my new Facebook page</a> :)</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 13.8599996566772px; letter-spacing: 0.200000002980232px; line-height: 24.6399993896484px;"><br /></i>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-80291944331556264682015-07-20T12:09:00.000-04:002015-09-13T21:09:33.465-04:00Mommygraphs, Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBs89oe09lCtEJzulJWRSlTVv5_MocA9oejkZS_L_3iCkIp9dAtjSJGsBL_mA6m5P2Lm2PIwq0w8WWtCFqeyukRsO_X5F4s-zSWLplz4w5fkWl4xoYhFHjlp5IYGMmfkOfScWeVx1TmwP/s1600/mg+late.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBs89oe09lCtEJzulJWRSlTVv5_MocA9oejkZS_L_3iCkIp9dAtjSJGsBL_mA6m5P2Lm2PIwq0w8WWtCFqeyukRsO_X5F4s-zSWLplz4w5fkWl4xoYhFHjlp5IYGMmfkOfScWeVx1TmwP/s1600/mg+late.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YOU GUYS. I made this on the COMPUTER. And it only took me like 8 hours.</td></tr>
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I wrote my <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2013/10/mommygraphs.html" target="_blank">"Mommygraphs"</a> post nearly 2 years ago on a whim, after scribbling some doodles on the back of a preschool newsletter.<br />
<br />
If I had known that it would be one of my most popular posts I may have tried to use actual computer graphics rather than magic marker. To my shock, my silly graphs got pinned and passed around all over the internet.<br />
<br />
Melissa Joan Hart shared one on Instagram:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkU3lX-jERO_zdUumwi430MygqkSbGBhKZ8sEZcAVZDrOwqejqph4qBOGz16f-zM1C_XGGhblcyrtiIKhi5gs5oQycCz2kP_DoMD4g-QFEss7DUv_-9XHyOgQoLMxBZWz-VpQ-s6bSjeK/s1600/IMG_1494.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkU3lX-jERO_zdUumwi430MygqkSbGBhKZ8sEZcAVZDrOwqejqph4qBOGz16f-zM1C_XGGhblcyrtiIKhi5gs5oQycCz2kP_DoMD4g-QFEss7DUv_-9XHyOgQoLMxBZWz-VpQ-s6bSjeK/s1600/IMG_1494.PNG" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WAT. OMG, I LOVE YOU, CLARISSA!!!<br />
It's like we're BFFs now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Felicity Huffman's blog was "inspired" by the same. Also, I never knew the word "inspired" meant "copied exactly." Just think of all those hours I wasted in school writing essays that could have been "inspired" by SparkNotes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbg9fd1iVe4NCgsChZrPOU4rO8MQu6oCkTvA2dDjddnCHppmaEEWr6DlyaUHuu34sxaqwOk2lOiqWCXQGFbBmL1LG8vVJ218bD0B6hijTfqsuuJN-bL6hv0s2LMri-rMFJnNGr9FeKFTq/s1600/IMG_1816.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbg9fd1iVe4NCgsChZrPOU4rO8MQu6oCkTvA2dDjddnCHppmaEEWr6DlyaUHuu34sxaqwOk2lOiqWCXQGFbBmL1LG8vVJ218bD0B6hijTfqsuuJN-bL6hv0s2LMri-rMFJnNGr9FeKFTq/s1600/IMG_1816.PNG" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, WAT?!?<br />
We are so NOT BFFs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At any rate, I thought it was about time for a few new Mommygraphs. Of course, I needed to step up my game so no one else would be inspired to improve upon them, so one night, instead of sleeping, I figured out how to create them on the computer.<br />
<br />
I was exhausted the next day, but now my graph about play-doh looks super professional, so it was totally worth it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvZlS_lbhQOs0Q8dI_Eu-OtJks36qJH73FDdhAML8Owk_osPQuQVGFzXQ-bzwug4GrEGeUc5LRIpsBkUtV0Nq_9hYOTaKWx6VLCyLN-332JgnC0evViYdD9F4uWz-X04dWCQMZkZiwB3H/s1600/mg+playdoh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvZlS_lbhQOs0Q8dI_Eu-OtJks36qJH73FDdhAML8Owk_osPQuQVGFzXQ-bzwug4GrEGeUc5LRIpsBkUtV0Nq_9hYOTaKWx6VLCyLN-332JgnC0evViYdD9F4uWz-X04dWCQMZkZiwB3H/s1600/mg+playdoh.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">EVERY TIME. It kills me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
To tell you the truth, I'm a little obsessed with my new skill and now I want to graphically illustrate every aspect of my life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_METeTJk4wgdLvKoWklkSohczZFaPdvsFrQJDeLuniA73pDxLjLw5vSBr5kftbhpU1bkzXRvcuZ6QK-L8bz6m3VTnSedAmutzf-LGOL0Og-vzVQT2vse-WZmSEpNlftGEChsCuHncJ4kw/s1600/mg+fav+food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_METeTJk4wgdLvKoWklkSohczZFaPdvsFrQJDeLuniA73pDxLjLw5vSBr5kftbhpU1bkzXRvcuZ6QK-L8bz6m3VTnSedAmutzf-LGOL0Og-vzVQT2vse-WZmSEpNlftGEChsCuHncJ4kw/s1600/mg+fav+food.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But only if she is sitting in my lap <i>while </i>eating off my plate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So now that I know how to make pie graphs in photoshop, you can probably expect one to accompany every post from here on out. Even if it has absolutely nothing to do with the topic.<br />
<br />
Feel free to share, post and pin these new #Mommygraphs!<br />
<br />
Unless you are Felicity Huffman. Then you can go be inspired elsewhere.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<i>Embrace life's little messes by following along on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thisperfectmess" target="_blank">my new Facebook page</a> :)</i></div>
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</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-39279645380121624782015-06-30T23:07:00.001-04:002015-07-06T00:09:46.323-04:00The Summer of One Million Couch FortsIt's <i>almost </i>funny to me. One day I will laugh about it, but right now I'm just shaking my head at the irony.<br />
<br />
You see, last summer my <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/07/the-milestone-you-hope-for-but-don-admit.html" target="_blank">nearly-18-month-old refused to take a step</a>, so I have been telling everyone for months that I was SO EXCITED for this summer because ALL MY CHILDREN ARE FINALLY WALKING.<br />
<br />
