tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11197037402146626592024-03-12T22:26:33.687-05:00Petals of ZuzuSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-89166108883741106542020-03-27T15:38:00.000-05:002020-03-31T12:06:39.385-05:00Guardian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">We met as a happy accident.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Backyard breeding and puppies galore.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You’ll need a guardian,” was the rationale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes, that, too. But he has a sunshine soul.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Carmel, honey coat. Mane of gold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Scratchy whiskers, and magnificent tail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He’s a mutt, of no value, But this is the truth:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He’s the best dog I’ve had. When I see him, my heart bursts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">When we load up and drive away, he behaves as the keeper of our world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He sits quietly, but it’s a trick. For in time to pass the old cabin on our long gravel driveway–</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">*flash* a blur of fur darts past our vehicle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He’s running ahead, looking back with a grin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We live in the woods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That means he often brings me gruesome heads, hoofs and hides hunters discard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He is delighted with his discoveries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have to load the carnage to the dumpster every few months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once and only once he killed 3 chickens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We made him a collar of shame (body of one of the dead birds) to dissuade him from killing again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He wore his tribal attire with pride and pranced around until sunset.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He sleeps outside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He’s been sprayed by skunks and he killed and suffered greatly because of a porcupine father who was venturing through our woods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Coyotes stay away because of this great, gentle giant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sometimes when I get home late at night,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The stars shine their brilliant song into the dark, and</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He’ll lope his way over to me and use his back as an escort for my right hand</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">as I walk to our doorstep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">More times than I can count, as I breathe relief of home, I’ve thought, “He’s the best dog.”</span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-57660004684162935322020-03-26T12:33:00.000-05:002020-03-27T03:36:51.339-05:00March Twenty Twenty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We have all been sentenced a final call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This plague is not our Frankenstein's monster;</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">No product of man, </span></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">potioned by neglect.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But a season, cycle of existence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The fingers jut out remarkably fast.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Who’s fault is it anyway? cough.wash.cough.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Death moves closer by one second or ten.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Never immune. Forever marching on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bruised arms cradle those infants who will die.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Old men, too. Have we forgotten our creed:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Memento Mori</i>. Forgotten the grave?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The man who said, “Turn to the Holocaust…”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He was right. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Pain is an absolute. When buried deep–</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It will rumble to an atomic blow.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Same for raw fear, held tight in sweaty hands.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They feed on darkness and want. hide.take.cheat.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Shine bright with sun and truth. They disinfect.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The virus urges the sickness of self.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">More than fearsome malady of body. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As though we arrived here by sweat.toil.sweat.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">No, some are born to huts, mosquitoes, dirt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Some stockpile ramen, tissue paper,</span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Life-giving water, face masks: fire breathers. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But we are all just here. Where God plopped us.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Auspicious or challenged in our locales.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We each one gasp for air from the other. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">All determined to revel in this world. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh friend fear, fuel beauty and bravery! </span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Instead of your cloaked, clenched, foul stagnation.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If our bliss and safety aren’t held– fastened,</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fear’s subtle, treacherous voice pours poison,</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dreams grim. No visions for eternity.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The decadent choice is not hate or kin.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Condole fear. The planets aren’t stayed by grasp.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Steal joy from the panic and the rubble.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If death comes: our souls refuse confinement.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If death comes: a life explodes its refrain.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A hymn to be heard for a million years.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If cancer, plague, war, suicide, befall–</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Death is friend to the mender who absolves. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That frank tour guide– ever onwards and up.</span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-40303627368855355832017-11-02T19:02:00.000-05:002020-03-26T12:34:25.757-05:00tend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I'm not great with brevity. </div>
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We had our 1-year- post-placement visit a few weeks ago. I love our social worker. She's calming, inquisitive but not intrusive. Always encouraging.<br />
Harrison was a nervous wreck. Sometimes I don't think he is listening or that he doesn't understand what we are talking about when conversations about China come up. However, he always gets cuddly and quiet. He wouldn't talk to her, and curled up next to me during almost the entire visit. He typically has ZERO interest in talking about China, still refuses to speak in Mandarin, and seems to want with every fiber of his being–to move on from his former life. When I told our social worker that, she said it's actually pretty common. And, that we just need to keep that door open, because he will want to talk someday. I found that relieving. I know many families whose children keep in contact with friends and caregivers from their care centers, who take language lessons in their birth language, and so on...<br />
Things I want for my son.<br />
But, I feel like it's okay to let him become part of the family wholly in his mind,<br />
and wait for the day when he is more interested in his past and can trust that his past and present can coexist safely in our family.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>I still have panic attacks regularly. </i><br />
I started taking an aikido class with a friend. The sensei has a background in domestic violence work, and victim advocacy. He was going through the stages of losing consciousness and how victims typically react during strangulation. Before I knew it I was fighting a full blown panic attack just sitting and watching him explain the process. Racing heart. Sick to my stomach. Needing to run, right. now. Tears that turned into sobs before I could stop them. Left the room for a bit. Calmed down. Went back in. Super embarrassing! Ridiculous.<br />
But, the sensei was understanding and said I was free to leave and regroup anytime I got anxious. I don't even know <i>why </i>I was anxious.<br />
<br />
<b>So.</b><br />
My life is not going as planned. It's almost been a year, and I'm forced to at least consider this condition as my very unwelcome companion heading into the future. I desperately hope it goes away, <b>but sometimes searching for a cure is just as draining as the disease</b>. I will still probably talk to a therapist, it really helps with expectation management. I will still work on boundaries and guarding my heart.<br />
But, I can't let it define who I am and control <i>everything</i> I do.<br />
<br />
I'm learning a few things.<br />
<br />
This month for the first time since China,<br />
I've noticed that when I have an episode, I don't plunge into darkest despair during or afterwards. I don't feel as detached, or "depersonalized" (which is a really scary feeling). This month the really scary things didn't happen. I still felt incredibly sad. I still had those thoughts dancing in the back of my mind. But for some reason...they didn't take over. I know those feelings of detachment will likely come again, but I have hope of relief and...hope.<br />
<br />
<em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans'; font-size: 16px; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">"A man cannot discover anything about his future" Ecclesiastes 7:14</em><br />
<br />
Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've had this thought in my head all month. I can't quite say why it's helped.<br />
It's the thought that God created me for obedience, and work, and fellowship...but most of all he created me to delight in me, and for me to delight in <i>his </i>creations. And in him, of course.<br />
This is really hard for my works-oriented, legalistic, shame-filled heart to accept.<br />
Let me EARN your love.<br />
Let me PROVE my worth.<br />
Let me do one. more. thing.<br />
<br />
I'm SO motivated by projects and what's<span style="font-size: large;"> next and next and next </span>that I <i>have </i>to, I <i>must</i> move to the next tier of accomplishment.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And, <i>that</i> often creates this terror that I just might be on the wrong path and it's all for naught.</span><br />
<br />
However, Adam and Eve tended a <i>garden</i>.<br />
And, it was enough.<br />
Jesus made cabinets and ate with sinners, and it was <i>enough.</i><br />
(And, of course died for the world to know true love, but he was complete even before that.)<br />
<br />
A good friend of mine was talking about how sometimes she will look at kitchens on Pinterest and say, "I hope that is in my home in heaven, Jesus."<br />
<br />
It struck me as the most ridiculous, silly...and then <b>profoundly</b> beautiful thought for a person to trust God with even their most homey earthly desires. I couldn't stop thinking about her child-like faith in God's provision of what was beautiful to <i>her!</i> And while I don't want to live my life for the fulfillment of apple-pie-American dreams–what if I really could trust him with tending to the desires of my heart in even the smallest ways? Did he not create the teeniest of flowers to bring joy? Did he not make my babies soft, squishy, in love with mama, and bathed in just a little bit of heaven to make my heart strong enough for the days or maybe minutes ahead?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Last month I was going through Genesis because I was wanting to know why the hell God made marriage in the first place. It sometimes seems it was so disregarded by people in the bible, and is just as difficult a concept to grasp by modern day men and women. Something that multiple people mentioned when I would talk about Genesis, was this idea that our job in life is <i>to tend</i>. Not so much <b>arrive</b>. We pick up laundry. We nurture each other's hearts with fellowship and food. We hold our children. We mow our laws, even though the grass will grow back. We clean our animal stalls though they fill up before we can bat an eye. We fold laundry some more. Clean pee off toilets and maybe bathroom walls. We suffer. We will most definitely have pain. We fight it. But we can't avoid it.<br />
We take away the weeds.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">And...they all come back.</span><br />
And, if you think about the end game: <i>it all seems pointless</i>. You raise up children, and forgo sleep for decades, carefully pick out dresses, and bb guns, search for their favorite books, movies or videos games, make their favorite meals, and <b>one day</b> they scream that they hate you because you took away their iPod.<br />
<br />
Or perhaps balk at their latest chore the morning after you helped them into the wee hours of the night with their homework, or after you had, "family pizza night" and had carefully planned the perfect movie that all 10 people in your family would actually like, baked homemade pizza, and cleaned stray popcorn from all corners of the living room. (This is all theoretical of course.) You spend hours cuddling with your trauma kids, you try to remember there is a foundation to lay, lost time to make up, you say you love them every. single. night., you cross oceans and spend mountains of money and wouldn't hesitate to spend mountains more, maybe even beg, borrow to bring them home, and you worry and stress and are downright terrified of their pain at times. And, then just when you think you've healed every corner of their hearts–they tell you they wish they didn't have a mommy and daddy. Or that they wish so and so had adopted them instead. Because, after all, aren't they a commodity to be traded or laid aside at will? <span style="font-size: large;">And, why can't they be involved in this transaction? </span>And, you realize you are totally 100% unable to be a healer without The Healer, and it's not YOUR fault things didn't work out in their first families, and it's not THEIR fault they are still angry or sad or confused, and... your life is going to be <i>messy</i> <b><span style="font-size: large;">forever</span></b>.<br />
FOR-EV-VER.<br />
