tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89534349574625590412024-02-02T13:39:33.499-08:00the creameryWhimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.comBlogger887125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-62979859078980179872015-04-13T19:11:00.000-07:002015-04-13T19:11:47.349-07:00swept cleanThere's a fear I have, returning to this space: that I will find it empty and swept clean, that every word I sweat through my keyboard would be gone, absorbed into the internet ether. That no record would be left of the years I devoted to this small place.<br />
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There's another fear I have, born out of the same stuff: that I will find this space churning with activity in my long absence, that the words left here had spawned some new life of their own, that some part of me kept alive by the echo would have grown legs and fingers to type new messages.<br />
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Instead, when I come back here I find it very much the way I left it: and it's strange. Life rolls on in that real, concrete way: and now the words are stilted and difficult to find.<br />
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But here it is, again and again: this need to come back. The need to do my own reinvention of Whimsy inside the walls of The Creamery.<br />
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There is a lot to tell you.<br />
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There is a lot to show you.<br />
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And I feel like I'm ready to talk.<br />
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So for now, we'll have to hunker down here on the floor. I just swept it, it's clean. There isn't a lot of furniture anymore, but I think we'll get to that, in time.<br />
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Come in.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-44808431831487589062013-10-17T08:25:00.000-07:002013-10-17T08:25:06.551-07:00life on the safe side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It started with an email I received from a friend, dear E. We got to know each other through our blogs five years ago. And this weekend she wrote to me about her son and his diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes. I felt her pain and fear in the words she wrote, the camaraderie built of shared concern for our little ones. Then these words, about the cliff we walk every day, "I think of that fine line between safe and unsafe often. Sometimes living there, on that precipice is too much. The knowing exactly how close the other side is can make you crazy. But then I put up a wall and say this is how life is here, on the safe side, and it is fine."<br />
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It's a haunting image, one that is too exact in describing our life, to ignore.<br />
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Life on the safe side still has zoos, zoos with wonderful staff who meet you at the penguin exhibit because it's your first trip back after a very terrible day. Your daughter wears pink princess gloves and worries her fingers over yours as she watches the penguins eat at their morning roll call. The zoo employee gives your children stuffed penguins, one big and one small. Trinidad is the zoo employee's name. He makes small talk with your husband as you ask questions about the animals. The safe side has penguins who torpedo into the water, their sleek bodies a study in aerodynamics. After a time, Trinidad motions over to a wooden fence, opens a gate leading behind the penguin unit. He introduces your family to John, the penguin keeper. Everything smells like fish and your daughter asks you, "There aren't peanuts here, are there?"<br />
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You walk around the office, the kitchen, the small cavity behind the penguin habitat where nesting pairs of penguins sleep with their eggs (John says November, and you make a note to come back at that time). You find out that these penguins have names like Margarita and Mojito, Rocky and Carmelita. And there is a moment when you don't think about wiping a table down or whether or not someone has a granola bar hiding in their pocket. This is when the safe side gives you a rare gift: John the penguin keeper reaches into the exhibit and comes back with a little penguin creature named Cortez. Cortez is small, a juvenile penguin that John says is one of the gentlest he's ever come across. He invites your daughter to pet Cortez and feel his feathers. They are lighter than the softest spun cotton.<br />
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Our trip back to the zoo was scary. It was really hard for Alice. She was manic in her worry over what she might touch. But so it goes with life on the safe side. Sometimes you have to try to ignore the terrible danger outside of the door.<br />
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I can't say enough good things about the zoo. They were wonderful. A docent toured us through several exhibits. Alice even got to see her precious elephants. Trinidad gave us extra emergency numbers to keep on hand when we are there, should the unthinkable happen again. We were more lucky than I can ever say - there is only one engine company that knows the zoo so well to be able to navigate the ten gate entrances, the three different addresses, the numerous turns and secret hideaways. How lucky we were to happen to get <em>that</em> engine company. They arrived in seven minutes.<br />
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You see miracles like that on the safe side, when you are looking for them. Tender mercies that make your close calls evidence of a loving God.<br />
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You also feel kindness on the safe side. People from the outer darkness who show up at the door of your small shelter with baskets of their carefully crafted love. Names I want to just say here because without them I would have been so terribly alone: Alexa and Karen and Angela; women who jumped to our aid without a second thought. The nurse at Children's Hospital that climbed up next to Alice in bed and held her hand while I went outside to call Chip. The paramedic who came back to check on Alice a few hours after dropping her off. Trinidad at the zoo, who spent far more time with our small family than I'm sure he had space for. John the penguin keeper. I've never seen a penguin hug a human being before. He must be a very special person. I haven't known how to say thank you and have it mean as much as I need.<br />
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And there are all of you dear dear people - those that we've known for years and others for mere weeks. Those that we've never met. People who have reached out to our family to offer support and love. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have reminded me that I still have something to say in this space called The Creamery.<br />
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Life on the safe side can be isolating. It can feel like you're hunkered down hiding beneath the table while a lifelong storm rages, threatening walls that are thin as tissue paper. But sometimes the storm subsides and the sunlight streams through those paper walls, making everything golden. Sometimes life on the safe side is more lovely because you know how precious it all is.<br />
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Here is a snapshot from the zoo last week, one I've carefully filed in my mind: Alice with her fingers tangled in Cortez's downy feathers. Her face a poem of joy and vibrancy. She's thrown back her head a little, mouth open, exclaiming to Chip, "I can't believe it! I can't believe it!"<br />
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Sometimes I can't believe it: life on the safe side, as hard as it is, is also life on the sweet side. <br />
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Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-66645419978163875112013-10-10T13:22:00.000-07:002013-10-10T13:22:36.074-07:00a letter to alice: of peanuts and elephants and brave friends<br />
