tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13281908959733860082024-03-05T11:46:57.512-05:00Sluiter Nationest. 2005Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.comBlogger498125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-16198614948507221972010-10-29T16:01:00.003-04:002010-10-29T16:06:00.264-04:00We Are No Longer HereSluiter Nation is no longer on blogspot!<br />
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Come join <a href="http://sluiternation.com/">Sluiter Nation</a> in our new home.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-46988286229352632932010-10-10T00:31:00.000-04:002010-10-10T00:31:54.172-04:00Just a Small Town Girl...<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Well I was born in a small town</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And I live in a small town</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Prob'ly die in a small town</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh those small communities...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tonight my wee little family packed up the stroller and drove out to downtown Zeeland around 6:00pm.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">_____________________________________________________________________ </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">This was supposed to be a BIG weekend! I was going to call friends. We were going to go out! I was going to advertise and raise some money for the American Stroke Association! This was going to be BIG!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">This was my weekend to have Pursey Gallore, the purse from <a href="http://projectpurseandboots.com/">Project: Purse and Boots</a>, the blogger movement created by <a href="http://inpursuitofmarthapoints.com/">Lori </a>to raise money and awareness for Stroke Prevention. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then life happened. I didn't have time to call anyone or set anything up. In fact, unless it's all planned out ahead of time, where I live? Isn't really the kind of place you can just quick dress up fancy and go raise some money.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">__________________________________________________________________________</div><div style="text-align: left;">As we wandered down the quiet streets of downtown, through the crispy orange leaves, I recognized the smell of fall. But not just any smell of fall...the way fall smelled when I was much, much younger.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I suddenly felt like I was visiting my childhood. We were giving Pursey Galore a tour of what our lives have been like being from and living in a small town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSs7YVhSDFcVAaaLNH_gfKVBfAj39ijXB56XjKLYzSE-trXOG0IhQSQhRDeLcdgqJBG79AF52J1_Y3V5iWoHi0ZNnWTx6TZcg3S75ETFj-Yy4HfBT5maavH2DgkprdGkOugYiPkGnyTR0/s1600/IMG_2939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSs7YVhSDFcVAaaLNH_gfKVBfAj39ijXB56XjKLYzSE-trXOG0IhQSQhRDeLcdgqJBG79AF52J1_Y3V5iWoHi0ZNnWTx6TZcg3S75ETFj-Yy4HfBT5maavH2DgkprdGkOugYiPkGnyTR0/s400/IMG_2939.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">First we wandered down Church Street. This was one of the very first streets ever in Zeeland. We passed three churches in the one city block that we walked.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">One was the church that our high school held our senior baccalaureate services in.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The next was Second Reformed Church. The place where Cortney went to church as a kid and where we were married and where Cort's dad's funeral service was and were Eddie was baptized.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpwWMhFB9TqHcBTznAjkX9noG2rq4ITc_3zaB8TEOWCbwoBPCBeQ2hNW0xm4uAQU5Gwqy2fombcYfyXKZPQ64gUYFJoGcxWPe6GlmsQmF6MmzqFlPa0uBFbJLjXaQaiETahISQXe1GeQ/s1600/IMG_2933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpwWMhFB9TqHcBTznAjkX9noG2rq4ITc_3zaB8TEOWCbwoBPCBeQ2hNW0xm4uAQU5Gwqy2fombcYfyXKZPQ64gUYFJoGcxWPe6GlmsQmF6MmzqFlPa0uBFbJLjXaQaiETahISQXe1GeQ/s400/IMG_2933.JPG" width="265" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is the church we are currently members of. I like this church. I like it's small feel. I like the personalized feeling. Right now though? I am just not sure it is "our" church. But we do love it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Then we wandered diagonally across the street to First Reformed Church where I was baptized and went to church as a kid.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsTzYdivGY05gNi3E0a5PJpAyxrW908BYQmq_5mGjdgEaOt7SEqVbcKs6eBn6NLAnZKSUWGxPj3E4qugdIIxL3xEK5sW933TMwvArvLNU1Y5abi411YaaGX3qYSe74O96oRNU0p8E0l0/s1600/IMG_2936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsTzYdivGY05gNi3E0a5PJpAyxrW908BYQmq_5mGjdgEaOt7SEqVbcKs6eBn6NLAnZKSUWGxPj3E4qugdIIxL3xEK5sW933TMwvArvLNU1Y5abi411YaaGX3qYSe74O96oRNU0p8E0l0/s400/IMG_2936.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">First Reformed was also the very first building in Zeeland. The church? It is old. And it's really quite beautiful. I really should do a whole post dedicated to certain memories I have of growing up in this church. Most of them are quite lovely. And I have been searching for that for my family for the past 5+ years. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Being on the corner of Church and Central reminded me of walking to piano lessons after school, parking on the road for church in the morning, and marching to the cemetery with the band on Memorial Day morning.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We wandered back up Central and took a turn down Main Street.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2OeCTjQ_7OZN_m_00sfZoiCy7_6kRGm8xwkA-2zefXgfJtKkn0eGoZKmDPlzRXMzzXUS2R93niD9U85hWIBUfGbgj0yitPofhFHPZ3wcG5AgYxGM79AVl6WrKrlTF2whcY_FtIL49Bg/s1600/IMG_2941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2OeCTjQ_7OZN_m_00sfZoiCy7_6kRGm8xwkA-2zefXgfJtKkn0eGoZKmDPlzRXMzzXUS2R93niD9U85hWIBUfGbgj0yitPofhFHPZ3wcG5AgYxGM79AVl6WrKrlTF2whcY_FtIL49Bg/s400/IMG_2941.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">We wanted Pursey to "Feel the Zeel", so we took her window shopping in our small town. After realizing that clearly every. single. store was closed by 6pm on a Saturday, I started wishing we had done this in the morning--when people would have been around for me to share Pursey with. But instead, I just shared our town with Pursey.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMujiNuj9nDpU5aAiD64BtUBqNVDjKWhuWKWThIzq4rGxKykCMVPL0mQo7neTKh_REaJesABwyR3n4aS5nfnw1lS7JoSgZEJulxBuuNsUmesIqI4GOAt_WkhaiHnyywZzz6dON2alzHo/s1600/IMG_2942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMujiNuj9nDpU5aAiD64BtUBqNVDjKWhuWKWThIzq4rGxKykCMVPL0mQo7neTKh_REaJesABwyR3n4aS5nfnw1lS7JoSgZEJulxBuuNsUmesIqI4GOAt_WkhaiHnyywZzz6dON2alzHo/s400/IMG_2942.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">We brought Pursey to Frank's (which was closed). Frank's has the best burgers in town. Two of my aunt's worked there when they were in high school. My dad and his friend (my uncle) hung out there. It was the place to be. Now the major figure-heads (business owners, old names, etc) of our community gather there each day. There is a LARGE round table in the middle toward the back. Everyone in town knows only those guys sit at the round table. Cort's grandpa Stan Sluiter sits at the round table.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqxi-1cShPLUnOFlVHyLoVPtTBaKTwmu1GeK-z7bwZFIrmBJYNaVzdYqvWSMLhD18qRDgB7GFw5PPn0rocvzcav2F0TO5_O3u641FmwpnTAQSLpOEqR9d7pyI43P0REl_yvZ0Ai6Ir9A/s1600/IMG_2943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqxi-1cShPLUnOFlVHyLoVPtTBaKTwmu1GeK-z7bwZFIrmBJYNaVzdYqvWSMLhD18qRDgB7GFw5PPn0rocvzcav2F0TO5_O3u641FmwpnTAQSLpOEqR9d7pyI43P0REl_yvZ0Ai6Ir9A/s400/IMG_2943.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The only way to follow up Frank's is to then stop in front of Zeeland Bakery. They have the best donuts in town. In high school, we used to con teachers into letting us make "donut runs". Somehow I usually found myself one of the students that was involved in said "conning" and we would run to one of our cars (which was dumb because we were usually parked as far away as it would have taken to just walk to the bakery), and we would drive faster than the 15 mph speed limit and get a bunch of fresh donuts for our class. ah...Zeeland Bakery. Yum.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aZ_Dkt-zprzvmeK9JhHDD7IJwqWtehlVDxJyjRM5yVYr3Ze2Nit9kv1fwBNFkOYzJAwMb1xLkgJUbui2ThDgy1lp5gNkJjbxd0AFYbsqdMbw6m1aZQKdsJEKYrFcM_mjstv5IJhRJpA/s1600/IMG_2944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aZ_Dkt-zprzvmeK9JhHDD7IJwqWtehlVDxJyjRM5yVYr3Ze2Nit9kv1fwBNFkOYzJAwMb1xLkgJUbui2ThDgy1lp5gNkJjbxd0AFYbsqdMbw6m1aZQKdsJEKYrFcM_mjstv5IJhRJpA/s400/IMG_2944.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Across the street we passed Bunte's, the local pharmacy. When I was little we used to stop here with my mom after getting groceries to pick up prescriptions or to buy cards for people at church or who were having a birthday or anniversary. My mom loves to send cards. This was also where we got our film developed. He he...film.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GDGuSj0-GctoulvBEguDAShmyUFZj7pWMk5ArwY7OCNMxZAcutp55rRsoErZvC8tdaQJBq5bFvWVPHKGuiaG8rY2YBSaGdEJ3wFgZFQyitPyaTNMqNMkG7CYVmYk10WVClvQBrSJP4s/s1600/IMG_2945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GDGuSj0-GctoulvBEguDAShmyUFZj7pWMk5ArwY7OCNMxZAcutp55rRsoErZvC8tdaQJBq5bFvWVPHKGuiaG8rY2YBSaGdEJ3wFgZFQyitPyaTNMqNMkG7CYVmYk10WVClvQBrSJP4s/s400/IMG_2945.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Together we discovered new stores that I didn't know existed. Eddie and I made a deal that we would come back to this cute toy store when it was open. Cortney and I reminisced about all the stores that <i>used to be</i> here when we were kids. We talked about how there used to be awnings lining either side of the street. and how the street itself? Used to have a zig and a zag in it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then we discussed how our parents used to do this same thing. Talk about which stores used to be there. Talk about when there weren't awnings. And when the street? didn't have a zig or a zag, but kids would drag race down it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOd01YLY5nlv2gD8qSxvGWTeoYemvKvCy39727s9ymSwC3QdXOzlIhbOSQiq0-NhsMyM4qb9FW_DNcu-3ZEPhSI6uS-znW0dkoLSEY8KeZCiw0p-FJ9FEs8y6CPwZVmISaYjMfGNn_lQ/s400/IMG_2946.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Howard Miller clock feels the Zeel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOd01YLY5nlv2gD8qSxvGWTeoYemvKvCy39727s9ymSwC3QdXOzlIhbOSQiq0-NhsMyM4qb9FW_DNcu-3ZEPhSI6uS-znW0dkoLSEY8KeZCiw0p-FJ9FEs8y6CPwZVmISaYjMfGNn_lQ/s1600/IMG_2946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qMwiWv3g3BayCX3UKOLGxGjzA5Z8dMzoBBQd_XP0Mg-Kw72x1RfTbfwscfQd2yqPOnndz5fZZTTMrs_9MMuf24J9PfIOI-B0YNJBsd4K2G-Y8M4xHV1yLQKL4i3qIA5iGcChbJTpcxQ/s400/IMG_2949.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, another church. Pursey lost count after four.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qMwiWv3g3BayCX3UKOLGxGjzA5Z8dMzoBBQd_XP0Mg-Kw72x1RfTbfwscfQd2yqPOnndz5fZZTTMrs_9MMuf24J9PfIOI-B0YNJBsd4K2G-Y8M4xHV1yLQKL4i3qIA5iGcChbJTpcxQ/s1600/IMG_2949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxE0GxQdJEgZgMxJ7JzVY0H9CwJRuZMD-wj8YjA5OSrTxqCwyQNNZsaX_S3GwAXf3jcvBqFhjPUmT24_b231CLNKeuNqqMgGmeEK80VjrhEKE9eLGHbvvsbU89JH0irb_I_7FRYD1lxbg/s1600/IMG_2953.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxE0GxQdJEgZgMxJ7JzVY0H9CwJRuZMD-wj8YjA5OSrTxqCwyQNNZsaX_S3GwAXf3jcvBqFhjPUmT24_b231CLNKeuNqqMgGmeEK80VjrhEKE9eLGHbvvsbU89JH0irb_I_7FRYD1lxbg/s400/IMG_2953.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> Pursey tried to stop for some salon and spa treatments at Milt's. I tried to explain to her that not only was Milt's not open, but it was just a Barber Shop. Just dudes getting haircuts. Pursey was incredulous. She is apparently too glamorous for a barber shop.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmdEy6Lqi_rL92kAl0RjlHAvNurKJYlCnbgA6eHAZuMDS7gZyFwABAOK06K6DvM8JJl2QnHIHvAQkaKBUvWa0z2M1iiMo2mWiyEVzzvFqfMGStIG2XBH5RC7dV5m-voJqP6pPStsE8P8/s1600/IMG_2954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmdEy6Lqi_rL92kAl0RjlHAvNurKJYlCnbgA6eHAZuMDS7gZyFwABAOK06K6DvM8JJl2QnHIHvAQkaKBUvWa0z2M1iiMo2mWiyEVzzvFqfMGStIG2XBH5RC7dV5m-voJqP6pPStsE8P8/s400/IMG_2954.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> But when she learned there had been a REAL queen right here in Zeeland? She warmed back up to our small town...and needed her picture taken with the royal landmark.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4zxRHB-7s0_OYI5CQDSHKV8O_UXsgidaQ7PqBVjanXzSVCpAcgocsh7Sb0fY_jKsbkU7rJw41i1WlBLF4KgRsWk7Prt9baZfRCQdi5DVazcXhC0P838AEd0QRLqniqjSdQBIwtrY-zE/s1600/IMG_2955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4zxRHB-7s0_OYI5CQDSHKV8O_UXsgidaQ7PqBVjanXzSVCpAcgocsh7Sb0fY_jKsbkU7rJw41i1WlBLF4KgRsWk7Prt9baZfRCQdi5DVazcXhC0P838AEd0QRLqniqjSdQBIwtrY-zE/s400/IMG_2955.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> Before getting back into the truck, we stopped to look at the bikes in the Zeeland Schwinn Shop. The owner is my parents' neighbor.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTprKGyZGxYATWjt7P-SDmi2KX5faUeAcUSTS-CZnI_gUBdUc7ZF87EsfPZf0zcMRWyNC0rNWLvu-Qgch854LYd8_y_v4rvMBTvkvL2E6v3UunN4n_BaRthyfm6uL2cCwAw7WlwoPPEX4/s1600/IMG_2956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTprKGyZGxYATWjt7P-SDmi2KX5faUeAcUSTS-CZnI_gUBdUc7ZF87EsfPZf0zcMRWyNC0rNWLvu-Qgch854LYd8_y_v4rvMBTvkvL2E6v3UunN4n_BaRthyfm6uL2cCwAw7WlwoPPEX4/s400/IMG_2956.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our last stop was for dinner at J's Again. It's the kind of restaurant that has the gumball machine and a tackboard full of announcements in it's entry-way. There is a counter where you pay a handwritten check and you can buy a york peppermint patty after dinner as a treat. It's the kind of place where you seat yourself. It's the kind of place the old folks (which are 98% of the clientele) comment on how cute and well-behaved your curly-haired little boy is. There is no alcohol on the menu. There is a picture of the last supper on the wall.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eddie and I had the grilled cheese. Cort had a burger. Pursey? She was too cool to eat. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As we climbed in the truck I thought of how sad I was that I didn't get to share the story of Pursey with anyone. I didn't earn even one donation for such an important cause.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But what I did get to do?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBT_nINCBFQ9aXd2naxZwI_M9obmBxhtyMGpTrz4-t1NCk944q8vdzlZ_yr6SgZcdZ6RPrehTb7DDoIA4he5bfHAU6bNCPz5FeEd1hcdqaSeptPeeo1SIXiPSaBJ6Gl5QA0FvuZkCAR0/s400/IMG_2924.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pursey came to school with us to fix my computer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBT_nINCBFQ9aXd2naxZwI_M9obmBxhtyMGpTrz4-t1NCk944q8vdzlZ_yr6SgZcdZ6RPrehTb7DDoIA4he5bfHAU6bNCPz5FeEd1hcdqaSeptPeeo1SIXiPSaBJ6Gl5QA0FvuZkCAR0/s1600/IMG_2924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-MKpG05MAWRqRSmxiXinNrBQpGpcTVuZAWlzpiyN0UH7XDVTZcrHtw_VTC5U9yILfvPp-OnHygSEZrafCrGrBNmzbaeZj1inmE3vc2Voo9u5FaBSb5n8p16IcDjUjhPMHKv6SB7m4-M/s400/IMG_2929.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pursey watched the U of M/MSU game with us</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-MKpG05MAWRqRSmxiXinNrBQpGpcTVuZAWlzpiyN0UH7XDVTZcrHtw_VTC5U9yILfvPp-OnHygSEZrafCrGrBNmzbaeZj1inmE3vc2Voo9u5FaBSb5n8p16IcDjUjhPMHKv6SB7m4-M/s1600/IMG_2929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJDmoRMByXUYDWlUKNuA0GwDLPnwRWdNKTA0prXquWewqHvy-giDYJW7Nu_I9o80BaZaOV17yQ_IJ9iLPt3EFIqfdIQUjtyqbZZkbclT0bVf_3nmYNYZ7OoVQHckRv3SU0tH-f2iDjuA/s400/IMG_2930.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pursey helped me create a fall wreath instead of spending too much on a pre-made one</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJDmoRMByXUYDWlUKNuA0GwDLPnwRWdNKTA0prXquWewqHvy-giDYJW7Nu_I9o80BaZaOV17yQ_IJ9iLPt3EFIqfdIQUjtyqbZZkbclT0bVf_3nmYNYZ7OoVQHckRv3SU0tH-f2iDjuA/s1600/IMG_2930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Pursey helped me to spend time with my family today--something I have been earning to do for WEEKS. We all spent the WHOLE day together as a family just being together as a family.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Today I went back in my mind to my childhood, but I also spent a whole day in the now, with my little family.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Cort and I talked about how great it was to go to family-owned businesses. The guy who fixes our cars? Went to HS with my dad. And his son? Went to HS with Cortney. That is where we live. Where the guy whose name is out front is also the guy who is behind the counter helping you pick out your tulip bulbs or your grass seed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We strolled and chatting and pointed out differences and memories. We laughed and smiled. We showed Eddie our kidhood.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And it was all thanks to Pursey.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No I cannot forget from where it is that I come from</i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I cannot forget the people who love me</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And people let me be just what I want to be</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Please consider going to Project: Purse and Boots and making a donation--however small or large--to the American Stroke Association (the donation button is on the right side of the page in the sidebar). And then forgive me for not throwing a bigger bash.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://projectpurseandboots.com/"><img src="http://projectpurseandboots.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/purse-and-boots-button-opaque.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*Lyrics from Small Town by John Mellencamp</i></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-83080370126984925202010-10-08T06:00:00.000-04:002010-10-08T06:00:01.009-04:00What Happens When I Poll the Audience....Today I didn't know if I should tell you about all the poop that is flying around our house lately or do my flip-offs.<br />
<br />
So i polled the audience. And by audience, I mean twitter. Because there is instant gratification in polling twitter.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
You all voted and you wanted.....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVODXwCLbKHmf2T2WDUn8E8-rM_P0fW7pD3RHQCJDX_nDGhJmilcOHhFRqEYtIcCXTk9FzW4nUUrcn9LdErvgtCoHkGLuX3MxNCcqb83MYOo3myGCivpweBrOQvCTbeTH8GM0ICJnz6S8/s1600/fridayflipoffsfinal1%5B1%5D.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVODXwCLbKHmf2T2WDUn8E8-rM_P0fW7pD3RHQCJDX_nDGhJmilcOHhFRqEYtIcCXTk9FzW4nUUrcn9LdErvgtCoHkGLuX3MxNCcqb83MYOo3myGCivpweBrOQvCTbeTH8GM0ICJnz6S8/s1600/fridayflipoffsfinal1%5B1%5D.png" /></a></div>That's right...it's been a couple weeks, but the flip-offs are back by popular demand. The topic of poop? It is still coming...just maybe another day.<br />