I spoke too soon.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dbW8tSQsPMY9AGVYGRRN8JZ6hWDxBdNaD-_ohkrrr_10Y7ANHn2U77FGQoLJstTmBYk7D3VlASkkM9dGI89oB2-GZkHgAoGTc5hNkiOQX6IV0BG833_X9GTjwJHkqWyFUqNoAJKz97Bu/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dbW8tSQsPMY9AGVYGRRN8JZ6hWDxBdNaD-_ohkrrr_10Y7ANHn2U77FGQoLJstTmBYk7D3VlASkkM9dGI89oB2-GZkHgAoGTc5hNkiOQX6IV0BG833_X9GTjwJHkqWyFUqNoAJKz97Bu/s640/FullSizeRender+%25289%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We had one glorious week of exploring parks, catching fireflies and walks at dusk when it all came to a screeching halt - a screeching halt while we were out of town visiting grandparents for that matter.<br />
<br />
It was day 2 of our visit and my mom and I packed up the kids and headed to a super hip downtown trampoline park first thing in the morning for "preschool bounce." Preschool Bounce is a euphemism for letting small children, who have minimal control over their bodies as it is, run wild in a giant room made of trampolines, which is only slightly safer than turning them loose in a knife factory.<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> </span><br />
<br />
I remember one time in elementary school the teacher gave us a writing prompt that asked us to design our dream house. Pretty much every kid in the class came up with a version of a home with trampoline floors, slides instead of stairs and ways of trapezing yourself from one room to the next. <i>Oh my, what imaginations! </i>I'm sure our teacher thought, <i>Like anyone in their right mind would design and build a giant death trap like this!</i><br />
<br />
Apparently, as long as you slap a waiver of liability on any who dare to enter, you can build whatever sort of death trap your heart so desires.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Basically, I'm pretty sure that trampoline parks were invented in the mind of a 5th grader in the early nineties. In fact, as I glanced over the wide expanse of springy floors, rope swings and foam pits, I couldn't help but feel like an 11-year-old again, giddy with excitement. However, I was very quickly reminded that I am actually a 33-year-old woman who has birthed 3 children because even after completely emptying my bladder, it became clear that I will never again be able to bounce with the free abandon I possessed in my youth. Sad face.<br />
<br />
The kids, on the other hand, were in absolute heaven. I wish I had taken some pictures, but my phone memory was completely full (<i>Just give me the cheapest phone!</i> I said. <i>What do I need extra memory for? </i>I said). I was especially kicking myself for not having video capabilities when Jack discovered the slide. This particular slide was actually a giant corrugated black tube that jutted out over a tall platform. The kids slide down the tube and drop about 10 feet into a pit of foam cubes. Totally safe, right? Anyway, Jack was having the time of his life doing belly flops and cannonballs and flips out of the tube. And it would be a really cool story to say that he broke his leg doing a double backflip out of a colossal drainage pipe, but that's not how it happened at all.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-87fs0jde75p4HeSjgtT4GvdnvPPjtxLGiIhpn_cxIsCL6HpU83q4NkAqtRJN0Fsp-b7jqXRn64IjxVLBCz_QdaDlUnZCjFaQ9Kpgg3RuNNgDaZ4d9qDISpnouI18c6WhDOQx9XPrCgSr/s1600/jump+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-87fs0jde75p4HeSjgtT4GvdnvPPjtxLGiIhpn_cxIsCL6HpU83q4NkAqtRJN0Fsp-b7jqXRn64IjxVLBCz_QdaDlUnZCjFaQ9Kpgg3RuNNgDaZ4d9qDISpnouI18c6WhDOQx9XPrCgSr/s640/jump+park.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The story of how he broke his leg, how all our summer plans got flipped around, is the most unexciting, regular story there is to tell.<br />
<br />
He was just <i>jumping</i>, just bouncing in a square when another girl decided to bounce in his square. She must have messed up the rhythm of his bounce and when he came down, his leg buckled just so, and his screams immediately reverberated through the room. <br />
<br />
Jack is my oldest and my child that is the most dramatic about his injuries, whether that is because he was more coddled as a toddler when he got a boo boo (since there were no other little ones around demanding attention) or because he is a carbon copy of my husband who is also fairly dramatic when he is not feeling his best (he once told me "I know I caught this cold from you, but it must have mutated because my cold is MUCH WORSE.") we may never know, but there was something much more panicked about his screams that day.<br />
<br />
I was across the park when it happened, so I bounced over to him as quickly as bouncing allows, much like that dream where you try to run away from your ex-boss the restaurant manager who, unsurprisingly, also happens to be a psychotic serial killer, as fast as you can, but you can only move in slow motion.<br />
<br />
When I finally reached him, the first words out of his mouth were, "I BROKE MY LEG! I BROKE MY LEG! PRAY TO GOD, MOMMY, I BROKE MY LEG!!"<br />
<br />
Being the compassionate mother that I am, my first words were, "No, no, Sweetie, you're fine!!! You're ok! Come on, let's get a Slushie!!"<br />
<br />
