tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3987389614446391122024-02-07T23:48:13.433-06:00House of J ChroniclesLiving with all boys and discovering the seat is <i>ALWAYS</i> upVaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-84779835668198135342015-09-04T09:00:00.000-05:002015-09-04T10:27:53.612-05:00Lamenting Days of Yore<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3164" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Welcome
to a Secret Subject Swap organized by </span><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3164" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3157" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.bakinginatornado.com/">Baking In A Tornado</a></span></b>. This week I joined 15 other brave bloggers who picked a secret subject
for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own
style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our
posts. </span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3160" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here
are links to all the writers now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. </span></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.bakinginatornado.com/">Baking In A Tornado</a></b><br />
<a href="http://themomisodes.com/"><b>The Momisodes</b></a><br />
<b><a href="http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/">The Bergham's Life Chronicles</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://stacysewsandschools.blogspot.com/">Stacy Sews and Schools</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://dinoheromommy.com/">Dinosaur Superhero Mommy</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/">Spatulas on Parade</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/">Sparkly Poetic Weirdo</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.southernbellecharm.com/">Southern Bell Charm</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.angrivatedmom.wordpress.com/">The Angrivated Mom</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/">Confessions of a Part Time Working Mom</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://thelieberfamily.com/">The Lieber Family Blog</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.clutteredgenius.com/">Cluttered Genius</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html">The Diary of an Alzheimer's Caregiver</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com/">Someone Else's Genius</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com/">Climaxed</a></b><br />
<b> </b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
subject is</span><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3217" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">: You have a choice of a perfect vacation. Where do you go and who do
you take with you?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: red;"> </span>It was submitted by<b></b></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1441315304400_3123" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html"> The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver</a></span></b>.
Here goes: </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Europe/United_Kingdom/Scotland/Off_the_Beaten_Path-Scotland-TG-C-1.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="via Virtual Tourist" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT39v29l4ZUzEgNOryEK_5S4Oe4SKi56VYbcPq_fGU9jXL8LPbFqdY6TpScnCrqGZ3IyQTcmUsbHqAlj84_Xq5pRWBe3vrOG8yk96clUuhtur4VdCv_eeIYP5eoFgRniwDzBP89JrhQJWe/s400/quote173.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">"<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://allpoetry.com/poems/about/Scotland">Highland Blood</a></b></span></span></span></div>
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I can sense it in my bone,<br />
Feel its pull on the wind-<br />
Can hear it echo within my breast-<br />
Sending chill across my skin.<br />
<br />
An isle worlds away is calling<br />
Brazen realm of cliff and stone<br />
A land of blooming thistle<br />
I’ve glimpsed in aging tome."</div>
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-Luke Douglas </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Green. Jade. Emerald. Forest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The color means trees. The smell of pine needles. Rolling hills of wet grass after rain. I've always been attracted to it. It means life and brightness. Even if there is no sun, and the clouds dim the day, I will find the green. It is always vibrant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To me it also means Scotland. I instinctively picture endless fields, farmers and their sheep herding the countryside and tall trees as far as the eye can see. I grew up next to cornfields. That is a different kind of countryside. It always felt barren and dry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I daydream about 16th century Scottish life. </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I'm not sure if that is what I would find now. </span>I would take my husband, of 10 years, and cross the Atlantic Ocean. (He might have one arm left by the time we land. Airplanes make my stomach roll.) We would plant our feet on the foreign soil and walk off the beaten path. It is a place I wouldn't mind getting lost in for awhile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We could rent a small cottage in an out-of-the-way town. Just us. No children. No expectations. Like the honeymoon we never had. We would wake up to chilly mornings with coffee and dew speckled landscapes. Then talk a walk down cobble stoned roads and find a market for breakfast. Then meet the people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am in love with accents. Not languages but the way people talk. French is supposed to be the language of love. I prefer the big, burly gents.Words so thick you have to watch the person's mouth to track what they are saying. They seem exotic. I would roll my tongue around words like </span>Mackinnon, Beinn na Caillich, Argyle and Carnasserie. My ears would be filled with laughter because alcohol runs freely through Scottish veins. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course, we would visit the tourist stops. All the castles. Stonehenge. The Coast. Tea rooms. All the Pubs. The Lock. The Highlands. The Isle of Man. A free vacation is so open ended. We might never leave. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Except for the kids. I almost forgot about them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-J</span></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-15489177586012192632015-08-05T20:29:00.000-05:002015-08-05T20:29:51.439-05:00When My Tribe Has Failed Me<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
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<br />
I
loathe summer after the first two weeks. It is not because the boys get
up at the crack of dawn (which they do). It is not because they try to crawl up my behind every
minute of the day (they do that, too). They are pretty self sufficient three-fourths of the time. Honestly, I
love school because it is a free babysitter.<br />
<br />
School: the ultimate
daycare provider. No one shames me for my enjoyment at seeing them walk
through those double doors because it is educational (and kind of a requirement). I can do a dance
like no one is watching on the drive home (mostly in my own driveway). I
do not pray for the teachers. They took the job on purpose.<br />
<br />
I have reached a high point after twelve years of being a SAHM and then
a part time SAHM. I savor my cup of coffee if I wait till 8:30 a.m.
I enjoy a few hours of eerie silence. I relish non-sticky floors and tables until dinner time.
I can hop in the shower, walk around the house naked, and possibly have sexy time with my husband. Then take a nap to
recuperate.<br />
<br />
Jealous, yet?<br />
<br />
If you have a tribe that you can depend on, I am, actually, more jealous of you.<br />
<br />
I find it hard to comprehend. It
is a lonely life. Why would someone want that? No one sees sees it that
way.<br />
<br />
I was brain washed to believe that, even though, I only have two hands,
two more are only an arm's length away. I was raised by more than one
mother, father, sister and brother. There was always someone around to
take care of me. To ask questions. To answer questions.<br />
<br />
I have
parents, who live 20 minutes away, who have not offered to spend time
with their grandchildren (on their own) for two years. The in-laws
can not even offer because they live in different states. It is hard
enough for me to spend money on us, let along fifty bucks a pop on a sitter. Who my
kids can be crazy towards. Or who can judge us as parents. (Even though, I'm paying them.) Every time I see a social media status that reads "Grandparents
are taking the heathens for a week" or "Third kid free weekend in a
row", I get a little stabby.<br />
<br />
I
understand that life happens. Everyone has schedules that do not revolve
around me and I have a schedule that revolves around my kids, husband,
work and etc. I accept and deduce that if you have three kids (or more) under five years of age, your invitation to get together will probably fall through.<br />
<br />
I miss being able to hang out with people and
just....hang out. I do not want to feel like there are strings attached. Yes, I'm whining. However, when my tribe has failed me, I call bullshit.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li> Never volunteer to watch my children and ask me again if/when I'm going to have more.....bullshit.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
Complain that we do not see each other enough, then call (or do not call
at all) and cancel plans because you slept till noon.....bullshit.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> I
only see you at Christmas but please call to borrow enough money to pay a
mortgage (but that is not what you're spending it on), even though you
make more than me and have no kids...bullshit.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> Ask us to fly,
last minute, (during a two month lay-off) when you have never visited
and we have drove 32 hours round trip, with two kids, three
times.....bullshit.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> Fail to take a firm grasp on your husband's
balls and back out of an already paid for (by me) event that I gave you
three months notice for.....bullshit. </li>
</ul>
<br />
I have no tribe. I have to
take care of myself and the ones in the other room.We have survived thirteen years together and there was quite a bit of "come hell or high water". I cannot turn back
time, control other people's actions or force the impossible.<br />
<br />
Life really is survival of the fittest. The strongest minds and the strongest connections.<br />
<br />
I've realized that only I can make time for me and mine. I'll appreciate my pack of four.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-52907624146679828332015-07-29T16:24:00.000-05:002015-07-29T16:24:08.743-05:009 Reasons I Wouldn’t Make a Good Lesbian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h4>
previously published on <a href="http://www.sammichespsychmeds.com/reasons-i-wouldnt-make-a-good-lesbian/">Sammiches and Pysch Meds</a></h4>
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I work for the Post Office. I deliver #allthethings before you get to
see them. A couple of weeks ago, I delivered Jennifer Aniston’s side
boob. All.day.long. She was on the cover of People. It made me realize
that there is no trace of wanting to be a lesbian in the corners of my
mind.<br />
Below is my list about why I don’t like cherry-flavored chap stick (AKA why I can’t see myself kissing girls).<br />
<br />
1. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I’m not into the boobs.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">I
get boob all day, every day. Side boob, under boob, all the boobs.