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Dear Alice,<br />
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This letter to you is one so personal I feel like I'm scraping myself raw in the telling. But in the last several days I haven't been able to shake the need to write it down, to capture it here for you so you'll know exactly the why and the how and the where. Today you are five and a half. You are precocious and smart and breathtakingly beautiful. You are sensitive and kind and just a little bit devious (in the most delicious way). You use words like <em>fierce</em> and <em>extremely</em> and <em>amazing</em>. You rub your nose until there's a little line right above the snubby part. Your eyes are the color of the ocean on our shores: sometimes a deep grey-blue and sometimes a translucent green. You love to draw, collecting bits of color on your fingers and arms. You are drawn to all things sparkly and shiny. Today you are five and a half and the memories you form are only half-baked, roughly remembered snippets of things that actually happened swirled with images of things that never were to be. <br />
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I write this letter to you because you won't always be five and a half. One day you're going to look back on this memory and wonder what is real and what is colored by your five and a half year old self.<br />
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This is what happened. We planned a trip to the zoo with friends. Thursday night you were such a turd. The honest truth: you were bratty and crabby and wanted to do everything except get ready for bed. With your dad out of town on business, you pushed me until I was ready to break. With one hand on your little brother, I stood at your bedroom door and told you we simply weren't going to the zoo tomorrow. No way, no how. I spit out the words--- <em>you don't deserve a trip to the zoo</em>.<br />
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I watched your face crumble and the tears fall. "Please! Please! Please! Please let me go to the zoo! I promise to make better choices!" As you stood there begging me, my resolve softened. I told you we'd see how the rest of the evening went and we'd talk about it again at bedtime. So it was. You turned around, helped out, and by the time you were climbing into bed we made plans for the next day.<br />
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After all, I thought, we were meeting friends there. We'd said we'd be there. Friends had committed to packed lunches that didn't contain peanuts and tree nuts because of your allergies.<br />
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So the next morning we got dressed and ate breakfast. While you and Max watched Curious George, I packed snacks and lunches.<br />
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The ride down was smooth. We parked the car and put Max in the stroller, made our way to the entrance. There was Alexa and her little boy Will. We talked while waiting for Karen and her kids. My phone rang - it was Angela, on her way with Wesley and Laurel. They'd be late, so we should head in without them. You were excited but so cold in the early Fall air. I told you to jump up and down, shake your hands and arms. Karen's boy David was there by then - he's your age and your good friend. We walked into the zoo with the two of you out front, running toward the penguins.<br />
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Alexa and I let the little boys run around on the wooden walkway as our group slowly progressed by birds and gorillas, beautiful colobus monkeys with long fluffy white tails. When he asked me about it, I assured David we'd see elephants, great big ones. You jumped in at this point, "You get to see them WAY UP CLOSE! They are <em>GINORMOUS!"</em><br />
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You've always been one who loves to graze on snacks. You hate to sit down to a big lunch, you want to grab your food in your hand and run. So that's what we did: you walked with David until you'd circle back to me, asking for a new snack. Goldfish, pretzels, apple slices. By the time we reached the children's play area you had gone through three bags. <br />
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In our family we've learned to say "safe" when we're talking about your allergies. We wipe tables to make them <em>safe</em>. We read ingredients and call companies to see what foods are <em>safe</em>. We carry Epi-Pens to keep you <em>safe</em>. We wash hands and watch with wary eyes to ensure that you are <em>safe</em>. Happy and healthy are a close second and third--- our lives are about <em>safe</em>, it seems. We do all of this to keep you from anaphylaxis, when your body senses that you've touched or ingested a peanut or tree nut protein and subsequently revolts, a flood of histamine causing your airways to swell shut until you stop breathing.<br />
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We have a zoo membership. We've been there a dozen times without a single problem, bringing our lunch and steering clear of public eating areas. We'd never before gone into the large indoor children's play area but I read the sign on the door - NO FOOD ALLOWED, and felt confident that you'd be alright.<br />
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And so it was, as you climbed indoor mountains and raced from one end of the building to the other with David. I kept Max close in a smaller contained area for toddlers. Angela joined us at this point, letting her two kids loose. We breathed sighs of relief letting all of you blow off steam.<br />
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Overhead they announced music time - come get instruments to play along with the music piped through the sound system. This was when I noticed that you weren't wearing shoes, your bare feet flashing white skin as you grabbed a music shaker. I called to you, <em>please get your shoes on, Alice</em>. Karen handed your shoes to you, and you sat down right there on the carpet to put them on. That's when you told me that you couldn't do it - your fingers hurt. It's the first time I looked at your hands and saw the swelling. Your fingers were white and tight, the skin stretched to capacity. Each finger was as fat as a breakfast sausage. I remember thinking about hot dogs.<br />
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Here is your face: eyes screwed up in pain, head swiveling back to look at your friends. And here is my mind: flashing in an instant, a neon red warning sign of danger. This was edema, I thought. Swelling of the tissues. Fingers and hands, is it anywhere else? What can we do? I said a silent prayer.<br />
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I already had wipes in hand, scrubbing your fingers and hands, wiping up your arms. I scrubbed your feet and toes, looking for the allergen and thinking, <em>Maybe it's something I can see.</em> Of course it wasn't.<br />
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This was when you noticed my quiet concern, the rising note of panic in my voice as I asked you about your mouth, your face. "Do you feel any tingling? Can you swallow? How does your throat feel?" You started to cry a little, telling me that you felt funny. <em>My fingers, my hands</em>, you said. <em>My mouth, too.</em><br />