In my defense though, there were no protruding bones, no blood and not even any swelling at first. However, after 3 hours of hysterical screaming I decided that perhaps I should take him to the ER to get things checked out. Sure enough, the diagnosis was a fractured tibia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW_sXiWLcCY1HdOYCcfjPoXYDybQovTXC4dhs_4WMnONd6qO1crS2fDQHEh-JqLUGCM_4fnLc7uqb0AY1r_XtP4HjmaRJs5Nlwg9ARpIJBMRLphYeAcb-gv-OsA0GcrcnnGiapBUX34e1/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW_sXiWLcCY1HdOYCcfjPoXYDybQovTXC4dhs_4WMnONd6qO1crS2fDQHEh-JqLUGCM_4fnLc7uqb0AY1r_XtP4HjmaRJs5Nlwg9ARpIJBMRLphYeAcb-gv-OsA0GcrcnnGiapBUX34e1/s640/FullSizeRender+%252812%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Glassy-eyed and no longer screaming after the nurses gave him some "special medicine."<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">If you look </span><i style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">very </i><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">closely you will see that his left knee area is </span><i style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">slightly </i><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">swollen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We had big plans for this summer. The kids and I even made a summer bucket list that included everything from blueberry picking (Jack's suggestion) to a day at the zoo (Henry's request) and swimming lessons (<i>they'll be SO much fun! </i>I insisted a little too enthusiastically). Mostly, I just wanted to spend long, lazy days enjoying my kids, who are all finally old enough to go down the slide without my help, before the craziness of school starts in the fall. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></td></tr>
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Instead, Jack was in a temporary (soft) cast for nearly 2 weeks, so he had to be carried everywhere and was completely dependent on his parents, much like an infant - a 4 foot, 50 pound infant who constantly demands popsicles and ice cream "to make his leg feel better."<br />
<br />
We were stuck inside most of the time which meant the kids played every board game in our collection, watched every super hero show available on Netflix, built an obscene number of couch forts and constantly FOUGHT AT EAR-PIERCING DECIBELS. One day I had a mini-breakdown after rebuilding couch fort #87 for the sixth time. They paused their bickering to ask "What's wrong, Mommy?"<br />
<br />
"It's like <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015_02_01_archive.html" target="_blank">February all over again</a>!!" I howled. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWBRSEWc8hOJoR_uWKQlK6kA0cnUKDnelpOjjTHGhUOJ2CjiYI4-H7a2A3TEyKuizayD_KgesQJEYrYC6Mm7WMVjGCYjxy2rAslLxu9bogAWcIulJnWsIwjxzuqFsa1PltOQOP1Vnc8mgC/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWBRSEWc8hOJoR_uWKQlK6kA0cnUKDnelpOjjTHGhUOJ2CjiYI4-H7a2A3TEyKuizayD_KgesQJEYrYC6Mm7WMVjGCYjxy2rAslLxu9bogAWcIulJnWsIwjxzuqFsa1PltOQOP1Vnc8mgC/s640/FullSizeRender+%252814%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"But Mooooommeeeee, there are not supposed to be any holes in the roof!"<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">"IT'S CALLED A SKYLIGHT!"</span></td></tr>
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I was feeling very sorry for Jack, but mostly very sorry for myself that my summer of poolside relaxation had turned into the summer of one million couch forts. But it turns out that pity parties are only helpful if wine is involved and since that could only happen after the kids went to bed, something had to change.<br />
<br />
This past year the women's ministry at our church has made a theme out of the verse in Thessalonians that says "rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances." I declared it to be my own personal mantra this year as well, which has turned out to be quite encouraging and helpful when I actually stop whining about stuff and remember that I have a mantra.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjve6-55piWYLqxSwjbkLWugP-jwPt8ZuUms6jMqUEh5FT7TWDBluNJGFGbFXFtGjN00xeqHZ45_b3eel5N1M0mNcjnYaiBw_x62njTn1uGU_-nwR_qsWdMXmDIcoVs533Vr7eXDplD_jiM/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjve6-55piWYLqxSwjbkLWugP-jwPt8ZuUms6jMqUEh5FT7TWDBluNJGFGbFXFtGjN00xeqHZ45_b3eel5N1M0mNcjnYaiBw_x62njTn1uGU_-nwR_qsWdMXmDIcoVs533Vr7eXDplD_jiM/s640/FullSizeRender+%252815%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmhAXMz-qC3tf3K9NNjDnfv-S6Yq7F7s7lXvmTSb3iYULRdSbvkb5EcIFp5pHFNGKsVelAHu08ao_HSKNsFgs3V8CyjZSMjUFoeRm1Vds7NynG8WBeIhjAt1kW0n9sdvOCPOmVYqHRbtp/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmhAXMz-qC3tf3K9NNjDnfv-S6Yq7F7s7lXvmTSb3iYULRdSbvkb5EcIFp5pHFNGKsVelAHu08ao_HSKNsFgs3V8CyjZSMjUFoeRm1Vds7NynG8WBeIhjAt1kW0n9sdvOCPOmVYqHRbtp/s640/FullSizeRender+%252813%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day they made a fort for me. It was...cozy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One day, with my mantra in mind, I made a big show of ripping our neglected bucket list off the fridge and throwing it the trash, which was really not as dramatic as it sounds since it was just written on a post-it note that Elise scribbled over about 5 times.<br />
<br />
"Jack, we are making a new list!" I declared. "Because even when a bad thing happens, God can use it for good! Let's make a list of all the good things that have happened because you broke your leg."<br />
<br />
He blinked at me. "Mommy, this is the WORST thing that has ever happened in my LIFE."<br />
<br />
"Well, that's probably true, but what about all the good things that have happened? The kind things that people have done to show they care about you? Your friends have come over to bring you goodies and play with you. People have called and sent cards and text messages and even packages! How does that make you feel?"<br />
<br />
He smiled. "Really good."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it made me feel really good too. Sometimes when we're sad and hurting, God shows his love for us through other people. We just have to look for the good things and have a thankful heart."<br />
<br />