<br />
Ok...so here we go... (cracks knuckles)...<br />
<br />
First I am TOTALLY flipping off the moron in the red buick something or other in my neighborhood that I get stuck behind in the morning if leave the house at just the "right" (re: WRONG) time in the morning. <br />
<br />
Let me explain. We live in one of those windy subdivisions that doesn't have any stop signs (because there is SO not enough traffic to justify stop signs) until you get to the only entrance/exit which is on a main road.<br />
<br />
Red Buick? He feels the need to make a COMPLETE stop at each and every intersection. He then proceeds to go no faster than 15 mph throughout entire said windy subdivision.<br />
<br />
Now I get that it's important to be cautious. You don't want to hit any kids walking to the bus stop.<br />
<br />
But at 6:30am? There are no kids walking to the bus stop yet. I know this because on days when I am running late? Like 7:00am late? THAT is when the kids are walking to the bus stop.<br />
<br />
So on these days when I think I am being all on time and early (re: OUT OF CHARACTER FOR ME), Red Buick ruins it for me.<br />
<br />
FLIP OFF to you, Red Buick (in fact, I DID flip him/her off this morning...but he/she was too focused on not going over 15, that I don't think he/she noticed. So it didn't count. So I had to do it here. So there.)<br />
<br />
Ok secondly? I need to flip off one of our banks.<br />
<br />
I am not going to say WHICH bank this is because we do get good service here and the tellers are stellar (you love it. don't pretend you don't).<br />
<br />
But this bank? Has called our house eight times since last Friday. Our home phone is on the fritz (a WHOLE other flip off), and so we let it go to voicemail and then call our callers back with our cells.<br />
<br />
Bur the bank? Is not leaving messages.<br />
<br />
Eight times. EIGHT MOTHER LOVING TIMES.<br />
<br />
three of those times were in ONE DAY.<br />
<br />
So finally Cort called the number that came up on our caller id (after the fifth time they hung up, mind you). and apparently this is their marketing department trying to let us know about a good mortgage rate.<br />
<br />
Wait. What?<br />
<br />
We JUST refinanced last year at this time. What the ham sandwich, batman?<br />
<br />
So Cort tells them, "um, you need to put us on the do not call list."<br />
<br />
And the lady is all "well, you have to call customer service to request that, and it can take up to 30 days."<br />
<br />
sigh.<br />
<br />
So after this conversation? Three more times they call. Three.<br />
<br />
For a total of EIGHT TIMES.<br />
<br />
Bank? FLIP OFF!<br />
<br />
And finally...<br />
<br />
I need to go ahead and flip off the cat and his choice of pooping locations. There will be more of this shared in the upcoming and much anticipated "Poop Post", but let's just say my old ass cat is getting all sorts of mean-spirited and poop crazy. and bad, awful things have happened because of this.<br />
<br />
So I flip off the cat poop...and the toothbrush that was thrown out because of it.<br />
<br />
Oh...and I know I said "finally" above, but I need to add this...<br />
<br />
PPD has a PERMANENT flip-off here in Sluiter Nation, you all know that. But what you don't know is that I am all guest posty over at<a href="http://rmtnmama.blogspot.com/"> Rocky Mountain Mama's</a> today for her PPD Awareness Week. I'm talking about the differences between Baby Blues (which are normal) and PPD. So go check me out and leave me a comment over there so I don't feel all lonely. I hate feeling lonely. Especially on a Friday.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So click this picture and read the post.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://rmtnmama.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Rocky Mountain Mama" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_RIuf2E7eo2I/TKZGtc5eomI/AAAAAAAABng/F0QA0Kiv8Fk/s200/608-00247820n.jpg" width="100" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">and then read the rest of the posts. They are pretty amazing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, and for more flip-offs? You can visit...um...I don't even know. <a href="http://www.kludgymom.com/">Kludgy Mom</a> is the brainchild of the Flip-offs, so go say hi to her. She has been occupied as of late, so <a href="http://mommakiss.blogspot.com/">Momma Kiss</a> had the link up. So just go to both. They are awesome. Trust me.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-83916838844951135262010-10-07T06:00:00.003-04:002010-10-07T06:00:01.424-04:00Back to School Bonanza #10: The Rocky Mountain Mama<div class="MsoNormal">Today is it. The final installment of my Back to School Bonanza Guest Post Series. Today's post is brought to you by the Rocky Mountain Mama. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I love this post so much. It is the perfect way to end my series.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She taught in Title I schools. I teach in a Title I school. Many of you know that my school is amazing, but does not have near the funding they need for the students we have. We have classes that are too big, not enough supplies, not enough resources all due to being "at risk"--which means no money for us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don't get me going on how warped that is in this country. Punish the needy districts by taking away funding. Grrr.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, this post touches my heart. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I believe in Public Schools.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I believe in kids who are considered "at risk".</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I devote a HUGE chunk of my life to both.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so did the Rocky Mountain Mama.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope you enjoy this last post in my guest series. Please visit her <a href="http://rmtnmama.blogspot.com/">blog </a>(she is doing PPD awareness week right now that is AWESOME...and I am there!). Oh, and of course show her some love.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">_______________________________________________________________________</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hello! I am the author of <a href="http://rmtnmama.blogspot.com/">Rocky Mountain Mama</a>. I am so glad to be joining Sluiter Nation’s Back to School Bonanza! I am blogging as an educator and I will be discussing my school experience, some of my teaching experiences and how they may or may not relate to each other.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I attended parochial school from kindergarten through high school. I really did enjoy my school experience. I had many great teachers and I liked the small environment of a parochial school. My K-8 school had 2 classes in each grade with each class only having about 20 kids in it. There were about 10 of us who started school together in kindergarten and graduated from high school together. Attending parochial school definitely kept me sheltered, but I was definitely prepared for my future. I understood the meaning of hard work. From an early age (1<sup>st</sup> grade) I had hours of homework. Yes, you read that correctly…hourS. </div><div class="MsoNormal">--------------</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t always know I wanted to be a teacher, but I did always enjoy working with younger children. After I graduated college with a useless degree in English, I decided to go back to school to get my license in Elementary Education. While participating in all my practicums and student teaching I thought I wanted to teach at a charter school – it being very similar to my own background. The thought of a “regular” public school frightened me…and don’t even get me started on Title I schools. Scary! I was so used to the sheltered feeling of a parochial school that working with kids with disabilities or hard backgrounds freaked me out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did my student teaching in the fall and subbed from January through November of the following year. Subbing was hard. I went from school to school and was scared nearly out of teaching when I found a student who attempted throwing tables at a Title I school. Then one day, midyear, a friend called and told me about an opening at her school – a Title I school. I really wasn’t sure, but I decided to interview. It wouldn’t hurt, right?!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got the job as a full day kindergarten teacher to many English language learners who came from hard, unstable backgrounds. I loved it. Hands down, loved it. These kids were great and the families were so caring and just wanted the best for their children. The following year I switched districts and found myself at yet another inner-city Title I school, but this one was different. This one was rough – in the heart of the inner-city. These kids had rough lives. Some were homeless. Many had parents in jail. And many didn’t have enough to eat or shared a room with more than one sibling. This school had 97% free and reduced lunch – that should give you an idea of the area.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This job was tough. Oh my gosh, it was tough! I cried daily for almost two weeks when I first started. I had a student who peed on the floor, wrote curse words all over the room, threw things and a handful of students who refused to work. Think Dangerous Minds with 2<sup>nd</sup> graders. And parent support?! Forget it! But once I established relationships and gained control I fell in love with every.single.student. Even the one who peed on the floor and called me the F word on many occasions. They challenged me daily. They pushed my limits, but I learned SO much from these kids. I valued every moment at that school in spite of the tremendous amounts of stress.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were many days I left crying…not because of stress of the job, but because of the situations many of these children lived in. I had high expectations of these kids (just like when I was younger) but how do you maintain high expectations when some of these kids don’t have a place to sleep or don’t have enough to eat?! The answer…you give them a loving, caring and structured environment. That is what they crave….what they need. I still think about those kids and wonder how they are doing now. I still worry for them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was pregnant with Christopher I decided to change districts to be closer to home. I am now teaching in one of the top districts in Denver in one of the top elementary school as a kindergarten interventionist. I do love it…I really do, but part of me misses the struggles of Title I.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So how does this all tie together – my parochial schooling with my teaching experience at a Title I school? Attending a parochial school kept me very sheltered. My parents made a good choice as the public school system where I grew up was not the best, but I am now a firm believer in the public school system. Yes, it has its “issues” but everything does. I digress… Growing up I kind of had a negative warped perception of public schools ingrained into me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I always thought public schools = bad education. Quite the contrary. There are many, MANY public schools who are providing an amazing education for today’s youth. My current school is a good example. My previous school may not be the best example if you pull their test scores, but I can tell you the teachers there are working their butts off to provide a well rounded education and more importantly, a safe place for those kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t pull from my life experiences to understand and empathize with my students at the Title I school, but I do understand the value of education. No matter what setting I am in, I have always strived to provide my students with the best education while maintaining a caring learning environment. While my schooling experience was completely different from many of my teaching experiences, I have valued both.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-83901177818610433592010-10-05T21:55:00.000-04:002010-10-05T21:55:32.150-04:00Where Does He Get that HAIR?!?This blog has been a wee bit on the serious side lately--I realize that. Even when I am talking about positive things, it's with a bit of a serious tone.<br />
<br />
So we need some lightening up around here, yes?<br />
<br />
Yes, I thought so too.<br />
<br />
So I thought I would tackle a reader (and pretty much anyone we meet) question....<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Where does Eddie get that HAIR?!?!</span></i></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8S8m7LpPJPIJ1-KjwmFsnLUzG6RkZBvz3zmeDSIq9PWs6yWAP0B-uxxxZV9EbGGMNFh9oEGYMGK_p17rO8iN0OQWYWjAIiqz6kgR4ar6UQJMmTBjLGuq9DyrCXwd0ij_ucO8OJNCD2U/s1600/IMG_2885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8S8m7LpPJPIJ1-KjwmFsnLUzG6RkZBvz3zmeDSIq9PWs6yWAP0B-uxxxZV9EbGGMNFh9oEGYMGK_p17rO8iN0OQWYWjAIiqz6kgR4ar6UQJMmTBjLGuq9DyrCXwd0ij_ucO8OJNCD2U/s320/IMG_2885.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><b><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Almost every single person who sees Eddie asks me this question. And since putting that new family picture up there at the top of the blog (THANK YOU, Missy! Muah!), more and more people have been commenting on his curly blond locks compared to our dark tresses. So I am here today to set the record straight!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">First? I can tell you were he DIDN'T get the hair....</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzTkUNPHEZXRrt3RKEy9lv74gqI13aqi5oINDPE4Li6D9vqMqhc0jZctAAKX-8NI64xZNBU1cv-Jz6jX7BXOWL6s8JR4Bz8pxREyS_igBknIQaRbe69GeqY7t0MQj9IL7cwYG7gtDpks/s1600/Lil+Kate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzTkUNPHEZXRrt3RKEy9lv74gqI13aqi5oINDPE4Li6D9vqMqhc0jZctAAKX-8NI64xZNBU1cv-Jz6jX7BXOWL6s8JR4Bz8pxREyS_igBknIQaRbe69GeqY7t0MQj9IL7cwYG7gtDpks/s400/Lil+Kate.jpg" width="326" /></a></div>I have clearly...CLEARLY...always had super straight hair (and an outstanding fashion sense). however, it was blonder than it is now. Well, <i>now</i> it's darker due to umm...a little help. But my TRUE hair color is brown. But as a kid, it was MUCH lighter.<br />
<br />
Now...take a peek at this guy...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqmwnij-qaYq9Ko-AgvLSadixaQWy-_mmty_a8uu8L-wvr2e-UX6sdI3lv6HAjzhltwOdLt2Bus5TbiKG0X-Mo5gDgHz2s678HTo6GniFyHbT_OpJmIx4ZcdvTDBQ7R3ej2av5ToPfEc/s1600/Cortney+at+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqmwnij-qaYq9Ko-AgvLSadixaQWy-_mmty_a8uu8L-wvr2e-UX6sdI3lv6HAjzhltwOdLt2Bus5TbiKG0X-Mo5gDgHz2s678HTo6GniFyHbT_OpJmIx4ZcdvTDBQ7R3ej2av5ToPfEc/s400/Cortney+at+the+beach.jpg" width="392" /></a></div>Oh hello blond curls!! Yes, that's right, at one time Cortney had blond, soft curls. And chubby little arms and legs...just like someone else I know...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdoq96vHer3cmHiSpFyRaf4qD1i0GHC0gzoNBRbI6tFWdc09OAHceZwAulAMiYVCCkSvivS43nJ-8DdFUARuSJhVO8R3G77M2_ZLPB7lDnvZ9W0jrNUwFHBX-Kd5Iaqa-TCZ-ktuupV5w/s400/005.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admittedly Eddie's hair is not that curly here....I had just plastered it with sunscreen</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdoq96vHer3cmHiSpFyRaf4qD1i0GHC0gzoNBRbI6tFWdc09OAHceZwAulAMiYVCCkSvivS43nJ-8DdFUARuSJhVO8R3G77M2_ZLPB7lDnvZ9W0jrNUwFHBX-Kd5Iaqa-TCZ-ktuupV5w/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Ahem.<br />
<br />
So now we know where the hair came from. But how about we take a minute to look at it's future, shall we?<br />
<br />
If Eddie's hair truly is his father's hair, here is what he can look forward to....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KXv9yFprEX9vyWEVjyToYQdm7OJTrEUyVZBO2aSrFXHt4_RdVFdgWovxI47Krv-4-km3qUUcu0SJxDwToZbm6Ia4pF8oyAOYfE9efxx4C03spPrAy8LmfgbLKJKz-e9JNmhknYmJ4tE/s1600/Cortney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KXv9yFprEX9vyWEVjyToYQdm7OJTrEUyVZBO2aSrFXHt4_RdVFdgWovxI47Krv-4-km3qUUcu0SJxDwToZbm6Ia4pF8oyAOYfE9efxx4C03spPrAy8LmfgbLKJKz-e9JNmhknYmJ4tE/s400/Cortney.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>The curls? They keep growing. They are really not this red...it's just good old early 80's photography! Maybe I will get Eddie's hair cut before this happens...but maybe not.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioL8iihpm_67PI8tAam89rMRSWLDED-a9m7tfu5bCW3O0zY18nDjo4m9Zrhon-MlkHElmE2eFH7tOj65yVV0oPKkbMdhQf99wtehQ0x9i4sQAACHIKkend5wMEu6mf9C6SalVRG-a_DTM/s1600/cortney's+first+tricycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioL8iihpm_67PI8tAam89rMRSWLDED-a9m7tfu5bCW3O0zY18nDjo4m9Zrhon-MlkHElmE2eFH7tOj65yVV0oPKkbMdhQf99wtehQ0x9i4sQAACHIKkend5wMEu6mf9C6SalVRG-a_DTM/s400/cortney's+first+tricycle.jpg" width="378" /></a></div>They start to get a little tighter as the boy grows. And a wee a little browner. And that little green jacket? Shut up! Eddie is SURE to have style!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVT1R2-MGM-qNbT8lsnjzhX8OQy7svU8M7j-Cu2DE1BeVq0WkvrLanV4edRy3dWDw1n72wwSPEGA6VFgSaB3CkqTHdXKsxDndEy8vkktxDDyMvEj1Ujgm8CeteUXE0lR657EBNQoFuck/s1600/memorial+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoVT1R2-MGM-qNbT8lsnjzhX8OQy7svU8M7j-Cu2DE1BeVq0WkvrLanV4edRy3dWDw1n72wwSPEGA6VFgSaB3CkqTHdXKsxDndEy8vkktxDDyMvEj1Ujgm8CeteUXE0lR657EBNQoFuck/s400/memorial+day.jpg" width="293" /></a></div>Even tighter curls. Even browner curls. Even cooler jacket. The boy knows outerwear, people. He so does.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KFbRf3mDVb_E62qIUQQWsEDv0tv3a_aHT9SWvr6AMNmvUc_tEti1QWXMcMeHou-syRW2aP1tlg8cVbYPASKgzzsCiVbhXux6Z8LDK9_wSYkRW8JFFgfSOVHedCNFsEgvM6PBZK51QrU/s1600/school+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KFbRf3mDVb_E62qIUQQWsEDv0tv3a_aHT9SWvr6AMNmvUc_tEti1QWXMcMeHou-syRW2aP1tlg8cVbYPASKgzzsCiVbhXux6Z8LDK9_wSYkRW8JFFgfSOVHedCNFsEgvM6PBZK51QrU/s400/school+picture.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>Tight curls and baby chicks? What is that? Bunnies? And I love the carefully posed hands on the open book. Super chic.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBp7pA19lGl6tp60OCrwmqzf3c4LXQa8XWCxpucA6TzbvaCbnsrsn5_-iGpHSl2SEVb5cpR_Rl7wabxLzC-775EQWogbBlqsh3jLikpH6SdqgLC28-OQOLu0gpV1S_TXg2_mCRRbxfqY/s1600/up+close+Cortney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBp7pA19lGl6tp60OCrwmqzf3c4LXQa8XWCxpucA6TzbvaCbnsrsn5_-iGpHSl2SEVb5cpR_Rl7wabxLzC-775EQWogbBlqsh3jLikpH6SdqgLC28-OQOLu0gpV1S_TXg2_mCRRbxfqY/s400/up+close+Cortney.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I purposefully skipped the early adolescent years. No one needs that. And Cortney? Would not be pleased if I posted that. So here is high schoolish age. Those curls? Super tight. Totally brown. The transformation is almost complete....almost.<br />
<br />