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I knew what was happening but it was different than I'd imagined. In my head, I had thought it would be a clear cut case. You might be coughing and asking for my help. Instead we sat on the carpet. I pulled the Epi Pen from our bag and told you we needed to use it. You cried now, real hard tears. Your voice kept catching as you begged me no, to not do it. I tried to be reassuring. I told you it's what we'd trained for. But it was hard for me to say the words. I whispered, "Alice, this is important. It's what we need to do." By now Alexa was holding Max and keeping him calm. Karen came up - she must have understood what was happening. She said she'd hold you. And that's what she did. She wrapped you in her arms as tight as she could, holding you down, holding you snug. You struggled and cried. Karen kept telling you how brave you were, what a brave, brave girl. I tried to move fast, raised the Epi-Pen in the air and slammed it down quick into your thigh with a small click. Now the count of 10, slow through breaths and hands that could barely hold the injector: 1..... 2..... 3..... 4..... 5..... 6..... 7..... 8..... 9..... 10..... As I pulled it out, Angela was there - asking what we needed. "911," I said to her. "Call 911." <br />
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And Karen was still murmuring in your ear, our brave girl Alice. <br />
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My fingers were shaking so much, I couldn't get the packets of Benedryl pills open. This is the second step of dealing with an allergic reaction. I remember saying another prayer that I could be calm for you, that I could be in charge. I stabbed my fingers with the plastic pill packets over and over. I called out to Alexa, "I might need you to open this, I can't get my fingers to work." And then a stillness came, and with it the knowledge that I was surrounded with friends who cared about you, people who could help us through.<br />
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I talked quietly with you as you chewed the Benedryl tablets. When I pulled you into my lap I tried not to cry. A deep breath and questions about how you were doing. Your breathing stayed steady as we waited for the ambulance. I marked the time in my mind, making a mental note if we didn't see the ambulance in 10 minutes we'd need to Epi-Pen again.<br />
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And as I tried to keep you calm, I looked around at the concerned faces. Angela moved outside to wait for the paramedics. Karen took my keys from me and said they'd get our car home for us. Alexa said she'd take Max home with her and Will, keep him for as long as needed. I pulled things from our bag to hand over to these wonderful women and felt the load of worry lighten: my only concern was for you. I remember thinking about how people must wonder why this doesn't look like something on TV or in movies. With shaky voice you told Karen, "It didn't even hurt as much as I thought it would. I'm proud of myself."<br />
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By then the paramedics were there, asking questions and bringing you oxygen. They listened to your breathing, took blood pressure and other vitals, took notes on what I'd done. There was a firefighter named Nick who pulled you into his lap there on the floor. He gave you a sticker that matched his badge. "There," he said, "now you're a firefighter just like me." They told me we should take you in to the ER for further help.<br />
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As Nick carried you out the door, I looked back at Angela. Tears streamed down her face and she grabbed my hand. "I love you!" she said.<br />
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So it goes. We rode in the ambulance, lights and sirens. Your face was white and pinched, eyes wide in fear. The paramedic gave you a white teddy bear to hold as she monitored your breathing which, thank God, remained steady and strong.<br />
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They kept you in the ER for five hours. They gave you medicine and let you watch movies. You drank apple juice and asked for gold fish. The doctors complimented your yellow dress and pigtails, they wanted to talk with you. You made them laugh. They told you you were so brave and smart.<br />
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They told me I did exactly the right thing. I acted fast and didn't hesitate. They told me I stopped what could have been catastrophic anaphylaxis.<br />
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Your dad raced from Boise, Idaho to Seattle, Washington in a matter of hours - yelling at TSA agents and airline employees until he could be by your side. He held you in his arms until both of you were gasping for air.<br />
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That night I held you so close, our cheeks touching. I apologized that we never saw the elephants. I promised I'd always do everything I could to keep you safe. <br />
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I think about the fable of elephants-- giant, hulking, creatures who can be brought to their knees by a tiny mouse. Mice can get into any space. Creepy, too small to keep track of. <br />
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Studies have been done to see if it's true, and the findings point to no. However, elephants are cautious creatures. Their gargantuan size belies their careful nature. These creatures are Kings of the jungle with no natural enemies, but they don't take chances that they don't have to.<br />
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We are not elephants, though I am trying to teach you and Max about fear. We can't be afraid of something so tiny as a peanut, something so innocuous as an almond. Fear would have us locked in our house. But we must be cautious. We try to do what we can to be smart. I think an elephant is like that. No self-respecting one would walk into fire. This is why we wipe every table, wash hands, ask about ingredients. We speak carefully to friends and neighbors and strangers alike. We ask about ingredients and never accept the easier answer if it isn't also the right one.<br />
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Alice, you are so brave. You are so strong. You sat in the ambulance and told me through tears how you didn't want to have this happen to you. But never once did you scream or thrash out. You are the bravest person I know, little girl. And you're only five and a half. The doctors told me how lucky we were that it wasn't more serious. We acted quickly and decisively. <em>Good job, mom,</em> is what they said. And you'll never know the tears I cried when you couldn't see, how my heart broke over and over to watch your little body put up with so much. You'll never know how frustrated I get with people who use words like paranoid and over-protective. People who say these things are no big deal, <em>you carry an Epi-Pen...aren't those supposed to take care of the problem?</em> I've told you we do these things to keep you safe. What I've always known, and what Friday proves to me, is we do these things to keep you alive. <br />
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We are headed back to the zoo tomorrow. We are facing the fear - but you will be wearing gloves this time. I've talked to you about always wearing your shoes in public places. Your dad is going with us as bodyguard and moral support. But we have no idea what happened. We will probably never know what happened. I can guess that you touched an allergen - a protein left behind by some child with a sticky hand, but we can't be sure. In the end, the takeaway is this: vigilance, preparedness. Try to be safe. Let's be like elephants, tomorrow and every day. <br />
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I love you more than air,<br />
Your Mama<br />
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<br />Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-2827810467184836652013-04-19T20:41:00.000-07:002013-04-19T20:41:03.938-07:00a certain kind of brave<br />
It's like that, when you're describing the unacceptable occurrences. Things that don't happen to you. Things that happen to the people that you know through other people. The terrible swimming accidents. The children taken from the back seat of their car. The mothers who wander off the road and are never heard from again. You hear the story and you think of the survivors, and you find yourself murmuring, "I don't know how they do it. I don't know how they carry on. I'm not that kind of brave."<br />