His eyes lit up, "Hey, I know something good that happened!"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"I didn't have to take swimming lessons!"<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSs29Ci0zM4qFTv-Iprtni4sM0xNIQjvZCMZeLr0Oyc5oc4QWSn9nCMaeQsPfolqZp8brXWsFny_6wiFCRq5k8KotzpCCdhy_XTBsXSw-vOwfd5sci3zGqmcKv4VSc0OfbtVAIXuBbKkJ/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSs29Ci0zM4qFTv-Iprtni4sM0xNIQjvZCMZeLr0Oyc5oc4QWSn9nCMaeQsPfolqZp8brXWsFny_6wiFCRq5k8KotzpCCdhy_XTBsXSw-vOwfd5sci3zGqmcKv4VSc0OfbtVAIXuBbKkJ/s640/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His friend Katherine came over and coaxed him outside for the first time after his injury. <br />
She also taught him how to make an "art show." He had so much fun he almost forgot his leg was broken</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cTXfnO3UMsjiszYtWRFCtWDbqikcqa4vNVmqVwLBh-yxaMkhG4gtiNTFszzcrCqlT4I6Fl9EC6Zkyy7eQIG3GPflKJ3Jqi0XQhYidxBsHumjKP9x1ACoqc_iqCA0J94zlsBh2w64ZgzJ/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cTXfnO3UMsjiszYtWRFCtWDbqikcqa4vNVmqVwLBh-yxaMkhG4gtiNTFszzcrCqlT4I6Fl9EC6Zkyy7eQIG3GPflKJ3Jqi0XQhYidxBsHumjKP9x1ACoqc_iqCA0J94zlsBh2w64ZgzJ/s640/FullSizeRender+%252810%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making superhero chalk people with Jackson.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
To make an even longer story as short as possible, we finally got in to see a specialist who put Jack in a hard cast that he was able to walk in a little, which made life exponentially easier for all of us. And we kept looking for good things to rejoice in and be thankful for while he was in his cast. <br />
<br />
It turns out the very best thing about having a cast is that people can sign it, and Jack got some pretty amazing signatures which he showed to <i>everyone </i>all month long.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJokDGhrdfU5iejgwNrggdEdA-YQLu4nLq64KyC87NHuJsDRjE3LjsjarsuUc0nbX4QWDumqkGU8jas17Pa3_Lwlsbebw3iJ1JwilhXnJ3etfLEBWzycm7IAYSEIuD-kOh-48xbHKroPP-/s1600/IMG_1671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJokDGhrdfU5iejgwNrggdEdA-YQLu4nLq64KyC87NHuJsDRjE3LjsjarsuUc0nbX4QWDumqkGU8jas17Pa3_Lwlsbebw3iJ1JwilhXnJ3etfLEBWzycm7IAYSEIuD-kOh-48xbHKroPP-/s640/IMG_1671.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spiderman signed his cast during Superhero Day at the library.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLrgCuydaV6qH30ivvFxPjFPcbRx4pmZzx4kZCrPXBF0pM4LD9NFUyMR4PdjjAa0EEglrNWBD3H5ZV9HiGB1SzLfigIruM3QIoQiLhdIYJkf9nBO7TOCVwDaUYbG3lqLwa6_t3A0kr1G4/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLrgCuydaV6qH30ivvFxPjFPcbRx4pmZzx4kZCrPXBF0pM4LD9NFUyMR4PdjjAa0EEglrNWBD3H5ZV9HiGB1SzLfigIruM3QIoQiLhdIYJkf9nBO7TOCVwDaUYbG3lqLwa6_t3A0kr1G4/s640/FullSizeRender+%25286%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darth Vader and a stormtrooper signed his cast at Star Wars Day at the library.<br />
Yes, we have an amazing library.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J8_haU_gep4UYQTLpwqJb0i83vtpzUh54unraFaVtN1-Hzbk3UZlTZHIi0wW0juDRxFaXUKneWaa8MlSsJvVpZax8dmMPWNFiF_sUUYUy5WM8bZN7vXIVzTtEy3nRQOklbcnbBAVMFrr/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J8_haU_gep4UYQTLpwqJb0i83vtpzUh54unraFaVtN1-Hzbk3UZlTZHIi0wW0juDRxFaXUKneWaa8MlSsJvVpZax8dmMPWNFiF_sUUYUy5WM8bZN7vXIVzTtEy3nRQOklbcnbBAVMFrr/s640/FullSizeRender+%25285%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the Chick-fil-a Cow made his mark.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After a month of couch forts, I mean recovery, Jack got his cast off this week. I was kind of expecting him to come skipping out of the hospital, but that was not the case. The doctor told him his leg might be a little stiff and sore for a while, which I think Jack heard as "if you walk on it, your leg will fall off."<br />
<br />
Three days after the cast came off he finally built up the courage to take a step. He has not yet bent his knee and is currently hobbling around very slowly, kind of like a peg-legged pirate.<br />
<br />
It may be a while longer before he is running around like normal, but we have a lot to rejoice about in the meantime. He is healthy and his break healed quickly. We are surrounded by friends and family who love us and reach out to help in situations big and small. Also, how lucky are we that the doctor let Jack take home his cast to keep as a souvenir of his injury forever and ever??<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrfNAAIp-t_d6eUYvxNQS_dCT-12kxp7CrGnWTvzZJRxFiVFsGmxL6cGgZlIMBfOrEgXOx3k-ctIKrGcPHjmsUij_odb0UJm8vuaY3MFCMaCKxxlSJqxR206SYBxlP5Ml8EQnqCw98-Gb/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrfNAAIp-t_d6eUYvxNQS_dCT-12kxp7CrGnWTvzZJRxFiVFsGmxL6cGgZlIMBfOrEgXOx3k-ctIKrGcPHjmsUij_odb0UJm8vuaY3MFCMaCKxxlSJqxR206SYBxlP5Ml8EQnqCw98-Gb/s640/FullSizeRender+%25287%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It smells in here."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfXy9O7Qf-vrFBz6tTpLRHOgXTSsy7ETaAAs-hD1Xc9z6vec8m_Ly9NK_ySn66xX6tqWEFWhos8dVU27NC0YHCbYByWlHhjht7ATOJfTCaqYe94ikrvHWxjflZOb9Euqjl1mif8Z5U2U_/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfXy9O7Qf-vrFBz6tTpLRHOgXTSsy7ETaAAs-hD1Xc9z6vec8m_Ly9NK_ySn66xX6tqWEFWhos8dVU27NC0YHCbYByWlHhjht7ATOJfTCaqYe94ikrvHWxjflZOb9Euqjl1mif8Z5U2U_/s640/FullSizeRender+%25288%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cast has become the most coveted prop when playing "Hospital"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And, until he can run free, there are always COUCH FORTS.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOic3fNnILvXF1D4jFDul8-6mNrMkNYc9gSlKHrMopkTCIj8Cg6UZKlR8eGuaWshZPJHtd0DBGGUIbS_BaN7uvHg7BWZ9RD92pY7xKsHJ-JarfpLMgLKZJM4xlRenXgvLVCcez_WM1MlmK/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252816%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOic3fNnILvXF1D4jFDul8-6mNrMkNYc9gSlKHrMopkTCIj8Cg6UZKlR8eGuaWshZPJHtd0DBGGUIbS_BaN7uvHg7BWZ9RD92pY7xKsHJ-JarfpLMgLKZJM4xlRenXgvLVCcez_WM1MlmK/s640/FullSizeRender+%252816%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-90163378452978097112015-05-31T14:46:00.003-04:002015-05-31T22:05:48.806-04:00How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy StepsOn the morning of my birthday I was awoken by 3 little bright-eyed, sandy-haired sweeties climbing excitedly into my bed chanting, "Happy birthday, Mommy! Happy birthday!" We gave hugs and kisses and I honestly could not think of a way I'd rather wake up on my birthday.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I was only able to bask in the birthday adoration for a minute or so because their well-wishes quickly turned to shouts of "Where's the cake?! When are we having cake?!? We want cake!!" as if cake somehow magically appears just because it's your birthday, which I suppose, if you're a kid, does seem to happen.<br />
