tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13698676156467518122024-03-16T16:47:19.258-07:00beLIFEtweenfrom A to Z, and everything in LIFE between. Two moms writing about the everyday struggles and joys of the in between.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-3614587124683198132015-05-30T07:55:00.001-07:002015-05-30T07:58:11.985-07:00Letting go of the other love of my life....I've known about this day for about 6 months but it doesn't make it any easier-so I'm taking to writing my feelings to avoid the emotional blubbering mess I would become if I said these things in person. Ashford wrote a love letter of a different kind so most people already have some idea of how we moms feel about our other loves-our nanny. I never thought I would be one of those people who would have a nanny. That always seemed like something the "rich" people had. But when it came time to make decisions regarding our child care, we prayed hard and decided on a nanny. It worked for our family-and we are not rich! Our first two were pretty much disasters which almost swayed us from trying one last time. Until that day in August when your profile popped up on my care.com account. I knew the minute I saw it that you were sent from God. Sounds cheesy, but I really felt like you were an angel sent from the great heavens above. I remember we called a family you previously worked for and they carried on and on about you. Now I sit here doing the same.<br />
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You fit into our family immediately and have been a saving grace. You have been a calm presence in the madness that is our life. You tolerate my quirky sense of humor and you have an uncanny knack of knowing just the moment when I'm having a bad day and send me a hilarious text to brighten my day. My girls adore you. You have taught them manners, a love of reading and swimming, and you have even shared some of your fear of germs with them which might actually be a good thing. You have gone above and beyond and never complain, except that one time my girls made you sick and you ended up in the hospital. I will certainly miss the fact that you put the silverware in the wrong drawer (but we've never told you because we think it's funny). Or having to tell people in conversation which Andy I am referring to-my "Andy" or "Andi the nanny". I have loved being able to share in your life and support you in trying to figure out the rest of your life. One day, I hope you will understand the magnitude of having someone you love and trust care for your children. And how it makes working full time a little bit easier knowing they are so well loved and cared for. <br />
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I've tried not to be too sappy. I remember the days almost 20 years ago when I was in high school and said goodbye to my favorite family I baby sat for. I can still in my head see sweet little Anna waving with tears streaming down her face as I said goodbye before they moved to Oklahoma. I can remember pulling away in the car praying I could hold the tears in until she couldn't see me, and then falling apart into a snotty, tearful mess. But somehow that experience makes it easier for me to be a little more comfortable letting you go-and helps me understand both of our emotions. I know you will forever be a part of our lives, just as I have been with my sweet family all those years ago-in fact, 20 years later I still check with them on facebook and while I wish I could see them more often, I was forever changed by those amazing kids-they helped me be the mom I am today. In fact, they were all in my wedding!<br />
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I'm pretty certain you and I are forever changed by the year you have been with us. I am just grateful that we have technology now-we can face time, send text messages, and be present even when we are 14 hours and 957 miles apart (but who's counting). We will write letters and expect you to visit often! <br />
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So I'm not saying goodbye-I refuse. Instead, I'm choosing to say "see you soon!" Thank you for loving my girls like your own, for giving us so much joy, and for making a difference in our lives-all of our lives. We will love you always and forever! And yes, just like 20 years ago I will fight back the tears until you pull off and then I will cry my tears as you leave-just like you will. <br />
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-Ziggy<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-16248715668610534282015-05-15T11:35:00.002-07:002015-05-15T11:45:08.021-07:00Milk, Soy, FPIES-OH MY!!In honor of national food allergy week, I thought it was appropriate to share our story/way of life. <br />
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For anyone who doesn't know, (because I believe anyone in our lives is very aware) our daughters have allergies to milk and soy. Our oldest was borderline failure to thrive, did 7 days in special care at birth because she stopped breathing, and was extremely sick for the first 2 years of her life as a result of her allergy to cows milk. We were given every diagnosis one could think of....Cystic Fibrosis, Silent Reflux,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 20px;"> <span style="font-size: small;">Eosinophilic Esophagitis, etc</span>. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 20px;"><span style="font-size: small;">It wasn't until <span style="font-size: small;">our amazing G<span style="font-size: small;">I<span style="font-size: small;"> did an endoscopy and biopsied SK's <span style="font-size: small;">esophagus<span style="font-size: small;"> that we got the real answer<span style="font-size: small;">-s</span>he was <span style="font-size: small;">severely</span> allergic to milk. We changed our diet and she finally gained weight after 2 years. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Thankfully she is now 5, can occasionally eat a piece of pizza, and is not allergic to soy. This is the face of a child with milk allergies....<br />
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Our youngest was recently diagnosed with FPIES. Her reactions to milk or soy have always been very severe and a lot harder to deal with than SK's. FPIES is a non-IgE food allergy that can become life threatening. FPIES is a rare disease, but one that we are embracing and learning more and more about daily. Here's some information if you want to read more about <a href="http://fpiesfoundation.org/about-fpies-3/" target="_blank">FPIES</a>.<br />
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The diagnosis has not changed much for us, other than understanding her severe reactions. We avoid milk and soy already so our hope is that we no longer have any incidents! It is extremely difficult to eat out and to constantly have to say to people, "no she can't have that". My own mother in law is often offended that I turn down food for K because I can't guarantee the ingredients. Most times I feel like she thinks I'm being dramatic and she normally makes some comment that "one bite won't hurt her". Sadly, one bite is all it takes for her to earn us a trip to the ER. We have to check EVERY.SINGLE.LABEL. Just this past weekend we traveled out of town for the weekend. Imagine your two kids are hungry and screaming on your 4 hour ride. Most people stop at a fast food place, grab a bite to eat and get on their way. We have to first spend our time googling restaurant menus, and then we have to be very careful about making sure she gets the right food for her. I am happy to report Chickfila and Wendy's have safe options for us! Wendy's even posts the food allergens on the wall so it was super easy to find!<br />