In college? He went ahead and did this....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfzzr0xla3jFBYvAezKWi2lRDCaq0tzXi7qZgtvJ5947Ru7c3tlLKnxYpsTrByeKIdCsYqsXXVlvlE_tFDaHKxQHEdfMd5xRc5LwBl56pvEQWpXSlkM9XvPrVHJW9HyAnkccG9afTjQU/s1600/sporting+the+fro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfzzr0xla3jFBYvAezKWi2lRDCaq0tzXi7qZgtvJ5947Ru7c3tlLKnxYpsTrByeKIdCsYqsXXVlvlE_tFDaHKxQHEdfMd5xRc5LwBl56pvEQWpXSlkM9XvPrVHJW9HyAnkccG9afTjQU/s400/sporting+the+fro.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>Yes, that is his actual hair. My man? Can grow a MEAN afro! He is one studly white man with a fro!<br />
<br />
Cortney apologizes to Eddie daily for the hair. He says there are two haircuts: short and long. And if long goes bad? It's a fro-lett.<br />
<br />
yes that is an afro mullet. don't mock. Cort MAY have had one that matched his dad's.... <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OsHGpRUha3_M-94PEJy4OVMwRZK8cpt69uQNTRW2HkB_zGFT007b_Aw829VuOns0hX-9XKCwGuIEAr39n2tieXj3wk8ZFD81ZKLbQzbBcwp2hJGiMKL5b6oQOryNbYpWixAGkYtaO14/s1600/Pentwater+at+Dusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9OsHGpRUha3_M-94PEJy4OVMwRZK8cpt69uQNTRW2HkB_zGFT007b_Aw829VuOns0hX-9XKCwGuIEAr39n2tieXj3wk8ZFD81ZKLbQzbBcwp2hJGiMKL5b6oQOryNbYpWixAGkYtaO14/s320/Pentwater+at+Dusk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Maybe the fro is in Eddie's future? If it is? He will DEFINITELY impress his friends. He will be the hit of the sports team he is on (if he is on one. his choice. totally.)<br />
<br />
Hopefully he will learn to embrace the curls like his dad has. Hopefully he will love what he has in common with the man who loves him most in this world. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXm9SH6lx4qgV_QonQCzQmr1jh_hdFYpbqFI4OJnyFqFW8ljGXie_BCnOXfZaEBO1YgzchSZWD4xqAOzO36jUPWLPzyvk25wVzKLYtfzRvYPfkUAmK7b0H9he_a3mtNsnbl6JGM6HBEt8/s1600/family+pic+2010+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXm9SH6lx4qgV_QonQCzQmr1jh_hdFYpbqFI4OJnyFqFW8ljGXie_BCnOXfZaEBO1YgzchSZWD4xqAOzO36jUPWLPzyvk25wVzKLYtfzRvYPfkUAmK7b0H9he_a3mtNsnbl6JGM6HBEt8/s400/family+pic+2010+-+Copy.jpg" width="332" /></a></div>So yes, Eddie gets his cute little 'do from his daddy. And I think he also gets his heart-melting smile from him. And his kind nature. And his....<br />
<br />
oh wait.<br />
<br />
This was about hair.<br />
<br />
ahem.<br />
<br />
So to answer your question: Cortney. He gets his hair from Cortney.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-63882757888601568832010-10-05T06:00:00.000-04:002010-10-05T06:00:08.734-04:00Back To School Bonanza Guest Post #9: Sign Language<span style="font-size: 12pt;">As an educator, I am always trying to do the best thing with Eddie as far as communication and language. We make books available to him for exploring, we read books to him, we talk to him constantly about what we are doing, and we name EVERYTHING.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">One thing we haven't done a ton of is sign language.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Recently I was contacted by Emily Patterson about guest posting here on the topic of Sign Language at an early age. I thought it was a wonderful idea. I know a LOT of you already do this with your children, and I am so excited to learn that it is NOT too late for us to start! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Here is a little about Emily and what she does...</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For over 25 years, Primrose Schools has helped individuals achieve higher levels of success by providing them with an AdvancED® accredited, early childhood, education. Through an accelerated Balanced Learning® curriculum, Primrose Schools students are exposed to a widely diverse range of subject matter giving them a much greater opportunity to develop mentally, physically and socially. Emily Patterson is currently working as a communications coordinator for Primrose Schools providing written work to the blogosphere which highlights the importance, and some of the specific aspects, of a quality, early childhood, education.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is what she has to say...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Early Childhood Education – Acquiring Sign Language</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the keys to surviving in a tilted economic system in which opportunities to achieve a decent standard of living will be limited is versatility – and the ability to communicate articulately in a variety of ways with the widest possible audience. This includes bilingual ability as well as the ability to communicate in non-verbal ways for the benefit of the disabled – primarily the deaf. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the same time, a growing shortage of qualified interpreters fluent in American Sign Language has led to more career opportunities – and if current trends continue, it's likely that skilled ASL interpreters will have little problem securing lucrative employment in a society where such a commodity is destined to be in short supply.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Signing Before They Can Speak</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A great deal of research has clearly demonstrated that the early years – ages 2 to five – are the best time to educate children in different modes of communication and language. This goes beyond the spoken word (though it is an optimal time for children to learn a second language); many young children have an aptitude for signing as well. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is not as odd as you may think. As you know, many indigenous peoples around the world, including American Indian nations, have used sign language for centuries to facilitate communication with other tribes with whom they do not share a language. Some paleontologists and anthropologists theorize that Neanderthals – who apparently lacked the vocal mechanism to produce many spoken words – depended a great deal upon hand gestures to communicate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fact, recent research suggests that sign language is innate. An article published in the <i>Boulder Daily Camera </i>in 2003 presented strong evidence that babies as young as six months old communicate with their hands: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> "...by 6 to 7 months, babies can remember a sign. At eight months, children </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> can begin to imitate gestures and sign single words. By 24 months, children </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> can sign compound words and full sentences. They say sign language reduces </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> frustration in young children by giving them a means to express themselves </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> before they know how to talk." (Glarion, 2003)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The author also cites study funded by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development demonstrating that young children who are taught sign language at an early age actually develop better verbal skills as they get older. The ability to sign has also helped parents in communicating with autistic children; one parent reports that "using sign language allowed her to communicate with her [autistic] son and minimized his frustration...[he now] has an advanced vocabulary and excels in math, spelling and music" (Glarion, 2003).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The Best Time To Start</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not only does early childhood education in signing give pre-verbal youngsters a way to communicate, it can also strengthen the parent-child bond – in addition to giving children a solid foundation for learning a skill that will serve them well in the future. The evidence suggests that the best time to start learning ASL is before a child can even walk – and the implications for facilitating the parent-child relationship are amazing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Co-written by Emily Patterson and Kathleen Thomas</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% white;"><i>Emily and Kathleen are Communications Coordinators for the network of </i><a href="http://www.primroseschools.com/OurSchools/Georgia/" target="_blank"><i>Georgia educational child care</i></a> <i>facilities belonging to the AdvancED® accredited family of Primrose </i><a href="http://www.primroseschools.com/" target="_blank"><i>educational child care</i></a><i> schools. Primrose Schools are located in 16 states throughout the U.S. and are dedicated to delivering progressive, early childhood, Balanced Learning® curriculum throughout their preschools.</i></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-43347261879266545452010-10-03T19:58:00.000-04:002010-10-03T19:58:28.141-04:00Just Breathe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_Vi0tLuks_8d5_Htr1gl8FkvTrbzTXvjvgzfFYiieRfKhUvohsNkV-Afg4UeZAxcmWTjBvJUPCdciMUBs692Ib30hNm603jsKCvgLldjK0WA4DuY6xkdX2ZR5ZmvPZnovMWKi2QJkjo/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_Vi0tLuks_8d5_Htr1gl8FkvTrbzTXvjvgzfFYiieRfKhUvohsNkV-Afg4UeZAxcmWTjBvJUPCdciMUBs692Ib30hNm603jsKCvgLldjK0WA4DuY6xkdX2ZR5ZmvPZnovMWKi2QJkjo/s400/4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes I understand that every life must end, aw-huh...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><i>As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, aw-huh...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh I'm a lucky [woman] to count on both hands</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the ones I love...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I work too much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I worry too much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I get caught up in the piles and the To Do's.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And because of all this craziness that is suddenly in my life now? I have learned to slow it WAY down when I am with my family.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Some folks just have one,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>yeah, others they've got none, uh-huh.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I am awfully lucky for what I've got.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>I not only have an army of people near and far who love me and are concerned for me and my family, but I have the most wonderful, joyful little family right here under my own roof.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stay with me...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>let's just breathe....</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">This week I moved my laptop downstairs to a little "office" that Cort made for me in the laundry room. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I cut out my computer time before work.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't look at my computer until after Eddie is in bed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's been lovely.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Practiced are my sins,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Never gonna let me win, aw-huh...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Under everything, just another human being, aw-huh...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeh, I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>to make me believe.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We also got served another punch this week when Cort was passed over for a job he was practically guaranteed. <i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so we leaned on each other.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We are finding more quiet moments now that I am so busy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We are talking more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We have better discussions.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stay with me...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>you're all I see.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>Cortney and Eddie are my rocks.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cort brings Eddie to school every Wednesday so I will never have a day that I don't see my wee little guy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eddie never cares what our job situations are. He just loves to love life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I say that I need you?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I say that I want you?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh if I didn't I'm a fool, you see...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No one knows this more than me.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>As I come clean...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have been struggling with mom guilt and with wife guilt and with friend guilt and with blogger guilt and with weight guilt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But my boys? They just are there. They are there when I need them. They listen as I cry. They laugh when life gets crazy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We make do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We celebrate the small moments...even if it's just for 30 minutes after school in my classroom. We are together.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I need that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I love that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I wonder everyday</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> as I look upon your face, aw-huh...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Everything you gave</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And nothing would you take, aw-huh...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Nothing would you take</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Everything you gave...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">This crazy life has made me realize how lucky I am.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't think my boys will ever EVER know how thankful I am for them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The funny thing is, most of this busyness is FOR THEM. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And they never complain about me being gone. Ever.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The house gets cleaned. The errands get run. The bills get paid.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">With me never saying anything.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I am so very lucky.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I say that I need you?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, did I say that I want you?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool, you see...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No one knows this more than me.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>As I come clean, ah-ah...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't do anything without Cort and Eddie's support.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My buddy turned 15 months in this whirl of madness. He is babbling, and walking backwards, and doing Ring Around the Rosie's, and climbing on things, and loving books.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">His brillance makes me want to be better.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cortney keeps our house running. He pays the bills. He keeps us comfy. He makes it so Eddie never knows that we are struggling.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He supports my weight loss (I am holding fast at 193, by the way. But it is good. Lots of good choices this week).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He does things that aren't his favorite (like family pictures) to make me happy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He somehow keeps persevering after each rejection because he is strong.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He keeps this family going.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Nothing you would take...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Everything you gave.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Love you til I die...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>meet you on the other side.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Together we hold on. We just breathe.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*lyrics from the song "Breathe" by Pearl Jam</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is also my McFatty Monday post. Hop on over <a href="http://itsjustmeheidid.blogspot.com/p/mcfatty-monday.html">here </a>for more. </span></i></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-5371675944874482322010-10-01T22:40:00.000-04:002010-10-01T22:40:15.704-04:00There Was Some Running<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozshqZBpUKexTsGVt9wVQAwsedu_nuR8xEHkoLL82fsUvEGrqXSXwWVkfMEUjD-gOCQ2hT9TkET5UmuOHweG68feSQ7I7Z7mAImeQCGFxJgiEg7bsejJD_mKYreBTUwyHZ1Ka0K7cj2I/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozshqZBpUKexTsGVt9wVQAwsedu_nuR8xEHkoLL82fsUvEGrqXSXwWVkfMEUjD-gOCQ2hT9TkET5UmuOHweG68feSQ7I7Z7mAImeQCGFxJgiEg7bsejJD_mKYreBTUwyHZ1Ka0K7cj2I/s400/6.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Cortney and I <strike>ran </strike>participated in the Susan G Koman Race for the Cure. Many of you helped us with our fundraising and between he and I? We raised over $700!!! That is amazing!<br />
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I wrote about my perspective of race day on <a href="http://runningbetweentweets.com/2010/10/01/i-did-it/">Running Between Tweets</a>.<br />
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Cortney wrote about it on his blog,<a href="http://tastybutteredtoast.wordpress.com/2010/09/29/im-no-forrest-gump/"> Tasty Buttered Toast</a>.<br />
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Thank you again for all your support! We hope to do it again next year...but we hope to be even better!Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-61197274486392278652010-10-01T07:40:00.000-04:002010-10-01T07:40:51.100-04:00Changes Amongst TraditionsLately all of my posts have been about school. I realize that. Part of that is because it's been my Back to School Bonanza (which has only one week left). The other reason for that is because it is something that is consuming my time lately.<br />
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One of the major event that takes up a boatload of my time right off the bat with each new school year is homecoming.<br />
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Lucky for me, I am not in charge of ALL of homecoming, but I am in charge of the seniors (choosing the 10 on the court and the master and mistress of ceremony as well as getting convertibles and organizing them for the homecoming parade/game, AND doing the final vote for king and queen), getting <i>all </i>court members lined up and ready to go for the parade, and running homecoming halftime.<br />