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This should be a letter to two women whom I love. Two women who don't know each other, but have graced my life with their humor and strength and wisdom. Both of them mothers, struggling with things that surpass my comprehension. They are the certain kind of brave that defies my ability. So much so that I have stilled myself into silence, thinking--- I am not that kind of brave, not that kind of warrior who can look grief and pain and the yawning void of loss in the face and still make pancakes in the morning.<br />
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If it was me, I'd not be making pancakes for a year. Or several. <br />
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But these dear women, they know that there are little ones counting on their consistency. Looking forward to the pancakes even if the batter is salted with tears.<br />
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When I don't know what to do, I think of a certain kind of brave and hope for a kernel of it in myself, something that will germinate and grow inside of me so that I can face my challenges with the grace I've seen in others.<br />
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Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-67389415634174977022012-09-14T05:00:00.000-07:002012-09-14T05:00:05.184-07:00a letter to the absent Chip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Dear Chip,<br />
<br />
In the week that you've been gone, your son:<br />
-Broke the cord to our internet wifi hotspot thingie by ripping it off the wall<br />
-Tore up the carpet by the upstairs bathroom (piece by little bitty piece)<br />
-Knocked over an entire (freshly pumped) bottle of breast milk<br />
-Spilled a glass of water<br />
<br />
Has tried to eat:<br />
-My chicken and cheese enchiladas<br />
-The brownie right off my plate<br />
-His sister's cereal<br />
-French fries<br />
-Salted pretzel caramel ice cream<br />
-My flip flops<br />
-His sister's stuffed Piglet<br />
-Several books<br />
-A Costco magazine<br />
-A dinner napkin<br />
-A ballpoint pen<br />
-The cat<br />
<br />
Has NOT eaten:<br />
-A single bit of the rice cereal I've been trying to feed him<br />
<br />
He has also contracted a cold, wouldn't sleep very well, and generally continued to be charming and adorable. In spite of himself.<br />
<br />
He misses you. As does his mother. And sister.<br />
<br />
<br />
This place just isn't the same without you,<br />
me.<br />
Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-81011662478137426622012-09-11T10:36:00.002-07:002012-09-11T10:36:59.697-07:00never small on 9/11Last night's late-night post seems irreverent today. The light of day (no matter how dazzling and beautiful) can make things like that seem so small when so many families grieve on an occasion such as this.<br />
<br />
Makes me think about the anniversary of any death: how the world shrinks to the space around you, while everyone else is complaining about their taxes or trying to figure out when they'll take that family vacation and you're richocheting against the walls of the smallest prison, pain so intense you can hardly breathe.<br />
<br />
My attempt to honor that pain and give space in the debris for the way you mourn, however that way may be.<br />
<br />
Hold your loved ones close and know that they do the same, whether they're here or in heaven.<br />
Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-25092879990914618262012-09-11T00:46:00.000-07:002012-09-11T00:46:45.831-07:00not about spider monkeysDo not ask me why I'm awake at 12:38 in the morning researching natural predators of spider monkeys. <br />
<br />
Though since I am awake and tired I will tell you that spider monkeys are pretty cute.<br />
<br />
Have I mentioned that I'm tired? And also a solo parent for the entire week while my husband attends a conference in picturesque Mesquite, Utah? (or is that in Nevada?)<br />
<br />
I took Max to his 6-month check-up yesterday. That kid is going to be solely responsible for ruining what was left of my posture. 17 pounds and it's all muscle. He's crawling. Yes, crawling. That doesn't seem right. Something else that doesn't seem right is the fact that I have a feeling he's going to be walking by the time he's nine months. Mark my words.<br />
<br />
You guys have asked me how Alice is doing, how she likes her baby brother. That can be its own post, but the short answer is that she loves it. And loves him. Loves him so much that I'm frequently shouting DON'T LAY ON THE BABY and DON'T ROLL OVER ON HIM and DON'T PUT YOUR FEET ON THE BABY. Secretly I think that baby would let her carry him around in her purse if she could. He adores his big sissy, breaks into the most awesome smile whenever he see her.<br />
<br />
And now I'm feeling sleepy again and thinking I should heed the bodily warning since a little wee Max boy is going to need my conscious attention in about six hours.<br />
<br />
See you on the other side.<br />
Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-50743975398784975662012-09-06T09:46:00.000-07:002012-09-06T09:46:25.693-07:00fits and starts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I am officially a c-section mother. It's taken me almost 6 months to say that - the days following Max's birth were flooded with life events that pushed documentation to the background. His birth story sits unfinished in Blogger. For the sake of this post actually getting written, suffice it to say that when the post-op doctor came to my room after a 13-hour labor and emergency c-section, she said without preamble: Don't try a vbac next time. Just head straight for scheduling a C.<br />
<br />
All of this meant to tell you that I do my best to be a c-section supporter. It's what my body and babies need, I guess, and so I go with the flow. HOWEVER, there is one thing that really bothers me about the c-section: the fuzzy-headed fog of disconnect that invariably lasts for days. Even when you think you're getting clear, the pain of recovery wraps your body in a zig-zag of haze.<br />
<br />
I don't know if it's indicative of the c-section alone, or if it's simply a body's way of learning how to connect the dots of relationships when everything has been rewired. Does every new mother go through this?<br />
<br />
And with a second one, the disconnect is intensified. Relearning how to be in the house, in my body, in the world. All the while tending to the needs of not one but two small beings.<br />
<br />
It's taken nearly six months and I'm still not quite there.<br />
<br />
I tried to set myself up with a list of expectations: those things that need to be done to live inside the space I call my life. Taking care of Alice, of Max, of Chip. Doing housework and cleaning toilets. Occasionally making dinner. Showering. Doing work for my church. My part-time job. Family relationships. As the circle grows wider, we come to things like Alice's 2nd year of our preschool co-op, service for others, sewing. Then there are the outlying goals of exercise, gardening, eating healthy. This blog pushes farther back on that list but I find that it fills my mind even as I try to tell myself that it's okay, it's another layer of life stuff that will eventually be able to fit inside my day.<br />
<br />
If I think of The Creamery as simply a journal then it doesn't make sense why I haven't come back sooner. But it isn't that simple, it never is. The Creamery has always been more than that to me. It's an interactive journal, a small space on the internet where I've met so many of you. And I've said it before: I miss you. Even when I don't show it. Even when I don't respond to emails. Even when it takes me two months to post after Phoebe's death. I do miss you.<br />
<br />
And I want to be better about showing it.<br />
<br />
Life goes on. This space has sat empty and lonely. I'm going to fix that.<br />
Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-80888106607176433142012-07-19T05:00:00.000-07:002012-07-19T06:58:00.929-07:00farewell to a friend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I've tried to write it a dozen times - in between feeding the kids and sweeping the floor and organizing the freezer, I have tried to write these words to say goodbye. Instead I find myself writing a laundry list of things I'm going to miss about her.<br />