And, even if you had no children. Or married someone else. Or adopted 10 or adopted 1, or earned a doctorate degree, or won a Nobel Prize: <i>we are all in the same quandary, and our lives are all messy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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And we tend. And we tend. And we tend. And we tend. We go to work. We do our homework. We go to our meetings. We visit the sick. We have uncomfortable conversations with friends or family.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">And it's all for naught.</span><br />
<br />
Unless their can be some kind of joy in the being. Just being. Some kind of gratitude in our consumption of space on this planet, in this century, in this moment–today, with these other flawed people, in these short-tall-fat-skinny- imperfect, yet glorious bodies...<b>and with all the tragedies attached to our very existence.</b><br />
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So basically all the clichès about enjoying the journey not the destination.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But it's struck me hard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>No one</b> can<i> tell</i> you to be </span>grateful. Or to feel wonder.<br />
Or to, "stop worrying."<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Or to live after death has stolen something precious</span>. <br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or to trust and hope after the world has revealed it's insidous mutiny. </span><b>You have to wander the wilderness, wrestle with dark scary beasts with <i>real</i> fangs and claws, <i>and open your crusted, bleary eyes to it yourself.</i></b><br />
<br />
I tend my heart, because just like a garden, the weeds will come. The sin and despair will come and try to entangle around everything that is precious.<br />
<br />
The weeds come back, but we know the end story.<br />
It ends in victory.<br />
<br />
And despite what I felt during these past 12 months or so...I KNOW, know, <b>know</b> that there is beauty and joy to be had. Relationships to delight in. Sunsets to see. Creeks to listen to. Fresh air to smell. Strangers to meet and call friends. Babies to snuggle. Coffee to cup in my hands. Truths to learn. Love to know. I am surprised by joy lately (to steal a very good phrase). I really thought I might not ever feel it again. And, here it is...peeking out.<br />
<br />
I have so much pride in being capable.<br />
And bursting into tears and shallow breathing with snot-bubbles in front of strangers is the surest way to feel like you are not so capable. But, that's just it. It's pride.<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Suffering isn't exactly a new human condition:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">I have had enough Lord, he said. Take my life, I am not better than my ancestors. </span><span style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: black; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none;">1 Kings 19:4</span></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">Now O Lord, take away my life, for it is better for me to die than to live. </span><span style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: black; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none;">Jonah 4:3</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Why did I not perish at birth, and die as I came from the womb?</span> Job 3:11</span></blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;">I have no peace, no quietness, I have no rest, but only turmoil.</span><span style="color: #333333;"> </span><span style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Job 3:26</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">I loathe my very life, therefore I will give free rein to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul. </span>Job 10:1</span></blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">Terrors overwhelm me…my life ebbs away, days of suffering grip me. Night pierces my bones, my gnawing pains never rest. </span>Job 30:15-17</span></blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;">Cursed be the day I was born…why did I ever come out of the womb to see trouble and sorrow and to end my days in shame?</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"> </span><span style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Jer. 20:14</span><span style="background-color: white;">,</span><span style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">18</span></span></blockquote>
__________________________________<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hid their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Isaiah 53:3 </span></blockquote>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">And He said to them, 'My soul is deeply grieved to the point of death; remain here and keep watch.' And He went a little beyond them, and fell to the ground and began to pray that if it were possible, the hour might pass Him by. And He was saying, "Abba! Father! All things are possible for You; remove this cup from Me; yet not what I will, but what You will."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Mark 14:34-36</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"> </span>Psalm 34:18</span><br />
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<br />
<br />
When I start having a tsunami of soul-emptying thoughts hijack my brain, I've taken SO much comfort in telling myself to just, "...tend you garden." Who knows what will happen? <i>Just tend to today and leave the turmoil that comes tomorrow alone.</i><br />
There is honor and satisfaction to be had in menial tasks and joy in seeking beauty. <br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">From the looney bin on the mountain.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-51981156397630232722017-01-10T17:03:00.002-06:002018-11-04T20:50:35.700-06:00my portion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>October 16, 2016</i></b></span><br />
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I am writing hunched over in the shadows. </div>
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Sleeping babes next to me.</div>
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The moon is a spotlight, dazzling, radiant, outside my window.</div>
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<b>I notice the moon, I pay attention to it.</b></div>
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<i>It's light in the darkness.</i></div>
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One of my three-year-olds says, "Mom! The circle moon is back!!! I see it. It sees me."</div>
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I have a new son. He is smart, tender, funny, sweet. When he cries, it fills me with fear. </div>
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I try not to be afraid of his grief.</div>
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I pull him close and pray for gentleness when I want to run.</div>
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Sometimes I am grumpy and tense and not gentle at all.</div>
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But I try. I keep trying.</div>
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It's draining to fight your inadequacies and imperfection and gear up for battle anyway. </div>
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To say, "I am his mother. I am all he has and it has to be good enough."</div>
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I rub his head while I talk and he acts as though he hasn't been comforted in a long, long time.</div>
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It's probably true.</div>
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Who has noticed this little boy? Who has loved him?</div>
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Sometimes he soaks it up like a kitten.</div>
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Sometimes he is shut down and resigned to his loneliness. </div>
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<i>He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.</i></div>
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I know soon he will start understanding he isn't alone.</div>
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He smiles more every. single. day.</div>
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<b>He is awakening to life.</b></div>
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It's beautiful to watch.</div>
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But...when he is throwing a fit, or one of the twins is crying (or both!), or when anyone is sad: it's hard not to panic. It feels like my heart is already overflowing, and I'm not sure how much sadness it can hold.</div>
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I want to be brave enough to write or talk about our time in China. I get sick to my stomach when I think about it. I have let our last bit of packed odds and ends sit in purses and backpacks for months. <b>I <i>hate</i> the smell of jasmine. </b></div>
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One moment I find myself herding children and animals through fairgrounds, dusty and full. Squeezing and squeezing and squeezing down the grip of terror in my neck. The constant awareness of the clip-clopping of my heart that speeds up to a gallop and never seems to slow down. Ignoring the fire and tumult in my belly. Mechanical smiles. Holding hands. Putting kids in cars seats. Just get through. <i><span style="font-size: large;">There’s no way out but through.</span></i></div>
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The next moment I am sitting on the ground in the Walmart parking lot. Sobbing and sobbing and sobbing: feeling like this can’t go on. <span style="font-size: large;"><i>I can’t get through</i>.</span> I go to a room in a hospital with no personal belongings; I’m handed paper scrubs<b>. I'm very embarrassed that it has come to this. </b>One of my younger brothers is making small talk, and sitting next to me, swinging his legs. Kind and gentle. The nurse is nice and knows me from my many trips to the E.R. with one child or the other. Then I talk to the social worker and we make a, "safety plan."<br />
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She tells me I am lucky to have so many supportive family members. I agree.</div>
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I was not making <span style="font-size: x-small;">plans</span> for something permanent. But when your mind, body, heart are all pain, and the pain doesn't go away...you think things you never thought you would think. I am <i>so</i> tired. It is a terrifying feeling to feel like you are cracking and may not be put back together. <b>Tired of the mutiny of my body and mind. </b>Tired of the sadness that follows the days of jittery, anxious, terror-filled hours. It's a sad thing to have life not turn out how you planned– to not be as strong, or good, or kind or capable as you thought. To not have a body that's as healthy as you expected it to be. But, it's a<i> normal </i>thing, and that's what I am wrapping my brain around now.<br />
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My soul is exhausted for searching for hope. God has never felt so far away.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I see him all around. </span>But I can't feel him. I'm trying to honor him. To praise him.<br />
I know he is good.</div>
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My body hurts. My mind doesn’t feel the same as before.</div>
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"Why won't you take this?"</div>
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"When will it stop?"</div>
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"It's too much, Lord. You ask too much."</div>
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Paul said his thorn in the flesh was left lest he become prideful. That thought keeps ringing in my heart. Maybe I have been prideful. I <i>know</i> I have. I am gaining empathy and understanding that I never wanted, but that I'm thankful for. I truly didn't understand heartache and anguish before.<br />
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I go to my counselor. I go to a prescriber. </div>
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<b>I even talk to our adoption agency...the scariest thing of all. </b>It all takes <i>time.</i> </div>
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There's no magic with things like this. Everything seems louder now. Music can be just noise.</div>
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Life can be just noise. There's a lot of little people touching me. It feels like I have three toddlers who have BIG love tanks in need of filling. They need me. It overwhelms me. Because I forget that they need God and other humans, too.<br />
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That I’m not the only commodity that is able to provide. </div>
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It seems as though my heart never stops racing. My stomach hurts ALL the time. It pisses me off every time I notice the burning above my belly button. Sometimes I throw up after all the kids are tucked in and sleeping. I want to be around people I love and never leave. <b>I dread waiting for night to come. Evening and nighttime are so hard for me. </b> I'll do almost anything to put off that feeling of waiting. Waiting for something bad to happen. For a call from a doctor or a family member that something terrible has happened. A cough from a little one that means a week or a month in the hospital. A fever. A rash. An accident. I am expectant of all the hard things.<br />
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I have the most responsibility I've ever had, yet I’m totally the most needy and vulnerable.<br />
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I cry.</div>
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A lot.</div>
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I cry on the way into town.</div>
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I cry on the way back home.</div>
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I cry when I listen to happy music.</div>
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I cry when I listen to sad music.</div>
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I sob in church.</div>
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I can't stop.</div>
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My kids ask me, "You okay, mom?"</div>
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I joke and say, "Oh, yes. It's just my 2 o'clock crying time."</div>
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My older brother says sobbing is just God's way of <i><b>making you grieve</b></i>.</div>
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But what am I grieving? <span style="font-size: large;">Being alive</span>? Why NOW, and not before when the hurt was happening?</div>
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It's like all the sad and scary things in human existence hit me. Like I wasn't really paying attention before.</div>
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My older brother is an angel.</div>
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He tells me things like, "It's just your mind f***ing with you, Sarah. But, that's okay, we're all f***ed-up." </div>
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"Breathe. Go on walks to breathe—not to run away. " </div>
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"Touch something real. Tell yourself all the real things." </div>
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"You aren't alone.” </div>
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I tell him I'm afraid of the devil. I'm afraid of everything, but most afraid of that dark thing. He says, "No sh*t Sherlock. What <i>else</i> <span style="font-size: large;">is</span> there to afraid of?"</div>