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This is the face of FPIES....<br />
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I get asked all the time what some of our "standard" things in our home are. Thankfully now there are so many alternative options available. These are a few of our staples...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="http://earthbalancenatural.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/EB_SOYFREE_lg.png" class="decoded" src="http://earthbalancenatural.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/EB_SOYFREE_lg.png" height="200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="170" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is our daily butter..works great and is now at Walmart and Food Lion.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgtyPxP86FhNtWzX-HWhmCIEJocEFETH2_a2TnJ1FmFmRlHQx-BrdIt5EmjydLwYATWPNwu0hXPTDTwYwhcgCiXnpnwSZo0Wx5il3-YPbJJb5RMf2wp8BOI_cFM05Sin5CkhbIZOn2dY/s1600/marg2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgtyPxP86FhNtWzX-HWhmCIEJocEFETH2_a2TnJ1FmFmRlHQx-BrdIt5EmjydLwYATWPNwu0hXPTDTwYwhcgCiXnpnwSZo0Wx5il3-YPbJJb5RMf2wp8BOI_cFM05Sin5CkhbIZOn2dY/s1600/marg2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a great margarine I have used (found at Walmart), but it does contain SOY.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is our favorite pancake mix...just add Water and we are serving up some fluffy carbs!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjgjky_xNvybHqiNDmGBa6bJH6YcML8bXNkCx5h-KkFjLzHImGKzjadAm8n8lUAgxXKIBpmsfpotsKSTG3rMfcTYU7q-aSvPCfc0eTNx0k5KJYNt1CHYtae_gwAnw_d7oxa7gTNkUPGM/s1600/daiya-now-at-Saluggis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjgjky_xNvybHqiNDmGBa6bJH6YcML8bXNkCx5h-KkFjLzHImGKzjadAm8n8lUAgxXKIBpmsfpotsKSTG3rMfcTYU7q-aSvPCfc0eTNx0k5KJYNt1CHYtae_gwAnw_d7oxa7gTNkUPGM/s320/daiya-now-at-Saluggis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
This is one of our favorite cheeses that we use to make our own pizzas or grilled cheese sandwiches!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Some of our favorite recipes..<br />
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<a href="http://www.wholefoodsmarket.com/recipe/turkey-pumpkin-chili" target="_blank">Turkey Pumpkin Chili</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.milkallergymom.com/2008/05/dairyegg-free-cake.html" target="_blank">Cake/Cupcake Recipe</a><br />
<br />Some of our favorite snacks....<br />
Veggie Sticks<br />
applesauce<br />
Cereal (we eat a lot of cheerios-thank goodness for a variety now!)<br />
avocados<br />
Peanut Butter<br />
Marshmallows<br />
Fresh fruit and vegetables<br />
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I can remember when we first were learning about food allergies with SK. It all felt so overwhelming and defeating. However, I can honestly say that now, 4 years later, it is a way of life. We check labels on all our food. We will probably politely turn down a treat for K at a party and we ask that you not be offended. It's honestly not about your food-it's about her health and us avoiding a trip to the ER. Most of the time we pack our own cupcake or we bring a bag of snacks so you don't have to worry! We are very blessed to have such awesome friends who try their hardest to make sure that they include my girls and for that I am constantly thankful. I always encourage anyone to ask us questions and share resources if they need help or ideas living a milk/soy free life!<br />
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-Ziggy <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-24497593721282735412015-05-04T09:10:00.000-07:002015-05-04T09:10:55.678-07:00"I Do"- over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVGtfQj4AvY56mB4uAVdtgbXeQdLTaDX-JG4jEL0BoUw4yyZEtipPnSADhovbF4PASNPSeSadDSv8iYgmR1tRoPGd9dZeuD5AO-kLf2gFdh470-dDjSR5tSyFy2zYG9xaGwQrxZuDwT0/s1600/10583953_562367017205048_2866416883630908768_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVGtfQj4AvY56mB4uAVdtgbXeQdLTaDX-JG4jEL0BoUw4yyZEtipPnSADhovbF4PASNPSeSadDSv8iYgmR1tRoPGd9dZeuD5AO-kLf2gFdh470-dDjSR5tSyFy2zYG9xaGwQrxZuDwT0/s320/10583953_562367017205048_2866416883630908768_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Last night the hubs was helping my daughter fry up some fresh fish that they had just caught together at the lake. We’ll just say that the kitchen is NOT hubby’s forte and they were calling me in for back up. As he was heating the oil in the frying pan he asked how he could tell if it was hot enough. I quickly got a drop of water on my finger and let it fall into the pan. There was a slight sizzle but not the hopping red hot oil sizzle that you wait for before throwing your fish in the pan. In his ignorance he asked me how to tell the difference between the sizzles. Fumbling for a way to translate it into his male brain I blurted out the first analogy that came to mind.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“It’s like the way our relationship used to sound- not what it’s like now!!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">For a moment we both stared at each other in shock at what I had just said and then we burst out laughing. He corrected me that after three children our relationship doesn’t sound like sizzling oil at all. In fact, it sound more like a sad trumpet.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This got me thinking. What would our wedding vows look like now after 8 years and 3 children together? I’m thinking they’d go something like this…</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I, Ashford, take you, Hubs, to me my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; till death do us part.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to stay up with you through bouts of food poisoning (which you somehow manage to get at least every three months) and to even drive to the pharmacy at 3 am to get you anti-nausea suppositories despite my “big day” at work the next day.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to watch “Wicked Tuna,” “Gold Rush: Alaska,” and every single season of Motocross races. I will try to feign interest. I will make tailgate food for every televised Clemson football game. And I will make my famous “Ham Sammies” for every poker night. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I vow to cook you a pot roast every year on your birthday and to cut back on trying to serve you things like kale and quinoa. (Furthermore I apologize for my foray into “Meatless Mondays” with that tofu chili that you so graciously choked down.) I will choke down your biscuits and gravy and will cease to make vomit noises while you cook potato soup.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to resist the urge to smother you with my pillow as you lay snoring next to me when I get up for the fifth time with the crying baby. I promise to clean up all the “poo-tashrophes” if you will in turn promise to always clean up the dog vomit.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I vow to always present a united front to the children even while I am screaming inside my head “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?!?!” I will always have your back (even though I might talk behind it sometimes).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to remind you of your father’s birthday year after year and to be the one in charge of organizing family get togethers. I will also make sure to send Christmas gifts to your brother and baby gifts to all of your cousins.