<br />
So here it is, in list form, my sendoff for dearly delightful and oh-so-hairy Phoebe:<br />
<br />
<br />
-She liked to sleep on my bed, and more specifically on top of my head. I called it Phoebe Hat and it made me nuts.<br />
<br />
-As a kitten she would stand on my chest while I was sleeping and sneeze directly on my face.<br />
<br />
-She never took NO for an answer.<br />
<br />
-She had terrible breath.<br />
<br />
-She had the softest belly fur: white and downy with bits of her pink skin poking out.<br />
<br />
-Long tufts of fur grew out between the pads on her paws. I liked to tug on them until she'd move her paws.<br />
<br />
-She followed me into the kitchen every time I walked in there. She was hoping for treats.<br />
<br />
-I used to put my cereal bowl on the floor after I was done eating. She would come along and stick her paws in the bowl, licking the milk off her paw fur.<br />
<br />
-She played something we called Crunchy Hockey with the dried cat crunchie food. She'd fish a single bit of cat cereal onto the kitchen floor and then bat it across the room - chasing it as fast as she could.<br />
<br />
-Her belly fluv swung far and low to the ground.<br />
<br />
-She was annoying. She got into everything. She shed on every stitch of nice clothing I had. She had awful hairballs and would vomit on the rugs the minute I washed them. <br />
<br />
<br />
And I'm going to miss her. We're all going to miss her. Because she was also the sweetest, most long-suffering, best example of unconditional love I've ever known. An angel. Covered in fur.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-55088566608261972762012-06-27T05:30:00.000-07:002012-06-27T05:30:01.649-07:00sleeping habits of the baby boyd<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Or, more accurately, NONsleeping habits. The little dude is charming from the moment he wakes around 6:30am to eat and smile and sneeze (without fail: four times in a row). Then, throughout the day he continues to eat and smile and poop and sneeze AND DOESN'T SLEEP FOR MORE THAN 30 MINUTES AT TIME. For thirteen hours. He retires as a gentleman should at the considerate hour of 9pm. <br />
<br />
I am doing my best to take this in stride.<br />
<br />
But yesterday his charms were dimmed by the intermitant crying fits he deemed fit to add to his repertoire.<br />
<br />
Alice had her sleep issues, heaven knows I struggled through them. And as it goes, I've defended the dude's little quirks because I think he's scrumptious. But come ON. I've tried putting him down in quiet rooms, loud rooms, bright rooms, dark rooms, tightly swaddled and barely blanketed. Nothing really makes a difference except if I'm actually sleeping WITH him and can attend his every whimper and move. So that's clearly out.<br />
<br />
Did you have or do you have children with weird sleep issues? And more specifically, anyone have experience with the rare non-daytime sleeping baby?<br />
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This baby says <em>Who wouldn't want to spend thirteen hours a day with me?</em></div>
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<br />Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-61774436232199807022012-06-22T05:30:00.000-07:002012-06-22T05:30:01.373-07:00my excuse for not getting anything doneBecause really, when there are children this delicious to smoosh on, how one be expected to blog?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2e8Ad44peZw3OVefL3Pgt-2eUnz4OuqJdnuQdhKnLoUr00hF6ZoJzmqMyTZw2zm4cfyCoI7gj0nyBn8FJY_BM2o5KNjID1GEgs5uYyHNRKVX8DoafJTlwrhPScdekEIz7yxzIu7PLD3tb/s1600/IMG_8731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2e8Ad44peZw3OVefL3Pgt-2eUnz4OuqJdnuQdhKnLoUr00hF6ZoJzmqMyTZw2zm4cfyCoI7gj0nyBn8FJY_BM2o5KNjID1GEgs5uYyHNRKVX8DoafJTlwrhPScdekEIz7yxzIu7PLD3tb/s400/IMG_8731.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-78621800608883985022012-06-18T05:30:00.000-07:002012-06-18T05:30:02.922-07:00now with bow tie<br />
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<br />
After Max's frightening visit to the hospital in April, I felt compelled to flee the state with kids in tow. Don't ask me for details of the solo-parenting flights to Salt Lake (a frightening blur), but the memories I'm left with are these---<br />
<br />
A month of reveling in familial goodness<br />
A month of my parents mugging on Alice and Max<br />
A month of playing with cousins and visiting with our nearest and dear<br />
A month of checking in with our dear Winston, checking on his amazing recovery<br />
A month of fun and backyard play<br />
<br />
And also this, Max's blessing day, with every single one of my siblings in attendance. All of the cousins except for one (we greatly missed Taylor).<br />
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I was the perfect reason for Max to don infant formal wear. He was very dapper.<br />
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It felt like we were swimming in an ocean of love. We can't thank mom and dad enough for opening their home to us. And the hugest of thanks to Kimmie, Steve, Curtis and their families for everything. <br />
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I do so love this group of crazy people.<br />
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<br />Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-21843899130008312542012-05-11T05:00:00.000-07:002012-05-11T05:00:13.417-07:00a solution for leaky baby bottles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(First in a series of posts I'm calling Brilliant Ideas at 4am because <em>damn</em> - my synapsis are ON FIRE when I'm sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, feeding a hungry Max in the wee hours.)<br />
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For leaky bottles.<br />
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This:<br />
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And this:<br />
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And you have a little drip-catcher and no longer find yourself cursing a wet and sticky breastmilk-covered hand and pajamas. I bought a whole pack of the little hairband thingies and keep them with my revolving supply of clean bottles on the counter, and wash the dirty ones in the sink with the dirty bottles. Easy.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-88710236859423926432012-05-10T05:00:00.000-07:002012-05-10T05:00:11.726-07:00not about the bow tie<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I think it is unnatural to think that there is such a thing as a blue-sky, white-clouded happy childhood for anybody. Childhood is a very, very tricky business of surviving it. Because if one thing goes wrong or anything goes wrong, and usually something goes wrong, then you are comprised as a human being. You're going to trip over that for a good part of your life. -Maurice Sendak</blockquote>
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I'll tell you what - I'm tired of feeling like the very sky is falling down around me, raining bits of blue-gray ceiling tiles onto my head. I'm tired of worrying that I'll look up and find a hole way up there through which a yawning void of nothing threatens to invade. I'm tired of feeling a clench in my stomach each time I anticipate anything that requires movement. I'm tired of worrying over the <em>when</em> and the <em>how</em>.<br />
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Yesterday afternoon Max slept in his carrier (fresh from a trip to Target) while Alice brought me fistfuls of plastic food. She made hamburgers and sandwiches and ice cream cones. Fruit and eggs and maple syrup (for the hamburger, of course). She ran to me with delight in her eyes and a smile on her face for the sheer joy of seeing me looking back at her.<br />