Knockers, tits, breasts (I’ve never really called them that) and melons.
How do I prefer my knockers? Flat. I’ve warned the hubby that if he
ever bulked up his pecs so that his were bigger than mine, I’d file for
divorce.</span><br />
<br />
2. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I’m not an ass girl.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">I’ve
got my own ass all day, every day. I don’t stare at man ass. It’s not
really that sexy of a feature to me. What am I going to do with it? (Am I
missing something?) I’ve never contemplated if women have a lot of
“junk in the trunk.” I’m not, in general, interested in that body part
on any gender. It’s also a “no-fly zone” and NOT an emergency landing
strip.</span><br />
<br />
3. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I like penis.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">Sure,
there are purple/green/rainbow-colored, plastic substitutes we could
use, but they can never beat the real thing. There is something sexy
about another person hoovering over you and knowing that they can’t fake
that kind of release. Although, the no mess part would be a plus.</span><br />
<br />
4. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I can’t stand drama.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">Exit door 4. Please trip down the stairs on your way out. I’ll shut the door behind you.</span><br />
<br />
5. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I don’t need more mood swings.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">I
have enough for five women. There’s Susie Q (I took a happy pill),
Esmeralda (sexytime sister), Gia (I need a happy pill), Nicci (the mean
bitch) and Miss Thang (ghetto anyone?). A female lover wouldn’t be able
to compete. Last place is not a good place to be in a relationship.</span><br />
<br />
6. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I enjoy deniability.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">I usually wait till the last minute to <span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap" id="itxthook0p"><span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap itxtnewhookspan" id="itxthook0w" style="background-color: transparent; border-color: transparent transparent rgb(0, 204, 0); border-style: none none solid; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #009900; font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; padding: 0px 0px 1px ! important;">go shopping</span></span>
for Aunt Flo’s personal needs. Like when it’s HAPPENING. I have no one
else to put the blame on but myself and no else to yell at me. I’d also
have to share my chocolate-flavored everything, which leads me to….</span><br />
<br />
7. <strong style="line-height: 1.5;">I’m not a fan of PMS syncing.</strong><span style="line-height: 1.5;">Tsunami and Sparta make love. It creates that circle of teenage girls who pass <span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap" id="itxthook1p"><span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap itxtnewhookspan" id="itxthook1w" style="background-color: transparent; border-color: transparent transparent rgb(0, 204, 0); border-style: none none solid; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #009900; font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; padding: 0px 0px 1px ! important;">tampons</span></span>
under the bathroom stalls like a new form of crack. Stay away from
bitches who bleed together. Unless you get off on that kind of thing,
and if so…..ewwwwwwwwwwwww.</span><br />
<br />
8. <strong>I’m not all about the smell.</strong>Our room smells like
sex sometimes. Usually mine. Men don’t really smell like sex. They smell
like sweat from sex. A clean “litter box” is still a “litter box,”
especially when you add pheromones. Gag.<br />
<br />
9. <strong>I enjoy being the less hairy one with minimal effort.</strong>His
legs are supposed to be hairy. And beards make panties come off. It’s a
known fact (See: Life with the Bearded J’s). A woman with a beard? Not
so much.<br />
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-1919962541795065332015-07-22T11:16:00.003-05:002015-07-22T11:16:27.714-05:00To The Other Woman<h4>
previously posted on <a href="http://originalbunkerpunks.com/to-the-other-woman/">Original Bunker Punks</a></h4>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqxU6DKqvh80NipFTVO0nlDTxeBrAw3L24ekhsuGF7pQJbxdqHHyjFMI_duYo3WEwyUq_ygBxcLVlxqa5Ue8VqoH6Iv3gev69UjxoXBLNx6RAOTQ46U7awH4TTHKhBNEVyJz04rLyKL02/s1600/quote159.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqxU6DKqvh80NipFTVO0nlDTxeBrAw3L24ekhsuGF7pQJbxdqHHyjFMI_duYo3WEwyUq_ygBxcLVlxqa5Ue8VqoH6Iv3gev69UjxoXBLNx6RAOTQ46U7awH4TTHKhBNEVyJz04rLyKL02/s640/quote159.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="color_11">Dear Woman I Will Never Confront,</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">We’ve known each other for
three years now. Over the last six months, I’ve realized that we do not
have anything in common, except that our kids like each other. What I
have to say has nothing to do with that, though.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="color_11">You try to act like one of the
“guys.” You say you’re a tomboy. I get that. I don’t wear pink, either.
(Really, that’s all you got?)</span></div>
<div class="font_9">
<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">Honestly, you’re just not happy
in your marriage. You have low self esteem from a bad childhood and a
crappy relationship. I get that. But I wish you’d understand.</span></div>
<div class="font_9">
<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">He’s mine. And I’m not sorry.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">I’m not sorry that you’re
husband treats you like it is 1960. I’m not sorry that he lets his
creepy friends hit on you. I’m not sorry that you didn’t get to come
over on New Year’s because he went to the bar and left you at home. I’m
not sorry that you scrounge for money for birthdays and Christmas
because his money is his money and your money is his money.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">I pity you. I’m not heartless.
However, all of the above is your problem. There are many solutions (but
you may not like any of them).</span></div>
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<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">Above all, stop.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="font_9">
<span class="color_11">Stop texting him lyrics from
love songs. Stop questioning why he doesn’t respond back. Stop being
pissy because he doesn’t show you attention. Stop asking for his help.