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It means a lot of little details, phone calls, planning.<br />
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And this year? This year I signed on to do a surprise staff drumline performance during the homecoming pep assembly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidB2YeSJL2RLoNlcP_zhoA-rUY8sLY5WNo0_4DcqnsFLFWK3Icf2xsxetAxo5rpfT2-cQlZr_2XcYLYT1bUy4qn8dnFSdZalVqD2EV2iUPmz87QTPzRkWuF2kKEckzZw8i710BDJsf1Zc/s1600/IMG_2799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidB2YeSJL2RLoNlcP_zhoA-rUY8sLY5WNo0_4DcqnsFLFWK3Icf2xsxetAxo5rpfT2-cQlZr_2XcYLYT1bUy4qn8dnFSdZalVqD2EV2iUPmz87QTPzRkWuF2kKEckzZw8i710BDJsf1Zc/s400/IMG_2799.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>See? There I am with the base drum! I am all smiley instead of actually concentrating on the cadence we learned.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z8lyIFOGxs7o6J2N0To0H8PYEC1FMRn7KS6vre002tLiicSZ6_LcXt5N80AX6bStVCd4DwRWIOkIncJS3Y436HweTxC-XSYHRVcE1cPtPNC6dLaP5CtvxfLteFl_a4ahbRMsmmcZTSE/s1600/IMG_2801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z8lyIFOGxs7o6J2N0To0H8PYEC1FMRn7KS6vre002tLiicSZ6_LcXt5N80AX6bStVCd4DwRWIOkIncJS3Y436HweTxC-XSYHRVcE1cPtPNC6dLaP5CtvxfLteFl_a4ahbRMsmmcZTSE/s400/IMG_2801.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I did sort of know what I was doing. And it was for sure fun because the kids were surprised and totally amazed that we were out there!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryRwTiNrF0E5xwJBKI7Lgvrl4EbeDMZInCU427BK-RHemHlwKQZa57WevSRvwqOIZPKO8NeFCuBKPrl0-sEHoN2VYKRlg5hvZjD83koies93CoQ3I8_3EDNf1CE9QCNaK8NZPSbpMkeQ/s1600/IMG_2805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryRwTiNrF0E5xwJBKI7Lgvrl4EbeDMZInCU427BK-RHemHlwKQZa57WevSRvwqOIZPKO8NeFCuBKPrl0-sEHoN2VYKRlg5hvZjD83koies93CoQ3I8_3EDNf1CE9QCNaK8NZPSbpMkeQ/s400/IMG_2805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>As you can see? The teachers had a wee bit of fun. Good thing we had a few actual drummers from the band to help us out...we may have been playing more than we were actually <i>playing</i>.<br />
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Once school was over, it was time to think about the homecoming parade. Instead of going home, I loaded my car with homecoming crowns and scepters and capes and scripts and tape and many other random things we may need and headed over to the park where the parade was lining up.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARmTu7beoKfuusmvB_3PMn7JllM6uaKzk5QKvA6xEbOV8WiMA1Zhmhw5U8NYVuv2imW9PwXirq9tYj9V9NEuDj8MuSPvcS2bx_AuMKod5vkCNrNfcmIMV6K_Y_uBtqaWirmxBxOEkcQg/s1600/IMG_2819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARmTu7beoKfuusmvB_3PMn7JllM6uaKzk5QKvA6xEbOV8WiMA1Zhmhw5U8NYVuv2imW9PwXirq9tYj9V9NEuDj8MuSPvcS2bx_AuMKod5vkCNrNfcmIMV6K_Y_uBtqaWirmxBxOEkcQg/s400/IMG_2819.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Even though it had been <strike>a million degrees</strike> sort of hot all week, by parade time the weather had cooled and I actually put on my hoodie. Even though I complain, I really do love seeing all the school spirit. There is just something about fall weather and excitement for high school sports that makes me smile.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUfLSf_GZSYZ8HJwYsfV7-R9b_n-n7z_SgWQQ3bzNhOEMf-1bXiRwHdGxl8G0WN_XgOT4G3upb_VcGlMGTqydJl_P8qh3ZWqQQMrc9LLzr3rUcXTKeGTUakdP8jFD76cxqc27tVnUThI/s1600/IMG_2831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUfLSf_GZSYZ8HJwYsfV7-R9b_n-n7z_SgWQQ3bzNhOEMf-1bXiRwHdGxl8G0WN_XgOT4G3upb_VcGlMGTqydJl_P8qh3ZWqQQMrc9LLzr3rUcXTKeGTUakdP8jFD76cxqc27tVnUThI/s400/IMG_2831.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>There go my seniors! Bringing up the end of the parade (in the corvettes I landed thanks to the Grand Valley Corvette Club! WOOT to them being AWESOME!). One last thing to do...head to the stadium and get ready for halftime!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftttcBBJquUzUYk896Ccr4Sd5N6oOV02ht2Pb6PKuakiVRD1tLn-39A7Er2F4Cgm7MiMGGMisHmx4BswsvMhJI8mNRwR814SwaQjrUGN6CKCxYkQNAR2CRLw7g_3WVN7k0ai2x7S7YR8/s1600/IMG_2832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftttcBBJquUzUYk896Ccr4Sd5N6oOV02ht2Pb6PKuakiVRD1tLn-39A7Er2F4Cgm7MiMGGMisHmx4BswsvMhJI8mNRwR814SwaQjrUGN6CKCxYkQNAR2CRLw7g_3WVN7k0ai2x7S7YR8/s400/IMG_2832.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Getting into the stadium and to my spot on the track can be tricky. Good thing I have a reserved parking spot right near the entrance.<br />
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And of course, <a href="http://www.sluiternation.com/2009/09/and-were-back.html">just like last year</a>, Cortney and Eddie came out for the first half of the game. This year thought? Instead of just being a small, squishy baby who just laid in his carrier? Eddie wanted to get out and RUN!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NcqMX3KSsQOQA9RscLKoTRr6-CgdWr8kiBpkqk4wMdvQVblwV_pMEcJvc01NXsFQmMPF3KyBEqcA7ZWOjOFt3bu0ge-8rFM3stxuwNRBman1eBy9qsCRG6rbRoDohob_w5Oz9ZwVMmQ/s1600/IMG_2833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NcqMX3KSsQOQA9RscLKoTRr6-CgdWr8kiBpkqk4wMdvQVblwV_pMEcJvc01NXsFQmMPF3KyBEqcA7ZWOjOFt3bu0ge-8rFM3stxuwNRBman1eBy9qsCRG6rbRoDohob_w5Oz9ZwVMmQ/s400/IMG_2833.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>This year, like last year, Cort and Eddie left just before halftime since the wee one needed to get to bed. I left as soon as half time was over since I had been at school since 7am and I was whipped.<br />
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On my drive home, I thought about how much had changed even though at the same time? It hadn't at all.<br />
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I have been senior class adviser for going on 5 years now. This is my first year doing it solo (my co-adviser was moved to a different building). I was proud of myself for pulling it off (although I am equally happy that Marcia showed up and helped me hand out the flowers to the court).<br />
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Even though all of the five homecomings followed the exact same traditions? It seems like there is always something slightly different.<br />
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Three years ago there was a new principal.<br />
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Also three years ago, I got home from the game and found out I was pregnant.<br />
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Last year I had a baby.<br />
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This year I was alone in the prep work and execution.<br />
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During all the hullabaloo of the planning, part of me wanted this to be my last year. It was a lot of hard work.<br />
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But at the same time, the relieved feeling when it's over, the excitement on the kids' faces, the fun of seeing how my life changes even though the traditions remain the same...<br />
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all those things sort of make it worth it.<br />
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If graduation goes this well, I will probably be back for homecoming '11 next year. If not, we'll just be in the stands.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-16204420662663309372010-09-30T06:00:00.003-04:002010-09-30T06:00:09.423-04:00Back to School Bonanza Guest Post #8: EmilyWe made it through September! Today is the LAST day of the month, and I saved Emily to wrap up September for a couple reasons.<br />
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For one, Emily and I have actual school experiences together. I have no idea why this goes with wrapping up September, but it just does.<br />
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Also, Emily's post just FEELS like a wrap-up. Usually you say thank you when something is coming to a close, so this just felt right.<br />
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I know I have mentioned Emily in other places on this blog. I adore her blog. I adore her family. I adore her. She is such a wonderful friend. She is one of those rare people who you know when you share your good news with her she will be JUST as over the moon as you are. She is also someone who I can confide in when stuff is just icky. She is one of the very first people I told about my PPD for instance. And when you tell her? You can feel her prayers. You can feel her concern. It is palpable even though she is hundreds of miles away.<br />
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Enjoy her lovely post. Emily rocks it. And as usual, go follow her on <a href="http://twitter.com/designhermomma">twitter </a>and her <a href="http://www.designhermomma.com/">blog</a> when you are done here!<br />
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Hi All! I’m Emily, I blog over at <a href="http://www.designhermomma.com/"><span style="color: magenta;">DesignHER Momma</span></a>, and I’m excited to pop over here to Katie’s place for the day. To talk about school stuff.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did you know Katie and I went to high school together? This means I could probably come up with some good dirt on her. Like an embarrassing picture or something. (Which I know I have, but couldn’t find. Oh yes, I looked). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead, I feel I need to write a thank you note. You see, my daughter just started school about 2 weeks ago. It’s been a big adjustment sending my firstborn off to school for the first time. An adjustment fill with anxiety and worry, knowing that my young daughter is now going to influenced by others, <a href="link:%20http://www.designhermomma.com/2010/08/7-hours-5-days-week-year-round-for-next.html"><span style="color: magenta;">7 hours a day, 5 days a week, Year round, for the next 13 years</span></a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A thank you note to my child’s Kindergarten teacher:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Piper’s Teacher, <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I just wanted to write you a quick note that Piper is over the moon excited to go to school everyday. This past Tuesday, she got me up at <st1:time hour="17" minute="30" w:st="on">5:30</st1:time> in the morning ready to start her day. What does this mean to you? That you’re doing an awesome job! (But might I make a suggestion, to start teaching her to tell time?)<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I have a few things that I need to get off my chest, or should I say “heart”. I would never tell you these things in person, because that would be awkward. I might start to cry, then you would have to hug me, and we don’t know each other that well yet. So, this note feels more appropriate. Ok, here it goes:<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Teacher, thank you for leaving your child every morning so you can spend time with mine. Thank you for loving on her like I would, and for being there for her when I’m not there. Thank you for investing so much energy into caring for my child, that you barely have any energy left to give your own family at the end of the long day. Thank you so much for taking on this job, even though I know the pay isn’t what it should be. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Teacher, I seriously don’t know what I would do without you. You are shaping my daughter to be a smart, intelligent, strong woman, and that it me, is priceless. You really are amazing, even if I can’t say it to your face.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Much Praise, <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Piper’s Mom.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And to you, Katie, my dear teacher friend, I say thank you. I pray that this school year is the best year yet. You have an important to do, good thing you do it well!</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-62711772216000201162010-09-29T06:00:00.002-04:002010-09-29T10:56:50.907-04:00Muchas GraciasI had a bad week last week. You all know this. <a href="http://www.sluiternation.com/2010/09/ramblings-that-i-can-string-together.html">I told you about it</a>, because that is what I do, yo.<br />
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Then things started to look up a bit. I got a day off to get used to the idea. <a href="http://www.sluiternation.com/2010/09/bittersweet.html">So I told you about it</a>.<br />
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I accepted what I figured would be crappy for awhile, but would then end. And I accepted it with a heavy sigh.<br />
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You all were wonderful. No. You were MORE than wonderful. You all spewed words of encouragement and grace all over me. And I felt your love.<br />
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But then? Then something BIG happened.<br />
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Thursday morning, while I was teaching my first hour class, I got a package in the main office. My principal called my room to ask me if I knew the person. It was from <a href="http://dishesinthedryer.blogspot.com/">Jennifer</a>, a wonderful, beautiful, might-just-be-my-twin reader who lives in the area,but whom I have never met in person.<br />
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During third hour, I went down to the office, and found a HUGE bag full of art and school supplies that I had listed on my <a href="http://teacherwishlists.com/wishlists/citylist.php?city=mi108399">Teacher Wish List</a>. I sat down in the chair in the principal's office and wept.<br />
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Huge tears of gratefulness and joy streamed down my face as I tried to explain to the office staff that it was from someone who reads my blog who I didn't know, but that I totally knew. I know I sounded completely weird. But I also didn't care.<br />
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And then I brought the treasures back to my classroom.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFeZKaH8gQQt7-PA_PkeG89etGHnD4BvBb_ytJsbYD5_tpr0_FD3Hs16RIapULA2ILe7kTKt-TaysdTZLFjMR_fLC_FuriVzbcZ_kJDHLE-G-Vu6gtF9ryRD3Ntq_z3AdFf-Otrx6jKU/s1600/IMG_2789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFeZKaH8gQQt7-PA_PkeG89etGHnD4BvBb_ytJsbYD5_tpr0_FD3Hs16RIapULA2ILe7kTKt-TaysdTZLFjMR_fLC_FuriVzbcZ_kJDHLE-G-Vu6gtF9ryRD3Ntq_z3AdFf-Otrx6jKU/s400/IMG_2789.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>My students couldn't believe that someone who didn't know us would do something so kind. One student said, "Why did she buy stuff for <i>us</i>? If she is not from Wyoming?"<br />
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I unloaded the goods and we decided we needed to put them to use right away. Jennifer? She needed a thanks!<br />
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As I set things out, one boy's eyes got huge and he gasped, "WOW! they are all brand name stuff! My MOM doesn't even buy Crayola!"<br />
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Another girl said, "And Elmer's glue! And Fiskers scissors...I don't know if that is a good brand, but look, they were more than a dollar!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-CS5x_kLMmagG3IzU1EIekNdeS3zPrB-8r-pXwgzxRjBfnM2bQFLPvnRDVz2kLDnlT8A14lxMO3dtfcGhmetP54Fxdus5qr8ongqyKHwBaSNPJVhFwhxj6bO4FRMlLxNIME5ctIsamY/s1600/IMG_2791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-CS5x_kLMmagG3IzU1EIekNdeS3zPrB-8r-pXwgzxRjBfnM2bQFLPvnRDVz2kLDnlT8A14lxMO3dtfcGhmetP54Fxdus5qr8ongqyKHwBaSNPJVhFwhxj6bO4FRMlLxNIME5ctIsamY/s400/IMG_2791.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Everyone dived right in to the supplies! And they took such good care of them! Way better than the stuff they know I bought!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJkoG_ZzNWi4sbKG28i-KG8aohsMV74XQpyEESLEMakwiNt-KksjujQrWWy6WBTgwPIYyI9v61LLzjriEF0HPY-JxX4fPf9aWYa_bRXv3j_eNsn84AEmEJJmr2sipxT7xkjEEZC9eFdo/s1600/IMG_2794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJkoG_ZzNWi4sbKG28i-KG8aohsMV74XQpyEESLEMakwiNt-KksjujQrWWy6WBTgwPIYyI9v61LLzjriEF0HPY-JxX4fPf9aWYa_bRXv3j_eNsn84AEmEJJmr2sipxT7xkjEEZC9eFdo/s400/IMG_2794.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>They all had fun writing Muchas Gracias cards to Jennifer. And? They may have just had fun doing arts and crafts, because it meant chatty time with the friends.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJAIpVAzrp3QvIvONGfuj5lAF4vwCJGHl7ZVS_hbdotQPQqJJ8RI1ptnnyrSU6Qryz7Xc5ylew3VPMPv-kz9In4Scfm7ysnPtkwTZvNX3XTL_L5GuPZhbLsUo6_78nOepEW7aBaEmwuI/s1600/IMG_2795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJAIpVAzrp3QvIvONGfuj5lAF4vwCJGHl7ZVS_hbdotQPQqJJ8RI1ptnnyrSU6Qryz7Xc5ylew3VPMPv-kz9In4Scfm7ysnPtkwTZvNX3XTL_L5GuPZhbLsUo6_78nOepEW7aBaEmwuI/s400/IMG_2795.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMhBC9bbLuw9GbAuqXC7ufWrYI1gPeOte3MmGjrK-8OLav5k01YsuevZzWv_qT2ZO0iz1dNbDJD4plX4Pg1oc-Mwa5A6u9TukVT4QGkzlSpNJ1Gkgt8H8AFD0wq24i258s9RyJdNGkkw/s1600/IMG_2792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMhBC9bbLuw9GbAuqXC7ufWrYI1gPeOte3MmGjrK-8OLav5k01YsuevZzWv_qT2ZO0iz1dNbDJD4plX4Pg1oc-Mwa5A6u9TukVT4QGkzlSpNJ1Gkgt8H8AFD0wq24i258s9RyJdNGkkw/s400/IMG_2792.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnGf24RFUbQDABkmI84wXSyrrik02sZ3Jq9idMQdW5eWGA8058s-DA1a5aurXK-GBIGbYiBVcRIpNqLO1e4BM2PcVc32oXcpU2cFbIL7CRFBCzjxLY-JsiygX9ouzmljQ5NzsgaaquEY/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnGf24RFUbQDABkmI84wXSyrrik02sZ3Jq9idMQdW5eWGA8058s-DA1a5aurXK-GBIGbYiBVcRIpNqLO1e4BM2PcVc32oXcpU2cFbIL7CRFBCzjxLY-JsiygX9ouzmljQ5NzsgaaquEY/s400/IMG_2797.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>My students and I are beyond grateful for such a gift! I even handed out one of the Kleenex packs that was in there to a student with a cold.<br />
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I honestly don't know how to say thank you for such a wonderful gift. I wish there was more I could do...but for now? I will just say....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKrx4Tq1cHG-ZHWrDuqvOMyvHnzISX4LC99Vvshv713nIk6ewWH8GGSFUWEKqzwkfckiem5ViRHIAgjxyDB4eXB2RGrIuc7TKFnE7w7vJXN3fO0WsTkb4MEJWInhgxzO9nIHfrhMdBTc/s1600/IMG_2796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKrx4Tq1cHG-ZHWrDuqvOMyvHnzISX4LC99Vvshv713nIk6ewWH8GGSFUWEKqzwkfckiem5ViRHIAgjxyDB4eXB2RGrIuc7TKFnE7w7vJXN3fO0WsTkb4MEJWInhgxzO9nIHfrhMdBTc/s400/IMG_2796.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: orange;">MUCHAS GRACIAS!</span></b></span></i></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-35614372359983276542010-09-28T06:00:00.002-04:002010-09-28T20:38:32.930-04:00Back To School Bonanza Guest Post #7: MirandaToday is a SUPER special guest post!<br />
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I realize I say this about ALL of my guest posts, but today? Today you get to read a little something by Miranda of <a href="http://notsuperjustmom.blogspot.com/">Not Super...Just Mom</a>. Y'all? (as she would say)...She is like my twin. In fact, we call each other "etwin". She is a fellow snark-a-licious English teacher. She is a momma of a wee little man with curly blond hair. She is a fellow PPD survivor. And she is battling the same weight issues I am! If we weren't a zillion states apart? We would be besties in a heartbeat.<br />