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My younger brother, who knows grief so well. <b>He tells me not to give God ultimatums. </b></div>
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Just ask him to get you through today.</div>
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And today. </div>
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And today.</div>
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I find myself telling people <i>I'm not okay</i>. </div>
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Blurting it out on the soccer field. </div>
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Crying in front of strangers.</div>
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I see an acquaintance at Starbucks and when she asks me how I’m doing I say, “Oh. Not good. Not good. Have you ever been depressed?!” Just like that. Very awkward.</div>
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When I'm weepy, I feel like I have slain so many dragons alone. The deployment. The babies. This last trip. There’s that pride. It’s not true. But that's how it <i>feels. </i> <b>Lonely.</b> I'm so done. I hate being alone. <span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I never want to be alone again</span>. (Said the woman who bore or crossed oceans for eight children. ha!)</div>
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I text people and ask for prayer. They all say, "Call anytime. We are here for you."</div>
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Some of the most precious gifts I’ve ever been given, are now texts. Texts that people sent while I was in China. Texts that they’ve sent recently. People boldly pushing past the awkwardness of texting someone they may not even know very well, to say, “We’re thinking of you," or “Praying for you today,” or "Here’s a poem that made me think of you.”<br />
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That all feels like love to me. </div>
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I feel embarrassed and guilty.<br />
Shame.</div>
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<b>But I shove those feelings away because I want to get better. </b></div>
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And...I can't do it by myself.</div>
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When it feels really dark and scary inside my soul, and Jason is working out of town, I've called my mom or dad. </div>
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"I'm having a hard time. Can you come sit with me?"</div>
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Always, "I'll be right over."</div>
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Hours into the night. </div>
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My mom read scripture and played lullaby music. </div>
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I eventually stop shivering and relax. </div>
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My dad came over and I watch the meteor shower through his car windows. He speaks truth and makes plans with me. I like plans. "Do all the hard things in the morning," he says. </div>
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With this: my husband has nothing but grace, grace, grace and healing for me. He never judges me. </div>
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He <i>knows</i> what it's like.</div>
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Some<i> </i>have said, “Don't worrying so much." Or, "You need to take control of your thoughts." Why didn't I think of that!? I honestly pray that they never have to <i>know </i>what this feels like. And, that it's not so much your thoughts that are rebelling with panic attacks or PTSD or things like that. Although they are, too. It’s your body. Your body is <b>remembering</b> the wrong things. Your body is afraid of the wrong things. Your body is telling you, "RUN!!!" Your body is telling you, "YOU <u>WILL</u> DIE.” And, the trigger might be a smell, a sound, a feeling, a sunset, or something <i>that you aren't even registering.</i> Many, many times, I don't even realize I'm thinking a scary thought, before my body starts<i> telling</i> me I'm thinking it. Many, many times I have anxiety attacks as I'm falling asleep; it's a cruel, cruel irony that when I am most tired and most needing sleep–my body is afraid to give it to me. I think somewhere deep down, I think that someone will die or something terrible will happen if I fall asleep at that moment. So fight or flight kicks in at 11:30 at night...and it's just as fun as it sounds.</div>
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It would be nice if you could just say, "Hey body (and Amygdala). Remember me? I'm the prefrontal cortex. Can we have a talk?" </div>
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My body doesn't listen for awhile at least. I feel like I am going to die, or would rather die than crawl out of my skin for one more minute. It feels like an invasion. It takes anywhere from 2 hours to 8 hours (or days and days when I was in China!) until my body really believes I'm safe. Sometimes a hug, or a walk make everything okay.</div>
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Sometimes I just freak out no matter what. </div>
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<b>It just runs its course and leaves me in ruins in its wake.</b></div>
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<i>So we go one more day and one more day, and wait for joy and dancing.</i></div>
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I look for my portion around me, and in God's words and his people.</div>
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<br />
He prepares a banquet for me. I know it is coming. Better is <b>one</b> day in his courts than thousands elsewhere. I'm banking on that. I'm learning to play the long game. I'm growing up I hope.</div>
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Also. I look for ways to be hands and feet, too. Sometimes I am little and selfish and I hide. Other times I realize there is no point to any of this if it doesn't bring good into the world <b style="font-style: italic;">somehow. </b>Is it possible to bring glory to God in so weak a vessel? <br />
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There’s no way to repay all the goodness or badness in the world. </div>
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We just have to look in our circle and find the broken hearts, find joy, search for the God of the universe and let him speak. And be brave.<br />
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Very, very brave. </div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-20392986174231615302016-04-18T14:56:00.000-05:002019-03-25T18:37:36.286-05:00Adoption again <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
It took me awhile to get here. </div>
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My blog was so covered in dust and ivy—it took some finagling to dislodge the magic keys that connect to the world wide web. It's been awhile. </div>
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But here I am.</div>
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And, I want to talk to you about our second adoption.</div>
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But when I think about telling you, it's hard to find a good place to start.</div>
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Before we moved back to Eastern Oregon in 2012, we were already planning our second adoption. We had called our agency. We had hopes of adopting through Ethiopia again. As time moved along, it became less and less likely that that would happen. Adoptions were barely moving through the system anymore.</div>
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About that time—we got a call from a social worker in another state asking if we would be willing to care for the child of a distant relative. We stopped our process through Holt, and started working with said social worker.</div>
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Then she stopped calling.</div>
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We left messages.</div>
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We called...often.</div>
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The social worker never got back with us.</div>
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I assume that the parents eventually gained custody and that's why we weren't called. But, it was weird. It was hard. We had made a place in our hearts for this kid. It had put a stop in our international adoption, and now that we were getting ready to move we decided to start the process when we were settled in Oregon.</div>
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<table 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/AVvXsEhA6-k4exxGXexJcX32Kcbc6Lk2ftZUraH2RGF5R_RSZiumdO0BImxNy7u4diIHqaFfzfz0rH1Mipb4TgPDm0X46JJa2gw3iuTIpzBhYywU2Y1_DmHuE5aCFKWBYBzTRGS5KwlfNQWEO04/s1600/IMG_5168_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6-k4exxGXexJcX32Kcbc6Lk2ftZUraH2RGF5R_RSZiumdO0BImxNy7u4diIHqaFfzfz0rH1Mipb4TgPDm0X46JJa2gw3iuTIpzBhYywU2Y1_DmHuE5aCFKWBYBzTRGS5KwlfNQWEO04/s320/IMG_5168_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Durame back in 2010</td></tr>
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When we got to Oregon, I was still set on Ethiopia, but the doors were closed.<br />
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We started the process with our agency again, in January of 2013 found out we were pregnant with twins.</div>
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I have to believe that all of this matters. And, that there is a reason for derailment.<br />
Oh how I love these girls!<br />
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<span id="goog_550951634"></span><span id="goog_550951635"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-sHRwbN25bTxm0x4XZqcFIqknJKqVBX_f3EHAB-U6IC49-F4xYeePa-CWEoq61TwMMhoZcjUl2Ed75ZNQPmKyMqKXn1eDdDbT1GIVFH9m4yof6E0vIAGzhyphenhyphenSPa6W47CUJ57ecnRSNbU/s1600/DSC_0513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-sHRwbN25bTxm0x4XZqcFIqknJKqVBX_f3EHAB-U6IC49-F4xYeePa-CWEoq61TwMMhoZcjUl2Ed75ZNQPmKyMqKXn1eDdDbT1GIVFH9m4yof6E0vIAGzhyphenhyphenSPa6W47CUJ57ecnRSNbU/s320/DSC_0513.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silly Roosevelt and Serious Monroe.</td></tr>
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<br />
Fast forward through lots of heartache and joy. One of the many things I came away with from my time in the NICU with my girls...was a strong desire to adopt a child with special needs. There had been a few precious babies with special needs that roomed with my girls. One of the babies went through quite a large portion of their time with very, very few visitors. </div>
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It was heartbreaking.</div>
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We started to dip our toes back into the process again in January last year. Because we are weird and wanted to keep up our odd year birthdays with our kids—I started searching for kids born in 2011. That was it. Harrison was the first picture on the waiting child list with a birth year of 2011.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmK4IJMCG7auhUm9gMVmYmv2zBckDnM7MMjsA9H8mRtkAoy3P5K-xAhMXVzi0v4G6T10f82KW79HZ9RwqWZOvTKzOmuup4BlCd_n5JT1pVyDmyUc07j7sKFPSPV36mfMUC9eVf_OLGgWQ/s1600/Shao+Zhi+Chao_Nov.+14%252C+2014+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmK4IJMCG7auhUm9gMVmYmv2zBckDnM7MMjsA9H8mRtkAoy3P5K-xAhMXVzi0v4G6T10f82KW79HZ9RwqWZOvTKzOmuup4BlCd_n5JT1pVyDmyUc07j7sKFPSPV36mfMUC9eVf_OLGgWQ/s320/Shao+Zhi+Chao_Nov.+14%252C+2014+%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harrison in Fuzhou</td></tr>
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I know that sounds terrible. It is. I much prefer getting a referral call and just knowing that whatever name your agency utters from the other end...the answer will be, "Yes. Yes, I'll take him!"</div>
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I have a strong repulsion for shopping for kids online like they are commodity...but I realize they have often become just that. And, this is the world we live in today.</div>
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So, I typed in "2011" clicked on the little sweet face on the screen, and my heart said,<br />
"Go." "Do it." "Fight for this kid."</div>
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When I called Holt, I was expecting to shoot the breeze for a few months. While we hadn't wanted to "shop," the process was different than before. There was so much urgency this time around. When I asked for his information, they told me he was about to time out of their system, and we needed to <i>move</i> if we wanted to pursue him.</div>
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Yes. We wanted to pursue him. Of course.</div>
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So January and February were a flurry of emails, calls, back-and-froths with a doctor at Doernbecher's in Portland, who was helping us better understand his medical condition, and then before we knew it about this time last year we had a completed home study. Everything felt backwards in those beginning days.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We've knocked out fingerprinting, compiled birth certificates, marriage certificates, local and federal criminal background checks, bank letters, reference letters, physical exams and labs, wrote engrossing autobiographies, watched a dozen hours of online parenting classes, our poor social worker endured a home study visit that involved spontaneous puking from more than one of our children (she was a champ), we've visited our accountant a bazillion times to have documents notarized, read way too many emails or not read too many emails and had to embarrassingly admit I wasn't keeping track of important adoption correspondence.</span><br />