Stop.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="color_11">It torments me to invite you
over anymore, and pretend that you do not make my stomach churn. I can’t
relax around you. You’re like the mole on my back that needs to be
removed. Unfortunately, I’m afraid of needles and both are expensive.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="color_11">I trust my husband. Unquestionably. He’s a catch. I married him. I do not like to share. I should not have to.</span></div>
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<span class="color_11">~J</span></div>
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<span class="color_11">P.S. You don’t say “I love you” to your married, guy “friends.”</span></div>
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-68446737190740265712015-05-31T15:05:00.001-05:002015-05-31T16:23:15.794-05:00I Am A Helicopter ParentThe title says enough doesn't it?<br />
<br />
What else can I say?<br />
<br />
You see me. I stand out. I'm already labeled as soon as I walk onto the playground with my extra bottles of water, hats and holding my 6 year old's hand tightly. I shy away from the mommy crowd and consistently crow "Walk, don't run." and "Be careful". I'm a broken record.<br />
<br />
Yes, I feel your eyes. They are like a laser into the back of my head as you watch me hoover around my child. I will circle. I will follow. I will "play" with them. I will watch and talk to them and....just make sure.<br />
<br />
There's a difference, though. I couldn't care less about your child. Not for one minute. I'm in my own bubble.<br />
<br />
Unless he/she is harming mine. Do I think that you're slacking off? Do I think you should be paying more attention? Especially when they are throwing rocks? Do I think you should be more wary? Especially when they are putting said rocks up their nose. Sure. And my eyes will be like a laser into the back of your head.<br />
<br />
I know there are many different reasons why you are on your phone, why you are reading your book and why you're chatting with your friends. In the back of mind, I get it. I won't vocalize my questions/concerns. I try not to judge. I'm actually jealous. I wish I could be at ease;free of mind to be able to relax. And not turn into a hawk, circling it's brood.<br />
<br />
I can't help it. Call it human nature. Call it my nature.<br />
<br />
I see a jungle gym ladder, I see a fall. I see a slide, I see a crash. I see boo boos and tears and broken bones. I can't help but feel that my paranoia is what works for me. It may not be the best thing. But it's what I do.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkk2Xkbydy1jUi_4F3obBo07L89yNDctc6SDXULBdnm8PnwSNf8wCX6cUMZRbGXRuiDlN_Coxy18eR60c3nRd6FXlPs-eFEay15GO-GhdehLkbAqQN8nGxqzKwZOEZ0oNiFqPPwQAOjYc/s1600/nails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkk2Xkbydy1jUi_4F3obBo07L89yNDctc6SDXULBdnm8PnwSNf8wCX6cUMZRbGXRuiDlN_Coxy18eR60c3nRd6FXlPs-eFEay15GO-GhdehLkbAqQN8nGxqzKwZOEZ0oNiFqPPwQAOjYc/s400/nails.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Yes, they will fall. They will scrap knees, bruise elbows and need band-aids. They need to discover, play and learn on their own. I need to let them be and explore. So they can build confidence and practice using their common sense. They need to get dirt underneath their nails.<br />
<br />
I need to swallow my anxieties like a bad medicine. My patience will grow as I age. My insecurities as a parent will disappear as I conquer each milestone.<br />
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I'm just not ready yet.<br />
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Baby steps.Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-71202916952232522512015-03-29T19:06:00.000-05:002015-04-02T19:27:09.348-05:00Life in Motion 13/52<i></i><br />
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q5B_n1lbdtl27imTk5ZrpQ5MbpU_SZ56bh6IxmaGVW85dElI3kHXPCwBeru5TQpE87NX-Umx5cgsTs8PH7ZTi4vBYA6LLPWsFR3RPQaKn8x_htRvNB9WLnjLOSaBT7ezZEpRql-1J-i8/s1600/13521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Q5B_n1lbdtl27imTk5ZrpQ5MbpU_SZ56bh6IxmaGVW85dElI3kHXPCwBeru5TQpE87NX-Umx5cgsTs8PH7ZTi4vBYA6LLPWsFR3RPQaKn8x_htRvNB9WLnjLOSaBT7ezZEpRql-1J-i8/s1600/13521.jpg" height="640" width="366" /></a></i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVtHSZ4qtPah3rFYFK7v553PuxsV0iKG5bi_ckasdCYav-pJEFc3eWgkfJENxRgsUJBHBW-uSAFLldcZrczxKEE_qL4Bh7sCiC7_Z9JQru4mQ2R59SiX2LEWAPScB6OF1cd1hoSCIO1VY/s1600/1352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVtHSZ4qtPah3rFYFK7v553PuxsV0iKG5bi_ckasdCYav-pJEFc3eWgkfJENxRgsUJBHBW-uSAFLldcZrczxKEE_qL4Bh7sCiC7_Z9JQru4mQ2R59SiX2LEWAPScB6OF1cd1hoSCIO1VY/s1600/1352.jpg" height="640" width="466" /></a></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> *A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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12: "I wonder if I could power our ceiling fan."<br />
5: Best $4 I have spent, in awhile. Army men are priceless. He's been carting them everywhere.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><i><i><i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/03/1352.html">Jodi</a></b></i></i></i></i></i></div>
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<i><i><i><i><i><b> </b></i></i></i></i> </i></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-41261977044978219482015-03-22T19:00:00.000-05:002015-04-02T19:15:32.133-05:00Life in Motion 12/52<i><i><i><i><b> </b></i></i></i></i> <i> </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LgwTdslrsks2IZv9K5uJ2QfGalQGPQYovH0WsNwZaFEd2ee4TA7CHrW2Wsh6WLLYyFA4lY0j7RfijVWVzm7zNvfyNz9f8IexrzTO-0g-MciFgtPFtIf5Erv6gMikhea0u4oah3bDgqk0/s1600/1252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LgwTdslrsks2IZv9K5uJ2QfGalQGPQYovH0WsNwZaFEd2ee4TA7CHrW2Wsh6WLLYyFA4lY0j7RfijVWVzm7zNvfyNz9f8IexrzTO-0g-MciFgtPFtIf5Erv6gMikhea0u4oah3bDgqk0/s1600/1252.jpg" height="640" width="402" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGiONrwN_q8o4VIshVFuf8kZ_ozUkYH3-59OfyOL2VkXUw0CN92Q0tKCpZEyvlECWJcuaj2bI30jPL1_Pd8GLIyuZ0MBn6oc33gxS7qKJEjYykp-yCl-d1icxNcqoqfF6nmeqXdFX7XjL/s1600/12523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGiONrwN_q8o4VIshVFuf8kZ_ozUkYH3-59OfyOL2VkXUw0CN92Q0tKCpZEyvlECWJcuaj2bI30jPL1_Pd8GLIyuZ0MBn6oc33gxS7qKJEjYykp-yCl-d1icxNcqoqfF6nmeqXdFX7XjL/s1600/12523.jpg" height="372" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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<i>I never learned how to swim. I have a small fear of water. I am trying to be okay with them in the water. Have to breathe sometimes.</i></div>
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<i>We did Spring Break. Lazy rivers full of sweaty bodies. Puke in the kiddie pool. Thankfully, no string bikini's on 4 year olds. It was our first time staying over night at a water park. Bonus: clean towels any time you want them. </i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<i><i><i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/03/1252.html">Jodi</a></b></i></i></i></i></div>
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-9562117232503019942015-03-15T23:08:00.000-05:002015-03-25T23:20:57.218-05:00Life in Motion 11/52 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOscylyDLRey_23tSULbjL4vamgKnjvmpoaFvOQW0t9yyssPg0sxyrC_Yp8VF9lck875YdRiBdSXxQidM9bNhp7Inp1S4OsBNNOLptYWrKgjl-B6kOwQE3yLSWBsuVMJDvQc_Bjy3ZijT/s1600/1152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOscylyDLRey_23tSULbjL4vamgKnjvmpoaFvOQW0t9yyssPg0sxyrC_Yp8VF9lck875YdRiBdSXxQidM9bNhp7Inp1S4OsBNNOLptYWrKgjl-B6kOwQE3yLSWBsuVMJDvQc_Bjy3ZijT/s1600/1152.jpg" height="640" width="358" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iH6PWBqKN9uBCbxbcYplLsP7JMBxWDh3KIgN3WCIcFdg84CxBVt1elVOAKTAUbE66lDgIiXjXnVvyjZ8siPiggEyaDbDBt-3kOUxIR2nBEfSYN2tRQ0Ma670kU_GZBsyVKpjvWxa6XI-/s1600/11522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iH6PWBqKN9uBCbxbcYplLsP7JMBxWDh3KIgN3WCIcFdg84CxBVt1elVOAKTAUbE66lDgIiXjXnVvyjZ8siPiggEyaDbDBt-3kOUxIR2nBEfSYN2tRQ0Ma670kU_GZBsyVKpjvWxa6XI-/s1600/11522.jpg" height="640" width="358" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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They are determined. They are adventurous. They are always on the edge.<br />
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Go. Play. See.<br />
<br />
First park trip of the year. People complained about how horrid the winter was. To me, it was short. And not really that horrible. It was cold. It was how winter was supposed to be.<br />