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She was one of the FIRST people I had on my list to ask to do this since she is just like I am as a teacher. She LOVES her students, is passionate about her calling, and tells it like it is. Oh, and? She takes no shiz from anyone.<br />
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Puh-LEASE go read <a href="http://notsuperjustmom.blogspot.com/2010/08/bring-it-kid.html">this post</a> about how she deals with shananagins in her class. Girl after my own heart, I tell ya! And then follow her on <a href="http://twitter.com/notsuperjustmom">twitter</a>. And then come back and read what she has to say here....<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When Katie asked me to write for her Back to School Bonanza, I was all “WOOHOO! YES!” and then I forgot that I was all “WOOHOO! YES!” until I saw a tweet from her that said something along the lines of “I’m so excited for my Back to School Guest Bloggers” and then I sheepishly asked if I was supposed to write something for her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Let’s just go ahead and lay it all out there. I’m probably the most disorganized person you’ve ever met in your life. “Organized chaos” has given way to just straight “chaos.” I live by shuffling piles around from spot to spot. It makes me appear productive without actually getting anything done. Unfortunately, after having a child, it appears my brain has started doing the same thing with important information—it all just gets shuffled around. And then my brain can’t find it anymore. So, thanks, Katie, for having me even though I forgot.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where were we? Oh yeah…Back to School.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I remembered I was supposed to write this post, I started and stopped about 15 times. I mean, Katie is awesome, so I can’t let her down. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and then one day it hit me while I was shampooing my hair.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Allow me to tell you a story—no, not about me in the shower—about my first day of high school.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I cried. Promise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Real, crocodile tears. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was terrified that high school was going to be more of the same from middle school—me being called “Mooooranda” and kids making farm noises at me as I walked down the halls. Me, being opinionated despite the bullying, saying what was on my mind because that was the one thing I knew how to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(The mooing stopped, I’m happy to report. Probably because I’d gotten boobs so the boys were too busy looking at those to remember my name.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I vividly remember walking into Spanish class on the first day of school. Vividly. There were piñatas and sombreros and pictures and foreign words hanging up in our tiny, cramped little room where two of the walls were breakaway partitions. I remember looking around and knowing only two people in that class. I remember the teacher, Senora, walking in shortly after the bell rang and speaking no English. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember freaking out because I could not understand a word she was saying and I was a straight A student and I had to make an A or my life would be over and I would never get into college and I had to go to college because it would be a really really big deal and I could not understand her and OH MY GOD I MUST MAKE AN A. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then she walked to the front of the room and took a seat on her stool and she smiled back at us and we stared at her with the shocked look that only first-timers in a foreign language class can have. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t remember much of the rest of what she said. I’m sure it was the usual pleasantries that I share with my own students now that I’m a teacher. The “Hello, my name is…” and the “Here’s what we’ll do in this class…”.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But one thing she said that day has always stuck with me, has become an integral part of my own teaching.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If you walk out of this classroom at the end of the year and you can’t speak a word of Spanish, I hope I’ve taught you life lessons.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wow, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In a day and time when we’re stuck on the numbers, the tests, that apparently prove our worth as educators, students, an entire system, her approach seems a novel one to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>TEACH LIFE LESSONS.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lessons I learned in her class were tolerance <b>for</b> others, patience <b>with</b> others, and the real words to the song “La Bamba.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(Yes, I’m serious. It’s about a man who is not a marine/sailor but will be one if that’s what his woman wants.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She taught me how to be a teacher and a friend to my students. Her example helped me be a trusted adult for my students when they need someone to talk to. When they don’t have anywhere else to turn. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If students leave my class at the end of a year and they cannot tell me the difference between a simile and a metaphor but they know that they are capable of success and greatness, I’ve done my job. If they understand that it’s possible for people to coexist in this world and not agree on everything, if their eyes are opened to the plight of others less fortunate than themselves, if they see that someone out there DOES care about them, I’m good. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t ask for more than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And just so you know, I totally got an A.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-72906884106122918312010-09-27T06:00:00.000-04:002010-09-27T06:00:10.902-04:00McFatty Monday...some progress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8EjduZVS1j6QlHlFCQ4ytdQ8dYUyboqDYirxkSSL7v2BoO4w9b26GDEXS5Gv2ncGDAzp3xGi7Q3-n_0_5OIU4c7zPyrWGpyMzSEIREC3w3KfcFGSMRDEgJtNhhsd16m775LGJM4bIE8/s1600/McFattyFinal-2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8EjduZVS1j6QlHlFCQ4ytdQ8dYUyboqDYirxkSSL7v2BoO4w9b26GDEXS5Gv2ncGDAzp3xGi7Q3-n_0_5OIU4c7zPyrWGpyMzSEIREC3w3KfcFGSMRDEgJtNhhsd16m775LGJM4bIE8/s1600/McFattyFinal-2.png" /></a></div>Once again I am here to share my results of the past week in my quest to be <strike>less of a tub</strike> more healthy.<br />
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This week is full of good news! <br />
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First of all, I weighed in at 193 this week! That is 5.5 pounds less than last week.<br />
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Now, before you start congratulating me, I must say I think this is due to a few things.<br />
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For one, I failed to mention in last week's McFatty post that some of my extra weight last time was <strike>maybe</strike> most definitely due to that womanly thing that happens every month. I was ALL sorts of bloated.<br />
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So this week, I noticed my pants fasten a little easier. In fact Friday night at the homecoming game, I found myself constantly pulling up my capri pants so that i wouldn't moon the whole dang home side.<br />
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I also lowered my calorie intake. You all totally confirmed my suspicions that 2100/day is just too much. I am now at a goal of 1700/day. It's a LOT harder to stay in that limit, I am finding! In fact, I went over twice this week. Oops.<br />
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Also this week Saturday I did the Susan G Koman Race for the Cure 5k. I'll blog more about that later, but that was 3.2 miles of walking/running that allowed me to have two bites of Eddie's cupcake at a birthday party later that night...and STILL stay under my caloric goal for the day! WOOT!<br />
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I must pause here and thank <a href="http://peaceloveandmuesli.com/">Kristin </a>for all her help with making over my breakfasts. Eggs, wheat toast, and yogurt with granola have been keeping me happy until lunch for sure! This week I am making over my lunches. Trying to add some more healthy proteins to get me through the rest of the day. And as always? I am doing my best to drink more water and less, well, less of everything else. <br />
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(Although this has been a BAD week for sweet, delicious coffee drinks. They are my rewards for things, people, and I cannot quit them).<br />
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I'll keep you all updated if I find anything particularly wonderful for lunch. I am sure I will. Kristin posted some yummy ideas, and I am excited!<br />
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And of course I must give the lovely <a href="http://theheirtoblair.com/">Blair </a>big ups for creating this lovely way of keeping myself in check! Go check out her McFatty update. And of course the rest of them <a href="http://itsjustmeheidid.blogspot.com/p/mcfatty-monday.html">here</a> along with the button so that you too can join in on McFatty Mondays if you so desire!.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-89588798252638308832010-09-26T18:53:00.000-04:002010-09-26T18:53:50.685-04:00Buh Bye PPD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgoZk74-VdGg5wLLZII5iuhIst052hbGOmjcTJKSLsCi5-AusRrwhbeji7BjUmcbIGrYqe3Ud9fxb9d01jxjL4sFsjKB7eFMsUWinzHyehZU4agTi3jCrK8hvjdQP5HBj-dLkG8G0Ezo/s1600/1st-annual-balloon-release-button.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgoZk74-VdGg5wLLZII5iuhIst052hbGOmjcTJKSLsCi5-AusRrwhbeji7BjUmcbIGrYqe3Ud9fxb9d01jxjL4sFsjKB7eFMsUWinzHyehZU4agTi3jCrK8hvjdQP5HBj-dLkG8G0Ezo/s200/1st-annual-balloon-release-button.gif" width="192" /></a></div>Today is my friend <a href="http://mypostpartumvoice.com/">Lauren's</a> birthday.<br />
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She is one of the most beautiful women I know. She is also a fierce advocate for postpartum disorders. When I first told my <a href="http://www.sluiternation.com/2010/05/one-where-i-tell-truth.html">story</a> on the blog, and tweeted about it, she found me. She invited me to #ppdchat on Mondays. She helped me to understand what I had.<br />
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So many others were there too. Because I opened up, I found <a href="http://atlantappdmom.blogspot.com/">Amber </a>and <a href="http://notsuperjustmom.blogspot.com/">Miranda </a>and <a href="http://www.postpartumprogress.com/weblog/">Katherine </a>and <a href="http://arms-wide-open.squarespace.com/">Grace </a>and <a href="http://theheirtoblair.com/">Blair </a>and <a href="http://www.makemommygosomethingsomething.com/">Kimberly </a>and <a href="http://www.depressionsandconfessions.com/">Alexis </a>and so, so many more.<br />
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And today? Today is Lauren's birthday. She has done so much for PPD awareness and even on her birthday she wants to keep advocating. Today she announced that is the 1st Annual Postpartum Awareness Balloon Release, and asked PPD survivors everyone to release a purple balloon with a note and her blog address attached.<br />
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Being a PPD survivor? I joined in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZcMPmvxnmAzA22_uXP9jl7EzWSKAxfyacHIIiFWXAWSpd94o5ohf2fDYIoXS_avHf2E7OUwM8qpzN7V74mYFkKSePL7LQGXOg8cbm3cndyP2Dsv4_FHpQm8SzSPUJyjYFOAjOvMo9jA/s1600/IMG_2855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZcMPmvxnmAzA22_uXP9jl7EzWSKAxfyacHIIiFWXAWSpd94o5ohf2fDYIoXS_avHf2E7OUwM8qpzN7V74mYFkKSePL7LQGXOg8cbm3cndyP2Dsv4_FHpQm8SzSPUJyjYFOAjOvMo9jA/s400/IMG_2855.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Today I bought a half dozen purple balloons. Eddie had one with a message and so did I. The others? They were just pur-dee.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGJ21KS__kUx74mSUKd79zQi0w9Czz-qufMhPW87a9_61yYxMO0X533G0P1AI7GyzMSu4_4ihvS9mNLWOSGvWMvy8Uf-AvOBE0UTbJAuKTue6uM9v3zk4OiCBIq9mzwgKUtlHo1CtYjM/s1600/IMG_2859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGJ21KS__kUx74mSUKd79zQi0w9Czz-qufMhPW87a9_61yYxMO0X533G0P1AI7GyzMSu4_4ihvS9mNLWOSGvWMvy8Uf-AvOBE0UTbJAuKTue6uM9v3zk4OiCBIq9mzwgKUtlHo1CtYjM/s400/IMG_2859.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>After attaching our notes of hope, Eddie and I headed out to the front yard to release our balloons. To let our hope float.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FFMA5c12nM0fjvv2ry1qXyZLVgmRg-AXX6W1DfExRjd1imy7xagljHPkiX-p6SoqVBP5udeHagbRX1uS4dTlYOHmF3AqzHcho3LGE1tWSd6rsLKJbkXSFiwq1WyGUAzZRV-qZ91vVI0/s1600/IMG_2862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FFMA5c12nM0fjvv2ry1qXyZLVgmRg-AXX6W1DfExRjd1imy7xagljHPkiX-p6SoqVBP5udeHagbRX1uS4dTlYOHmF3AqzHcho3LGE1tWSd6rsLKJbkXSFiwq1WyGUAzZRV-qZ91vVI0/s400/IMG_2862.JPG" width="265" /></a></div>I am not going to lie. It was a bit emotional letting go of that junk that is PPD with my little guy at my side.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3WQ19hOcRsGo3_SMkWXSfFhYoOp_qsTWx_sXyw_dfIKVUcoHJ-XEloLH93YdUz3-Z5cFJd7e0_PXfeFRuhMcn4J3LLMvlUFSdn_76UhqQeXcZwtIciFVHmz8b90e7jubPqt3rySaeAw/s1600/IMG_2866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3WQ19hOcRsGo3_SMkWXSfFhYoOp_qsTWx_sXyw_dfIKVUcoHJ-XEloLH93YdUz3-Z5cFJd7e0_PXfeFRuhMcn4J3LLMvlUFSdn_76UhqQeXcZwtIciFVHmz8b90e7jubPqt3rySaeAw/s400/IMG_2866.JPG" width="265" /></a></div>And together we waved Buh-Bye to PPD and all the crap that comes with it. Eddie's balloon soared high above the trees and left our field of vision quickly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4SiDXTNyaANuE-BArSnCFhW0yuPtlLrJcNoJTVKWH2EauuGNFPvktSkYOh1qF04UvqwHxiWdciVSZ7V_qRRY2ulvmhGyKKJbMy0KWjlisQpVAOEWkmApzhAW_XITEDmW7dnIBjGTeCk/s1600/IMG_2868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4SiDXTNyaANuE-BArSnCFhW0yuPtlLrJcNoJTVKWH2EauuGNFPvktSkYOh1qF04UvqwHxiWdciVSZ7V_qRRY2ulvmhGyKKJbMy0KWjlisQpVAOEWkmApzhAW_XITEDmW7dnIBjGTeCk/s400/IMG_2868.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Mine? Mine got stuck in the telephone wires. Right next to the house.<br />
<br />
Cortney smiled and shook his head and said, "sort of symbolic, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
UGG! I told him I just wanted them to soar away while we waved so I could type up a happy, feel-good post about it. But no, my damn balloons got stuck. ON OUR PROPERTY!<br />
<br />
Is this a sign? Sheesh, I hope not!<br />
<br />
So I decided to play with Eddie for a bit outside. We were happily playing "chase the golf ball" when I looked and noticed that the balloons were still attached to that stupid wire, but had inched their way all the way down to the actual electric pole. And switched wires.<br />
<br />
We kept playing.<br />
<br />
A few times I would look up and think they were gone, but then notice that they were just hiding behind the pole.<br />
<br />
Isn't that just like PPD? You think you have dramatically let it go and it's gone, but it sits there just out of sight sometimes waiting for you. Letting you know it's still there.<br />
<br />
Even now, from the house I can see that they are way down the lines...but still there. still hanging on. still dancing in the setting sun.<br />
<br />
but they are far enough away now that i forget that they are stuck to the wire every now and then. And that? That is also like PPD. When it's managed and being taken care of? I don't really think about it.<br />
<br />
Which means, I think I can officially wave buh-bye to it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_UE2lHKf9ECwk2ujaG9hPGN0B-s84J-OsW-cHZAH0s6iuNlgCSUXZt-LOj_rRzGBqgQhbPhUq2Lgu1gpFghBf5XUTbTZ15Sm6VDHeiJvvmyE8jZBBEYFerEB47iTshPD25FJHyRuU1A/s1600/IMG_2870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_UE2lHKf9ECwk2ujaG9hPGN0B-s84J-OsW-cHZAH0s6iuNlgCSUXZt-LOj_rRzGBqgQhbPhUq2Lgu1gpFghBf5XUTbTZ15Sm6VDHeiJvvmyE8jZBBEYFerEB47iTshPD25FJHyRuU1A/s400/IMG_2870.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Just like Eddie did.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-50775703076648443982010-09-23T06:00:00.004-04:002010-09-23T06:00:04.222-04:00Back To School Bonanaza Guest Post #6: Nichole<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">My guest post today comes from Nichole of <a href="http://inthesesmallmoments.com/">In These Small Moments</a>. Nichole and I met via twitter and quickly bonded over trying to do the Couch to 5k program. She asked me to submit a post for her <a href="http://inthesesmallmoments.com/small-moments-mondays/">Small Moment Mondays</a> that she does on her blog, and I jumped at the chance! I love Nichole's fierce protectiveness she has for her children and her genuinely kind and lovely soul. She is probably one of the sweetest people I have met in the internet world. She is hilarious too! So you throw all of that together plus the fact that she is a brilliant writer, and you have one of my favorite bloggers and friends! You should definitely visit her blog, and of course follow her on <a href="http://twitter.com/ITSMoments">twitter</a>.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nichole has a 3 year old daughter named Katie (great name!) who attends speech therapy. Here is her heartbreaking take on what letting go of your first born to school means.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b>The First Day of School</b></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first day of school has come far earlier than I ever anticipated it would.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie began receiving her weekly speech therapy sessions at the local elementary school today. While she's technically not a student yet, this sure felt like the first day of school. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She still likes to snuggle in my lap. </span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was a mess about bringing her and dropping her off. Though she's had speech therapy since she was itty bitty, it has always been in our home, where I could see and hear everything.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Today, I had to walk her to her classroom. And leave.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her tiny hand still fits almost completely in my palm. She's just a baby.</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Since we found out that she would be transitioning to the school, I have been feeling waves of anxiety. Huge waves. Tsunami waves.