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And now, in a few short months, we will bring home our son.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-40549436296613115422012-11-19T20:34:00.001-06:002012-11-19T20:34:17.512-06:00enough time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today is Lincoln's eleventh birthday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I should say that, "time flies," and wasn't it <i>just</i> yesterday that I labored this plump little eskimo baby into the world? One hour and forty-five minutes in all. From turkey dinner to baby. Jason didn't even make it to the delivery. Our midwife had 15 minutes to spare. Or wasn't it <i>just</i> yesterday that I was: rocking him to sleep, going on late-night drives to get him to sleep, <i>walking up and down and up and down</i> the hallway in our apartment to get him to sleep, nursing him to sleep, singing him <i>to sleep</i>. (Please baby--sleep!) Cleaning baby throw up. Smelling like sour milk. Waking to his gummy, drooly, s0-hapy-to-be-here smile <b>every</b> morning. Getting him to giggle for the first time. Letting my younger brother feed him ice cream and sour cream alternately--watching him shiver and pucker with the sour cream, but innocently asking for more. Blowing raspberries on his belly. Worrying over his first fever. Fighting over who changed his next diaper. Listening to him wail during the four-hour drive back and forth between Portland and eastern Oregon. Tickling his rolly, soft neck. Listening to him say his first words: ball, Booth (our dog) and dada. Falling asleep with him in our bed, with one little leg and one little arm draped over my huge pregnant belly (hello Jack!). Sometimes feeling totally claustrophobic when his body would </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">marsupial-cling</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> to me, heart thumping against mine, sweaty, sleeping head on my neck--and yet feeling in my gut and bones that this was one of the most important things I would ever do. Watching him sleep. <i>Watching him sleep--</i> long eyelashes touching his round chipmunk cheeks, floppy ears getting squished and red, chubby hands twitching and unclenched, belly full and perfect. Every day filled to the brink with our love, frustration, surprise, </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">weariness and delight over our firstborn son. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...it <i>does</i> feel like yesterday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, with every day that goes by, and every birthday that he gets to check off as a milestone in his life. I'm a mess. I am aware. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ideally?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I know he is going to grow up and leave our home. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With every milestone there is a grumbling of sadness. I know that this is part of life. I <i>do</i> want to raise a son who is not afraid of standing alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jason laughed at me when I cried in our bed after Lincoln's second birthday. "<i>It's going too fast!</i>" He didn't understand. He was so excited with every marker in time. "<i>One step closer to manhood!</i>" </span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then we had our first daughter</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now, he clenches his jaw when we talk about having teenage girls. Now, he grieves when our girls grow through another shoe size. Now, he feels time passing with a tiny bit of pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Consequently, I've been thinking about time a lot lately. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Instead of, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is your life, it's ending one minute at a time</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. "</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i> (</i></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chuck Palahniuk</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">.)</span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm trying to remember this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That in Christ, urgent means slow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That in Christ, the most urgent necessitates a slow and steady reverence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That in Christ,<b> time is not running out. </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">This day is not a sieve, losing time</i><b>.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>In Christ, we fill – <i>gaining time</i>.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>We stand on the brink of eternity.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>So there is enough time.</b>"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">( Ann Voskamp.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is enough time for our children to grow older. There is enough time for their mistakes and mine. There is enough time to be slow. There is enough time to enjoy. There is enough time for him to turn eleven, to sigh and slurp up who he is today, and be fiercely and determinedly loyal to who he will be tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 21px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"So I am proud only of those days that we pass in undivided</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>tenderness,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>when you sit drawing, or making books, stapled, with</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>messages to the world...</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>or coloring a man with fire coming out of his hair.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Or we sit at a table, with small tea carefully poured;</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">so we pass our time together, calm and delighted.</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">"</span><i style="font-size: small;"> </i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px;"><i>My Son Noah, Ten Years Old </i> by, Robert Bly.</span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-19714066804509622472012-11-05T14:50:00.000-06:002017-01-16T18:04:02.944-06:00Ruth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fifteen years ago, in the very beginning of the day, in a room crowded with pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, diapers, wipes, bottles, cozy soft baby clothes, sleeping, messy-haired, drowsy, weepy, expectant brothers and sisters, one beautiful, tiny, snoozing infant twin boy, and two beyond exhausted, loving, shattered and grieving parents–we said goodbye to the tiniest members of our family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There was a crystallization of the intrinsic value of human life<i>.</i> Holding her. Experiencing her. Smelling her new baby smell, feeling her heart beat against my palm, her ribs expanding oh-just-slightly as she inhaled and exhaled– lungs and diaphragm working with each breath, touching her soft, translucent cheeks. Watching my parents rock her and will a longer life into her veins. Holding her adorable, tiny, tiny bottom in one hand, and her back in the other, the way you do with all babies. Looking in her eyes and wanting more than anything for her to understand one thing in that moment. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><i>That she was loved</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cherished. Precious. <b>Known</b>. Seeing her entry and exit in the world. Ruth, with her pale, pale skin. Her sweet, quiet voice. Her broken heart. Her light-as-air frame. Her incredibly delicate, long arms, legs, fingers and toes. Her little rosebud mouth. Her tiny elf ears. Her funny, sparse, sticking-up-all-over, dark hair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It has never been more obvious that behind all our randomly joining, "complex as a baked potato" cells and biological coincidences–that there is a process, a purpose, something more that far exceeds our knowledge of conception, embryonic development and personhood. So much so–that even when our definition of what is valuable or needed in the world, is so woefully not met. When someone is born broken or seemingly useless to society. Oh-such-a-burden. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That, when we are forced stop, see, experience, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">know</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> that person; we cannot help but be silenced by our arrogance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Cannot help but be quiet, quiet in awe. </span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-86855919206858081282012-03-25T18:46:00.000-05:002019-03-25T18:47:50.531-05:00demon coffee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I may be responsible for single-handedly keeping Starbucks in business since January of 2009.</div>
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I'm not sure how they are going to keep afloat when my husband is home more often and I have more than the voices in my head justifying four-dollar coffees. <i>Who</i> buys those expensive caramel-ball thingies? I do. Who buys a six to twelve-dollar mug every Christmas? I do! Holiday CD? (Remember those?) Yup. Kid's traveling mugs? </div>
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Totally necessary.</div>
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Don't think I don't feel guilty. </div>
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I've added up the numbers a few times. </div>
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It makes my stomach clench.<br />
And that makes me sad.</div>
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So sad in fact, that I feel the need for a warm delightful, </div>
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frothy, with-notes-of-smooth-cedary-caramelly-goodness, coffee. </div>
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Tired? Get a latte. (That one's obvious.) </div>
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Feeling fat? Try the morning bun. </div>
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Feeling fat? Try a, "skinny" anything. </div>
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Feeling <b>fat</b>? Indulge in the 500 calorie pastries, but <i>promise </i>yourself that it's the last time.</div>
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Tight on cash? Aren't we all? Skip buying gas instead. Man <i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">can</span> </i>live on high-calorie coffee drinks alone.</div>
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Sick of other people railing about American excess? Get a macchiato, AND a bottled water. Five pennies out of that two-dollar purchase will go to help others have clean drinking water.</div>
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(That's like, half a dime! Or one-twentieth of a dollar!) </div>
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On a road trip with five children? Starbucks has the cleanest bathrooms around.</div>
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(Really. They do. Across America, their bathrooms win. Hands down.)</div>
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Been home all week with said five children and need to get out, but don't want to get <i>them</i> out?<br />
Two words: drive thru.</div>
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Need some atmosphere? You know where to go. Who else has those cute little worn-wood stools, factory lighting, rad music, and brightly colored poster art of Africa and other countries? </div>
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Want to treat the kids? The cake pops are only $1.50 apiece, and the boxed chocolate milk is ORGANIC. </div>
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(For me, that's only around $17 in treats for the kids. A steal.) </div>
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Craving humiliation? Take way too long perusing the menu, and then try confidently explaining that you want a 16- ounce specialty-whatever-drink in Starbuck's speak.<br />
Like watching awkward interactions? Watch your husband or father order.<br />
It's the best.</div>
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Then, once <b>you</b> know how to order<i> everything</i> on the menu--just the way you like it; go to the nearest wall and bang your head on it for spending so much of your life flirting with the biggest, baddest, succubus in coffee culture today.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">I mean the coffee kind of succubus. Not the sexy-time kind.</span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-2363301450475905922012-02-12T22:01:00.000-06:002012-02-12T22:01:21.782-06:00Nine Years<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of doing the unexpected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of thinking outside the box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of watching him discover.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of worrying about his safety. (!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Nine years of his ridiculous camera smiles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of<i> me</i> having to think outside the box to understand him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of honor in being called <i>his</i> mom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Nine years of adventure in experiencing my life <i>with</i> him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> Nine years.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-56244835129053258232012-02-12T12:01:00.000-06:002012-02-12T12:01:23.688-06:00Authentic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've had a hard time writing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There are so many things I wanted to write about.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I knew that this time in my life was special.</span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So much change.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Instead, I've spent most of my time like someone who's been spun around--twirled 'til they're sick. I want to write down my interpretations of this or that. <i>But, I'm still waiting for the room to stop moving <b>so I can see</b>.</i> Family life. Home schooling. Adoption. Military life. My understanding of God. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">They're all Changing.</span></div>
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I find myself writing posts and never posting them.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sometimes I don't like what I see in myself.</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't like that there is not one easy truth in life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Except for Jesus. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everything changes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Everyone changes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Blogging can be troubling in more than one way.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Seeing how poor my writing is? D<i>efinitely</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Seeing the error in my thoughts, my beliefs, things that are close to my heart? </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Even worse.</span></b></span></div>
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That's the <b>thrill</b> <i>and </i>the drawback to writing anything that is even remotely from a guarded place in your heart. It's scary.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">We grow, we change, we make mistakes, we're horrid, we're kind, we grow...we change...we make mistakes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a new level of respect for the people who choose to document that process.</span></div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-51157578130986034372012-01-07T21:51:00.002-06:002012-01-07T21:53:50.248-06:00Play the guitar Reagan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Some days you just don't want to play air guitar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">I can't stop watching this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">Grant is okay. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">He has a bruise under his armpit but it won't hinder his dreams of being band leader.</span></div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-10452721409647454612011-10-28T12:26:00.003-05:002011-10-28T12:30:42.375-05:00Here's to...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Flowers from strangers. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I ended up having surgery just before Jason came home. Another soldier's parents sent me flowers.<b> </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Who does that?</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">First day home. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Fighting over his lap.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">First day back at work. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I woke up in the middle of the night to help a crying kid. I couldn't stop laughing that he'd written a reminder to himself to <i>put toast on the plate</i> for breakfast.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">To really be able to say,</span> <i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth..."</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Kids not fighting, and saying, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Take a picture of me, too!"</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Not needing pants to be cool.</span></div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-71283195361375673702011-10-18T12:24:00.003-05:002011-10-18T12:35:43.915-05:00Simple<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last year we jumped off our deployment cliff.</div>