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Maurice Sendak passed away on Tuesday. I'm sure you all know that, and maybe some of you don't agree with his politics. And maybe some of you don't even like his books (Where the Wild Things Are, Little Bear, etc.). But the man had a distinct sense of the side of childhood we don't often acknowledge - and I love him for that. Because as I'm thinking so hard about the childhood I'm crafting for my own two little people - worrying over their naps and dirty diapers and developmental needs, I often forget how truly <em>messy</em> childhood really is. And how <em>messy</em>, naturally so, parenthood is. I try for perfection and really that isn't the best way to serve my little people. They need the mess. They need the bumps and bruises. Because no matter what I do, those things are going to come for them anyway.<br />
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So here's to giving our children imperfection and revelling in it. And here's to Mr. Sendak. He will be missed.<br />
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I don't believe in children. I don't believe in childhood. I don't believe that there's a demarcation. 'Oh you mustn't tell them that. You mustn't tell them that.' You tell them anything you want. Just tell them if it's true. If it's true you tell them. -Maurice Sendak</blockquote>
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<br />Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-22579235066578002342012-05-07T05:00:00.000-07:002012-05-07T05:00:17.667-07:00rusty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I keep trying to scratch off the rust--- doing my best to return to normalcy and documenting life here at The Creamery. But the days have been so far from anything normal. I'm on a different planet. The topography, the geography, the astronomy--- all foreign.<br />
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I face the task of learning the map of this new place, and my location in it.<br />
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But for now I do my best to focus my eyes on the small square of earth beneath these feet. I tell myself I know that there is grass here. It is verdant green and rich with life. There are birds singing somewhere in the distance. And the children - the plural nature of these beings that inhabit this space with me, they are here and present. Their needs and wants have been the pulse of my existence for the past eight weeks and now I must adjust my sight, try to unburden myself from the darkness and know that yes, I am standing here in this place. And it's going to feel like home one day soon.<br />
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(tomorrow I will tell you why Max was dressed up in his finest; and yes that is a tiny baby bow tie)<br />Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-18301007131121240432012-04-16T05:00:00.002-07:002012-04-16T12:08:58.981-07:00twenty days after thatIt's strange, the passage of days like river water over rocks: how time flowing over and around me softens the edges until the hours and minutes are something I can watch from a dream. I'm in the moments but not of them. And then there's Max. His expectant face, so serious and intent. Eyes that search vague shapes for faces that he knows: me, Chip, and Alice. We orbit around this small, so new son.<br />
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Which is why the clock stopped spinning Thursday night. I had been ordered to escape the house for a few hours with Linda. We saw The Hunger Games. And while we were busy consuming popcorn and discussing blue hair, Chip laid down next to a slumbering Max. Chip had been asleep about 20 minutes when he woke up to Max choking and flailing his arms wildly in the air. In the time it took him to pick Max up, the baby had stopped breathing altogether: white bits of foam on his lips. Max's body was rigid, arched back like a sidways parenthesis. Chip says it felt like an eternity of patting Max's back and watching his face go a dusky purple before he breathed again (we estimate it was between 15 to 30 seconds).<br />
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When I got home, Chip filled me in and then explained that after Max settled down again he drifted right back to sleep. We didn't so much follow suit that night, laying in restless worry. In the morning we took him to the doctor. We anticipated that it was reflux: milk backing up into his esophogus and getting into his airways. But his doctor worried about other monsters: a seizure, heart trouble, something with his lungs or airways. Instead of heading home for ice cream and a long nap, we left the doctor's office with orders to take the baby to Seattle Children's Hospital.<br />
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And so it goes: gurgling waters suddenly come rushing in a white torrent that overwhelms the senses, pushing debris and muck into a tumbling mess of cutting pain.<br />
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We dropped Alice off with Linda and Mark, our two-person rescue party, and drove down to Seattle with a hastily-packed bag for me to stay overnight with the baby.<br />
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They were wonderful at the hospital, the best place to be when you are worried and unsure - when you cradle your very new baby and wonder what could possibly warrant a five-week-old to stop breathing. There is so much more to the story: the nurses who danced for a young dialysis patient across the hall, the sound of Max sleeping so quiet in a hospital crib much too big for him, the long night spent on the couch in his hospital room, and the beeping monitors recording Max's breathing.<br />
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We are so lucky. Nothing more serious was found except for a raging case of reflux (who knew?). He isn't a spit-uppy baby, but there are other signs that we'd missed (again: who knew?). Max was fit for a ginormous foam wedge thing for sleeping on (I'm calling it the space shuttle because it has a SEAT and SEAT BELT and all he's missing is a space suit). We were given a lot of marching orders about how to feed him and when to feed him and ways to hold him. But ultimately, my favorite order came from one of his nurses: Max, we hope to not see you here ever again.<br />
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Amen to that.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-13245909187178221782012-04-09T05:00:00.001-07:002012-04-09T05:00:06.698-07:00the mix<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAfFg-it5iqsS_vt6R2A6ZryD_gzZoJeBpeBk9CAmuIVMT1LxvSjr-2WyFYJTrkUghCkVUQpCHJEgvxCuO_HiYW5bxU9TNT-cqByCI8N_Mb7v4kN3F-3vInyFqh3x2jR6KJeGlHJSLoh6q/s1600/IMG_8310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAfFg-it5iqsS_vt6R2A6ZryD_gzZoJeBpeBk9CAmuIVMT1LxvSjr-2WyFYJTrkUghCkVUQpCHJEgvxCuO_HiYW5bxU9TNT-cqByCI8N_Mb7v4kN3F-3vInyFqh3x2jR6KJeGlHJSLoh6q/s320/IMG_8310.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Chip made a list of songs for me. Songs for the hospital, for those grueling hours of hoped-for labor and a starburst moment when Max would join us in the here and now--- changing our lives in the irrevocable way children do.<br />
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The plans we made and the things that happened are tied together in my mind in a cloudy mix of memory and wishes.<br />
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I listened to that mix in the hospital, but not in the way I envisioned. In the hazy blue-gray of predawn I talked quietly to a tiny baby laying in solid weight on my chest. The sounds of Chip's music filling our dark room.<br />