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to be your sounding board and to always talk you out of the <i>really</i> stupid ideas. I will always be honest with you. (Whether or not you want me to.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to always make time for you even when I feel like there’s no time for me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to love you even when I hate you and I promise to remember why I married you every time I feel like leaving you. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I promise to hold on to the glimpses I get of the boy I fell in love with and to remember the feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I will always remember what it felt like to hold your hand as I gave birth to our daughter. And our son. And our other son. In the worst times I will remember that I wanted no one but you in those moments. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But most of all I promise I will be here. In all of these things. In the sickness, the health, the richer (if someday we get there), the poorer, the better and the worse.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-63271812603012624312015-04-26T12:16:00.000-07:002015-04-26T12:16:50.525-07:00A woman's place is in the kitchen<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">
<i>This post originally featured on <a href="http://www.mrsmuffintop.com/" target="_blank">Mrs MuffinTop</a></i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I started dating my husband 16 years ago (holy crap is that right?!?!) And I spent the last 7 1/2 years married to him. The most important lesson that I have learned is that, indeed, <b>my place is in the kitchen</b>. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now before you go all “women’s lib” on me let me start by saying that I am all for equality. I am a successful career woman and am the primary breadwinner for my ever growing family of five. This is not an issue of gender roles. This is an issue of self-preservation.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This man, who is wonderful at so many things, once screwed up making Easy Mac. Yes, you read that correctly. Easy Mac. You know the product that is marketed to and designed for 8 year olds to be able to make their own snack without any supervision. My husband, a [mostly] grown man was unable to follow the four simple steps to produce a bowl of chemically enhanced red dye #40 noodles.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Recently he has taken an interest in cooking. Most women would welcome this with open arms. I, however, can not handle it. Can. Not. Handle. It. For one thing we are southerners. What’s the problem you ask? Well, my husband loves to cook southern “soul food” which as we all know [Paula Deen] is less than healthy. I am still trying to lose the last five pounds of baby weight and do not enjoy partaking in said soul food. So this has led to the hubs smuggling in pounds of sausage and cinnamon rolls like a Mexican drug lord and squirreling them away in the back of the fridge so that I can’t find them. But this isn’t the worst of it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He has taken to making biscuits and gravy at least once a week for the last month. Now I love biscuits and gravy as much as the next southern fried chick but this is just too much. Despite my protests that “We may as well be eating glue!” He continues to whip up batches- weekly. He is also trying out different recipes. The last recipe (made this past Sunday) had a base of vegetable oil. VEGETABLE OIL!!! Holy disgusting!! It was this weird brownish color that looked like peanut butter had been swirled together with sour milk. And speaking of sour milk a few weeks ago he made a batch of gravy using milk that was clearly more than a few days beyond it’s life cycle. *BLECH*</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As if the constantly flowing river of red-eye gravy isn’t enough in my kitchen he has also concocted a recipe for potato soup. What’s wrong with potato soup you ask? Well, let’s start with his ingredients. His base is several cans of cream of mushroom soup. He adds to that about 5 pounds of potatoes and about a dozen sliced hardboiled eggs. To top it off? You guessed it….sausage. It’s not even the good kind of sausage. He literally buys frozen sausage patties, thaws them out, and (using kitchen shears) cuts them into fourths. The finished product look like something that would’ve been served to Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web. It. Is. Revolting.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He has even begun to twist my poor, innocent children’s minds into thinking this is real actual food. Once he served the kids steaming hot bowls of </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: line-through;">pig slop</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> potato soup for breakfast. FOR BREAKFAST!!! I very nearly changed the locks when he went to work that day.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We have finally come to an agreement about the potato soup. He is no longer allowed to cook it while I am in the house. Even just the mere mention of “potato soup” makes my stomach turn- not to mention the pungent aroma that sticks around for days. Thank God I travel for work. He can have his potato soup and eat it too- just so long as the leftovers make it into the fridge at his work before I return home.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So you see it is in my best interest (and the best interest of my children) that the kitchen remains MY domain. He can stay in the damn garage.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">-Ashford</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-21491769905921878372015-04-23T13:34:00.000-07:002015-04-23T13:35:19.043-07:00I'm having a moment...So bear with me while I have this moment. This has been a really really stressful week professionally for me. I've been under a lot of stress. But at the current moment, the only way to sum up how I'm feeling is this.....<br />
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It happened...the baby finally weaned herself from nursing. I know, I know-many people will be shocked that I still nursed my 21 month old. But before anyone gets out of sorts-I did what seemed like the best thing for my child. She's got severe food allergies and honestly I couldn't bring myself to totally stop. We were down to once a day, but she literally woke up this morning and was done. FINISHED.<br />
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I'm actually a little relieved because I have that extra 20 minutes back into my morning routine. No more having to wake her up to feed her, only to run out the door and try and be at work on time. But overall, <br />
I'm sad. I'm sad because it feels like we are ending a huge phase of our life. Barring any divine intervention, we are most likely done having babies. That's seems so painful and final to say. I feel like you spend most of your life planning on getting married and having children. It becomes something that defines you and becomes part of who you are. So when you have to finally admit that you might in fact be done, it feels like someone just put a nail in your coffin. I feel like I'm mourning this season of our life. We have slowly been getting rid of all of the large baby gear, but I felt like as long as she was still nursing, we still had a little baby. I'm now forced to admit that she is actually a toddler and she is less dependent on me. And I'm forced to face the fact that we might really be done with the baby phase of our life. It seems so sad and definitive. So while I can celebrate my new found freedom from nursing, if you need to find me I'll be drowning my sorrows in a giant milkshake-especially since I haven't had one in 21 months because she is allergic to milk and soy. <br />