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Now 4-10 soldiers (4th Brigade 10th Mountain Division) are coming home.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Thousands of them.</b></span></div>
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I get a big stupid smile on my face every time I hear that a friend's husband has come home. That kids are hugging their moms or dads for the first time in months and months <i>and months</i>. That mothers who waited for so long, can cup their grown son's or daughter's face. Kiss their cheeks. Feed them and try to make up for lost time in calories. That fathers can shake hands and say things like, "I'm proud of you son" or "I knew <i>my</i> daughter would do well." That spouses can hold the one who left that cold, empty place in bed. That the ones with children of their own can feel those precious little bodies against their hearts. Feel the whispers of, "<i>I missed you dad</i> " against their necks. Wrestle with their offspring on the floor. Learn the names of dolls. See pictures that were drawn just for them. Enjoy the <i><b>presence</b></i> of the people who matter most.<br />
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<b>-</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Some Fort Polk soldiers have headed out for deployments elsewhere.</b></span></div>
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Some families are being made complete.</div>
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Some have just separated.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Not all soldiers made it home.</b></span></div>
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Some families will never be complete again.</div>
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I hope they know they aren't forgotten.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Soldiers changed.</b></span></div>
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Some grew into someone they don't recognize;</div>
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were revealed for who they've always been...good or bad;</div>
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learned compassion, patience, loyalty, and forgiveness;<br />
failed in ways they could not fathom;<br />
accomplished what they didn't think they could;</div>
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refused to become what they hate; </div>
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made it home by the skin of their teeth.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Weariness. Trauma. Sadness. Temptations. Wounds. Fear. Hopelessness. Mistakes. Mind-numbing boredom. Infidelity. Pain. Stress that consumes every pore. Insomnia. Illness. Loss. Depression. Rage with no viable focus. Enemies with no face. Loneliness with no easy remedy. Bone-tired body with no fuzzy slippers in sight.</span></div>
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<i>Whatever</i> it was.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Some changes are good.</b></span></div>
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Some people learned there are more important things than him remembering to pick up his socks;<br />
that whether or not you agree on everything in life-- you have a partner who sincerely loves you and wants to help make life better;<br />
that you want to make his life better, too;<br />
that to have him lie next to you in bed and hear his steady breathing is worth more than anything;<br />
<i>that the stress that was stress before seems like a walk in the park today</i>;<br />
that he wants to spend more time playing with his children;<br />
that being "alone" for a year forced you to see that being "alone" would be a choice and not a reality, because your life was overflowing with people willing to walk with you;<br />
that maybe we don't get second chances;<br />
that life is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">finite</span>, and opportunities to fill it with <i>good</i> are not always handed to you on a silver platter;<br />
that sometimes they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">are </span>handed to you on a silver platter and you should always keep a watchful eye;<br />
that you might have to fight with everything in you to live the life you want to live;<br />
that you should <b>never</b> stop fighting for that;<br />
that you have been given opportunities to love --not just your family, but the people you meet every day-- and you hope you don't squander them;<br />
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some changes are good<b style="font-style: italic;">.</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Life is complicated.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">And simple.</span></div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-47510081961026166332011-09-16T02:01:00.000-05:002011-09-16T02:01:34.627-05:00Happy Birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I still can't believe he's mine.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I'm thankful for his friendship these past eleven years.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because he had my heart the first time he pushed me down in the snow. The first time I heard him call his mother. The first time he met my family and was left for dead with all my brothers and sisters. The first time he laid those stolen tulips on my parent's doorstep when I had cold feet...</span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Doggedly loyal.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Idiosyncratically intelligent.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Funny. Loud.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Fiercely in love with his children.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Makes his wife feel like a supermodel.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I know his parents would be exploding with pride</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> at who their son has become.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>Just like we are.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because he never gave up on me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because he has anchored his family to something bigger than who we are today.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because he dreams big dreams with me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because he didn't let others determine his path.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because I'm so thankful for the day he was born,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I wanna say,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">Happy Birthday Jason.</span></div>
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We love you and can't wait for you to come home~</div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-37534860063023008182011-09-15T11:58:00.003-05:002011-09-15T15:20:33.052-05:00The Problem with Four-Year-Olds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The problem with four-year-olds is that they are so breathtakingly cute one moment. </div>
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And the next moment, one might feel they belong in a kennel. </div>
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In a straight-jacket.</div>
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One moment they might squish your cheeks and tell you what a good mom you are, how beautiful you are and how they never want to leave home. And the next moment, they might take advantage of your time in the shower to take a basketfull of your poor woman's no-bake cookies, crumble them to pieces, and then blissfully run through the house throwing those chocolaty crumbs of goodness into the air shouting, "Happy Birthday! You are married now! Happy Birthday and wedding day!" And, even though you vacuum like a mad woman, threaten their very life and pull out your own hair in penance...a fine, strong line of sugar ants will greet you the next morning to remind you of how thoroughly those crumbs were disbursed.</div>
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One moment, while walking into the grocery store for a late night milk run, they might comment on how beautiful the moon is. The next moment they might be lying on the floor screaming that it was their turn to sit in the grocery kart and that they <i>never </i>get anything they want. You will once again be the crazy lady with five kids in the grocery store, and why are you out so late anyway? And, are those all your kids? And, *ah* you poor thing...</div>
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One moment they will adoringly watch you put those groceries away, jabbering on and on about how thankful they are for the food in their house. The next moment, you might be gathering a search party for said four-year-old because they mysteriously vanished. You will panic. Then you will discover a locked bedroom door, with seemingly no inhabitant. After unlocking the door you might discover that the flattery from before was all a ruse. For all that time they were really planning on sneaking off with a chocolate bar, locking themselves in a bedroom, hiding under a bed and devouring the melting candy in minutes. If only they had thought to rid themselves of incriminating evidence such as the smears of chocolate on their face, hands and carpet beneath their belly. The candy wrapper clutched in their hands...</div>
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One moment you won't be able to stop looking at their impish grin and unabashed joy while they, "help" you wash dishes by hand. Cloaked in the<i> apron of honor</i>, bubbles up to their elbows, water haloed around their feet on the floor, absolute happiness radiating from their fingertips and ears, heart-shaped clouds filled with rainbows, butterflies and unicorns hanging over their head. They will assure you that they won't leave until every dish is washed. They will see rainbows in the bubbles and lose their concentration for minutes at a time. "O! There's another one! I see a rainbow!!" They will talk about how happy they are now that they are big enough to help wash dishes. You might laugh to yourself, knowing how long this joy in doing chores will last.<i> But, even you will have to acknowledge the wonderfulness of a child like yours.</i> And then, the next moment they might fill every cup in a cupcake pan with dish soap, also engaging their younger sister in the experiment. They will tell you slowly and seriously that they were pretending to be assassin spies, and the soap was poison for their cupcakes. You won't know what bothers you more; the soapy mess on hands, counter and pans or the toddler assassin spies.</div>
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And then, one morning you will wake up to the usual chaos and run a load of dishes into the dishwasher.</div>
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You might hear an unusual, muted sound. Like water spraying a wet blanket.</div>
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Something won't be right.</div>
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You will look and see that there are most definitely bubbles coming out of that dishwasher.</div>
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You will know how they got there.</div>
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You will see the bottle of dish soap. Hear the confession. Hope that it doesn't ruin your semi-new dishwasher.</div>
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Maybe stomp your feet.</div>
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Maybe laugh.</div>
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You will know that this time is short.</div>
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And, as much as you rail, "train," "discipline," dole out consequences, and take away *gasp* t.v. for the day.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You will know that this child <i>is </i>some of the best days of your life.</span></div>
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You will know that when this time is over, the moon might never look the same.</div>
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That the quiet, empty house with no messes will break you heart.</div>
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You will know that going to the grocery store without tantrums will be<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> heaven.</span></div>
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Okay, so not<i> everything </i>will lose its luster in life.</div>
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You will know that depression, deployments, moves, messes, chaos, sadness, uncertainty. All those things were made worthwhile with the reality of living for something, someone, or <i>someones </i>bigger than yourself.</div>
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The problem with four-year-olds is that they trick you into enjoying life.</div>
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They make you see the moon, share your love of chocolate, imagine cupcake assassins, look for rainbows in bubbles, see washing dishes as an adventure, and view the dishwasher as a machine of wonder.</div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-7391518741031601282011-09-14T10:02:00.001-05:002011-09-15T16:53:14.898-05:00Eggs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">A</span>fter spending over a month in Oregon,</div>
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it was nice to pull into the driveway and <span style="font-size: small;">sleep</span> in my own bed last week.</div>
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The<span style="font-size: large;"> bed</span> (that is not in my driveway, but inside our home in a bedroom) was<i> nice.</i></div>
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Being <span style="font-size: large;">home </span>was<i> nice.</i></div>
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But do you know what was <i>nicest</i> of all?</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">EGGS.</span></div>
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Our little suburban outlaw chickens. </div>
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The ones that remain after four, yes <i>four</i> roosters were weeded from the group. </div>
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Three hens and one rooster. </div>
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They started laying.</div>
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And, those chickens laid us some beautiful, perfect little eggs. </div>
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<b><i>And then they stopped.</i></b><br />
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They were laying like crazy the first two days we were home. </div>
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And now...now there is only silence where the soft thud of an egg should be.</div>