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Spring brings muddy shoes and sticky faces. They will bring live animals (some with wings) into the house. We will nap after spending the afternoon playing in warm sand and sunshine.<br />
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I am so ready.</div>
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<i><i><i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/03/1152.html">Jodi</a></b></i></i></i></i><br />
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<i><i><i><i><b> </b></i></i></i> </i></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-90876531133070183402015-03-09T11:06:00.000-05:002015-03-10T11:16:57.902-05:00Life in Motion 10/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjOBPif5NPxls5WugvCv1jEgtqwX_I5dQRYP4nkGyojduzGrfcRip_EAp9D6BVf3LuW7C9iF3iE1gkXcLj_g7-D2DmsPYMzh7Vp2A5RhOxNqc-e8ONKUHVnLRqWCIyyGw1MQHaQ3-6Ync/s1600/1052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjOBPif5NPxls5WugvCv1jEgtqwX_I5dQRYP4nkGyojduzGrfcRip_EAp9D6BVf3LuW7C9iF3iE1gkXcLj_g7-D2DmsPYMzh7Vp2A5RhOxNqc-e8ONKUHVnLRqWCIyyGw1MQHaQ3-6Ync/s1600/1052.jpg" height="588" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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<i>12: But, mom, I'm too old for the Discovery Center.</i></div>
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<i>5: Always building higher.</i></div>
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<i>So tired of talking or thinking about the weather, but....it's melting. </i></div>
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<i>We succumbed to buying a pass for the Discovery Center again (after taking an eight month break). They have an annual Easter Egg hunt which Mr. Sunshine is looking forward to. Unfortunately, this will be 12's second year of being an onlooker since he's too old. He's been appreciating holidays in a different way lately. We've explained that sometimes its better to celebrate for others. He loved being a "Santa" helper last Christmas.</i></div>
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<i>I wish I was in control of the ticker to stop the clock. They're both getting too tall, too big and myself too old. I miss childhood. </i></div>
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<i><i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/03/1052.html#more">Jodi</a></b></i></i> </i></div>
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-84975663658397654472015-03-05T07:50:00.000-06:002015-03-05T07:51:00.399-06:00For Better or For WorseDear World,<br />
<br />
He is the better parent. Honest. I'm not trying to spit shine his shoes. <br />
<br />
I see my faults often. I don't think anyone else sees them but me (well, they don't say anything).<br />
<br />
He is the player. The go-getter. The drive 7 hours by himself, with both boys, to another state doer. He is the one that suggests to sign them up for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/allthethings?source=feed_text&story_id=10153166998237803">#allthethings</a>. He is the one they miss the most at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
I try and I question. I love my children. Which makes me an okay parent. He does and he is. Which makes him a great parent.<br />
<br />
<i>I think 26 would've been a better age. That is when we had Mr. Sunshine. Our finances are linked to that year. We were on
our feet. Both of us were working. Mr. 12 (6 at the time) was in school all day.</i> <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I didn't factor kids into the picture. </i><i><i>I didn't want to have them in the sense I didn't plan on having kids in
my teenage mind. </i>It was filled
with, honestly, no ideas.</i><i><i> </i>No goals.</i><i> Just a bit of indifference and a lot
of questions. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then we were stupid. (Seriously, there isn't another word to put here.) </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I was too young. But I was only 19. Not really that young. He was younger. Yet, older.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And I slipped. And he pulled me out of the water, no matter how many times I screamed at him to leave me alone. Yet, he stayed. Often, on the other side of a door.</i><br />
<br />
He is the better parent. He is the better person. I have no idea why. Of our two childhood's, he had the worst one. He didn't have many role models. He just knew what he wanted. He'd become a parent again if I said yes. Many times over.<br />
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-6233652251394943162015-03-03T12:35:00.001-06:002015-03-03T20:31:18.317-06:001940's Sitcom vs. Nonbeliever The door opens and a father whistles as he walks into his white
picket fenced house. Cue aproned wife with immaculate hair who smells
like cherry pie. Two, well behaved and clean, children calmly walk down
the steps to meet their father with proper greetings. They all kiss and
walk through the <br />
swinging door to the kitchen, letting the smell of a 5 course dinner drift out.<br />
<br />
<i>Now let's add some color to the black and white.</i> <br />
<br />
The door opens and a father walks into his peeling, white apartment.
Cue wife, in day old pajamas, sitting on couch or no wife at all. She's
at work in order to pay for that new white paint. The place smells like
dog, dirty diapers and that odd smell of 5 people living together. There's a child screaming in the kitchen because he doesn't want
to do his homework. Another in the refrigerator (with the freezer open,
too) and a third eating the food out of the dog dish.<br />
Dinner is the
take out Mom will bring home after work or Dad can order pizza. Quite
possibly a microwavable dinner from Aldi's/Piggly
Wiggly/the-cheapest-grocery-store-there-is with a side of whatever kid
#2 will pick at, kid #3 will feed the dog and kid #1... where did kid #1
go? He was supposed to be doing his homework...<br />
<br />
We've seen that picture floating around on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/chaoswitha.curve?ref=tn_tnmn#%21/pages/Chaos-with-a-Curve-blog/243127055831420" target="_blank"><b>Facebook</b></a>. There's a kid coming out of every
orifice in some form of chaos.<br />
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<a href="http://ididafunny.com/what-in-the-world-did-you-do-all-day/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lpfIrHG95tmvmrKRseghkEuvG5tT03ZkaoTv73_ucefkqaIwYxHmoSt1CvjkyVdPcA09gzp77s7UoU8MsWfj97KVjYuY8Ylm8ju1MjeB-Rjrn3n4Q6ON8MghYeQ9SZ-ipXJc9GEDGOs/s640/mom-had-a-bad-day.jpg" height="305" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm not saying that parenthood is that bad. But it definitely is not
Scene A. Well, maybe if your husband's a doctor and or
if you have the Mother Goose Syndrome (I made that shit up).<br />
5 out of 10 women
have kids outside of marriage. 4 out of 10 raise kids by themselves ( I also made that up). So out of 10 women you
have a 10 percent chance to marry Prince Charming and live the fairy
tale (depending on what your fairy tale dream is).<br />
I don't
know about you, but I've never seen Snow White wipe poop off her one
year old's nursery wall because he/she found inspiration. Or miss her 6
year old's kindergarten graduation because her 8 month old is teething
and the babysitter list is one name long. <br />
Now why did I have
kids? I was the stereotype, irresponsible teenager who forgot
to wrap it up. #2 came to be because I figured that I survived the first
one and the hell why not? It's the "thing" to do. The house, marriage and kid
package.<br />
I
recommend that if you see having children as Scene A, then DON'T.
Nothing on television comes even close to reality, even the reality
shows. There are no commercials (but plenty of re-runs). If you can't
picture handling Scene C without losing it, then you might not make
it. Not to mention you have to survive pregnancy to begin with.<br />
Life itself is chaotic without kids. Add a kid or four and add some gray hairs. Another
living being is in your care and you could screw it all up at any
moment. No matter how many parenting magazines or online doctor articles
I read, most of the time I'm winging it. It doesn't feel like it gets
any easier as they get older. Age equals more responsibility for them
which turns you into nervous wreck and makes you over think if you've
prepared them enough.<br />
It's not all bad. I will give you that.