<br />
But when <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2014/05/30-signs-you-in-your-30s.html" target="_blank">you are thirty-something</a>, any and all cake responsibilities generally fall to you, birthday or not, which is how I found myself digging through the pantry that afternoon and, thankfully, pulling out a forgotten box of triple-chocolate brownie mix. It wasn't cake, but it would do in a pinch.<br />
<br />
"Just 3 easy steps!" the box cheerfully claimed. According to the box, we could throw this mix together in 10 minutes and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing while the oven did the rest. <br />
<br />
The box lied.<br />
<br />
I mean, <i>I</i> probably could have added water, eggs, and oil in 10 minutes, but when you have a couple of tiny sous chefs assisting the baking process, you just need a whole new set of directions. <br />
<br />
<br />
So I wrote some. You're welcome, boxed brownie mix people.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zV2u9sjiP7L78A_sGPx5lna5OpkkLKtnt1IrYUtOMsi5DVYpeXbTJcXCfaFWBI1dvJE4TKK4XuQv_87FsPmq93us3NmmN2S-cYTvfmhkjNPuj_IheSo7zuK_a9XKYxE9lPyK0qxtCMHE/s1600/IMG_3213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zV2u9sjiP7L78A_sGPx5lna5OpkkLKtnt1IrYUtOMsi5DVYpeXbTJcXCfaFWBI1dvJE4TKK4XuQv_87FsPmq93us3NmmN2S-cYTvfmhkjNPuj_IheSo7zuK_a9XKYxE9lPyK0qxtCMHE/s640/IMG_3213.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And if you weren't craving brownies before, you <i>definitely </i>are now, amirite?<br />
<br />
Jack and I belly laughed for 2 solid minutes over this photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">How to Make Brownies in 100 Easy Steps</span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
1. Put 2-year-old down for a nap. This is the most crucial step in the brownie making process.<br />
<br />
2. Take boxed brownie mix out of the pantry. <br />
<br />
3. Announce to children that it is time to make brownies.<br />
<br />
4. Children pull a chair up to the counter.<br />
<br />
5. Children fight for room on chair.<br />
<br />
6. Explain to children that there are 5 more identical chairs around the kitchen table.<br />
<br />
7. Three-year-old drags another chair to kitchen counter.<br />
<br />
8. 3yo stubs his toe in the process of dragging chair.<br />
<br />
9. Calmly put icepack on 3yo's barely visible booboo.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwH-rztuCelhm102_Nc8jDWSxC7UcRRj-ObxJR6Cm_CunNZP6ayU3ohIavO73nIRExHX4j5eqX_FmJvLsDrQQTGuc5QnMOtYz_gmxXjaFTEvwzn0RwtlZWX3Z1aIORvBuQGRkkZQGOf1J/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwH-rztuCelhm102_Nc8jDWSxC7UcRRj-ObxJR6Cm_CunNZP6ayU3ohIavO73nIRExHX4j5eqX_FmJvLsDrQQTGuc5QnMOtYz_gmxXjaFTEvwzn0RwtlZWX3Z1aIORvBuQGRkkZQGOf1J/s640/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What? You don't dress like this when you bake?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
10. Now it is time to begin. Take out a 13 x 9 pan.<br />
<br />
11. 5-year-old sneezes directly into pan.<br />
<br />
12. Wipe boogies out of pan. Try not to curse.<br />
<br />
13. Spray Pam into pan, because the thought of ingesting mystery can chemicals is less troubling than the reality of spending 20 minutes scraping stuck brownie off the bottom of the pan. Ain't nobody got time for that.<br />
<br />
14. 5-year-old wants a turn to spray.<br />
<br />
15. 5yo accidentally sprays himself in eye.<br />
<br />
16. 5yo screams as if his eyeball has popped out of his head and is rolling across the floor.<br />
<br />
17. Place warm wash cloth over 5yo's eye. Practice those breathing exercises that you forgot to use during childbirth, but seem to come in handy while baking with children.<br />
<br />
18. Assure 5yo that he will not go blind.<br />
<br />
19. Approximately 30 minutes has now passed and it is FINALLY time to begin. Pour powdered brownie mix into a bowl.<br />
<br />
20. Remind children not to touch brownie mix with their bare hands.<br />
<br />
21. Again, remind children MORE LOUDLY that this is brownie mix in a bowl and NOT sand at the beach to bury their hands and squish between their fingers.<br />
<br />
22. Yell "WHAT DID MOMMY SAY?!? NO, NO, NO, DO NOT SHAKE YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF IN THE AIR!!"<br />
<br />
23. Smile through clenched teeth as you wipe up brownie powder that has been spread all over the countertop and on the floor.<br />
<br />
24. Continue to reassure 5yo (who has a slight <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/03/you-can-choose-your-friends-but-you.html" target="_blank">obsession with going blind</a>) that he will not go blind.<br />
<br />
25. Allow 5yo to pour 1/3 cup of water into brownie mix.<br />
<br />
26. 5yo spills half the water in the process.<br />
<br />
27. Estimate how much water is still needed in the bowl and dump it in.<br />
<br />
28. One child declares that he needs to use the restroom.<br />
<br />
29. Do nothing. Wait for child to finish in the bathroom because if you so much as stir the batter while he is gone THE WORLD MIGHT END.<br />
<br />
30. Help child wipe. <span style="background-color: white;">Try not to be reminded of said batter.</span><br />