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They all walk around like it never happened.</div>
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Perhaps it's no longer worth it for them.</div>
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For all I know, they <i>could </i>have stopped laying.<br />
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An egg strike. </div>
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<b>Or</b> a rat.</div>
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<b>Or</b> a snake.</div>
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If it is an outside job; I do not look forward to discovering what it is.</div>
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*sigh*</div>
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Those were some beautiful eggs...</div>
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</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-76399020345710571832011-05-16T19:14:00.003-05:002011-05-16T21:57:46.707-05:00Seven months too many...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I only thought to get a couple pics, but <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Jason is home for R & R. </span></div>
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He's checking out Kennedy's loose tooth in the last two. </div>
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It's crazy to me how normal it feels to have him home again. The military prepares soldiers for their families to <i>not need them</i>, and for life to be <i>different</i> when they come home. </div>
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And, life <b>is</b> different.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">However, there is a place for Jason in our family that can never be taken by <b>anyone or anything</b>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Reagan hopped out of the van and ran straight into his arms. Which was pretty significant to us, since she has officially spent more time away from him than she has with him. Since he's been home, we have gotten in arguments over who the <b>real </b>daddy is. I'll say, "Where's daddy?" She'll point at the computer. When Jason says, "No, I'm daddy!" She'll giggle and say, "Noooo. *points to computer* Dat Daddy!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jack sat in the van on the way home and kept saying, "I feel like this is a dream." He had a goofy smile on his face for a <i>whole</i> ten minutes. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before the honeymoon wore off and his started bickering with his other backseat siblings.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"></span> It is AMAZING to be through the bulk of the deployment.</div>
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I know we still have a ways to go...and I can't predict the future. </div>
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But, I'm feeling pretty thankful for what we have as a family. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Can't complain.</span></div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-77381848274465132082011-05-06T00:41:00.003-05:002011-05-06T07:40:18.513-05:00Real Sportsmanship<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tonight I had been putting off playing catch with Lincoln. Had to make dinner. Had to chat with a friend. Had to clean up dinner...blah, blah, blah. So, I finally got that urgent feeling of inadequacy. That feeling you get when your kid is old enough to remember how you blew him or her off. When you realize they aren't two and incapable of remembering what they had for breakfast. I guess guilt and pride can be good motivators.</span></div>
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That, <i>and</i> I heard him throwing the baseball on the roof. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>Which was annoying.</i></span></div>
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So, I headed out to play catch. Something I think I've done maybe three or four times my whole life. He kept giving me pointers. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Which was annoying.</span></i></div>
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We had been playing for about 15 minutes. Him grinning ear to ear. Me having to run after the ball. W<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">hich was annoying. </span></i></div>
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When...I heard a little kid saying, "Eh? Eh?"</div>
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That's Amharic for, "Hey, I know I'm too little and wimpy to play. But I really think I'd be an asset to your team."</div>
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Reagan had been standing there watching us play. Managed to put on Lincoln's batting glove...and stood patiently waiting to be included.</div>
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<i>And, yes. I've pretty much given up on braids this past month. This is what her hair has looked like a lot lately. I try to fluff it up when we go out...but a majority of the time she has bed-head fro.</i></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Don't judge me.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I'll get it right someday.</span></div>
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So, Lincoln and I included her in a little triangle of catch. 'Course she was no good at it. She was happily oblivious. Now, SHE was grinning ear to ear. And, if it seemed like Lincoln or I weren't throwing the ball to her often enough...she would emphatically pat her belly and say, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Eh! Eh!" Din-Din! Mah-Maaaah!</span>"</div>
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So we played. And...<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">it wasn't very annoying.</span></i></div>
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It was more...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">cute.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Precious.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Nice.</b></span></div>
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While we were outside...some other kid had a bathroom emergency and I had to go be the maid.</div>
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When I came out awhile later...they were still playing.</div>
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I know it's just catch. </div>
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And, I know that families<i><b> should</b></i> love each other. So, I'm not sure I can put into words <i><b>how good this makes me feel.</b></i></div>
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<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
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<i>My son loves his sister. He loves her a lot. He includes her. She <b>wants</b> to be included. </i></div>
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<b>We are family. </b></div>
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Sometimes that hits me randomly and hard. It's mind boggling.</div>
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I get so caught up in the mechanics of having kids. The failures. The getting from point a., to point b. The feelings of inadequacy. Just being plain dog tired and sometimes depressed. Racking my brain on how to work better as a family. To have a home that isn't so chaotic. I start looking for validation ANYWHERE but home. When you are a stay at home mom...yeah sure, you know your job is important. But it's also just <b><i>A</i></b> dimension of who you are. I think being a mother will be one of the biggest investments and pouring out of self I will ever take part in. Still...still...it's not ALL of me. It's hard. And, it can seem WAY too big of a job.</div>
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Yet, sometimes, if I would <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>just get up</b>...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Move. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Play.</span> </div>
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<i>Watch</i>. </div>
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<i>Be humbled.</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It would be so much more fun.</span></div>
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<i>My tank was filled to the brim by my children tonight.<b> It cost nothing</b>. It was free. </i></div>
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<i></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Waiting for me</span><i>. </i></div>
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<i>I almost missed it...</i></div>
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It's hard for me to imagine...</div>
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But there <i><b>are</b></i> things in my life that are better than medication (I think). </div>
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Better than organization (again--<i>perhaps</i>). </div>
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Better than chocolate (just slightly).</div>
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Better than a nap (usually).</div>
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Better than <b>calm</b>.</div>
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Those things are...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">little glimpses of love in its most naked form. </span></div>
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Oh sure. </div>
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I see PLENTY of<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> ugly</span>, selfish, <b>angry</b>, <i>tattle</i>y, lazy..."normal," behaviors, too. Sometimes by looking in the mirror. Sometimes acted out by little people.</div>
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But on days like today...they are a drop in the bucket.</div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-51774679337044323692011-04-29T12:16:00.002-05:002011-04-30T10:31:26.161-05:00Adoption Journals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Adoption milestones are popping up every time I turn around. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We just celebrated Reagan's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">2</span>nd birthday a few weeks ago. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Around her </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">first</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> birthday, I spent more than one night boo-hooing the hours away. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Feeling absolutely sick to my stomach.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> There were times I felt if we couldn't, "make it there" by her 1st birthday--</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>nothing</i> would turn out <b>right</b>. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was sure that our bonding would be forever<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> screwed</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> That in those few weeks...<i>she would be lost. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stupid--but true.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This invisible clock starts ticking away </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">moments.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I felt so helpless.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You get lost in the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">vaguenes</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">s of it all.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So many unknowns.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">February, March and April were miserable months for me in 2010. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">Mis-er-a-ble.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Looking back, I feel like I was pretty detached as far as our bonding went. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There never seemed to be enough time to <i>prepare</i> for this new life.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we started this process, Jason was taking a world record amount of credits at Eastern Oregon University. Then, he graduated, joined the Army, left...and it was my job to sell our house, move the kids, and work on adoption stuff. I emailed him her referral picture while he was at O.C.S.</span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I loved her.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But, it seemed like...say, you've been separated from you husband (or whoever you love) for a long period of time...and</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> right as he walks through the door</i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">your kid poops their pants, dinner burns, fire alarms go off, and you stub your toe <b>just</b> as you meet him.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">"<i>I love you! I'm glad you're home! But...<b>there's all this stuff going on</b>. </i>"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Life.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We had so much on our minds.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Where would we be stationed? What job field would he get? Would our house sell?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I hear other adoptive mothers talk about how much it mimicked pregnancy for them. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The <i>preparations.</i> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The<i> longing.</i> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My experience seemed so chaotic.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> More like a bad romance. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A drive. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A determination. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No matter what--this child needed a home. We, "oooh-oooh-oooh-ed" and raised our hands to </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">claim</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><b>a</b></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">child (in a non-materialistic sense of the word) </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">whatever child we got</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, and that was </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">her</span>. </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We needed to do what it took to get her </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>home</b></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ah. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Home.</b> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What does that even mean?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I kept thinking, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Just get her home</span>...<i>then</i> you can bond."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It reminded me of pregnancy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I guess. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That last month,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> <b>when you would push down an old woman in the street, </b></span> <i>if that meant you could have your freakin' baby </i><b>already</b>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><b>Yeah</b></i>, that's what it felt like.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I forgot to pray over her many nights before she came home. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That made me feel terribly guilty. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I would pray, it would sound like this,</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> "GOD!!! I don't know what I'm doing. I've always desired this. From my core. Why is it so hard?! So complicated. Please love her for me. Please hold her for me. Please. Please. Please make this happen--despite the chaos in our lives."</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My kids would remind me, they would pray for her, talk about her...<i>love her</i>. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That humbled me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm still humbled and amazed that from </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">point a. to point b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, she made it into our arms. Into our home. Into our lives.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Grafted into my heart. Breaking it and healing it all at once.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;">~</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Since it's Spring Break around here, and we are still working on organizing this house *cough.* Since my sister's about to have a baby, my mom will be coming to visit, and hopefully sometime soon...my husband will be coming home for R and R. I thought I would post some of our travel buddy's journals. I'm not sure that's on the horizon for me. I wish I had kept a journal. But I didn't. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These guys all have different perspectives of the same trip, same care center, same agency.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So without further ado, in alphabetical order:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.godwilladd.com/2011/04/oh-year.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God Will Add</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Amazing, kind, beautiful family. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the process of adopting again, less than a year after their first adoption. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Go see why...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://journey4hope.blogspot.com/">Journey 4 Hope</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Slightly (REALLY) jealous that these guys are heading back to Ethiopia soon. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Really wish I could go with them. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">While we were in Ethiopia, I loved sitting near her. She was constantly asking our driver questions. So, vicariously through her, I learned much more about Ethiopia than I would have otherwise.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Drop by to read their story...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://semiferalmama.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/travel-journal-prologue/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Semi-Feral Mama</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I would start at the very beginning. Then keep reading.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I love her writing. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I love the details of every day life in Ethiopia. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She writes about things I had forgotten. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She's funny. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Go! </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now!</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.zehlahlum.com/2011/04/flashback-1.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Zehlahlum Family</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Finally, Jamey. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The woman who writes about things that have rolled around in my head, but I haven't always given voice to. She's been therapeutic for me in my own adoption journey. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Transparent.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Very focused on the what happened between child and parent.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ha.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I tried to pronounce, "Zehlahlum," for the first time just now. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Say that three times fast.</span></div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-66072897877512597532011-04-08T09:55:00.003-05:002011-04-30T10:32:06.623-05:00Happy Birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <b>TWO</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(A bazillion pictures to honor Miss. Ray. We love you babe!)</span></i><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Referral</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> 3mo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;"> 9 mo.? </span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">13 mo.,</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ethiopia, May 2010 </span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Lousiana, May 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">June, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (Reagan had just gotten in trouble for something, and Lincoln was trying to comfort her by sharing music. One of my favorite pictures. Her sad little tear, and him helping her the best way he could.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">July, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> August, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">September, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">October, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">November, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> December, 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">January, 2011</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">February, 2011</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">March, 2011</span></div>
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<br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-44103199686363374412011-03-23T08:56:00.001-05:002011-03-23T09:53:13.109-05:00No Joke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Courtesy Google images) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Housekeeping ain't no joke!</i></b></span></div>
(<i> Little Women</i>)<br />
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Haven't posted for a couple weeks.</div>
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Completely overwhelmed with our house.</div>
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Since we moved here, any time a friend has asked how I am doing, my response has been something like, "Oh we're good. <b>The house is a mess</b>--but we're good." I haven't had people over in a long time...because I don't know what to do with our mess.This is a common thread in my life. It's not new.<br />
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In all honesty--I've been overwhelmed with our house for ten years. It's been great for me to be married to someone so opposite of me. He's actually incredibly helpful around the house. I know men aren't supposed to be. But my husband is. Alas, he's not here...<b>and I am</b>.</div>
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I decided to purge as much as I can for the next couple weeks. To rearrange my house to better fit my needs (and weaknesses).</div>
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Last week when the garbage man came, there were all kinds of treats for him to take away. </div>
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I've never thought that we had a lot of<span style="font-size: large;"> stuff. </span>Compared to the average American...I thought we were <b>normal</b>. But, when you start adding up the <b>treasures</b> of 7 people. It's a lot! When you couple that with a <span style="font-size: large;">lady in charge</span>...who's really bad at throwing away artwork, books, and, "<i>special toys</i>." It can be a <b>disaster.</b> </div>
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<b>Consequently</b>, it doesn't matter how much junk you do or do not have. <b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">It's all about how much you are willing to manage. </span></b>Apparently, I am willing to manage very little. My goal is to<span style="font-size: large;"> cut back</span> <b>and</b> <span style="font-size: large;">cut back</span> until I am able to deal more<i> gracefully </i>with the needs of my family, and the <span style="font-size: large;">stuff</span> we have. (By the way, that's the name of a really awesome book about hoarding. "<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/25/books/review/Kramer-t.html">Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things.</a>")</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">I've called out an intervention on myself. </span></b><br />
No, I don't think I hoard...but I do think I have a really difficult time multitasking and making decisions. Not great weaknesses to have with five kids. It's not that we live in squalor. It's that we live in bursts of <span style="font-size: x-large;">clutter</span>. The toilets are pretty clean. The dishes are done. But, I ALWAYS have a big pile...of <i>something</i> that I need to got through. A room that is a disaster, because I stuff all the things I can't sort. Clean laundry is almost always piled in my room. Not a load. Not two. But, usually a handful of loads. This post over at, <a href="http://starryskyranch.typepad.com/starry_sky_ranch/2010/09/the-family-closet.html" style="color: blue;"><span style="color: red;">Starry Star Ranch</span> </a>was totally inspiring to me. So much so that the kids and I move ALL the kids dressers into my room last week. The master bedroom is the biggest room in the house. And, currently...there is only one person living in it. Meanwhile, there are two small bedrooms for five children. So far, taking out the dressers, getting a bunk-bed, and loading up SIX garbage bags of unused or unwanted toys...has me feeling pretty hopeful.<br />
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It's hard for me to see the big picture when people are around. I've often been called a, "<i><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">good listener</span></i>." It's probably mostly that I am <span style="font-size: large;">incapable</span> of doing more than one thing at a time. If there are tasks, or people to tend to. <i>I will tend to people</i>. Problem is, people need <b>tasks</b> done as well. I'm learning to see this for what it is and not, " <i>I just had a baby.</i> " Or, "<i>We just moved</i>." Or, "<i>We just adopted and moved...and moved...and moved</i>."<i> <b>It's a life skill that I've never acquired</b>. Plus</i>, every time your family grows or changes, <i>you have to adjust for that.</i> Five children<b><span style="font-size: large;"> is</span></b> more than four every time I do the math. The little tasks and responsibilities add up. Having a husband gone leaves me with less work in some areas and more in others. This is something that everyone deals with. I'm just realizing <b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">it's no freaking joke</span></span></b>. As much as I rebel against the barefoot and pregnant, empty-headed, stay-at-home, downing bon-bons, and legalistic portrayal of woman people tend to mock. Keeping a home <i>is an art</i>. <b>It's a lot of work</b>. And...it takes managerial skills I seriously lack.</div>
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I'm hoping this is the year. </div>
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And, you know what? Maybe it's not <b>super </b>horrid. Maybe someone else would think our house was functioning. Another person might think it was a horrible pig pen. The thing is...<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I'm</b></span> not functioning well in it. I never have. That STUPID freakin' saying, "A place for everything, and everything in it's place." It's been running through my head constantly the past few months. Since we moved here, I haven't completely set up our home. We have generalized locations. But, there's a lot missing. So, when piles accumulate--I freeze. I'm not really sure where anything should go...<b>in my own home.</b></div>
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I read this post awhile back at Ordinary Time, "<a href="http://ordinary-time.blogspot.com/2010/01/why-home-disorganization-is-lot-like.html">Why home disorganization is a lot like debt</a>." That is such an awesome analogy! I would say the feelings are almost exactly the same for me. So, just like we are Dave Ramsey-ing it up this year...I want to live in a home that is functioning and orderly. It's doesn't have to be perfect. I'll take the wall scuffs. The stuffed animals. The shoes lying around. But...the school room piled high with junk. The garage with dozens of unsorted boxes still from the move. The bedroom with piles and piles of clean laundry. The boy's closet with coats, legos and shoes. No thank you.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This housekeeping rebel has been converted.</span></div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-17938964510956523942011-03-04T13:36:00.000-06:002011-03-04T13:36:11.170-06:00Six Banana Peels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>omeday...</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>W</b></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">hen you are recovering from a really intense THIRTY minute workout.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>I</b></span> mean, *phew.*</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Y</b></span>ou get the kids on the bus.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span></b>ou feed the babies...</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span></b>nd you think, <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Wow. I'm really tired. That's pathetic. I shouldn't be tired from thirty minutes on an elliptical. But...I am really </span><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">tired.</i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span></b>hen you look at the <i>dirty kitchen</i> you should be cleaning and children you should be dressing, and think again, "<b>I am <i>really</i> tired</b>."</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span></b>hen the t.v. that is mounted to the wall <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">starts beckoning you with promises of free babysitting. </span></span>When it promises you that your children will be so entertained by whatever it is spewking out--they won't think to cause havok. When it tempts you with thoughts of sleeping past six a.m. for the first time in a month.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">D</span></b>o the right thing and say,<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">"GET BEHIND ME SATAN!!"</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">O</span></b>r you may or may not wake up from <i>THE</i> <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">most blissful slumber </span>by the little voice of your son saying, <span style="font-size: large;">"Mom. I so, so sorry. I so, so, so, sorry. I was haynding from da turtain rod...and it fell. It fell ALL da way down. I pulled it from da wall. I so sorry. So, so, so sorry."</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span></b>ou may or may not run out into the living room <b>really ticked off</b>, only to find the curtain rod was indeed pulled, "...all da way down." And you may or may not find your daughter covered in not <b><span style="font-size: large;">one</span>.</b>..not <span style="font-size: large;"><b>two</b></span>...but <span style="font-size: large;"><b>three</b></span> very expensive, goopy hair products. <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You may find that she found it necessary to cover her entire face, portions of her legs, her hands, and her arms. But not a drop in her hair. </span></span>As that was the only part of her body she couldn't reach with precision. You may find that goop on carpet, on the couch, and on her sister's coloring books.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span></b>nd finally, you may decide that no, you will not take any pictures of the event, because...you are too angry. And they <b><i>aren't even cute</i></b>. Little punks. Little deviant, destructive, disastrous children. Why do they have to act so...so...<span style="font-size: large;"><b>so much their age?</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></b>s it so wrong to leave a 22-month-old and a three-and-a-half-year-old alone for almost two hours? Unattended, and only supervised in that you groggily remember saying yes, they could have more bananas and to please put the peels in the trash can. You were present in body...but your spirit was far away.<span style="font-size: large;"> Dreaming of a <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">clean house</span>, <i>swimming in a triathlon and beating EVERYONE</i>, and<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> finally getting to pick your husband up from the airport for R&R.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>N</b></span>ot that any of this happened to me.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></b> would never be such a delinquent parent.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span></b>nd, IF I were...I suspect that this would teach me a lesson or two...</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">By the way. I found SIX banana peels in the trash can this morning. SIX.</span></b></span>)</span></div>