There are first smiles (which are usually gas or blowouts) and first steps, first
tooth, first kiss, first car, and first date. You get to play with
Matchbox cars, watch Scooby Doo and eat Spaghetti O's. Make-believe is
the new you. Santa Clause and all those magical creatures are real
again. You give your kids all of you and they give you laughter.<br />
You just learn to go with it. If you don't,
you might lose it and some days you do. Things get broken, lost, stained
or time seems wasted.<br />
Life happens. Frame the
smiles. You won't regret it.<br />
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-19812539137130276932015-03-02T20:30:00.000-06:002015-03-03T20:30:53.353-06:00Life in Motion 9/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7tf-In6nqJNgVcW4RwZnJku1_TY82sQ5-mAFsiKrc1WJh1qC7U6BfLec9C8EOx8MEZjNrZ_BTLrNEvWlfD0eOPta99wEo5YbE0CUJ3qF5hyFu0u-c9TnWq0gyNQwhxKgxf2mXsfp-6mV/s1600/952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7tf-In6nqJNgVcW4RwZnJku1_TY82sQ5-mAFsiKrc1WJh1qC7U6BfLec9C8EOx8MEZjNrZ_BTLrNEvWlfD0eOPta99wEo5YbE0CUJ3qF5hyFu0u-c9TnWq0gyNQwhxKgxf2mXsfp-6mV/s1600/952.jpg" height="640" width="368" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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<i>We are pinky swearing to take a nap next week. I have it in print. </i></div>
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<i>Today was the first of four basketball practices. He is getting better at dribbling while moving. I am hoping he is more coordinated that I am.</i></div>
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<i>The Man makes enduring practice easier on me. He keeps a running commentary. Versus me spacing out, while staring at the clock, because watching 20 five year old's chase balls is oodles of fun.</i></div>
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<i>No picture of Mr. Pre-teen this week. I didn't want to fight over it. </i></div>
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<i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/03/952.html">Jodi</a></b></i></i><br />
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-88466231956917484252015-02-23T11:57:00.000-06:002015-02-25T11:58:07.432-06:00Life in Motion 8/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3IZAKURfWNGd6TuCtuAQlEESMUqnrT5BNY2q-qJMnc4gKFSMaL5Vjfrnh_cdh75VbLzAEnrmQJ5XgK88_FLgrdi05qzgtHcs5_BFLWDZBmMCRu3qZtQ8w6JiH0qnnCGie9UswUAxb37c/s1600/852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3IZAKURfWNGd6TuCtuAQlEESMUqnrT5BNY2q-qJMnc4gKFSMaL5Vjfrnh_cdh75VbLzAEnrmQJ5XgK88_FLgrdi05qzgtHcs5_BFLWDZBmMCRu3qZtQ8w6JiH0qnnCGie9UswUAxb37c/s1600/852.jpg" height="368" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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<i>I am outmanned around here. Pink is frowned upon and our outings often consist of crashing, smashing and taking apart things.</i></div>
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<i>I love it. It's never been so loud as to require head gear, though. Monster trucks that destroy cars. And cake. There was cake. We didn't get to eat it. A zilla truck engulfed it after lighting the candles with fire from its nose. </i></div>
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<i>I often wonder if they'll like some of the things we plan. Then I see their eyes light up or get real big and my worries are for not.</i></div>
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<i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/02/852.html">Jodi</a></b></i></div>
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-64294841290032394092015-02-16T15:00:00.002-06:002015-02-16T15:00:33.244-06:00Life in Motion 7/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwBjhDQGlrLWj0LEEWwlbjnXFfUFmvweyLhMlAe6enM7qdbA5blLiUmbPk5ewOTeMKhwG7VxTFnnJ_SatbXwDjA3DgFWk6ERqH_GmwDmRkswahdTQ9BYxv-Tq_cOs4OtN2haofuqqeyyF/s1600/752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwBjhDQGlrLWj0LEEWwlbjnXFfUFmvweyLhMlAe6enM7qdbA5blLiUmbPk5ewOTeMKhwG7VxTFnnJ_SatbXwDjA3DgFWk6ERqH_GmwDmRkswahdTQ9BYxv-Tq_cOs4OtN2haofuqqeyyF/s1600/752.jpg" height="482" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Winter weekends (with dad at work) are usually filled with camping out in the house. Everyone does their own thing for awhile. They play together and then take another break. We do laundry and T.V. and video games. I drink lots of coffee and miss naps.</i></div>
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<i>Mr. Sunshine likes to play games with himself because he can play by his own, made up, rules. And with his feet. And he always wins. (He might have a "small" complex issue.)</i></div>
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<i>Mr. Preteen is getting a lot of use out of his Christmas present (Kindle). He's been playing a word game with us (sort of like Words with Friends, but you get an avatar you can buy stuff for)</i>. <i>Hence the dictionary. Ignore the lack of sheet on his bed. I gave up and make sure its on before bed every night. We pick our battles.</i></div>
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<b><i>Thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/02/752.html">Jodi</a></i></b></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-67909989419926265952015-02-09T15:38:00.000-06:002015-02-15T15:44:42.222-06:00Life in Motion 6/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Yu1mzqU7xd2lO77ojO5dLfq0A1LmyRI9g_GTWrEZhesPZxbD4uqObH2Hkn1VwuHhRc_PuEdd3Fo0oBbHdsHWf3dxYgU_arfk3beolJikUPXhp4mQwqagjeQb1E9jAUMkWGHS6VTAGPDh/s1600/652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Yu1mzqU7xd2lO77ojO5dLfq0A1LmyRI9g_GTWrEZhesPZxbD4uqObH2Hkn1VwuHhRc_PuEdd3Fo0oBbHdsHWf3dxYgU_arfk3beolJikUPXhp4mQwqagjeQb1E9jAUMkWGHS6VTAGPDh/s1600/652.jpg" height="558" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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<i> Snow, snow...it's everywhere.</i></div>
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<i>The hubby took the boy's, plus a friend, sledding. I missed it because I had to work. I'm trying to be okay with that.</i></div>
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<i>Mr. Pre-teen is getting good use out of his new boots. His FIFTY dollar boots. I told him he will wear them until they break or do not fit anymore. We're a under twenty dollar's shoe kind of family.</i></div>
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<i>Also, the first snowman of the year. The snow isn't really snow. It is ice. And they cheated. Someone had been there before them and they just combined the balls of snow.</i></div>
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<i>I saw my first cardinal the other day. Winter needs to be officially over. I don't care what the groundhog said. I'm done. </i></div>
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<i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/02/652.html#more">Jodi</a></b></i></div>
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-53264255080004968742015-02-07T14:17:00.000-06:002015-02-07T15:14:36.905-06:00Enstragement in ChildhoodMy childhood was filled with very unemotional experiences. I was fed, housed and taken care of. My dad had an anger problem (broken dishes) and my mother was very depressed (day sleeper). I, honestly, never felt "loved" when they said "I love you" randomly and rarely. It always sounded sarcastic.<br />
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I could have had a very bad childhood. I could have been orphaned, abandoned, beaten, abused or worse. I didn't. It is just filled with memories of anxiety and ignorance. I remember almost not graduating because I skipped so many days due to nerves. It wasn't hard work. I loved school work. Staying home wasn't hard work either. I'd just say I had a stomach ache and mom would call me in. It was almost as if they didn't worry about it.<br />
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Starting in high school, I didn't participate in group sports. I'd skip school on days projects were due, so I didn't have to stand up in front of class. On days, when I had no choice, I'd almost vomit after presentations. I didn't have friends over. I didn't know how to act with other people. It was all very confusing to me. And no one seemed to want to help since I didn't know how to ask. I should've been medicated.<br />
<br />
It probably was a problem and often still is as an adult. The anxiety can get so bad I don't want to go to work or leave the house to go to one of the boy's activities at school. I don't like having play dates for them because I'm forced into an uncomfortable event (yes, it becomes an event in my head).<br />
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Mr. Pre-teen is my personality clone. Sometimes, the words get jumbled in our brains and never come out of our mouths. Often, it is easier to keep quiet. Even when someone is yelling at us. We just shut down.<br />
<br />
Social graces are non existent for us. Chit chit makes me feel like a moron. He doesn't know how to handle an easy phone call. I can't explain to him that a simple, "Hi!", doesn't sound like an
idiotic conversation starter. Because it makes me feel weird, too.<br />
<br />
As parents, we strive to help him with all the knowledge we have. We push. We give. We explain.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4RMr7PfiOVDaYchr2niXlbGEVIUDp76F6jq0Mr2Fwh6SBYEDuPNylkr0lEYEeLlgeSYgA-mjFpCXnyQAls-u5DXA9Y51nytZX1yvt1e0e4Vhwemr4uMlJIpXfsr-igOggpY_vtm6YpMI/s1600/Speed-Bump-Ahead-Sign.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4RMr7PfiOVDaYchr2niXlbGEVIUDp76F6jq0Mr2Fwh6SBYEDuPNylkr0lEYEeLlgeSYgA-mjFpCXnyQAls-u5DXA9Y51nytZX1yvt1e0e4Vhwemr4uMlJIpXfsr-igOggpY_vtm6YpMI/s1600/Speed-Bump-Ahead-Sign.gif" height="320" width="320" /></a>We sign him up for school activities, sometimes for his own good. We don't know if he will like them or sometimes if he likes the activities he's been in for awhile. He doesn't talk that much about Student Council or his after school program. He doesn't bring kid's phone numbers home. He doesn't use his cellphone. The only times I know life is too much is when he bursts into tears and takes a nap in the middle of the day.<br />
<br />
I still feel resentment towards my parents when I remember them making me socialize in situations that made me have a panic attack. I do not know if it is because I was too full of anxiety to explain or that they didn't care or that they wanted to push me.<br />
<br />
Are we pushing him too much? Are we not asking him his opinion enough?<br />
<br />
Is he enjoying his childhood?<br />
<br />
All we can do is try. But it's hard to not have regrets. Will he hate me when he's older? He's 12. His childhood seems almost over. Hopefully, since I enjoyed (most of) his childhood, he is.<br />
<br />
We strive to succeed as parents and the best answer is: if we doubt ourselves, then we ARE doing a good job with what we have. We have to keep pushing forward, one caution light at a time. And if there is a warning sign on the side of the road, we hit that speed bump at 45 mph and hope the air bags engage.<br />