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-Ziggy </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-8755233521254719292015-04-09T11:10:00.000-07:002015-04-09T11:10:31.736-07:00Top 10 Reasons to Live in Chapin<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was growing up in a small town in South Carolina I hated it. As many teenagers tend to do. I yearned for the big city, the lights, the action. However, after 10 years of moving from coast to coast I ended up right here in sleepy little Chapin, SC. A whopping 14 miles down the road from where I grew up. And you know what? Those big cities can't hold a candle to what I get from living in a small town. Here's my top 10 reasons why Chapin, SC is absolutely the best place to call home.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>1. Breakfast at Hardees</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because everybody who’s anybody is at Hardee’s for breakfast. It’s hard to get a parking space, the drive thru line is 15 cars deep, and it’s even though it’s still Hardee’s it feels more like Cheers because “Everybody knows your name.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>2. Local Law Enforcement</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because last November the Chapin Police Department actually started a “Pay It Forward” campaign. Throughout the holiday season instead of writing tickets for minor offenses they actually gave you a “Pass It On” coupon. How freaking cool is that?</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>3. Local Politics</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Because we actually held a protest of our local Post Office because there were complaints that our post master was “too rude.” Now in most cities this would be preposterous. But in Chapin? The post master actually issued an apology and promised to try and be nicer. I freaking love this!!! LOVE IT!!! You can read more about the </span><a href="http://www.wistv.com/story/28180146/falling-out-between-customer-postmaster-leads-to-protest" style="letter-spacing: 0px;" target="_blank">No Hugs for Huggins</a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span>campaign<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> by clicking on the link.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>4. Gas station fried chicken</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because if you’re buying fried chicken anywhere else you’re doing it wrong. I kid you not the Kwik Way hands down has the best fried chicken in the South. HANDS DOWN. And if you thought Hardee’s was like the set of Cheers you need to stop by the Kwik Way at ANY meal time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>5. Christmas with the fire station</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because every year at Christmas our local fire department dresses someone up like Santa and puts him on the top of a fire truck. Then they drive around the neighborhood blasting Christmas music and throwing candy out to all the neighborhood kids. I mean can you name something cooler than Santa on a firetruck throwing out candy? I certainly can’t. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>6. Directions</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because in giving my parents directions to my kids’ school I literally said “Take the back road. Not the <i>back </i>back road, just the back road. And then take a right across from the field where they hold the tractor show every year. If you miss that one go on down to the house with the Clemson Tiger Paw in christmas lights on the roof and hang a right there. You know right in front of the old AT&T store.” Sadly, they had no idea what I was talking about. However, any of you reading this who live here know EXACTLY where this is. Clear. As. Mud.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>7. We might not be Mayberry but...</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> In discussing with several friends what exactly are the best reasons to live in Chapin the mention of Mayberry kept coming up over and over and over. It was about this time that I headed over to the local PD </span>Facebook<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> page to grab the image of their "Pass It On" campaign. And sure enough, this unexpected gem was laid </span>in my lap.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Because (see #2) our police department has had Barney Fife set as their profile picture for at least the last 4 months. Well, that is until this week when they changed it to a picture of Roscoe P Coltrane. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdLYXU22Sm4usr49PH21-kh66DEGtVs_8hyphenhyphen1GCEHhVVFdQjZYRCssb1fLVWN3tA-1AkkvKV7Rnzcmrlj0uWjhcHgnJ3udrGNHgbXWFoOP9wsKnzwMNlwqSxkl_3aKN_9Bh80s0n25aXg/s1600/10341768_10153120961658804_5539538973938990617_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdLYXU22Sm4usr49PH21-kh66DEGtVs_8hyphenhyphen1GCEHhVVFdQjZYRCssb1fLVWN3tA-1AkkvKV7Rnzcmrlj0uWjhcHgnJ3udrGNHgbXWFoOP9wsKnzwMNlwqSxkl_3aKN_9Bh80s0n25aXg/s1600/10341768_10153120961658804_5539538973938990617_n.jpg" height="320" width="254" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>8. The Lake</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Do I seriously need to make an argument for why Lake Murray is one of the BEST parts of living in Chapin? With over 500 miles of shoreline and covering a vast 50,000 acres Lake Murray is an integral part of our community. Just stop by the gas station around 2pm on a sunny Friday afternoon and you'll notice that <i>everyone</i> is heading out. There is nothing to compare to lake living.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>9. Location, location, location</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> We are 30 minutes from "the big city" of Columbia. We have all the amenities that you could ask for just a quick gander down the road. As I mentioned we are on the lake so there's no travel involved for you fresh water fish. If you're more of a salty dog we are only about 2-3 hours from the Atlantic (think Charleston, Myrtle Beach, Savannah). Or if you prefer the mountains that's a 2 hour drive to the North. Not to mention we are only 1 1/2 hours from Charlotte and 3 from Atlanta. So you can really get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time and you don't have to give up the smallness.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>10. The community</b></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because when a local high school student was involved in a freak, tragic lacrosse accident the local support and outpouring has been astonishing. Even driving down the street several of the local businesses have changed their marquis to “Pray for Jack”. #prayforjack</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because when a local family suffered a house fire troves of people responded getting together donations of clothing. People that don’t even know this family gathering items and delivering donations. Just because it’s what you do.