<br />
31. Wash all the hands.<br />
<br />
32. Reluctantly allow 3yo to add egg to mix even though you know it will end badly.<br />
<br />
33. 3yo drops egg on floor.<br />
<br />
34. Pretend you are the cheerful Bounty commercial mom who laughs off spills and cleans them up with ease in order to distract yourself from crying.<br />
<br />
35. Second egg makes it into the bowl.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8Sk0QK7_gF_HlFahvCMRQuqYc_85OdENhgO-BjRXrxdrvv_yGKuoqQuZTlyPwP84VJu2Vd2GfLNcQV5VEzUkBx-0BmG0WxwhH1JdKQJ8gY-hzx_cn_FUnDmpaN-8CaSEdzt-Zu6YO_kB/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8Sk0QK7_gF_HlFahvCMRQuqYc_85OdENhgO-BjRXrxdrvv_yGKuoqQuZTlyPwP84VJu2Vd2GfLNcQV5VEzUkBx-0BmG0WxwhH1JdKQJ8gY-hzx_cn_FUnDmpaN-8CaSEdzt-Zu6YO_kB/s640/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy egg yolk, Batman!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
36. Fish out eggshells.<br />
<br />
37. Proclaim that IT IS MOMMY'S TURN. MOMMY IS GOING TO ADD THE OIL.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
38. Add 1/3 cup oil.<br />
<br />
39. Children take turns stirring/slinging batter across the kitchen.<br />
<br />
40. Children start to fight because 5yo is taking too long of a turn.<br />
<br />
41. 3yo smacks 5yo in the eye.<br />
<br />
42. Remove 3yo from the chair until he calms down.<br />
<br />
43. <a href="http://www.thisperfectmessblog.com/2015/01/three-is-more-terrible-than-two.html" target="_blank">3yo does not calm down</a>.<br />
<br />
44. 3yo makes face at Mommy. <br />
<br />
45. Send 3yo to time out.<br />
<br />
46. Again, assure 5yo that he will not go blind.<br />
<br />
47. 3yo screams bloody murder from time out.<br />
<br />
48. 2yo is awoken by murderous screams.<br />
<br />
49. Now 2yo also screams.<br />
<br />
50. Sit down. Rest head between legs and take deep breaths so that there will be at least one person in the house not crying. Alternately, assume fetal position and hide in closet.<br />
<br />
51. Announce "WHO WANTS TO WATCH A SHOW??"<br />
<br />
52. Get 2yo out of crib.<br />
<br />
53. 2yo does not want to watch show.<br />
<br />
54. Pour brownie batter into pan with one hand.<br />
<br />
55. Put brownies in 325 degree oven with one hand.<br />
<br />
56. Clean up with one hand.<br />
<br />
57. Dig box out of the trash to see how long to bake brownies. Also use one hand.<br />
<br />
58-98.Tell children that no, the brownies are not ready yet. Repeat 40 times.<br />
<br />
99. GIVE HUSBAND GIANT KISS WHEN HE WALKS IN THE DOOR WITH TAKEOUT FROM YOUR FAVORITE RESTAURANT.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
100. Smile as if your heart will explode when children bring you a misshapen brownie with lit candle after dinner and loudly sing "HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MOMMEEEEEEE!" in their sweet, squeaky little voices.<br />
<br />
ENJOY.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuP2HqMPKGBROONhV4HTvZZBUWKRIE4KSYu4Z_X57or9hrvyPJCfuwtVD_tI6d0U3DE4vGlrpJdjo8tG2r-b7kxsAr-B1LlRFxZJH9BEoiobkjCDmxBkoycj6jRvHbv8-BkHRvPxbjdlb/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuP2HqMPKGBROONhV4HTvZZBUWKRIE4KSYu4Z_X57or9hrvyPJCfuwtVD_tI6d0U3DE4vGlrpJdjo8tG2r-b7kxsAr-B1LlRFxZJH9BEoiobkjCDmxBkoycj6jRvHbv8-BkHRvPxbjdlb/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I know it's her birthday and all, but we gotta make sure there's enough brownies for us kids. There. Just barely big enough to hold a candle." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ_UmOlAStkwqN9mRoASws6SmYTdSAfmWqyVP7ObSa-MiXfdF_JlXkNOBu6T-touxQfnJXdwFuf1ee2reHRpcBVNUbbguw7bhm5OKwzsXH1E_I2pshf1RrMzxAUGAtTDQ68WFTEHyfQYH/s1600/IMG_3217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ_UmOlAStkwqN9mRoASws6SmYTdSAfmWqyVP7ObSa-MiXfdF_JlXkNOBu6T-touxQfnJXdwFuf1ee2reHRpcBVNUbbguw7bhm5OKwzsXH1E_I2pshf1RrMzxAUGAtTDQ68WFTEHyfQYH/s640/IMG_3217.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were even enough brownies to eat the next day.<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">(I'm almost positive this will be our Christmas card photo.)</span></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-44241770226614024032015-05-25T23:09:00.001-04:002015-11-07T20:42:33.118-05:00Strawberry Picking at Ingram Farm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our new favorite spot for picking strawberries, <a href="http://www.ingramfarm.com/" target="_blank">Ingram Farm in High Point</a>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2_hgsCeDUfNnOy63uEAIw3ZMo_SvXNkj5pu1hOEDwbSj_3oWkfwYk2xer778lmvvN817hamkUJ2NM17nnX0pVfQubZtWBySIFvIrH1DXGh0LKCXyuAiGlOUVGaHcs7h_qFNjUkuWoEmO/s1600/IMG_3331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2_hgsCeDUfNnOy63uEAIw3ZMo_SvXNkj5pu1hOEDwbSj_3oWkfwYk2xer778lmvvN817hamkUJ2NM17nnX0pVfQubZtWBySIFvIrH1DXGh0LKCXyuAiGlOUVGaHcs7h_qFNjUkuWoEmO/s1600/IMG_3331.JPG" width="425" /></a></div>
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We've gone strawberry picking every spring since Jack could walk. It has inadvertently become an annual tradition that signals the rapid approach of summer, much like a Memorial Day cook-out or the sudden twilight appearance of lightning bugs or finally giving up on reading log homework. </div>
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This month we've been busy with all the usual frantic happenings of May and by the time we found a day to go, we were very sad to discover that our usual strawberry farm had run clean out of strawberries. </div>
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Luckily, I heard about another strawberry farm not too far away and thank goodness I did.</div>