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-42405573873858416732015-02-02T10:43:00.002-06:002015-02-02T10:45:52.103-06:00Life in Motion 5/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmq5qBjJb4cMuTY-GJE_76NsSsdZlvKKxwKEmYO3JVtWMzLlPhHGwbIg_qPT_7WZ4h-ulIHS1eY6mdk75aVIL_RgsM3Xx74N-wVeqGoqZYYbOygTec0WF5FskITs3FJCIoXBaQrBntxt-/s1600/552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmq5qBjJb4cMuTY-GJE_76NsSsdZlvKKxwKEmYO3JVtWMzLlPhHGwbIg_qPT_7WZ4h-ulIHS1eY6mdk75aVIL_RgsM3Xx74N-wVeqGoqZYYbOygTec0WF5FskITs3FJCIoXBaQrBntxt-/s1600/552.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
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When did we become old enough to not smile when it snowed? I remember sitting (albeit in snow pants) and spending hours outside just wallowing in it. In fact one year, for my birthday, all the teenage girls headed outside, in the dark, and had a snowball fight. </div>
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We were supposed to go to Monkey Joe's (indoor bounce house place) yesterday. However, it snowed like someone up above baked cakes and sifted flour on us. For 24 hours. It must have been a wedding cake. We've all been house bound or they've been chauffeured to the babysitter's this month because of work. We tried to mentally prepare ourselves in December for hubby's upcoming overtime and snow equals more work for me. No matter how much you mentally check yourself, it still sucks.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Mr. Sunshine wanted to go outside yesterday. I came in from shoveling to change out my gloves and he fully geared himself out, sans his snow pants. I have to adjust them because they are his brother's old pair and he has no butt. He asked first thing this morning, too. Before I had my coffee.</div>
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I do not like the (extreme) cold. I do not like the (extreme) heat. I am being quite pessimistic about going outside. I wish the hubby was here to get me motivated to "play". He went in late today because of the weather. Rather the big wigs didn't have to be in till later so they weren't going to pay the little guy's to sit around. He likes to "play". He is my oldest, third child.<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/02/552.html#more">Jodi</a></b></i></i><br />
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<i><i><b> </b></i> </i></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-71113993847741819242015-01-28T16:26:00.002-06:002015-01-28T16:26:52.716-06:0010% Pillow Talk, 90% Sex<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIDEVUmh7bfvxa8RDWiEy6BF2Cc6YEopPXn0Sjd3mo5l8t0aaFaD-VmidakiUJKQL99DIrtxBFbRQ0QHBPgJikQqt-r78EajNi8bjT8qAyeB3TnZe0KjPgvDddxo8OPRBD21FNkgGK1d1/s1600/quote73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIDEVUmh7bfvxa8RDWiEy6BF2Cc6YEopPXn0Sjd3mo5l8t0aaFaD-VmidakiUJKQL99DIrtxBFbRQ0QHBPgJikQqt-r78EajNi8bjT8qAyeB3TnZe0KjPgvDddxo8OPRBD21FNkgGK1d1/s1600/quote73.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a><br />
He said: Sex is one of the few ways that men can connect.<br />
<br />
She said: Sex shouldn't be used as an award.<br />
<br />
He said: Honestly, we think about it 90% of the time.<br />
<br />
She said: Honestly, that is not an attainable goal.<br />
<br />
He said: Sex is about survivability.<br />
<br />
She said: Surviving should be the top priority.<br />
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He said: This is hard...<br />
She said: That's normal isn't it? <br />
He said: ....to explain. You really don't understand that it's like on the top 3.<br />
<br />
She said: So me, the children, then sex?<br />
He said. .....<br />
She said: So me, sex, then the children?<br />
He said: .....<br />
<br />
He said: I wonder if I will have to order Viagra in 10 years.<br />
<br />
She said: We'll have to use your 401k for prostitutes and STD testing.<br />
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He said: I think I have what Tiger Woods has.<br />
<br />
She said: A doctor's note is not going to save you. <br />
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By the way, I really do love my husband. <br />
-J<br />
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-74943152315149925832015-01-26T19:18:00.003-06:002015-02-03T18:24:24.415-06:00Life in Motion 4/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F28wN7qw-tfn9QB1tdlEooxLk02klZsSewQgWg1Q3q3s5Wt_NBl438OPcbRKK1yYHVpcCgsCSsf7ENrr4_GzGi765UTDXt4bpVPDModZ8eyCq5x8hoPbCZ0_TfIKifWLUfi59aisidA5/s1600/452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F28wN7qw-tfn9QB1tdlEooxLk02klZsSewQgWg1Q3q3s5Wt_NBl438OPcbRKK1yYHVpcCgsCSsf7ENrr4_GzGi765UTDXt4bpVPDModZ8eyCq5x8hoPbCZ0_TfIKifWLUfi59aisidA5/s1600/452.jpg" height="483" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSx_Z6N3uB0WvLrgsSPpJZO5Zg2n3fPCJBF9l7QAs0wJmiDEELENZF4mqwSpzNrwUVSQJBjz1qGCxOwP-UkQ4kwq4WBMi8oVxiYBrJEGZwjW9hjblIwos7EeWkpwu0MWJbcsiGyDMRwEZ/s1600/452jason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSx_Z6N3uB0WvLrgsSPpJZO5Zg2n3fPCJBF9l7QAs0wJmiDEELENZF4mqwSpzNrwUVSQJBjz1qGCxOwP-UkQ4kwq4WBMi8oVxiYBrJEGZwjW9hjblIwos7EeWkpwu0MWJbcsiGyDMRwEZ/s1600/452jason.jpg" height="484" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am fascinated with feet. My feet, his feet, their feet. All kinds of feet. Mr. Sunshine has my feet and toes. I just realized this. They are almost as big as mine and he's only 5. They make me want to play "And this little piggy went to market".</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mr. Pre-teen is back to not wanting his picture taken. I have to be sneaky if I want to continue this project with him in it. He gets too embarrassed. I understand because I was the same way as a child and still am as an adult. Mostly because neither of us have a great smile. He'll get the metal in his mouth soon (braces) and hopefully be all smiles after the process. The other reason is from being too self-conscious. Maybe this will cure two birds with one stone.</div>
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My goal is to actually print these pictures and have an album that I can look through. Or maybe put them on the wall. Either way USE my camera. Goals are hard.</div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/01/452.html">Jodi</a></b> </i></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-45701996853288232552015-01-25T20:33:00.001-06:002015-02-07T12:26:41.393-06:00.. .-..---...-. -.-----..- (I Love You)<br />
<br />
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Without all the fuss and nonsense; without all the senseless rhyming.</div>
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You are the pebble in my pond. You ripple my heart. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let's skip rocks and count the beats.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We sketch our lives and smear the lead. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My fingerprints and paper cuts are yours.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I tire. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You linger.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You tire.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I linger.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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We make love<i> in the static.</i></div>
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We decode<i> the noise.</i></div>
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You and I <i>are silent. </i></div>
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-62358247883249094922015-01-24T11:37:00.000-06:002015-01-24T11:37:32.357-06:00How Personal is Too Personal and Then There's Sex <div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=AwrB8pNMyMJU8HIAA8CJzbkF;_ylu=X3oDMTIzZHNqdnVkBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDaW1nBG9pZAM2YjA1MmY2NWVmYzYzM2JkNDBkYmFlNzAzZjlkZWM4YQRncG9zAzQ3BGl0A2Jpbmc-?.origin=&back=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dvinyl%2Brecord%2Brepeating%2Bno%26n%3D60%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-yff27%26fr2%3Dsb-top-images.search.yahoo.com%26tab%3Dorganic%26ri%3D47&w=400&h=300&imgurl=assets.rootsvinylguide.com%2Fpictures%2Ffreddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio_594733&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Frootsvinylguide.com%2Febay_items%2Ffreddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio&size=26.3KB&name=Freddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio+...&p=vinyl+record+repeating+no&oid=6b052f65efc633bd40dbae703f9dec8a&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com&fr=ytff1-yff27&tt=Freddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio+...&b=0&ni=54&no=47&ts=&tab=organic&sigr=138jiess7&sigb=14rehu7qv&sigi=13d5qorr0&sigt=126fbulm8&sign=126fbulm8&.crumb=L3kZT9ElucP&fr=ytff1-yff27&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com"><img alt="https://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=AwrB8pNMyMJU8HIAA8CJzbkF;_ylu=X3oDMTIzZHNqdnVkBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDaW1nBG9pZAM2YjA1MmY2NWVmYzYzM2JkNDBkYmFlNzAzZjlkZWM4YQRncG9zAzQ3BGl0A2Jpbmc-?.origin=&back=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dvinyl%2Brecord%2Brepeating%2Bno%26n%3D60%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-yff27%26fr2%3Dsb-top-images.search.yahoo.com%26tab%3Dorganic%26ri%3D47&w=400&h=300&imgurl=assets.rootsvinylguide.com%2Fpictures%2Ffreddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio_594733&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Frootsvinylguide.com%2Febay_items%2Ffreddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio&size=26.3KB&name=Freddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio+...&p=vinyl+record+repeating+no&oid=6b052f65efc633bd40dbae703f9dec8a&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com&fr=ytff1-yff27&tt=Freddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio+...&b=0&ni=54&no=47&ts=&tab=organic&sigr=138jiess7&sigb=14rehu7qv&sigi=13d5qorr0&sigt=126fbulm8&sign=126fbulm8&.crumb=L3kZT9ElucP&fr=ytff1-yff27&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com" src="http://assets.rootsvinylguide.com/pictures/freddie-notes-the-rudies-uk-trojan-lp-1970-montego-bay-ex-ex-audio_594733" height="300" id="yui_3_5_1_4_1422051452926_1092" style="height: 300px; width: 400px;" width="400" /></a> </div>
However...(<i>you were waiting for the "but" weren't you?</i>)<br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2238205152186944554" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a><br />
I am not a person to cry on someone's shoulder. Personal
difficulties stay within the circle of the hubby and myself. It's not to
make it look like we are the perfect family and have the perfect life.