</span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because at least twice a week I’m getting emails to sign up to take a family in need a meal. Because when we welcomed our third child we had families bring us meals for 30 days straight. I kid you not. We had more food than a Sam’s Club distribution center. </span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The love and mindfulness and caring housed in this sleepy little town is awe-inspiring.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span>So there you have it. Just don't everyone move in here at once....we'd like to keep it small and sleepy just a little while longer.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-61837863864600436272015-03-29T17:33:00.003-07:002015-03-29T17:35:43.537-07:00A different kind of love letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s been almost four years since you left. I still miss you. I think about you every day. I still yearn to see your smiling face each morning. Sure there have been others. Many others. But all have paled against the memory of you. It always starts out great but little by little their shortcomings are revealed to me. And I realize that you are irreplaceable. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t think I fully appreciated what I had until you were gone. I have begged and I have pleaded and yet you remain determined to follow your own path. Apart from mine. I wish you the best in your future endeavors. Because that’s all I really ever wanted. You to be happy. You were so young when we met. And I watch you from afar growing, learning, blazing your own trail.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am grateful for the friendship that we have maintained even if it’s only a few text messages here and there. They still make me laugh. You understand me like few people in the world do. When you were here I never had to worry about anything. I knew I could count on you. You anticipated my every need. And the children loved you. And you loved them. I couldn’t have wished for anything more.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">And now you’re gone. And I remain lost after all these years. This desperate need to fill the void that you created the last time you pulled out of my driveway. Both of us were in tears. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I find myself late at night perusing the internet searching. Searching. Always searching. I read profile after profile and none of them resonate with me. They are all empty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">You have left a void in my life that neither <a href="http://sittercity.com/"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">sittercity.com</span></a> nor <a href="http://care.com/"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">care.com</span></a> could ever hope to fill. And so I end with this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">You are my nanny. My soul. And I miss you gravely. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">-Ashford</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-33288340046740962852015-03-26T07:16:00.001-07:002015-03-26T07:16:06.300-07:00If you give a mom a cookie<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">
<i>This post was originally featured on Huffington Post.</i></div>
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<i>Graphic courtesy of Barnhouse Graphics</i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you give your mom a cookie...</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She’ll probably want to take it into the closet to eat alone. In peace.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she’s in the closet she’ll notice the overflowing laundry basket and decide to throw a load in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">While loading the washer she’ll realize she needs to empty the dryer vent.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes to the trashcan with the dryer lint she’ll realize it’s trash day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes outside to take the trash she’ll probably check the mail.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes through the mail she’ll surely find a bill that needs to be paid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She will want to pay it right away and will go to her purse to get her checkbook.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she opens her purse, she’ll probably find a sneaker that belongs upstairs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she takes the sneaker upstairs she’ll have to walk through the playroom and will notice all the toys have been dumped out on the floor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As she’s cleaning the playroom she’ll create a trash pile. This will probably remind her that it’s trash day (again) and she needs to get a trash bag out of the garage.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes to get a trash bag out of the garage she’ll remember she needs to get some meat out of the deep freeze for dinner.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she brings the meat in she’ll realize that she needs to put the rice in the rice cooker.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes to put the rice in the rice cooker she’ll remember that the rice cooker pot is in the sink and needs to be washed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As she is washing the dishes in the sink she’ll probably remember that she needs to unload the dishwasher.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As she is unloading the dishwasher she will realize she’s out of detergent and needs to get another box from the garage. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she’s getting the dishwasher detergent out of the garage she’ll probably see the laundry detergent and remember the load that she meant to start earlier.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As she’s walking through the living room to get back to the laundry room she’ll most definitely see some dog poop on the floor that needs to be picked up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes into the bathroom to get some toilet paper to pick up the dog poop she’ll notice that there’s no toilet paper and she needs to go to the store to get some more.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she goes to the store to buy more toilet paper she’ll probably see a box of cookies and realize that she hasn’t eaten all day and will put those in her buggy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she gets home with her cookies she’ll probably lock herself in the closet to eat them alone. In peace.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is probably about the time that Daddy gets home from work.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she hears the door open she’ll come out to the kitchen to greet him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she comes into the kitchen she’ll look around and see a sink full of dishes, dog poop on the floor, no toilet paper, a pile of laundry, a stack of mail with unpaid bills, and toys all over the playroom floor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Daddy will probably look around at the disarray and ask her “What the hell did you do all day?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">-Ashford</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-84986927975951023982015-03-13T15:02:00.002-07:002015-03-13T15:02:25.957-07:00My 5 YO has an extremely long buttcrack and other apologies I won't be making this year<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px;">