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The new place was charming, quaint and picturesque. The old strawberry farm had strawberries; the new strawberry farm has everything it takes to make a kid blissfully happy in one afternoon. I couldn't help but imagine the conversation that they must have had before opening the farm (please note: farmers in my imagination are deeply southern and refer to each other as "Maw" and "Paw") :</div>
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"Alright, y'all, Maw and I have decided that we wanna create somethin' special at the farm that will bring people to us, somethin' real kid-friendly because folks just love makin' memries with their youngins. What are some things that kids go crazy for?" </div>
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"Kids love diggin' in the dirt!"</div>
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"How about animals? They go crazy over anything they can pet."</div>
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"They love takin' just one bite of food and then throwin' the rest on the ground!"</div>
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"Kids love dessert. They'll do anything for dessert!"</div>
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"And ridin' in dangerous vehicles without seatbelts!"</div>
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"Alright, Paw, I got it! We'll turn our land into a STRAWBERRY FARM! We'll drive everyone to the fields in a bumpy TRACTOR with NO SEATBELTS. They can pick and eat and throw all the strawberries they want and when the tractor brings them back in there will be GOATS they can feed and a Dessert Barn where we will sell homemade STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM! Folks'll come from miles around!"</div>
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And that's how Ingram's Strawberry Farm came to be. Probably. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I feel kinda bad for the old place. It didn't even stand a chance.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fGzTFdEL86jmLoHXlsNlXHdzTb4vYV6CBC0teCmKD3mjzVSERXSzkH-eNsCNPuKfBlxYW8hdylo55gxVHPvjaQN6MTTadWUZPrRuVAxPwdvNl3kihJfXADr-Lm5-2pyz5R5GMEea4RbO/s1600/IMG_3337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fGzTFdEL86jmLoHXlsNlXHdzTb4vYV6CBC0teCmKD3mjzVSERXSzkH-eNsCNPuKfBlxYW8hdylo55gxVHPvjaQN6MTTadWUZPrRuVAxPwdvNl3kihJfXADr-Lm5-2pyz5R5GMEea4RbO/s1600/IMG_3337.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I consider the fact that her outfit coordinated with the strawberry patch to be my biggest accomplishment of the day.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBt_dWzZz6bL-aJjFRxl7uQ5EfWyNppVKOiIuFShWktBDW3ecHe_ShsodyOpwb8H5MyaBdWsyAHd0l15rmGiAmG9dvCDUThojNSnwCjDZYlwKZGbLZCNIlBlJstAvP0Lm9yw8SIgoc_wQv/s1600/IMG_3432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBt_dWzZz6bL-aJjFRxl7uQ5EfWyNppVKOiIuFShWktBDW3ecHe_ShsodyOpwb8H5MyaBdWsyAHd0l15rmGiAmG9dvCDUThojNSnwCjDZYlwKZGbLZCNIlBlJstAvP0Lm9yw8SIgoc_wQv/s1600/IMG_3432.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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At any rate, at Ingram's they have strawberries, tractor rides, goats and ice cream, which can only mean that we will never go back to the <i>regular </i>ol' strawberry farm ever again. At one point Jack even declared, "I didn't know strawberries could be <i>this</i> cool!"</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I want to squish him.</td></tr>
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The afternoon was so strawberry-tastic that we wrote a limerick when we came back home. And by "we" I mean me. Jack wrote a poem too, but his did not even rhyme.<br />
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Strawberry Picking, by Mommy<br />
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There once was a family quite merry<br />
Who spent the day picking strawberries,<br />
They plunked and they picked<br />
And they chomped and they licked,<br />
And they all ended up red as cherries.<br />
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They brought back home all they could carry,<br />
"<i>Now</i> what can we do?" the kids queried,<br />
So they made jam, cream and cakes<br />
And drank strawberry shakes,<br />
Til they begged, "DON'T MAKE US EAT MORE STRAWBERRIES!!"<br />
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Monster, by Jack</div>
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It got on their faces.</div>
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Juicy red blood.</div>
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They looked like monsters.</div>
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They tried to scare their parents.</div>
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The parents thought it was a real monster.</div>
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They hid behind the big pillow.</div>
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I am both proud and disturbed.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strawberries! Goats! Ice Cream! WHATEVER SHALL WE DO FIRST?!?</td></tr>
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Henry and Elise did not write poems, but they have since made me read<i> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Little-Strawberry-Hungry-Childs-Library/dp/0859536599" target="_blank">The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry and the Big Hungry Bear</a></i> so many times that they can now quote it, which kind of counts. </div>