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And now in the weeks since his entrance, I've listened to that mix thinking about the way we plan to have our lives unfold versus the way the days fling forward in a carpet before us: messy, unkempt, sometimes painful, sometimes so sweet my teeth ache--- but always always always surprising.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_l2ajrVRKkSC9d68b7EKoYoH212HtG5dHvslruV4TcyJxOQRHve8YxtYiuWpeILBQZCvmwKmEWkItFBJbcBM_Q0J0Ve5Lqs8LqXAE0_jfgUj_Wi1Aef8NYKh9JYae2Q3-Ai7QkIY9y9c/s1600/IMG_8418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_l2ajrVRKkSC9d68b7EKoYoH212HtG5dHvslruV4TcyJxOQRHve8YxtYiuWpeILBQZCvmwKmEWkItFBJbcBM_Q0J0Ve5Lqs8LqXAE0_jfgUj_Wi1Aef8NYKh9JYae2Q3-Ai7QkIY9y9c/s400/IMG_8418.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttSLJIJ48VxOXA44yovrAcL2CHGqTwOjMEIxdD-ctVX0u5y_RvfrM-fwhztgFLBCX58UWzw7LqFZXvoowVcwmTP1GPeeLzWuX7rah893wxLNrXUb6ifoFpB0d9wU7Uv5z7n3r2KZ9P_f0/s1600/IMG_8408.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttSLJIJ48VxOXA44yovrAcL2CHGqTwOjMEIxdD-ctVX0u5y_RvfrM-fwhztgFLBCX58UWzw7LqFZXvoowVcwmTP1GPeeLzWuX7rah893wxLNrXUb6ifoFpB0d9wU7Uv5z7n3r2KZ9P_f0/s400/IMG_8408.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-84845538269370694362012-03-27T05:00:00.005-07:002012-03-27T05:00:10.203-07:00the first eighteen days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkr7oIiJW4VHLwjJAOYaDolviGZ-nflTaQlHRS1ewLbgUsqH9BdBQc6X4bfANg9dLhwQ3ltsHbdUl1cAkFG14UE7jaO7dYqgZSh8zzDEDZoLyLzc6QTSI4o_CZE3hh6tsv6b5P8L6Dx2z/s1600/IMG_8393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkr7oIiJW4VHLwjJAOYaDolviGZ-nflTaQlHRS1ewLbgUsqH9BdBQc6X4bfANg9dLhwQ3ltsHbdUl1cAkFG14UE7jaO7dYqgZSh8zzDEDZoLyLzc6QTSI4o_CZE3hh6tsv6b5P8L6Dx2z/s400/IMG_8393.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
He's going to ask me about those first eighteen days. I'm not sure I'll know what to say--- a kaleidoscope of activity, his crying mixed with his sister's kisses, my face nuzzled into his, watching him change minute by minute.<br />
<br />
And then there was the feeling of pieces tumbling down around us: Max just four days old and a phone call from mom--- dear Winston had fallen and broken his hip. I felt arrested in time, helpless and wondering about my dad. Then we started to breathe again. Winston's prognosis was good, he was sent home and happy to be there. Mom would still be making a trip out to meet tiny Max and help me recover from surgery.<br />
<br />
But plans are wispy things, caught up in the turmoil of life's events. Max now just eight days old and another phone call from mom--- this one she directed straight to Chip, saying that she needed to speak with him directly. I knew it wouldn't be good, and it wasn't: Winston had a stroke.<br />
<br />
I've been unsure how to address it here, what to say and how to say it. I've huddled underneath the canvas of the little tent I erected when Max was born. I've shed too many tears, salted Max's head until his hair was slick with them. I've worried and prayed and wondered over my dad. The family rushed to his side while I listened from a thousand miles away.<br />
<br />
Their attention and focus gave him strength. Their love and prayers gave him hope.<br />
<br />
I walked the floor with my boy at 3am, making quiet promises for a future with Winston. <br />
<br />
And in the days that followed, he has begun the long process of recovery. When I spoke with him on the phone a few days ago, he sounded wonderful. My most feisty and wonderful Winston. That night I told Max about one of his namesakes--- how there was another Boyd so anxious to meet him, his last remaining grandfather with so much to teach him about strength and grace and courage.<br />
<br />
I think that this is what I'll tell Max about his first eighteen days: my world was shattered and built up again. I'll tell him that when everything else is stripped away by exhaustion and worry and sadness and loss, there is a long and enduring love.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-11922110107762481452012-03-12T06:18:00.000-07:002012-03-12T06:22:05.294-07:00And yet one more funny thing happened on the way back to regular blog activity<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkmS-lHsVJazncY5uq7u_XbDjrMh4tLiIaNzm85Vy9B5QDgnfNleLQgOy4WLgNCqvn4R4UFG1vE9EVEKeM2o992mTMNnx2yrW_eTrMHWZcfYzlD-yUmSlwT7qqab4DYTx5uN_V3SOybC9/s1600/IMG521-725294.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkmS-lHsVJazncY5uq7u_XbDjrMh4tLiIaNzm85Vy9B5QDgnfNleLQgOy4WLgNCqvn4R4UFG1vE9EVEKeM2o992mTMNnx2yrW_eTrMHWZcfYzlD-yUmSlwT7qqab4DYTx5uN_V3SOybC9/s400/IMG521-725294.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719000321468510930" /></a></p>Meet Boyd Daniel Maxwell Romero. We are calling him Max, and he does not dissapoint- arriving in surprising fashion 2 weeks early.<p>More soon.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-86653037505641937052012-03-06T05:00:00.051-08:002012-03-06T05:00:05.278-08:00a funny thing happened on the way to returning to full blog activity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYva9QHCqtGrzfzvdAoeE2UYQRRDZkrJuJS8Tdr6nUJJ-AtIBjzF7hedoiJ14T-dSMPkR7h5F0GslCU3N8j6DR3GBvw7Gf__CHXe1-v2vU72xQqmNYPuE7Y8szM1H9VYL00kK8ZkyWkSq_/s1600/IMG_8217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYva9QHCqtGrzfzvdAoeE2UYQRRDZkrJuJS8Tdr6nUJJ-AtIBjzF7hedoiJ14T-dSMPkR7h5F0GslCU3N8j6DR3GBvw7Gf__CHXe1-v2vU72xQqmNYPuE7Y8szM1H9VYL00kK8ZkyWkSq_/s400/IMG_8217.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
...okay, more than one funny thing.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFQ_g2d2d_8o2ggbV9Y0umFaJOUGsb_QPRj-B7y98zqjMwiXkF13F9flcmo3jzrPXi3CAnxVQDVTFBp49J-IHZvq4XV_jGmPPFkE8ieKPdzmZUPyzK4mxVotc43fog21-UsXLmbY07NjV/s1600/IMG_8245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFQ_g2d2d_8o2ggbV9Y0umFaJOUGsb_QPRj-B7y98zqjMwiXkF13F9flcmo3jzrPXi3CAnxVQDVTFBp49J-IHZvq4XV_jGmPPFkE8ieKPdzmZUPyzK4mxVotc43fog21-UsXLmbY07NjV/s400/IMG_8245.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
There was this,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuLaN9x8VuClopViO353gWtp5cpzCbVpCiUkO3NRdSrCUQsLwsfZZGsxq7tRTQ3BzOnX8JfwS9CoxCMkuwmJIlP3oNW4Bw1Jt8npEx2q0FIR-tUOxCRpdiv2i7X9bRXT7mfJ46NU_8voz/s1600/IMG_8273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuLaN9x8VuClopViO353gWtp5cpzCbVpCiUkO3NRdSrCUQsLwsfZZGsxq7tRTQ3BzOnX8JfwS9CoxCMkuwmJIlP3oNW4Bw1Jt8npEx2q0FIR-tUOxCRpdiv2i7X9bRXT7mfJ46NU_8voz/s400/IMG_8273.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
a tried-and-true FOUR-YEAR-OLD (Saturday was her birthday and she is so grown up).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX5eHNJFwiXQj-qDcdn1Fq6UxDgAwIvGQShLS0pMB6boTRPcks5Zdk26tPees6MqaSev2_k43Ri0UqR1ZLIgr0lSjyhuH9_wQJa0z3fD899iaurYG4LZoCSo9DDm_ug5F-X5hXyqwjkZU/s1600/IMG_8226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX5eHNJFwiXQj-qDcdn1Fq6UxDgAwIvGQShLS0pMB6boTRPcks5Zdk26tPees6MqaSev2_k43Ri0UqR1ZLIgr0lSjyhuH9_wQJa0z3fD899iaurYG4LZoCSo9DDm_ug5F-X5hXyqwjkZU/s400/IMG_8226.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Chip got a new job. A good job that makes him HAPPY, which is such a good thing because it makes me happy. But the downside is that it has him traveling again (cue universal laughter). So to recap: I am happy. And also very nervous (as you can imagine).<br />
<br />
<br />
And this,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30kYosBPhE3WIw1N3PejNsG-sOnJpf2OciBjlC4jVaQldTraoEdcRbkWhqbJ9I0vlWZwQUFi7PMzh7AO3ahIR-X6RKDawt9rGmAm92Gg9ixssCuyTkSlmMWUfgTnzrCiI145TNp0kd7Vl/s1600/IMG_8237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30kYosBPhE3WIw1N3PejNsG-sOnJpf2OciBjlC4jVaQldTraoEdcRbkWhqbJ9I0vlWZwQUFi7PMzh7AO3ahIR-X6RKDawt9rGmAm92Gg9ixssCuyTkSlmMWUfgTnzrCiI145TNp0kd7Vl/s400/IMG_8237.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
this belly - this baby - this this this HUGENESS, which is still a round reminder (no baby yet). And I'm perfectly happy about that, if you believe it. I'd like him to hold on for a couple of weeks, actually. Just give me a couple of weeks to finish putting his room together, to finish washing his clothes, to paint a couple of shelves, to actually sew him some swaddle blankets (cut out but as of yet, not a single stitch), and to pack a darn bag for the hospital.<br />
<br />
<br />
And this, which is hard to explain without putting it into context. For the last two and a half years I've been working in the children's organization at our church (it's called Primary). I've been the secretary and the first counselor, always behind the scenes, happily in the supporting role. I've let someone else make the big decisions and call the shots (LOVE YOU AMANDA). And then, about five weeks ago, my Bishop asked me to be president (cue even more universal laughter). That was my first reaction, actually: I laughed. Then I looked at Chip. And I looked at Alice. And I looked at the growing belly. Then I said yes.<br />