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">What am I afraid of exactly?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She still uses strawberry flavored toothpaste.</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, this is going to sound crazy, but I haven't been away from my kids much. I can count on four fingers the number of people who have cared for them in our absence. And Katie? She's three and a half.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She still calls me "Mommy."</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So, now I was being asked to drop her off at a school and leave her with near strangers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So, we had the talk. The talk that no one wants to have with their daughter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We had the Vagina Talk.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Here's how it went:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Me: Katie, are you getting excited about going to the school to spend time with Miss N.?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie: Yes, and to play with other kids.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Craig: Mommy and Daddy will be dropping you off and then we'll come back later and pick you up, okay?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie: No.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Me: You'll be just fine and we'll be right outside (read: at home).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie: Okay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Me (<i>never so great with the transitions</i>): Katie, who is allowed to touch your vagina?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(<i>This isn't the first time that we've had this conversation with her and every time we do, she looks us like we've completely lost our minds. Since no one has ever asked to see her vagina, she clearly can't figure out why this is such a big deal to us.</i>)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie (<i>without even thinking about it</i>): "Mommy, Daddy, Katie, and Dr. D. when Mommy and Daddy are there."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If something ever happened to her, I would die inside.</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Craig: And if someone did try to touch you, Katie, what would you say?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie: I would say, really, really loud, "NO!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If someone ever touched her, Craig would die inside.</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Me: And what else would you do?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Katie: Tell Mommy and Daddy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But what if she couldn't stop it? What if she was too small and scared?</span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLe2pVqdRlVr2vbB20ETntg9kgJD8__Inx3IWsNez6RQun9j1t81VZATOvEQdKV3yTJlbQdsGlThn0oMQRuoodQ4jOC9xDLdISohpANZ40yfFZP33vsraZoK_EecyoInOj1TYeV2KYxd8/s1600/My+HipstaPrint+0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLe2pVqdRlVr2vbB20ETntg9kgJD8__Inx3IWsNez6RQun9j1t81VZATOvEQdKV3yTJlbQdsGlThn0oMQRuoodQ4jOC9xDLdISohpANZ40yfFZP33vsraZoK_EecyoInOj1TYeV2KYxd8/s320/My+HipstaPrint+0.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I resisted the urge to continue drilling her, for fear of scaring her. I'm not sure how much reassurance that she understands would be enough to put my mind at ease.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So, now marks the beginning of a time we have to trust that we've taught her the things that she needs to know. It just seems like there are still so many lessons she has yet to learn.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-35250813642959717342010-09-22T14:49:00.002-04:002010-09-22T14:56:24.959-04:00Bittersweet....<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cause it's a bitter sweet symphony, this life</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Every choice make brings good and bad it seems. Today I was reminded of the good that my new choices will bring. Power was lost at school and we were sent home. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Home to a quiet house. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Home with my lessons to plan.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Home for a much-needed nap.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Trying to make ends meet</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You're a slave to money then you die</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">All we do is struggle to keep ourselves afloat. Cortney goes through promising interviews. Every damn time we get our hopes up. Every time (so far) he gets the rejection. He is MORE than qualified. He is exactly what they are looking for. But he doesn't have a degree. OR they are afraid once he gets his degree he will leave.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And that leaves us back at square one.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I worry.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I take on extra duties and jobs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I overextend myself for money.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Until I die.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No change, I can't change</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I can't change, I can't change</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cortney begs me not to worry. Not to take on more than I can handle. Other people ask me if I am crazy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I KNOW I should take care of myself first.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I can't.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I just can't.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I am selfish in many, may ways. But taking something away from my family that I could provide by just sucking it up for a limited amount of time is something I just can't do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But I'm here in my mind</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am here in my mind</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>I do these things I know are not good for me even if they are good for others. But I KNOW it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I know I want my family to be comfortable even if I'm not.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I know I take on jobs because I want to make people happy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I know I do things that might not want to do because I feel important if I do them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I know I take things on just so I won't be forgotten.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am aware.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But I'm a million different people</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>from one day to the next...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">To follow the old cliche, I wear more hats than my head can possibly handle.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I bite off way more than I can swallow and digest, let alone chew.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I play more roles in one day than I can list on all my fingers and toes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I know it would be healthier for me to quit doing that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But how? How do I continue to be a GOOD teacher, mother, wife, etc if I just think about me?</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>yeah</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Some days I just need it to be recognized that I struggle. I just need people to see it, understand it's a part of me, and feel it for me for a second.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am not looking for pity.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am not whining. <i> </i> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Most days, anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know what else to blog about besides that. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is my life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This is OUR life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We have struggles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We try VERY hard to keep a positive outlook in all things. We try to laugh a lot.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Because if you don't laugh? You lose. You die. You're done.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But sometimes? That is hard.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">There needs to be a break in the laughter.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And this is one of those breaks.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Stuff isn't funny to me right now. It's just damn hard.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish it didn't have to be, but this is the only road Cort and I know. We started down this hard road when we walked back down the aisle together as man and wife.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Neither of us had known a ton of hardship until then.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We are so very lucky to have each other and this journey. But it's not easy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><i>If you are feeling all "help a teacher out", you can visit the <a href="http://teacherwishlists.com/wishlists/citylist.php?city=mi108399">teacher wish lists</a> for the teachers in my district. I am on there as well, but all of us need help. We have huge classes and little to zero funds to get the things we need. Anything you can do is much appreciated. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Plus also? All your comments and tweets on my post this morning and about my meltdown? Wonderful. I will get to responding (if your email is connected to your commenting account).</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>And one more thing? about comments? Soon I will be over at wordpress and responding to what you say to me will be much easier. YAY!</i></div></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-53596438011014894982010-09-22T06:00:00.006-04:002010-09-22T06:00:03.902-04:00The Ramblings that I Can String Together Right NowThere is a storm outside.<br />
<br />
Why does this seem to happen every time I have a storm in my head? It's like the universe wants to smack me with obvious literary irony. Like I need that.<br />
<br />
Ahem. Anyway.<br />
<br />
This morning I was just thinking about how much I love my schedule. Remember when I was upset and sad and scared and confused about why I had been given full time Spanish instead of full time English? This morning, I felt peaceful about it. I have four sections of Spanish I and one section of Spanish II. My prep hour is third hour, which is the perfect time for a breather and a mid-morning snack.<br />
<br />
Long story short, I ruined it.<br />
<br />
I picked up a ninth grade English class. ON MY PREP.<br />
<br />
So now I will have no prep time.<br />
<br />
I will teach six hours.<br />
<br />
Mondays and Wednesdays I will still be teaching at the community college.<br />
<br />
My therapist tells me it is Ok to say no to extra money if it means sacrificing my mental health. But what I have figured out is that it's not just saying no to extra money. It FEELS like I am saying no to my family. Like I am saying, "I could do this to help, but I am not going to." It FEELS like I am saying no to those ninth graders who need a teacher. It FEELS like I am putting myself first. And that? feels wrong. <br />
<br />
Before picking this class up? I was hanging by a shred when it came to sleep and time management. I was spending more time than I really had in the social media world in the evenings instead of just going to bed.<br />
<br />
Why do I do this to myself? Why don't I just unplug and go to bed?<br />
<br />
I guess you could call it addiction. I mean, those of us in the social media world jokingly call it an addiction. Those outside it, don't get the real connections and seriously call it an addiction.<br />
<br />
I would say it's more of an attachment.<br />
<br />
Which made made me start thinking about this blog.<br />
<br />
What am I doing here?<br />
<br />
I looked back at a few of my most recent posts. And there were very few that I was proud of.<br />
<br />
I love all the guest posts. but those aren't my writing.<br />
<br />
Where is my writing? What do I want this space to be?<br />
<br />
It used to be an update place so my family and friends "in real life" would know what is going on.<br />
<br />
Then it changed to something else. I feel like I am struggling to find my place in this blogging world. And just as this struggle is going on? I am taking on more and more at work. I am putting in 14-16 hour days. I am staying up way too late.<br />
<br />
Something is going to totally give. And I am afraid for now? It's my blogging schedule.<br />
<br />
I don't mean to quit completely, but I just can't keep up the pace of posting every day.<br />
<br />
Even with two guest posts a week? I am having trouble keeping up. Well, keeping up and actually saying something real.<br />
<br />
This is scary to me. I love you all. You are my attachments, not my addictions. Everyone here lifts me up. Encourages my good choices and my writing. I haven't had any rude comments (yet).<br />
<br />
I am afraid of losing that. You all have become my support net. When I feel like the world has taken a dump on me...when there is a storm swirling in my head...I can come here, pound it out on my keyboard, hit publish, and you all somehow find the perfect words, the perfect comments to fill my heart with hope.<br />
<br />
So this self-imposed "backing off" period? Scary. I am going to let my guest posters (who are AWESOME) keep filling in. I hope you will love on them, because loving on them makes me happy since I love them so much.<br />
<br />
And I hope you won't leave Sluiter Nation. You are a part of this. An important part.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-64905022280031869692010-09-21T06:00:00.001-04:002010-09-21T06:00:07.009-04:00Back To School Bonanza Guest Post #5: KrisWe are past the halfway mark of guest posters for my Back to School Bonanza! There is no better blogger to bring us over the halfway hump than Kris from <a href="http://www.prettyalltrue.com/">Pretty All True</a>. Kris has a way with words that I have found unparalled in the blogging world. She can paint any picture in the world using nothing but the black and white of the screen. just letters and characters. and all of a sudden you find yourself in her world. Feeling emotions you didn't know you had.<br />
<br />
Kris does something with words that I have come to call exploding a moment because she can take one small crumb from the back of her memory and make it erupt into color and sparkle all over your computer screen.<br />
<br />
Plus also? Kris teams up with <a href="http://www.nopointsforstyle.com/">Adrienne </a>to kick my butt in gear when I am feeling sorry for myself. They legitimately build me up when I need it, but they can spot a whiner and they NEVER let me get away with it. <br />
<br />
I highly recommend her blog, <a href="http://www.prettyalltrue.com/">Pretty All True</a>, not just for the content, but the commenters are always lively too! You canNOT be let down by Kris. Unless swearing and a wee bit of sex turns you off. She MAY get saucy<strike> from time to time</strike> regularly.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I will stop blabbering about Kris and let you read her lovely post. Oh, and you can follow her on <a href="http://twitter.com/PrettyAllTrue">twitter</a>. She stops by there <strike>from time to time</strike> regularly.<br />
<br />
<b>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </b><br />
<br />
<b>Fighting for Place</b> <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the years before I entered 3<sup>rd</sup> grade, I attended many schools. Seven, maybe? Eight?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We moved a lot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, on the first day of the school year? As I walked down the aisles of my new elementary school for the very first time? I had no real sense of this being a permanent place for me. It was just where I would spend my days until the next time for packing and moving arrived.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Always sooner rather than later, and always unexpectedly, that moment seemed to arrive.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was better not to forge connections, as the inevitable breaking? Would be painful.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I tried to step lightly in my new temporary place. To leave no footprints. None to mark where I had been and none for anyone to follow. I was <b><i>here</i></b>, as I always was . . . alone. Better that way. Safer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so . . . when we were released for recess, I made myself as small and invisible as possible and moved silently through the colorful noisy crowds. Past the children, past the play equipment, past the four-square markings on the concrete. Through the grass . . . to a tree.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">An enormous elm tree.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the base of this enormous elm? A huge gnarled system of roots surrounded and encircled the trunk, reaching out and into the air before plunging down into the earth. There were spaces and gaps through which hands could be reached, where earth should have been but was missing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My impression was of some giant force, some huge clenching unseen hands, reaching down from the sky to pluck this tree from the earth. But the tree? Had fought back. Had clutched and stretched for a better grip, had clawed its way deeper into the earth below. Had resisted the pull from above. Had triumphed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This tree had fought to be here, in my imagination.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so the roots were not quite where they were supposed to be. Not buried, but exposed. Evidence of the battle that had been waged for a place in this world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A permanent place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked the rooted circle around the tree, delighted to find that my feet needed never to touch the ground. My thin-soled shoes curved around the roots as I felt for steady purchase, one step at a time. No one paid any attention to me, and I felt? Magical and other-worldly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet rooted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked around and around and around . . . a whole imagined history of frenzied struggling grasping for stability below me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then the bell rang.