<i>This post was originally featured on Mrsmuffintop.com</i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m sorry I can’t find anyone to watch the kids.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry my husband works on Saturdays.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I am traveling for work that week and will already have missed 4 nights with the kids.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry we were so loud.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry we were so messy.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry child 1, 2, or 3 is crying.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry we’re late. Again.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I totally forgot.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry he spilt his drink for the third time.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I can’t talk- it’s bath night.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I didn’t respond.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry the house is a wreck. I was sick this week and well, you know.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I forgot to put batteries in Scout last night I actually fell asleep on the couch.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I accidentally washed a new pair of jeans with your stuffed animals and now they’re all blue.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I forgot to pay the mortgage.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry we have 3 kids so our house is a little hectic.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I simply can’t afford to pay $500 to have the dog’s teeth cleaned.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I missed a few doses of his antibiotics.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I forgot you were a vegetarian/kosher/dairy free.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry he missed his nap today.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry I snapped at you. And you. And you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Don’t you find yourself apologizing for EVERYTHING?! We are constantly making apologies and allowances for everything and everyone. Well I for one am sick of it and here are 5 apologies I refuse to make this year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>1. I’m sorry my 5 YO has an extremely long buttcrack and it ruined your pictures.</b></span><div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Your baby has an elongated intragluteal cleft with a divot” the nurse told us in the hospital 5 years ago. Translate: An extremely long buttcrack with a divot. We didn’t think twice about this diagnosis. It meant nothing except we may need to use a few extra wipes on each diaper change. Fast forward 5 years and it means a lot. It means that her buttcrack is always showing. ALWAYS. We don’t really care but it’s all the well-wishers. The careful comments. The “You might think about a belt” and the “Does she need bigger pants?” The texts links to “dapper snappers” All in the name of being helpful. It doesn’t matter how many times I ask her to pull up her pants the truth remains that her buttcrack is longer than any inseam could ever hope to accommodate. And I will not be apologizing for this any longer.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>2. I’m sorry my baby puked on you.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">My baby has reflux. Yes I know “He throws up quite a bit”. And yes I’m aware that “It seems like he spits up more than he takes in.” Thank you for your “I’m concerned about K” comments. We have spoken with the pediatrician and we are all well aware of the situation. He is not in pain, he is not malnourished. He just pukes. He is a puker. So if you plan to watch/keep/babysit my child for any length of time please be aware he will most certainly vomit all over you. At least 5 times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>3. I’m sorry we don’t do public school.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">My children attend Montessori School. Who knew this subject could be so polarizing?! It starts out innocently enough as an alternative to daycare and ends up with you being cornered at a Christmas party by a state-employed teacher listening to a tirade about the fact that you are personally jeopardizing your kids’ education!! I do not judge those who choose daycare or public school. For me, for my family, this educational model seems to work. And honestly they are 3 and 5 is it really going to matter in the grand scheme of things?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>4. I’m sorry I circumsized my boys and vaccinated all my children.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">I recently read an exorbitantly violent facebook thread regarding circumcision. I understand that others may share different beliefs. And that’s ok. This was my choice for my family. Don’t even get me started on the vaccination debate that we can barely escape these days. I refuse to engage. My monkeys, my circus. That is all</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>5. I’m sorry I’m a working mom.</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Do I want to stay home with my children? Of course! Do I think it would be better for them? It would have to be. But I have made the choice between being home with them and providing for them. It’s a choice I reevaluate every single day. I mourn the losses of their first steps, their school projects. But for me it’s not a choice. It’s a necessity. I’m sorry I can’t be “Room Mom” because quite frankly I’ve got all I can handle between the job and the kids. I’m doing good to remember to send their nap mats to school</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We are two working parents of three small children. Cut us a break won’t you?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And I agree to reciprocate. To suspend judgement and disappointment. To love you for who you are and what you <i>can</i> accomplish. Not what you <i>should </i>be doing.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We all have our struggles and our failures. But why don’t we all just give each other a little more room. More compassion. More forgiveness. More understanding.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And so this is the only apology you’ll get from me this year:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m sorry but this is me.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">-Ashford</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-33038683748362211252015-02-23T09:31:00.000-08:002015-02-23T09:31:38.095-08:00#therealselfie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
My sister has one of those friends who, despite having two children, manages to take/send/upload selfies almost everyday. Of course she is always dressed to the nines and looking gorgeous doing fabulous things. My sister has taken to forwarding aforementioned selfies to my phone so I too can be party to her escapades. Being the snarky smart*% that I am, one Saturday morning I couldn't help myself but to send back some of my own selfies in all my day to day glory. Enjoy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHQjGsVcrOQa1J17gk0OS7niOBP5Y2Wwvu38cpbgBHCODDyI95aVoPEYXYcc6riKpawIoT6naIcjHKh5rGoQJW7_ghXUJL8W4uzKtt8CEayPSYFa5mXkWNoWne30_LRg5XFHLPsaYzlg/s1600/IMG_2984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHQjGsVcrOQa1J17gk0OS7niOBP5Y2Wwvu38cpbgBHCODDyI95aVoPEYXYcc6riKpawIoT6naIcjHKh5rGoQJW7_ghXUJL8W4uzKtt8CEayPSYFa5mXkWNoWne30_LRg5XFHLPsaYzlg/s1600/IMG_2984.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Looking sexy as I feed my 9 month old. Nothing says "HAWT" like a no makeup-still-in-my-pajamas </div>