</div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-200989371652125972011-03-01T19:16:00.000-06:002019-03-25T19:20:33.100-05:00When something comes out of a chicken's butt...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You might think this is a blog about adoption.</div>
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Or about military life.</div>
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Or homeschool things.</div>
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Marriage. </div>
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Children.<br />
Truth is, I don't even know.</div>
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This morning I woke up to what I usually wake up to. </div>
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Probably similar to what a lot of moms and dads wake up to across the planet.</div>
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Grant was yelling at someone to give back a toy that was <b>his.</b> </div>
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Then the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">pad, pad, pad </span>of his feet running down the hallway to tattle. </div>
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Then the questions that come every morning. </div>
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The questions that I've never once, <i>not once</i> said, "yes" to, but still he asks. </div>
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"Mom, can I have a popsicle for breakfast?" </div>
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"No." </div>
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"Okay, can I watch a movie?" </div>
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"No, not until after breakfast, and chores." </div>
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*whine* *wail* *waah*</div>
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Then Reagan came in doing the potty dance, and I yelled at Kennedy to take her potty. Uh. I mean, I was a responsible parent and got out of bed to take her potty. Then I climbed back into my bed to enjoy its king-sized goodness. Goodness that just 30 minutes before, was filled with sweaty, snoring children. I tried to add up the hours of sleep I had accumulated during the night, but that just made me depressed. Legs cramps. Nightmares. Children are such complicated beings.</div>
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I figured it might be a rough Saturday.</div>
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I managed to get out of that soft haven and step out into morning time with deranged children. I'm not really sure why I can't stay in bed all day; because that's just what I'd like to do. Something in the pit of my stomach says that that would be slovenly and wrong. </div>
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I took one look at their tired, bickering faces, and decided to step outside to, "check on the chickens."</div>
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That's what I say when I'd really like to go on a walk or sit on my porch swing and stare into nothing. The problem is, I think it's a questionable practice to leave your children alone in the house while, "you go for a walk." When I sit on my porch swing, the children seem to think that that's an invitation for them to join me. When I have shooed them away, they press their smudgy little faces against the glass of our back door, and stare at me in a way that both seeps the enjoyment out of my bones, and makes me laugh.</div>
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So, I check on chickens.</div>
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I walked out to the chicken coop. After I stepped into the pen, those birds gathered around and eyed my sandaled toes hungrily. I thought they must be starving to look at my feet like that. But after checking their food supply, I discovered that they were just being mean. This hurt my feelings. Since I am the one who gave them life, put up with their stinky little bodies while they were babies, and cleaned out their poop when it became overpowering in its smell.</div>
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For 10 days we have not had a single egg. It's been on my mind night and day. Day and night. What could make them stop laying? What varmint could be sneaking away those eggs? </div>
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I made a little cardboard house of death. One that the chickens could not get into, and I put out some poison. I hoped that if my problem was a rat, it would go to heaven and my golden eggs could again be found.</div>
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Five days went by. Still no eggs.</div>
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Today, I lifted the lid to the nest box...and VOILA!</div>
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An egg.</div>
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And that is all there is to this post.</div>
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I found an egg today.</div>
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And that makes me very happy.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm the one on the left."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Toes. "</td></tr>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Sometimes something coming out of a chicken's butt can make even the worst mornings great."</span></i></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-3202729337227711902011-02-24T18:10:00.001-06:002011-02-24T18:14:33.511-06:00Gotta get me some daiquiri...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b> </b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Have you ever been truckin' along and thought: </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-large;">MAN<span style="font-size: x-large;">!</span></span> </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I could </span></span></i><i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">really</span></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> use a frozen daiquiri. If <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">ONLY</span> there was an establishment that was
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">willing to serve me alcohol</span>...and not <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">demand</span> that I get <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">out</span> of my car to
purchase it.</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b> </b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">What's that you say?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You don't have drive-thru frozen daiquiri shops in</span><b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i> your</i></b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> town?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCAd7darZJzHMLTtPYLiEuIeGkGTFy-4TQ6b5GbY0_USnpnY6EmJJKxWCO48_gCM-AFeDLIa62WT9xPoiG1GtiGfdh_-LF_q03JbA8yBcXBbVhZ5jS4CkJgfAO8NvyOwtwetoaSgMU_0/s1600/drive+thru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCAd7darZJzHMLTtPYLiEuIeGkGTFy-4TQ6b5GbY0_USnpnY6EmJJKxWCO48_gCM-AFeDLIa62WT9xPoiG1GtiGfdh_-LF_q03JbA8yBcXBbVhZ5jS4CkJgfAO8NvyOwtwetoaSgMU_0/s400/drive+thru.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No drive-thru</span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">jello shots? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjes_kcprwjzPFfmV1BINAVP9aFM76dw1IbMKlrsVikLKjMdogYA1ud7Blc6xdCAzn7peHwGw42f04nS1NrZphbTVuvVt0kOUhgHcjcCTBmBhh5rZs8KEhbeLAg2vP6rPWA0GEJNODhr84/s1600/IMG_7703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjes_kcprwjzPFfmV1BINAVP9aFM76dw1IbMKlrsVikLKjMdogYA1ud7Blc6xdCAzn7peHwGw42f04nS1NrZphbTVuvVt0kOUhgHcjcCTBmBhh5rZs8KEhbeLAg2vP6rPWA0GEJNODhr84/s400/IMG_7703.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">You have to walk <span style="font-size: x-large;">into </span>a store or <span style="font-size: x-large;">sit down </span>at a restaurant or bar to purchase your beverage of choice?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VmmiE6YCEENtFMITisABiJ9QizGmm0jjmzJWOUYLcC7aiug89PovmMPbqTHTHXkEhs6OibD2RcMAeDFZIYFoj1dQjemyDUcAgicY8VikDuHVQbQhAZeHuioXlfDKj6s0g7spyCqf_ZY/s1600/IMG_7702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VmmiE6YCEENtFMITisABiJ9QizGmm0jjmzJWOUYLcC7aiug89PovmMPbqTHTHXkEhs6OibD2RcMAeDFZIYFoj1dQjemyDUcAgicY8VikDuHVQbQhAZeHuioXlfDKj6s0g7spyCqf_ZY/s400/IMG_7702.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>That's so archaic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73wNQ2uHKNXtS216OExAhRIdkceGGGNUdh18f53OzGEGd0QqvheHNkw4duhyphenhyphenUkQT_2HjHAq72fe0StCe7UlWe0KKSMQsZjFZYuTgjnVkQHHvTFK4T549RScPd_hwDRmGsiP6WkAM4I5U/s1600/drive+thru2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73wNQ2uHKNXtS216OExAhRIdkceGGGNUdh18f53OzGEGd0QqvheHNkw4duhyphenhyphenUkQT_2HjHAq72fe0StCe7UlWe0KKSMQsZjFZYuTgjnVkQHHvTFK4T549RScPd_hwDRmGsiP6WkAM4I5U/s400/drive+thru2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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It's no joke.</div>
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Drive through daiquiri shops made it to number 12 on the blog, "<a href="http://stuffcajunpeoplelike.wordpress.com/2008/04/03/12-drive-through-daiquiri-shops/">Stuff Cajun People Like</a>."</div>
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I'm not Cajun...but it <i>must</i> be true.</div>
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I mean. </div>
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*cough* <i style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Why not?</i></div>
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(The kids and I were driving around in the rain tonight. Thought I'd get some <b>proof</b> of the<span style="font-size: large;"><i> uniqueness </i></span>of the town we live in.)</div>
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<b>Next on my list: midget wrestling...</b></div>
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<br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1119703740214662659.post-24795594055881402342011-02-23T22:04:00.004-06:002011-03-04T13:42:58.272-06:00Moments such as these...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Sometimes...</i></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After we've gotten up at the <b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">butt-crack </span></b>of dawn...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I've helped with homework, made five breakfasts, prayed and sent three kids off to school...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After I've taken a 22-month-old in for a chicken pox vaccine and <i>then</i> waited for THREE hours at the hospital while coordinating hospital records and preventing tag-a-long three-year-old from <i style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>setting off the fire alarm</b></i>, <span style="font-size: large;">TWICE...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When I've then gone and registered said 22-month-old with CYS (Child and Youth Services), signed a second and third grader up for baseball, looked at toys at the PX with 3-year-old, made it home just in time for <b>naps <i>and</i> breakdowns</b>...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When I spent said naps talking on the phone with banks and hospital records departments...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Picked up kids from school, helped with homework, taken five kids to McDonald's for sundaes to celebrate good grades, gone to church, and finally loaded children back into the van...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Amidst:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <i>"Shot gun!" </i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">"No, I called it!" </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">"Mo-om! He hit me!"</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"> "Why do I have to sit next to her?!"</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">"Can I watch Superman when I get home?"</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"Can I have a snack when I get home?"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>When that </b><b><i>last</i> buckle is clicked</b>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When the<i> <b>last</b></i> of the four van doors has<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> <b>slammed shut.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Drowning out the sound of my precious cargo inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">That <i>precious.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Precious cargo.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When I feel the <i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">cool night's breeze. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I hear the cicadas whirring and taunting me with their freedom.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>Sometimes.</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Some</i> days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">In <b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">teeny</span></b> moments of exhaustion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">As that last door slams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">My mind screams...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">RUN!</span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;">(I like to imagine a crazy hillbilly laughing maniacally while running through a cornfield.)</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13487096596839292930noreply@blogger.com0