We definitely don't.<br />
It is a lonely (for lack of a better word) predicament that we put
ourselves in. I just can't justify sharing my problems with others. All
they can really offer is support, not answers. I know there are
other people in the world have it worse than us, and they putter on and live. I feel
like I should, too.<br />
Life is life and you roll with it or it eats you up. The day
starts over with the rising sun and you have a chance to change it to
where you need to. It may take 365 suns to get there, though.<br />
<i>Now,</i> if I gave myself some slack and <i>could</i>
complain about one thing...it would be my darling husband. I love him.
He is my savior on days when I feel like screaming but some days he is
the reason I feel like screaming.<br />
<br />
Before I get ahead of myself, he <b>gave me permission</b> to complain about him!<br />
<br />
What about him? Sex. Yes, I know...my children and my
(sometimes) upside-down life are too personal to complain about,
but I can talk about sex? <br />
We are both in our 30's, but seem to live different lives hormonally. He's a
raging teenager where I'm a 50 year old, walker using, old woman. He's
like, "Afternoon quickie?" and I'm thinking, "I'll be exhausted in the middle of
the day and the boy's don't go to bed <b>UNTIL</b> 8:30?" We are polar opposites.<br />
<a href="https://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=AwrB8o5FV8FU5gwARYOJzbkF;_ylu=X3oDMTIzNTRyazUwBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDaW1nBG9pZAM2ZjZmYTZiMGMyZjc1YThkYzkxYzZjOTE3MjU4OGQ1NQRncG9zAzk1BGl0A2Jpbmc-?.origin=&back=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dsex%2Bmeme%26n%3D60%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-yff27%26fr2%3Dsb-top-images.search.yahoo.com%26spos%3D12%26nost%3D1%26tab%3Dorganic%26ri%3D95&w=400&h=386&imgurl=exyplay.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2013%2F10%2Fhad-sex-success-kid-meme1.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fexyplay.com%2F2013%2F10%2F10%2Fsex-memes-are-the-best-memes%2F&size=63.5KB&name=%3Cb%3ESex%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E+Are+The+Best+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E&p=sex+meme&oid=6f6fa6b0c2f75a8dc91c6c9172588d55&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com&fr=ytff1-yff27&tt=%3Cb%3ESex%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E+Are+The+Best+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E&b=61&ni=72&no=95&ts=&tab=organic&sigr=11r3cc77v&sigb=14pg2t1hf&sigi=124fnemh1&sigt=11h51rmk1&sign=11h51rmk1&.crumb=pG4FkFMZVJq&fr=ytff1-yff27&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="https://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=AwrB8o5FV8FU5gwARYOJzbkF;_ylu=X3oDMTIzNTRyazUwBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDaW1nBG9pZAM2ZjZmYTZiMGMyZjc1YThkYzkxYzZjOTE3MjU4OGQ1NQRncG9zAzk1BGl0A2Jpbmc-?.origin=&back=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dsex%2Bmeme%26n%3D60%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-yff27%26fr2%3Dsb-top-images.search.yahoo.com%26spos%3D12%26nost%3D1%26tab%3Dorganic%26ri%3D95&w=400&h=386&imgurl=exyplay.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2013%2F10%2Fhad-sex-success-kid-meme1.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fexyplay.com%2F2013%2F10%2F10%2Fsex-memes-are-the-best-memes%2F&size=63.5KB&name=%3Cb%3ESex%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E+Are+The+Best+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E&p=sex+meme&oid=6f6fa6b0c2f75a8dc91c6c9172588d55&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com&fr=ytff1-yff27&tt=%3Cb%3ESex%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E+Are+The+Best+%3Cb%3EMemes%3C%2Fb%3E&b=61&ni=72&no=95&ts=&tab=organic&sigr=11r3cc77v&sigb=14pg2t1hf&sigi=124fnemh1&sigt=11h51rmk1&sign=11h51rmk1&.crumb=pG4FkFMZVJq&fr=ytff1-yff27&fr2=sb-top-images.search.yahoo.com" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHpPSi334a4W5Al_ThN7_SDcpZTbuvvPlCh87x01BZp3fa9dVb85P0beKQWyh_d0a_F0TaSG-IF_FkP-ChOmcT9l14HPJdLqoY9ogP3AO0G_x-UNOn03dmwxMAHGXnEIQMXY6e16lAOAx/s1600/quote71.jpg" height="308" width="320" /></a> We do have a theory. That he has an extra pheromone chromosome. If
that's even possible. Like I said, all theory. He jokes that the
military shot, that they can give recruits to lower their sex drive
during basic training or long missions, wouldn't work on him. Enough is
never enough for him. <br />
Now am I insane? Wouldn't a normal person want their significant
other of 13 years to still be into them? Not just into them like its a
slippers-after-dinner, you-want-a-Tums before bed kind of relationship
but like they first started dating? <i>Especially after two kids.</i><br />
<br />
How am I dealing with this? Not well. <br />
<br />
I really have no means to complain according to Mr.