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That first day of 3<sup>rd</sup> grade.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At my new school.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I went in and took my seat in my brand new class. Sat in a room of strangers. Sat quietly and tried to gauge my place. My temporary place in this world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Marveled at and was caught up in the unimaginable blue eyes of the teacher, who smiled kindly in my direction.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fell in love and then squeezed my eyes shut against that love.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Remembered the pain of other connections broken.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Severed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Took out my pencil and set to work. Preparing myself here for whatever was to come next. In the next place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Looked up again into sparkling friendly blue eyes. Thought back to the Elm that had fought and triumphed for permanence, for place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gave of myself just a little. Opened a bit. Maybe this would be the place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The permanent place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sigh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I ended up staying for eight years.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And for eight years?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I struggled to put down roots. Like that tree, that lovely Elm around which I would dance alone for countless recesses over the years. I struggled to force my roots down into the ground, to grab and hold and triumph.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it was not to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was at that school for eight years, but unseen hands?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just outside the breadth of this story?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Reached down repeatedly to rip me from my place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I proved?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be vulnerable and unable to maintain my grip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On my place in this world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So many years of my life spent rootless.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But on that first day of 3<sup>rd</sup> grade?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At my new school?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I navigated my way round that magic tree?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a moment?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In that new beginning?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All seemed possible.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-90066941317953230902010-09-20T06:00:00.001-04:002010-09-20T06:04:36.432-04:00Disappointments and Plans of Attack<center><a href="http://itsjustmeheidid.blogspot.com/p/mcfatty-monday.html"><img border="0" src="http://i750.photobucket.com/albums/xx143/heidid84/McFattyFinal-2.png" /></a></center><br />
Well, here I am. Back for my second instillation of McFatty Mondays. And it's not a good report, people.<br />
<br />
Should I start with the bad news or the good news first? I'm going with bad news first...<br />
<br />
I fricking GAINED weight. That's right. I went from 195 to 198.5. There are a few contributing factors to this, but even with those? I really thought I would at least maintain.<br />
<br />
Here is how the week went:<br />
<br />
First of all, after much debate about how I would go about being more healthy, <a href="http://notsuperjustmom.blogspot.com/">Miranda </a>convinced me that for the lazy bum that I am, MyPlate at livestrong.com was the best tool. It has been working nicely for her, and I dare to bet she is more active than I am what with her coaching colorguard and all. So I signed up for the free service.<br />
<br />
I entered in all my vitals: height, weight, activity level (which I am wondering if I over-estimated), and it calculated my daily intake as 2117 calories per day if I want to lose 1.5 pounds per week. This seemed reasonable. <br />
<br />
I learned a lot right off on the first day. For one, my morning coffee with cream? 60 calories. And my once-a-week (sometimes twice-a-week) pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks? Has 600 calories. Yes, another zero added to my normal coffee. Ouch.<br />
<br />
I have always been completely starving by lunch time. I realized this is because even after lunch, I usually only consume about 500 calories total for the day. This is CLEARLY not enough and it explains why I hit a wall right around the last hour of the day and don't feel like getting ANY work done once school is done.<br />
<br />
Counting calories always seemed like a HORRIBLE task to me, but I found out that by entering things in, I learned what had a million calories and what seemed ok. I also noticed myself saying no to random snacks because A)i just <i>knew </i>they would have a ton of calories that I didn't want and B)if it was only like a few bites of something it seemed useless to try to figure out the calories, so I would just pass.<br />
<br />
Now with all this noticing what I was eating, I still didn't eat the best I could. We had already gotten groceries for the week, so I just ate what we had.<br />
<br />
I did start adding a fried egg and some wheat toast as breakfast. Cort got up and made it for me so I wouldn't leave the house hungry. This helped some, but I realized I need a mid-morning snack too--something to munch on on my planning hour to get me through to lunch. So instead of having diet coke as a snack, this coming week I have yogurt and granola to try.<br />
<br />
Every day except Friday I kept it under my allotted daily calories, so even though I wasn't very active, I figured I would at least stay at 195. I almost fell off the scale today when I saw 198.5. Especially after walking all over Chicago yesterday for hours!<br />
<br />
So what could possibly be the good news in all of this?<br />
<br />
For one, I am now aware of what I am putting into my body. In fact, I haven't been this aware of my choices since I was pregnant with Eddie.<br />
<br />
Secondly? Holy support, batman! You all are amazing. I was so afraid to actually hit publish and tell you my weight AND publish pictures of my fatness, but you all totally lifted me up and supported me and loved me. I am now AGAIN embarrassed to hit "publish" because I let you all down...I GAINED weight.<br />
<br />
However, I am giving each meal a make-over one week at a time. This week it's breakfast and my breakfast snack. With the help of <a href="http://peaceloveandmuesli.com/">Kristin</a>, I now have TONS of choices for breakfast that actually sound GOOD to me. Cort bought eggs, wheat toast, tortillas, nutella, yogurt, and granola with groceries today. I can have a healthy breakfast AND a healthy mid-morning snack, and hopefully this will help me stay full-feeling all afternoon.<br />
<br />
So the first week of McFatty? Huge fail whale. But I have a plan. Oh yes...I have a plan.<br />
<br />
And if you want to read something sweet and loving that I wrote, you should go check out <a href="http://inthesesmallmoments.com/2010/09/a-rockin-time/">my post for the series, Small Moments Monday</a>, over at Nichole's blog, <a href="http://inthesesmallmoments.com/">In These Small Moments</a>. I am beyond honored that she asked me to be a part of this, and I chose a small moment that I look forward to every day. I hope you enjoy reading my post!Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-58354057660710511292010-09-18T06:00:00.000-04:002010-09-18T06:00:00.746-04:00The Story of TwoThursday night was the first night since going back to work that Eddie and I have been left alone together.<br />
<br />
Cort had class, so he left right around 5:00pm and Eddie cried. He clung to the gate and banged on the front window as he watched his daddy--his majority-of-the-time caretaker leave him.<br />
<br />
And then he looked at me.<br />
<br />
And cried harder. nice.<br />
<br />
So I thought I would make him dinner. some fruit, a couple raw veggies and a nice grilled pizza sandwich (it's like a grilled cheese, but with pizza stuff. So like a hobo pie, but not over a fire. Get it?).<br />
<br />
While I am trying to heat the pan and assemble the food, Eddie feels the need to be all underfoot and in the way. Then he tries to "help" by turning the knobs on the gas stove. Sigh...<br />
<br />
So I reach in the baking tools drawer and hand him one of those rubber spatulas that you use to scrape the last bit of brownie batter out of the bowl to get in <strike>your mouth </strike>the pan. He happily toddles away with it feeling oh so important that I entrusted him with a kitchen tool.<br />
<br />
I go back to the pizza sandwiches at hand. I get his going and I cut up the rest of his dinner. Then I go to flip his and he is right back under my feet again!<br />
<br />
So I mumble, "Ok Ed, come on. Where is your..."<br />
<br />
And then I see it.<br />
<br />
The Spatula. Or...the remains of it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslPhx0yHHZRI6yhvy7tCe1S20Ntb56sNheAwMBeVaMUtQd6DuNAjK_s0SJbIk1iM8_vRGt4UZZg2d6vFeZ5e3obnD7WjNPYcvVIebiKBldrSdOORZ_EjT4UusqZfDuDCrFpuK_2Z-VHI/s1600/IMG_2772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslPhx0yHHZRI6yhvy7tCe1S20Ntb56sNheAwMBeVaMUtQd6DuNAjK_s0SJbIk1iM8_vRGt4UZZg2d6vFeZ5e3obnD7WjNPYcvVIebiKBldrSdOORZ_EjT4UusqZfDuDCrFpuK_2Z-VHI/s400/IMG_2772.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>At this point I scoop up the spatula, the boy, and the phone and <strike>frantically </strike>calmly dial my parents' phone number.<br />
<br />
After I get my mom on the phone, this conversation unfolds:<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>OHMYGOD, MOM! Eddie just ate ATE a rubber spatula! What do I do? Is he going to get sick? Will he die? MOM, WHAT DO I DO?!?!<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b> What?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> You know. those rubber spatulas for baking? Eddie took BITES...WHOLE BITES...out of one I let him play with!<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b> I am sure he's fine. I mean, they're food-safe and all.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>MOM! It's RUBBER! In his little tummy? You don't think he's going to get sick?<br />
<br />
(meanwhile Eddie is on my hip totally happy to be held and not caring about the spatula or the crazy freak-out his mother has become)<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b> I am sure it will be just like when aunt Sandy ate a quarter and grandma had to watch her poop. It will be fine.<br />
<br />
(at this point I spot specks on the carpet).<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>I think I just found some on the floor. Maybe he didn't swallow it. UGGG. My first night with him alone and he EATS A SPATULA! This is why we can't have nice things! So do you think he didn't swallow it?<br />
<br />
<b>Mom: </b>Well, probably not. I am sure it didn't taste good, so he spit it out.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>Then why did he continue to TAKE BITES?<br />
<br />
(now my mom is laughing so hard she can barely speak. This is our relationship. I freak out? She gets her giggles in for the day).<br />
<br />
<b>Mom: </b>(in between bouts of riotous laughter) Who knows? He's a KID! You ate everything. Your crib, Little People, THE CAR.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> ...<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b> (is still laughing. and? I can hear my dad chuckling in the background too.)<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>I have to go finish his dinner. So you think he'll be fine.<br />
<br />
<b>Mom: </b>(starting to laugh all over again) yes.<br />
<br />
So I made Eddie's dinner. He ate like a champ. I threw away the stupid spatula that was so funny and thought about how Eddie eats everything too. His crib (my mom had three of us in that crib of hers. I was the only one to eat it), his little people, the spatula. I shook my head.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to bedtime. <br />
<br />
I have gathered the little guy (who showed no signs of being bothered by the spatula-eating. Nor did he show remorse. Hmmm) and we headed to the rocking chair.<br />
<br />
I watched as he curled in against me and took his lamby up close to his face.<br />
<br />
He found the lamby's ear and held it between his finger and thumb (while never letting go of the body of the lamby with his other hand). He started rubbing the ear between his finger and thumb and pulled it right up under his nose.<br />
<br />
Just like I used to do.<br />
<br />
After about 15 minutes of rocking (5 to get him to sleep and 10 just for me to cuddle him), I set him in his bed. And I just stood there for a couple minutes.<br />
<br />
In his sleep he rolled and pulled his blanket up to his nose and got on his stomach/side and kicked his legs out so that he was sprawled as far out as he could be.<br />
<br />
I chuckled at what a little bed hog he is.<br />
<br />
Just like me.<br />
<br />
I'm told by almost everyone we see how much he LOOKS like his daddy. He is so similar to what Cort looked like at this age: blond curly hair, big squishy cheeks, small little kissable mouth. <br />
<br />
But it's the small moments when I realize this little Sluiter boy? Is his momma's boy all the way.<br />
<br />
He is loud, demanding, controlling, snuggley, kind, and loving.<br />
<br />
And he is my little Eddie Bear.<br />
<br />
We are quite the pair.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-26087167594232015962010-09-17T06:00:00.005-04:002010-09-17T06:00:01.712-04:00It's Friday...It's Friday. I have some things to flip-off. So why don't we begin....<br />
<br />
Oh, but I need to give a big holla to my girl, Gigi, at <a href="http://www.kludgymom.com/">Kludgy Mom</a> for being the brilliance behind this Friday fun! So...HEY! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4WvG9V36XfBsT0P6GzHCglE1KviT0-_TwKVeJ46nxa8T2-lcmfuBuyWWyca9JVLosR0VcqT7hIk70G3Cu0vl5_isTjRFiiwetPdLVsQ0deUi_e1_D3SeePVJuS45_Y3hlIu9FWv33mA/s1600/fridayflipoffsfinal1%5B1%5D.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4WvG9V36XfBsT0P6GzHCglE1KviT0-_TwKVeJ46nxa8T2-lcmfuBuyWWyca9JVLosR0VcqT7hIk70G3Cu0vl5_isTjRFiiwetPdLVsQ0deUi_e1_D3SeePVJuS45_Y3hlIu9FWv33mA/s320/fridayflipoffsfinal1%5B1%5D.png" /></a></div>First, I am flipping off how tired I am. I flipped this off last week too, but it is starting to become dangerous. Yesterday morning, on my way into work? I drifted onto the rumble strips. Don't tell my mom. She would freak. Oh wait...hi mom. FLIP OFF EXHAUSTION!<br />
<br />
Next, I want to flip off our crashed motherboard. Thanks a lot for taking out our server. Now I can't back anything up and I am all sorts of nervous about losing things. Even though I probably won't. But I will worry nonetheless...because that is what I do.<br />
<br />
While we are on the subject of technologically electronic whatnots that are supposed to make my life lovely, I would like to flip off my eye-fi card that my stupid computer refuses to find and therefore I had to do flip-offs tonight instead of the funny post about how my son ate a rubber spatula. I KNOW! Total flip-off because now you all have to wait to get that story. Oh, and the story about a plastic turd. See? You are all wishing you could read about eaten cookware and random fake poo, and you can't all because of my eye-fi card. FLIP OFF!<br />
<br />
Um, there is also this nagging feeling inside me that I would like to flip-off. I am loving my jobs. Really. But now that I am gone so much? That feeling that had gone away all summer is creeping back in. Guilt. The mom fail feeling. I KNOW I am not a fail. My head KNOWS this. But my heart...that place that now belongs to my wee little boy? Is starting to ache. It's filling up with stabby, pointy, sharp things. Guilt is sharp. Did you know that? So I need to flip-off that guilt. And ask it to quit shanking my heart. Hmmm...that sounds like an Elton John song..."don't go shanking my heart....I won't go shanking your heart..."<br />
<br />
Wait. What? What was I doing? Oh yeah...the flip-offs. (see? I need SLEEP people!)<br />
<br />
So lastly I would like to flip-off my feet. Yes, my feet. I don't know what else to do about them. I exfoliate them. I lotion them. I scrub them. And they are STILL so dry and cracked that I stopped wearing sandals WAY too soon because I didn't want people to see my feet. SERIOUSLY! Why can't I have baby soft toes! Why do I look like I have hooves down there instead of lady feet? Honestly? FLIP OFF!!<br />
<br />
Ok...that feels better. Very big weight off. Now? I need sleep so I don't die on my way into work in the morning.<br />
<br />
Oh but wait! Check out the lovely and talented <a href="http://mommakiss.blogspot.com/">Momma Kiss</a> for her flip-offs and a list of linky linkys to clicky clicky to read more Friday Flip-offs.<br />
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Happy weekend to you all. Get some sleep, will ya?Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-7653732904839983922010-09-16T06:00:00.001-04:002010-09-16T06:00:00.572-04:00Back to School Bonanza Guest Post #4: AdrienneHow do I even find the words to tell you how much today's guest poster means to me? Of course each of the eight total guest posters (or Blog Babysitters, as I like to think of them) is important to me because otherwise I wouldn't have asked them to be here. Some are PPD mommas who have commiserated with me. We've helped pull each other through hard times. I have a fellow teacher coming up. I have a friend who I know in real life. <br />
<br />
All of the blog-sitters are inspiring to me in some way, but Adrienne? She is my inspiration ass-kicker (sorry, mom.). Adrienne is one of those rare people in my life who sees me for who I am, still loves me, AND still calls BS on me when she senses excuses and, well BS. She is the mom of Carter a beautiful boy who happens to have developmental issues in all areas: physical, emotional, intellectual etc. She writes about this and everything else Adrienne over at <a href="http://www.nopointsforstyle.com/">No Points for Style</a>. It was one of the very first blogs to make me weep from sorrow, heart-ache, joy, and laughing...all in one post.<br />
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Clearly I could go on and on. Instead, go to her blog, follow her on <a href="http://twitter.com/NoStylePoints">twitter</a>, and read her post. You will love her.<br />
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<b>Nest of Vipers</b><br />
<br />
<br />
When I was pregnant with my eldest son, my (now ex) husband and I spent lots of time walking around the neighborhood, and since we still liked each other back then, we talked while we walked. Mostly? We talked about our baby, and how we would raise him, and what he might be like, and how nervous I was.<br />