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mama.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaABUk22d80gP8FmN9URpEOST8tmULUEkN_8aDPSnHL39FiHWL_SAoEqG4Gi-EsndNq_HUIC543co5idBzIucBBhqzgsmjjxssC8BgE9F8CTsoHozURb9fxacecrcr8OruHb8S2XdgSSE/s1600/IMG_2987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaABUk22d80gP8FmN9URpEOST8tmULUEkN_8aDPSnHL39FiHWL_SAoEqG4Gi-EsndNq_HUIC543co5idBzIucBBhqzgsmjjxssC8BgE9F8CTsoHozURb9fxacecrcr8OruHb8S2XdgSSE/s1600/IMG_2987.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Scarfing down the last of the kids' sausage balls. Because nothing says "breakfast" like an hours old ice cold sausage ball.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpqOskUKwT4NZBs9kgpBF6vg1pbY2uB5_lTMswlsncwNybWIDknxd1WNPx37ItHFpmEr-xgf4Y7oG9dh59rQR_3tLOHmWTEWQzsE2cgYgrtTUn-UBeK-5nXcLUaHrlWNUhGF-VSxVnmU/s1600/IMG_2675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpqOskUKwT4NZBs9kgpBF6vg1pbY2uB5_lTMswlsncwNybWIDknxd1WNPx37ItHFpmEr-xgf4Y7oG9dh59rQR_3tLOHmWTEWQzsE2cgYgrtTUn-UBeK-5nXcLUaHrlWNUhGF-VSxVnmU/s1600/IMG_2675.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Because this is how I chop onions. That's right I have abandoned all dignity in the hopes of not crying-at least over the onions anyway.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPtyl-cf7iMdkA0BryxoTUwhtsWXIYs0gMkEBLVydu2qHBOizYNODu0ECBaNp9uRQIHhAdZgcY-Z0uJB90LcPZYowfa2cxAePOOjCziH_vo1ZP9K1IEEdliLroaG_F1Oko6iVClITPt4/s1600/IMG_2985.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPtyl-cf7iMdkA0BryxoTUwhtsWXIYs0gMkEBLVydu2qHBOizYNODu0ECBaNp9uRQIHhAdZgcY-Z0uJB90LcPZYowfa2cxAePOOjCziH_vo1ZP9K1IEEdliLroaG_F1Oko6iVClITPt4/s1600/IMG_2985.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Yep. No french maid costume here! I'm still in my pajamas. Only now I'm cooking lunch. And what's for lunch you ask?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNZZjy8yVEGu-XCOfFODCkDpXW_UeAGpCRgYF671tPv02FULNFVmBy_n80v5WT7XFT1cB7VuabuyIh9rlWF4wwILvaECCAYeLguD9Ewz7S5KwLhrbj93-lzTnOIaDhVgWPF3ualbi8eI/s1600/IMG_2988.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNZZjy8yVEGu-XCOfFODCkDpXW_UeAGpCRgYF671tPv02FULNFVmBy_n80v5WT7XFT1cB7VuabuyIh9rlWF4wwILvaECCAYeLguD9Ewz7S5KwLhrbj93-lzTnOIaDhVgWPF3ualbi8eI/s1600/IMG_2988.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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It's Spongebob Kraft Mac and Cheese. Because it's that kind of day. You know the one where you just give in and cook the most processed-dye containing-commercialized crap product that you can find because you know your kids will eat it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEFqYtFiiEA7np8omx6cm1rSx6AIX_wJPgs3C0XRpoIRlOtCi7zJF-osPggz9epjM1SwvODR4buTyrY7bIeGNR1MzPHQi3rFMYJwlUXxzOYblQjEL9tUgAi-H9gKY0CUMcjVp56AQJMY/s1600/IMG_2986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEFqYtFiiEA7np8omx6cm1rSx6AIX_wJPgs3C0XRpoIRlOtCi7zJF-osPggz9epjM1SwvODR4buTyrY7bIeGNR1MzPHQi3rFMYJwlUXxzOYblQjEL9tUgAi-H9gKY0CUMcjVp56AQJMY/s1600/IMG_2986.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I believe this one needs no explanation.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAEM213zupChCPdzwCbcRZOyWfaSHRI6HrWAOxiV7_5R3muEGzW6EpMHmg2FaEp1SWVAeZLQppkBfPfxNHvfGqFkZenRBH_yCWlCOwvYzb_iRu7X4iL4dKhJ7tq9duITZWV3So74Zoyo/s1600/IMG_3159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAEM213zupChCPdzwCbcRZOyWfaSHRI6HrWAOxiV7_5R3muEGzW6EpMHmg2FaEp1SWVAeZLQppkBfPfxNHvfGqFkZenRBH_yCWlCOwvYzb_iRu7X4iL4dKhJ7tq9duITZWV3So74Zoyo/s1600/IMG_3159.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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And the end to a perfect day? Sneaking a beer in my driveway. In my bathrobe. I'm sure my neighbors are wondering about my sanity.</div>
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What would it look like if <i>you</i> took selfies of your actual life? #therealselfie</div>
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-Ashford</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-18125924054080294272015-02-16T14:06:00.000-08:002015-02-16T14:06:00.048-08:00Another one bites the dust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI73AWNk6sAwfBo2-7W3xcZL4BEGjI2GyJUMfHOqXq1cxdLz8SKuK4CsSnjsZDYyumujD96E_qohqq1-P1cbhRMVFEgop4neeXx5FVgQ7G7cS1wO78TDKr82H8gK5Lot76TohvmyhVMEM/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI73AWNk6sAwfBo2-7W3xcZL4BEGjI2GyJUMfHOqXq1cxdLz8SKuK4CsSnjsZDYyumujD96E_qohqq1-P1cbhRMVFEgop4neeXx5FVgQ7G7cS1wO78TDKr82H8gK5Lot76TohvmyhVMEM/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
As many of you know I have been participating in my own personal version of Survivor: Nanny Edition. It all started in November when our beloved nanny ended up in the ER with emergency open heart surgery. For the past three months my house has had a revolving door of various caregivers. And oh the stories. This has prompted me to develop my own Help Wanted ad based on my recent experiences. Enjoy.<br />
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Seeking: Full Time caregiver for our 3 children (5, 3, and 9 months).<br />
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Qualifications:<br />
1. You must be proficient in English. To the point that when I say "Paychecks are given on Fridays" your response should not be "I do not understand any of this. What is this paycheck you keep saying."<br />
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2. You must be reliable. For example "The check engine light is on in my car and I don't know when I can return." Is not a valid excuse for calling out of work. Via text. At 10 pm the night before you don't show up.<br />
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3. You must be able to work a diaper genie: I will even lay it out for you. 1. step on the foot pedal 2. drop diaper in 3. release foot pedal. It is not acceptable to lift the top manually and smash 15 dirty (open) diapers into the 2 inch void over the course of 3 days. If the diaper genie is too challenging it begs the question of whether or not the kids are buckled securely into their carseats.<br />
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4. If you take the children to the playground/park/anywhere it is a requirement that the ones that walk wear shoes.<br />
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5. You must feed the baby. Every day. He actually eats lunch every single day- crazy I know. But if you could actually give him the food that I have already laid out and labeled and discussed with you in the morning- that'd be great.<br />
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6. If you happen to stop up the toilet just let me know. I realize this may be embarrassing but it's not like I'm not going to notice.<br />
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7. Please tell your boyfriend that I do not, in fact, want to be his friend on Facebook. Yes I friended you but that is merely so I can stalk you in your off time. I do not need his pending friend requests every week.<br />
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8. Please do not show up in the morning crying about the fight you had with your husband the previous night. I have enough drama in my life. I simply cannot deal with yours. Especially since we have only known each other 2 days.<br />