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The literary nerd in me secretly hopes that strawberry picking poems will be a new tradition they beg for each May, but regardless, we are ending the month in short sleeves with sun-kissed cheeks and a freezer full of strawberries, which can only mean that summer is as good as here. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006441851434029440.post-76404322671885372882015-05-09T23:00:00.000-04:002015-05-10T12:32:20.779-04:00This is How I Know My Mom Loved MeIt is <i>late.</i> Like, 10:00pm late. Bedtime has taken 90 minutes, 17 sips of water, 8 kisses, 5 stories, 3 cover readjustments, 2 trips to the bathroom and one final threat to stay in their room or else. I am ready to relax, just for a little bit, before the whole crazy production starts all over again tomorrow.<br />
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There is only one thing between me and my DVR:<br />
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School lunches.<br />
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I don't know why school lunches are such a thorn in my side. They only take about 10 minutes to throw together, but it's like reaching the finish line of a marathon only to discover they've added a few more laps on the end. (At least, that's what I imagine it would be like, having run approximately 0 marathons myself.)<br />
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At the beginning of the year I tried to be really creative and health-conscious with the food I sent to school. My goal was to stock my son's BPA-free, eco-friendly bento lunch box with colorful representatives from the entire food pyramid. The vegetables always came back untouched, of course, but I kept sending them anyway because the experts say that if you keep presenting nutritious foods to your child they will eventually try them, but really it was because I wanted the teacher to think I was a good mom.<br />
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Now it is May and, well, I'm tired. I'm 5 episodes behind on "Grey's Anatomy" and I had to find out that McDreamy died through Facebook. I am feeling seriously uninformed on pop culture and school lunches are to blame.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="http://wendolonia.com/bentoboxgallery/" target="_blank">here </a>for school lunch envy.</td></tr>
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While I cut the crusts off ham sandwiches and shake goldfish into baggies, I resentfully think about all the things I could be doing instead. I could be reading a book. I could be shoe shopping online. I could even be organizing the giant pile that has accumulated on the dining room table. <i>Anything </i>but this.<br />
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And then it hits me. My mom did this <i>every </i>school night. She had 3 kids, so she made lots of lunches every night for lots of years. I pause for a moment to do a few calculations in my head, as well as I can at 10:00pm. </div>
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My mom made school lunches from 1987 until 2009. TWENTY-TWO YEARS of school lunches. I mean, she got a break on Fridays when they served those killer rectangle pizzas, but for the better part of TWENTY-TWO years she unwaveringly packed white bread sandwiches and Handi-Snacks and Bugles and Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Suns. You know, the kind of cool stuff that every 90s kid hopes and prays is is in their lunch because she not only packed lunches, she packed lunches that were the envy of the cafeteria table. And she did it for TWENTY-TWO YEARS.</div>
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My mom even packed our lunches for us through high school. I remember some of my friends were in charge of packing their own lunches by then; their mothers had passed the task on to them either with the hopes of teaching their children some responsibility or because they were just tired of the whole thing, but probably a little of both. Not my mom. She always handed me a lunch on the way out the door. She didn't have to, but she did. I don't even know if I ever said thank you. </div>
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TWENTY-TWO YEARS. I just can't get that number out of my head. She did this mundane, tedious task for her children every school night for twenty-two years. She also sat in thousands of carpool lines. She lost hundreds of hours of sleep soothing fussy babies, caring for sick kids and staying up late to sew Halloween costumes or dance recital outfits. She spent her hard-earned money on things for me, things I probably didn't need, but things she wanted me to have because she loved me that much. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom and me in 1982. She is oblivious to the fact that she has 22 years of school lunches ahead of her.</td></tr>
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Sometimes love isn't climbing the highest mountain or swimming the deepest sea. Love doesn't have to reach as far as the moon and back. Sometimes the best kind of love is found in the ordinary faithfulness of packing twenty-two years of school lunches. </div>
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So thank you, Mom, for all of the daily sacrifices you made for me that I never seemed to notice. At the time it was impossible for me to comprehend the true depth and scope of motherhood, but I knew I felt cared for, I felt safe and I felt special. You gave me an incredible gift. Because of you, I wanted to be a mom too. <br />
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So I will cut off crusts and I will slice strawberries because my mom did it for me, and I want to take the blessings that she poured into my life and pass them on to my children.<br />
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And maybe, every once in a while, I will pack them a Capri Sun. Just like my mom did for me. ;)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I love you 2,340 school lunches!"</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18334043733899207409noreply@blogger.com1