<br />
<br />
I wasn't nervous about mothering a baby or a little kid; I was scared of the school years. In my mental picture of my baby's first 25 years, things got hard at kindergarten, reached a crisis at the beginning of middle school, and briefly improved during high school before the onset of a tumultuous early adulthood.<br />
<br />
<br />
Strangely, that exactly matches my life.<br />
<br />
<br />
And in spite of his parents' divorce when he was only 3 1/2 years old, Jacob was always an easy-going, delightful kid. I'm sure he must have thrown a tantrum sometime, but I don't remember any. He was happy, eager to please, and (with his sister, born exactly 2 years after he was), the joy of my life.<br />
<br />
<br />
There were hiccups, but overall? Jacob was socially successful at school, church, drama, basketball, and everywhere else. He has an easy, engaging personality and he never tripped the wires that I tripped when I was a child.<br />
<br />
<br />
All those tripped wires? They were why I was so nervous. I was everybody's favorite target at school, the one they taunted and teased and mocked until any concept I might have had of myself as a strong/smart/capable/interesting/likable person was shredded. I was shredded.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then? Sixth grade at Madison Middle School. The whole story is <a href="http://www.nopointsforstyle.com/2010/03/lessons-my-bullies-taught-me.html">here </a>, but for now I'll just tell you that it was brutal, quite possibly the worst year of my life, easily the worst year of my childhood (and my childhood included <a href="http://www.nopointsforstyle.com/2010/07/dead-on-purpose.html">this</a>). The bullying I endured was relentless. It tore me to pieces and left me staggering.<br />
<br />
<br />
So when the time came to enroll my firstborn child, my artistic, sensitive, unusual little boy, in middle school? I might have lost my mind just a little bit.<br />
<br />
<br />
Or maybe I lost my mind a lot.<br />
<br />
<br />
The middle school to which we were assigned is one of the worst in the city so I went down to central office to apply for a transfer. I listed the three best middle schools that were a reasonable distance from our house. My third choice?<br />
<br />
<br />
Madison Middle School. Of course.<br />
<br />
<br />
And which transfer did we get?<br />
<br />
<br />
Madison Middle School. Of course.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes? I'm pretty sure the universe is sticking its tongue at me.<br />
<br />
I was shocked by my own physical reactions over the months following that letter. Even when I read the letter itself, my heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, and I felt on the brink of a panic attack. How would I do this? How would I send my son to <i>that place</i>?<br />
<br />
<br />
I didn't think I could do it; I considered handing over the whole thing to Jacob's dad, but on registration day I sucked it up, got together all the necessary paperwork, and drove with Jacob over to Madison.<br />
<br />
<br />
I packed a paper bag in my purse, just in case I hyperventilated or needed a place to yack.<br />
<br />
<br />
We walked onto the Madison campus and I was chanting to myself, "It was 25 years ago. It was 25 years ago. It was 25 years ago."<br />
<br />
<br />
In spite of the chanting, my heart was trip-hammering in my chest. Everything looked the same, felt the same, <i>smelled</i> the same. And wouldn't you know it? Registration was in the gym.<br />
<br />
<br />
The gym.<br />
<br />
<br />
The gym, for crying out loud. The place where I wore a target on my back every moment I was there. The place where the kids laughed at my shoes and called me names and pulled my ponytail. The place where the teacher thought it was OK to join in the <i>fun</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was still chanting <i>25 years ago 25 years ago 25 years ago</i> and Jacob was looking at me like I'd started growing an arm out of the top of my head when I heard someone call my name, "Adrienne! Hey, Adrienne!"<br />
<br />
<br />
I couldn't decide what I should do. Throw up? Pass out? Pee my pants?<br />
<br />
<br />
Not my proudest moment.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jacob saved me when he tugged my arm and said, "Hey Mom, that lady over there is waving at you." He pointed at a woman I recognized immediately, and I dashed over to the table she was standing behind, told her how relieved I was to see someone I knew.<br />
<br />
<br />
Kelly and I were classmates at Madison, both of us misfits, both of us struggling to find our place. She looked me right in the eyes and said, "It's different now, Adrienne. It's really different." I tried to breathe, tried to slow my heart. I barely managed not to burst into tears.<br />
<br />
<br />
Honestly? If I'd known I would have had such a terrible time at registration, I never would have gone. I'd have sent Jacob with his dad.<br />
<br />
<br />
Kelly helped me register Jacob. She got him his planner, showed him a campus map, and found his class schedule.<br />
<br />
<br />
Which revealed that Jacob's homeroom teacher? Was my old friend Kelly.<br />
<br />
<br />
Every now and again the stupid universe throws me a bone.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I dropped him off on the first day of school, I was almost as panicked as I had been at registration, but not quite. I had to resist the urge to sit in the parking lot all day and wait for him to come back out.<br />
<br />
<br />
Alright, if I'm being completely honest? I'm pretty sure that, had I not had other children who also needed me that day, I would have stayed in the parking lot. Driving away was <i>hard</i>. I felt a little like I had just thrown my baby into a vipers' nest.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was on pins and needles all day, and by <i>pins and needle</i>s I mean I was a nauseous, weeping, trembling puddle of maternal angst.<br />
<br />
<br />
And then, at 3:00, there he was. I asked, "How was it Jacob? How was your day?"<br />
<br />
<br />
He chirped, "Awesome! I loved it! I met some really cool kids and we're going to play basketball after lunch everyday. Oh, and my art teacher is <i>so cool</i>! Wait till I show you what I drew today!"<br />
<br />
<br />
My heart quieted a little bit. The second day, I was a little less nauseous and trembly and angsty, and the third day was a little better, but I didn't really start to calm down until after Halloween.<br />
<br />
<br />
And the whole year? Almost every single day of the sixth grade?<br />
<br />
<br />
He was fine.<br />
<br />
<br />
Happy, even.<br />
<br />
<br />
The problems he did run into were very ordinary, very manageable. He forgot to turn in his homework; he had a tiff with a friend; he wouldn't stop drumming on the table in science class.<br />
<br />
<br />
But no trauma.<br />
<br />
<br />
We survived.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's a good thing, too. If someone had bullied Jacob (or my daughter, when she went to sixth grade the next year), I doubt I could have handled that like an adult.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah. I'm pretty sure that if my kids had been bullied, I would have done to <i>those</i> bullies what I fantasized about doing to my own bullies for so many years.<br />
<br />
<br />
See? Sometimes the universe throws other people a bone, too.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-20763163867456708332010-09-14T22:46:00.000-04:002010-09-14T22:46:16.258-04:00Wordless Wednesday<div style="text-align: center;">The <b>randomness </b>of being a family....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1xfyGxjswhb2KDIdL4rdCkX4cTD6iyIvxnmGuG578Sx5luJQOsGQUV6T0XadPA8dOn5FnBwxOkZbVraBHz9j_kHgFdTzNMm5H0lmcPkXU_wisUJQHLUYRwXqKaAsPzMGzWkHvV6i0KM/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1xfyGxjswhb2KDIdL4rdCkX4cTD6iyIvxnmGuG578Sx5luJQOsGQUV6T0XadPA8dOn5FnBwxOkZbVraBHz9j_kHgFdTzNMm5H0lmcPkXU_wisUJQHLUYRwXqKaAsPzMGzWkHvV6i0KM/s400/1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wrestle Mania</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This post is part of Word Up, Yo</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://www.taminginsanity.com/"><img alt="header 150x150" border="0" src="http://i1015.photobucket.com/albums/af279/bellebeandog/IMG_21150004-4.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> and</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Wordless Wednesday</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.weloveiowa.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" src="http://i359.photobucket.com/albums/oo34/iowalish/projectaliciacopy.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Visit both sites for more fun! </div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-11049103665001968402010-09-14T06:00:00.000-04:002010-09-14T06:00:10.367-04:00Back to School Bonanza Guest Post #3: LoriToday is another guest post day! Hooray! Today's post comes complements of Lori at <a href="http://inpursuitofmarthapoints.com/">In Pursuit of Martha Points</a>.<b> </b>Lori is one of the funniest, most authentic bloggers out there. She is honest about how great of a domestic goddess she can be (earning herself some Martha Points) and when she falls short (deducting Martha Points). She is also heading up a HUGE year-long fundraising project called <a href="http://projectpurseandboots.com/">Project: Purse and Boots</a> to raise money for the American Stroke Association. I am honored to be a part of this fundraising extravaganza coming up next month (stay tune for details about that)! You will want to follow Lori on <a href="http://twitter.com/marthapoints">twitter</a> the minute you get done reading this. She is just that awesome.<br />
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<b>The School Day Monologues</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you have children, you offer advice and direction. Instruction, lovingly given, spills forth to ensure health, safety, and optimal learning. It is your duty and your honor to have such responsibility. Your sage words are the essential ingredient to a lifetime of academic success.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would that your children paid any attention. At all. Ever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All the directions, all the wisdom, all the energy expended in giving them guidance that runs that gamut from considering a career to not eating paste. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It goes…nowhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It bounces off the impenetrable surface of a school-aged child the way good taste bounces off reality TV.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the degree of imperviousness becomes more and more apparent, the instructions become more fervent, more desperate and more brief in a last-ditch attempt to instill anything at all that might allow your kids to walk the path that stays in school and out of hairnets.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s been a long summer and it takes a little while to get back into the idea of school so I want you to pay attention to your teacher and makes some new friends today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Make sure you’ve got everything in your backpack because it’s frustrating to not have something when you really need it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why don’t you bring an extra juice box so you don’t get dehydrated from running around all day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t think threatening to blackmail your teacher in order to minimize homework is a good idea.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It is really not necessary to bring mace to the orientation session this morning.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t try to smuggle the cat to school in your lunchbag!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Put that power saw away!!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“PANTS!!!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking from experience, I can tell you that the most important pearls of wisdom really do break through their barriers and help them along their way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My children never actually made it to school without pants.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1328190895973386008.post-50161097444654327642010-09-13T06:00:00.007-04:002010-09-13T06:00:06.832-04:00McFatty Monday...The First Post<div style="text-align: center;">**CAUTION: this post is me being the most honest I have ever been about my most hated subject: my weight** </div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://itsjustmeheidid.blogspot.com/p/mcfatty-monday.html"><img border="0" src="http://i750.photobucket.com/albums/xx143/heidid84/McFattyFinal-2.png" /></a></center><br />
I am doing it. I am joining McFatty Mondays.<br />
<br />
sigh.<br />
<br />
I have been reading many of my bloggy friends do McFatty Mondays now for a WHILE (including <a href="http://theheirtoblair.com/">Blair</a>, who came up with this <strike>ridiculous </strike>great idea), and I have been rooting them on and thinking them so great and brave and awesome for putting their celebrations and failures out there on the old internet for all to see.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to do it though.<br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
You guys? I watched that dumb <a href="http://www.sluiternation.com/2010/09/mommys-first-vlog.html">vlog </a>of mine. And I wanted to cry at the hot dog that is under my chin and the rolls on my gut.<br />
<br />
When did this happen!?!?!<br />
<br />
Today I had Cort take pics of me. Caution: these are extremely scary. I almost vom-ed a little in my mouth when I looked at them. But here they are:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0jC2-JJqXWrGqjno7oZdBEF5X-GWKiuvqLmjqc0ZvmeX38_5HGDRokt3aInMmiZG1333wJFW4GkiOCGZp-CEDeyq1XyYvQl1BjBuuJ5oH_gUy7g3rPeDhOzQXIlN8LYK1caRiCgJ9B8/s1600/IMG_2744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0jC2-JJqXWrGqjno7oZdBEF5X-GWKiuvqLmjqc0ZvmeX38_5HGDRokt3aInMmiZG1333wJFW4GkiOCGZp-CEDeyq1XyYvQl1BjBuuJ5oH_gUy7g3rPeDhOzQXIlN8LYK1caRiCgJ9B8/s320/IMG_2744.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>DUDE! who stuck a spare tire in my tank top? And what are my shorts DOING? They are long, they are not supposed to try to ride up into my nether regions like that...oh wait, my thighs are eating them!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8038LaqjCrb40iLZqlhC1KHFoiE0fu-3ECVuF4Rc_qCN1vi3C9rutpYgT8MUHo8cXlEoWBux8PT3Lbx8TYzJvCuhyf6f8Uidb2ngO2XczkR156Yx511xFuF08rTBXwsU_Ltz3_dd0q9s/s1600/IMG_2745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8038LaqjCrb40iLZqlhC1KHFoiE0fu-3ECVuF4Rc_qCN1vi3C9rutpYgT8MUHo8cXlEoWBux8PT3Lbx8TYzJvCuhyf6f8Uidb2ngO2XczkR156Yx511xFuF08rTBXwsU_Ltz3_dd0q9s/s320/IMG_2745.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>This is so sad. This is the same place I stood June of 2009 to pose for my 9 month preggo picture. See...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIt4jRLKWc5zEbUKRrU3zdo9z7rnF8djjbYGPeD53zhFTvCuwu3ClQme3ex_iCrRRr7kDtr2p3kUOw0F7hle_Lxb02g2I0qYzLiQgjSh8XMxqFa2H_gY4eye8YpP9qWqe3fba0kCfzrs/s1600/9+months.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIt4jRLKWc5zEbUKRrU3zdo9z7rnF8djjbYGPeD53zhFTvCuwu3ClQme3ex_iCrRRr7kDtr2p3kUOw0F7hle_Lxb02g2I0qYzLiQgjSh8XMxqFa2H_gY4eye8YpP9qWqe3fba0kCfzrs/s320/9+months.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Now here is the part that blew my mind.<br />
<br />
When I went in one day before giving birth? My weight was 198. I had only gained 20 pounds. Cort and I had fist bumped because my goal was to keep it under 200 and I did it!<br />
<br />
After having Eddie, I lost all 20 of those pounds plus 10 more. See how great I looked....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlNGm-jSj7V6IP3tP0_wbfdz-863CEskmFa6MLs-D6rO2_6pr6wOAHgdWq4SD8Jv6rV7OKLJJ42_y_d7XSE5355ElwFFzG805LMsmIqh5JsyC_ckEFvbiMpAx9i9UNG-w0tmoH9UMrDw/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlNGm-jSj7V6IP3tP0_wbfdz-863CEskmFa6MLs-D6rO2_6pr6wOAHgdWq4SD8Jv6rV7OKLJJ42_y_d7XSE5355ElwFFzG805LMsmIqh5JsyC_ckEFvbiMpAx9i9UNG-w0tmoH9UMrDw/s320/014.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>And then...somehow somewhere, I found all THIRTY of those pounds back.<br />
<br />
People? Today I weighed in at 195. ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY FIVE POUNDS. that is only 3 less than when I gave BIRTH to a 9.5 pound child.<br />
<br />
Cort and I discussed after I wanted to start knifing the fat off that this is what happened....<br />
<br />
Before getting pregnant I had decided I need to lose weight. So I hit the gym HARD and bettered my eating habits. I was down to 175ish when I first got pregnant.<br />
<br />
I didn't stop when I was pregnant. Well, I did, because I was throwing up and tired all the time, but I also quit all soda, coffee, and junk. I wasn't hungry for any of it anyway, so it was easy to quit. I actually continued to lose weight the first couple months of pregnancy.<br />
<br />
After the first trimester, I started walking again. And the only snacks I had were fruit and the OCCASIONAL jelly belly.<br />
<br />
I did so great.<br />
<br />
After Eddie was born? I lost all the weight. I truly think it's because I was so sore, tired, and overwhelmed that food did not sound good to me for over a month after he was born.<br />
<br />
I didn't start to notice weight going back ON my body until after Christmas. And then it was just a small amount. I promised myself I would get back into shape once my crazy schedule chilled out.<br />
<br />
But I didn't. What I did was start anti-depressants. That had a side effect of weight gain.<br />
<br />
Couple that with not eating the best foods and doing zero exercise and I had a bit of a problem.<br />
<br />
I tried running this summer. I really did. My knee injury did not help the quest for exercise. And then with me being the crazy quitter that I am, I never really got back on the training wagon like I should have.<br />
<br />
That being said, next week's 5K is going to be more of a run/walk than a run.<br />
<br />
Ahem. Anyway.<br />
<br />
So now that I weigh the same as I did when I gave birth, I hate myself. Ok, I don't hate my WHOLE self, but I am really, REALLY mad and disappointed with what I have let happen.<br />
<br />
I am so driven to succeed in every other area of my life...why can't this be one too?<br />
<br />
And that is how I ended up on McFatty Monday.<br />
<br />
Every Monday I hope to share my failures and my celebrations (please, <i>please</i> let there be more celebrations than failures!). I'll share what works and where my pitfalls are.<br />
<br />
Right now I know that regular exercise just can't be fit into the schedule, but that doesn't mean I am not going to try to be healthier.<br />
<br />
So...here I go.Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03272418011408299181noreply@blogger.com37