Let's-Just-Do-It. He works 12 hours and then is ready to go when
he gets home. Then again when he wakes up. Then again before he goes to
work. And then he's on repeat every day of the week.<br />
I feel like an old
vinyl record, forever scratching out the word, "No."<br />
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-12446478976906922882015-01-22T10:25:00.001-06:002015-01-22T10:26:55.893-06:00Why?<br />
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<a href="http://www.stevecurtin.com/blog/2011/11/07/why/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://www.stevecurtin.com/blog/2011/11/07/why/" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjakkqDItwLlN7H8Wg3xO89kY3hyphenhyphengqYCJrBapFRpgFEkbGbLkfW3l9x5kIFjFZN9iIp9T1coxaIwZm-8U1nDMaTE5g-aKWso6xrMvGLZR2XgdGeg721qZmhfIzDXty-xKKHOcx0MUUcNJc/s200/why.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Because I have something to say, whether you want to read it or not. Ha.<br />
But really, why do blogger's blog? For me, it's a social outlet
that gets all these words out of my head. It gives me hope that maybe I
can shut down at the end of the day. Lately, though, it's been a fight
with the Zzzzz's because I'm thinking of what I could write about next. <br />
<b><i> <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2008/11/why-i-blog/307060/" target="_blank">Andrew Sullivans</a></i></b>
sums it up: "Blogging is therefore to writing what extreme sports are
to athletics: more free-form, more accident-prone, less formal, more
alive. It is, in many ways, writing out loud. You end up writing about
yourself, since you are a relatively fixed point in this constant
interaction with the ideas and facts of the exterior world. And in this
sense, the historic form closest to blogs is the diary."<br />
So if you're capable of having an hour long phone conversation with
a friend, you can blog. Think about that last conversation, break it
down into topics and you have blog posts. Forget the necessities of five
sentences to a paragraph or writing a six page paper that you learned
in High School. Write what you know. Write what you like. Write what you
enjoy and have fun with it.<br />
<i><b> <a href="http://whydoweblog.com/" target="_blank">Cathy Larken</a></b></i>
writes: "Ignore the editor within who might want to sneer, “no one
would read your writing.” That’s just the resistance that many writers
have to deal with rearing it’s ugly head. Laugh at it, make faces, give
it no power and it will get bored and go away."<br />
Do things your way. Spread knowledge. Nothing is too small to write
about if you are interested in it. You don't need to please anyone but
yourself.<br />
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Why do you blog? If not, why haven't you yet?<br />
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-44063653630575560162015-01-18T17:05:00.000-06:002015-01-22T10:26:14.243-06:00Life in Motion 3/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKyb_XYsYvxYa2rYwD4n6OSZqI8LQifOUwnWtBthXivxgA96BZcE1Glq5MZCnEz15aBdsv6CE6qgU_j-sJtVaXqnpHrRm3at5TMIZrLvq_SerWKIll1j41Ipowp1rriljJWGFqQTbmBYH/s1600/352.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKyb_XYsYvxYa2rYwD4n6OSZqI8LQifOUwnWtBthXivxgA96BZcE1Glq5MZCnEz15aBdsv6CE6qgU_j-sJtVaXqnpHrRm3at5TMIZrLvq_SerWKIll1j41Ipowp1rriljJWGFqQTbmBYH/s1600/352.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4-UHHXSQz1atqDbJY15-rgeSyxGcACgUYpZaJ6uBe_4RthXnvPAWr4YVR-AwfuiON_Zq-Xq_imrrQBJzAPdawMtAD4VAl21rF4hOyG_D5DGLdD3JQ-HUB1J5QwMfvEslQC74xTozVS0H/s1600/3523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4-UHHXSQz1atqDbJY15-rgeSyxGcACgUYpZaJ6uBe_4RthXnvPAWr4YVR-AwfuiON_Zq-Xq_imrrQBJzAPdawMtAD4VAl21rF4hOyG_D5DGLdD3JQ-HUB1J5QwMfvEslQC74xTozVS0H/s1600/3523.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
It's been a crazy, working week. Hubby worked seven days last week and signed up for eight in a row next week. I was scheduled for an additional 3 days. The boy's had to get up at 5 am a lot. Mr. Pre-teen turned 12 which included a balloon-filled room, trick candles and Chinese food.</div>
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Sunday is our only doing nothing day. Football and naps. I wanted a nap. Mr. Sunshine shared his cold with me. I caught up on laundry. The Man caught up on dishes and yelled at the television.</div>
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It is nice to have a do nothing day. I will miss the husband next week. I do not want to grow up and sleep without him. Overtime can suck my dick. Just because work equals money, doesn't mean I have to enjoy it. </div>
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<i><b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/01/352.html">Jodi</a></b></i><br />
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<i><b> </b> </i></div>
Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-74217037222820442952015-01-14T09:33:00.001-06:002015-01-14T09:33:15.094-06:00I Miss Food<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRYJH1zWC22DGXMpsOrLQmHpfkz3i_XjDIBk_vgacEMBWiIeU6dOyOJZzNB_lOmaffIazaHAwTGt1XNv3OzPdhygmVlDD2JkkkuFOgdfqGpRqJxlw9KnWEt6xE8i58pZuW9PurH9f-OSm/s1600/quote23.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpRYJH1zWC22DGXMpsOrLQmHpfkz3i_XjDIBk_vgacEMBWiIeU6dOyOJZzNB_lOmaffIazaHAwTGt1XNv3OzPdhygmVlDD2JkkkuFOgdfqGpRqJxlw9KnWEt6xE8i58pZuW9PurH9f-OSm/s1600/quote23.png" height="222" width="320" /></a></div>
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I really love this meme. Like a porn star and Viagra. Humptasic.<br />
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It also reminds me of food. Mmmm.....food (don't mind the drool).<br />
<br />
Back to January Whole30.<br />
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I decided during the whole festival of cookies (Turkey day through New Year's) that I should do another Whole30 in January. Technically, Whole30 is not a diet. Like I wrote previously, it's a food elimination/allergy plan. Was I still not happy with my weight? Yes. Was Whole30 going to fix that? I wanted it to. I also knew I was losing a little grip on my will power to say no to the sweets and "grazing" in the kitchen.<br />
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So January 1st, I meal planned and went shopping. (No coffee can make a person go insane, FYI.)<br />
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I made it till January 5th. No, it was not a New Year's resolution. I didn't fail. I came to a <b>realization</b>.<br />
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I didn't need another Whole30. I am in control of what goes into my mouth (hehe). And I know what shouldn't. I needed to use what I learned from the previous Whole30 and be satisfied.<br />
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Results (that aren't weight related):<br />
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1. I'm mildly allergic to peanuts. I have to wonder if my teenage skin angst years could be blamed on peanuts. My mom spent way too much on acne treatment. <br />
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2. Grains. Bad for me. Maybe good for you. They weigh me down like rice helps a Sumo wrestler. Not to mention, messing up my digestive track.<br />
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What I realize I need to do:<br />
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Read my labels. If I can't pronounce it, I shouldn't eat it.<br />
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I need to be aware that if I eat that whole container of cookies, I'm really not going to feel good afterwards. Even if it makes me feel a little better while eating them.<br />
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When I'm bored, I need to find something to do that is not food related. I need to eat like I'm at work all day, even when I'm not. I can't snack there, or stop to eat whenever I want. Stay at home parenting is a job in itself, so I need to treat it the same way.<br />
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I have to be an adult and eat some foods that are good for me, even if they don't taste wonderful. Not gagging foods, like sauerkraut or peas, but spinach, green beans and etc.<br />
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Lastly, I miss food. Plain plating it for two months was quite unappetizing. After the first month of no sugar or additives, I started tasting what food is supposed to taste like. Not that it's bad, but I missed ooey, gooey cheese covered things and water gets boring quickly. Plus, there are not that many recipes you can make when your food list is limited.<br />
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Honestly, I just missed food. I miss peanuts, too. I'm like that woman, who's allergic to shellfish, on the Dr. Doolittle movie. Some days, I want to hide out in the bathroom and eat the whole container of peanut butter. So if you're visiting, you'll know why I'm in the bathroom longer than a normal person.<br />
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<br />Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398738961444639112.post-31827434556551200692015-01-11T15:10:00.000-06:002015-01-12T23:51:12.095-06:00Life in Motion 2/52<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLBRA3_LxLUSqjRO75BZd4CSgBvcM7-9p4wEkhyphenhyphenemdv07fgQ_9g4bnzlfM3bHTedwGXWznixmeViEtLWjb3LNn0noq9GIPJm2Qgv5AxklKihhV7zJJE0OjoBygK_Ok6cYf3BUt6KODxJt/s1600/252again.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLBRA3_LxLUSqjRO75BZd4CSgBvcM7-9p4wEkhyphenhyphenemdv07fgQ_9g4bnzlfM3bHTedwGXWznixmeViEtLWjb3LNn0noq9GIPJm2Qgv5AxklKihhV7zJJE0OjoBygK_Ok6cYf3BUt6KODxJt/s1600/252again.jpg" height="360" width="660" /></a></div>
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<i>*A portrayal of life, in motion, once a week for 52 weeks* 2015</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Today was the first day in a week it was above 0 degrees and the wind non-existant. The snow wasn't packing right. No snowman. It did make great explosive snow balls, though. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Mr. Pre-teen turns 12 in five days. It is great to see him smile in pictures. I want to be able to remember that smile and it makes me feel like I'm doing something right. I'm not looking forward to him being a teenager. I miss the carefree days.</div>
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Mr. Sunshine is always smiling. He is literally our sunshine. </div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>thanking <a href="http://www.practisingsimplicity.com/2015/01/252.html">Jodi</a></b><br />
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Vaguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18337687506311719238noreply@blogger.com0