<br />
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It's been a busy month.<br />
<br />
But I'm excited to be here with you, and I promise I'm hanging in for the long term, come what may. Tune in the rest of the week for pictures of some of the things that I have actually been able to get done (fun and crafty and cute things).Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-18805377345379459682012-02-22T05:00:00.001-08:002012-02-22T05:00:02.153-08:00butterflies in her hairThere is no fooling you people, is there? Monday's post starred dear sweet Alice as a party goer wearing a pee pee teepee, that ever-strange and hopefully useful baby boy accessory.<br />
<br />
I found a pattern to make some, and with the fabulous Wandering Nana as my seamstress (everyone needs a friend like her), we've been in pee pee teepee production.<br />
<br />
Also on the docket of pre-baby necessities:<br />
- cute swaddle blankets<br />
- pacifier clips<br />
- curtains for the little buddy's room<br />
<br />
Four weeks from yesterday, gulp. There is a whole bunch of stuff that I need to tell you. Like, a WHOLE bunch. But for now, I am thinking of how Alice insisted that she "decorate" my hair two nights ago, and proceeded to put little butterfly-shaped buttons in my hair. I forgot about them until a few hours later when I went to get ready for bed and took my hair out of its ponytail. A little shower of butterflies fell down at my feet. These are the small things to enjoy. Anything new with you?<br />
<br />
And this: if you had four weeks before your 2nd baby was due, what would you DO exactly? (I'm not BORED, for heaven's sake, just wondering how you'd choose to spend your time.) Give me your best advice.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-19511004653312306422012-02-20T05:00:00.000-08:002012-02-20T05:00:04.016-08:00a monday morning riddle for the interwebz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Well hello there. Happy President's Day and Monday and everything wrapped up together.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For your special reading and viewing pleasure, I pose this riddle for you.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here is a picture of Alice hosting an impromptu birthday party for someone. Perhaps herself. As you can see, she has bedecked her party-goers' heads with "party hats". I say "party hats" because they most assuredly AREN'T party hats.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>They are something quite the opposite.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Any guesses as to what they are (or will be)?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_Vc0ktfsjEh1ozsxBIsGNOr0jnY7r2H35rDD_iFyhYngkPOV_hmIZY_AdHJJIGioMyizhWASF9z3J4bO2Fe3Q0_trGuhpooz-w96TxMnYIny1WLyQbKzdEHrbOdIQ0EqjJYwNU-Rkg4I/s1600/IMG_8193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_Vc0ktfsjEh1ozsxBIsGNOr0jnY7r2H35rDD_iFyhYngkPOV_hmIZY_AdHJJIGioMyizhWASF9z3J4bO2Fe3Q0_trGuhpooz-w96TxMnYIny1WLyQbKzdEHrbOdIQ0EqjJYwNU-Rkg4I/s400/IMG_8193.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></div>Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-75771409771290766682012-02-14T05:00:00.000-08:002012-02-14T05:00:04.589-08:00my two shadows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-EDgjeir4ZqjIe0HiLQ84FqS6qcANwpOLSpA6kmqeg2o_uMWEB6L3lUnALxecx4AvwT7ojJGsnJZuTdul8iQeknc8M8nyelQd02RJnQrPM_9G3mJrcwWm8w4vRYF0hjI9n-HnO_cieai/s1600/IMG478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-EDgjeir4ZqjIe0HiLQ84FqS6qcANwpOLSpA6kmqeg2o_uMWEB6L3lUnALxecx4AvwT7ojJGsnJZuTdul8iQeknc8M8nyelQd02RJnQrPM_9G3mJrcwWm8w4vRYF0hjI9n-HnO_cieai/s400/IMG478.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Is it weird that I haven't posted in a month, and the first thing I put on here is a picture of the two furry beasts that have been following me around for weeks?<br />
<br />
We've been literally turning the house upside down, moving the contents of one upstairs room (my little studio space) to the wee little office room downstairs. The room upstairs will be Baby's. With an extra guest bed. And Chip's desk. And some other stuff. Not that it's huge to begin with, but it's a lot of stuff to stick in there. <br />
<br />
Did I mention that we also kicked the furry monsters out of the upstairs entirely? <br />
<br />
That would explain them finding me as their only real and true friend, their only source of solace, their only human who truly knows what it means to SUFFER AND HAVE TO LIVE IN COMPLETE COMFORT DOWNSTAIRS. (I actually do have a lot of sympathy for them, they used to have complete run of the joint, but were slowly ousted room by room, until finally they woke one morning to find a gate on the bottom step and all the humans peering down at them going NEENER NEENER YOU CAN'T COME UP HERE ANYMORE.... or, that's how I imagine they see it.)<br />
<br />
It has to do with Chip's and Alice's allergies.... and this baby, who knows what he's going to bring to the mix in FIVE WEEKS. Five weeks, people.<br />
<br />
I'm not really freaking out. Only hoping we get the books out of the hallway by the time I'm in labor.<br />
<br />
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day, if you celebrate that sort of thing. I think we'll be celebrating today by sewing curtains... or something.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-88118739791971248242012-01-20T05:00:00.000-08:002012-01-20T05:00:07.686-08:00snow business<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbefNBVYk8PN_SvXEWyHPxMw-b9JBi1g5m6xDV6VcBVa0fRYwKRFM4rEk0wCQrkyxvg4pEeqikL4OM8VTiAnlCwGADE621H6ZCDGvH57emIm9ETjynXBVNQO9WMai9l6eKXhB68cdt7uu0/s1600/IMG_8169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbefNBVYk8PN_SvXEWyHPxMw-b9JBi1g5m6xDV6VcBVa0fRYwKRFM4rEk0wCQrkyxvg4pEeqikL4OM8VTiAnlCwGADE621H6ZCDGvH57emIm9ETjynXBVNQO9WMai9l6eKXhB68cdt7uu0/s400/IMG_8169.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Arctic cold and it seeps into your bones, drives you indoors and makes it so you don't want to go out. Maybe ever again.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But the weather folks are saying that this is supposed to start to melt and slush sometime today.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Fingers crossed, because I'm not sure I can stand the many clothing changes Alice requires for outdoor adventures.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div>Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8953434957462559041.post-3946910767382741922012-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:002012-01-16T05:00:03.243-08:00thirty-eight on me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W2hXZysl66ZFB6_Tz_xnc4n6ED1ag62XOwqB709mOTPXd85kVIwN_AmKrjI3v6trxB03r3vr6By6PrWVzemAkHHVAzrllzKE4lwh2sEbY_cVfoQIPmrQ2JWRWW__UMYOM0j3aej0flfV/s1600/IMG_8164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W2hXZysl66ZFB6_Tz_xnc4n6ED1ag62XOwqB709mOTPXd85kVIwN_AmKrjI3v6trxB03r3vr6By6PrWVzemAkHHVAzrllzKE4lwh2sEbY_cVfoQIPmrQ2JWRWW__UMYOM0j3aej0flfV/s400/IMG_8164.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It turns out, the longer you stay away, the harder it is to come back. Even a (momentarily) forgotten password.<br />
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It turns out, radio silence isn't silent. The clawing static is deafening. At first you think of ways to quiet the din, but later it becomes a type of white noise you shout over, never noticing your rising voice, the hints of hysteria.<br />
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It turns out, thirty-eight is a quiet birthday. A birthday blanketed in white snow and ice crystals.<br />
<br />
It turns out, even at thirty-eight, that damn chocolate cake is still cursed --- this time it's a double dose of salt. Cake was salvaged.... but ocean-y.<br />
<br />
It turns out, that cake is the only thing that makes you curse. <br />
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It turns out, you miss this creamy space something fierce. The people in it, especially.Whimsyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05543385560164099748noreply@blogger.com3