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9. If you're going to call in sick with "complications from the flu" for 3 days please don't simultaneously post pictures of yourself shopping at The Gap and J. Crew. You could also leave out the hike pictures complete with wildflowers that you picked and put in your hair.<br />
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10. All of my children eat dinner. Every night. Because the 3 YO told you he "wasn't hungry" is not an acceptable reason for you to not feed him. He's 3. He also will tell you he doesn't "need to go potty" after you've given him 4 sippy cups of juice and will then promptly piss his pants. Let's use some common sense here. Who is the adult?<br />
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I'm not asking for too much am I? Please tell me your caregiver horror stories in the comments below.<br />
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-AshfordUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-33136117153505907362015-02-11T17:23:00.000-08:002015-02-11T17:23:01.580-08:00How to tell if your 3 YO has a concussion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8q-kxGI0zmvIfXlzrUwPI7kHmvi6NE2h4SReWFoIslmCysaywomUylgdJsLuDg2LSO0nktu04_zzoomhJNo0m4I3-IKOwbJLWx4j7aI42WDZI6zAdXuVZGE9eRGVGmNw8o9UgSkjwvA/s1600/IMG_3187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8q-kxGI0zmvIfXlzrUwPI7kHmvi6NE2h4SReWFoIslmCysaywomUylgdJsLuDg2LSO0nktu04_zzoomhJNo0m4I3-IKOwbJLWx4j7aI42WDZI6zAdXuVZGE9eRGVGmNw8o9UgSkjwvA/s1600/IMG_3187.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So somehow during dinner tonight DC (3) managed to take a flying leap from his booster seat and landed squarely on his forehead. The poor thing didn’t even have time to put his hands out to break the fall. Immediately a HUGE (like 2.5 inches in diameter) goose egg popped up on his head. Of course, being the hypochondriac that I am I immediately thought he for sure had a concussion. The hubs is working late every night this week and so I am flying solo with all 3 kids. I began to panic.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Naturally, I did what I always do in a crises and called the closest medical professional that I know. My dad. Who, in fact, is a dentist.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“DAD!!!!!!! CAMP JUST BUSTED HIS HEAD ON THE HARDWOOD FLOOR!!!! WHAT ARE THE SIGNS OF A CONCUSSION?????”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Um. I don’t know is he acting weird?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“HE’S 3!!! YES HE’S ACTING WEIRD!!!! EVERYTHING HE DOES IS WEIRD!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Sweetie, why don’t you just Google it?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“AREN’T YOU A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL?! SHOULDN’T YOU KNOW THESE THINGS??”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Are his teeth ok?”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“WHAT? YES HIS TEETH ARE FINE IT’S HIS HEAD!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Welllllllll, I’m a dentist so if his teeth are ok I think you should Google ‘Signs of a Concussion’”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“UGH! You are NO HELP!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So then I sat down at the laptop and Googled “SIgns of a Concussion”. This is what I found.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>brief loss of consciousness after the injury</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>memory problems</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>confusion</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>drowsiness or feeling sluggish</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>dizziness</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>double vision or blurred vision</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>headache</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>nausea or vomiting</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>sensitivity to light or noise</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>balance problems</span></div>
<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>slowed reaction to stimuli</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So let’s break this down.</span></div>
<ol>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Brief loss of consciousness</b>- Nope didn’t experience that as evidenced by the ear-piercing banshee like screams only muffled by the dense hardwood smashed against his lips</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Memory loss</b>- This one is a little tricky. How does one measure “Memory Loss” in a 3 YO? I mean we call the kid “Sundowners” because every time he wakes up he demands breakfast. Now this would be normal in the mornings but he also does it after naps. Sometimes I give in and make him eggs for an afternoon snack because I just don’t have the energy to battle it anymore.</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Confusion</b>- Again a slippery slope. As I was putting him to bed tonight he started crying because he wanted to make his “lego helicofter.” I told him it was time for bed and that we could work on it tomorrow. “NOOOOOOOO,” he screamed. “I DON'T WANT TO DO IT TOMORROW I WANT TO DO IT IN THE MORNING!!!!!” Um….okay. Well, I’m confused at least.</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Drowsiness or feeling sluggish</b>- This has NEVER been the case with DC. He’s the type of kid that gets amped up when he gets over tired. It’s awesome. Picture running full speed straight into the wall, crashing into it, bouncing back so hard his feet flip over his head in a back roll. He stands up shakes his head and does it again towards the other wall. THIS is the way MY child exhibits exhaustion.</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Dizziness</b>- See above</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Nausea or vomiting</b>- Nope not tonight although he does vomit if you look at him cross-eyed on most days. This kid has the weakest stomach of anyone I’ve ever seen. I once reached ninja-level parenting when we were in the middle of a crowded Five Guys and I saw the early stages of a puketastrophe. I quickly grabbed the fry cup, dumped the fries out on the table, and held the cup over his mouth just as he let loose. No one in the restaurant was any the wiser. We simply discreetly discarded the defiled cup and went about the rest of our meal.</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Sensitivity to light/noise</b>- So I can’t even flush the toilet until he leaves the room because “IT HURTS MY EARRRRRSSSSSS!!!!” How would one measure an increased sensitivity in a case such as this?</span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Balance problems</b>- Really? Under normal circumstances he can’t walk more than 5 steps without tripping over his own feet and plummeting to the ground. </span></li>
<li style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Slowed reaction to stimuli</b>- Well that depends. Is the stimuli the sound of my voice? Particularly when I’m giving some sort of over complicated instruction such as “Hold your pee-pee down or you’ll pee all over the floor?” This versus the sound of my voice saying “You may have 1 piece of candy.” It’s all relative I guess.</span></li>
</ol>
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<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; margin-left: 36px; text-indent: -36px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I believe that there should be some sort of adjusted toddler concussion scale WebMD. Because this list was simply useless. So I kept him up a little later than usual (regretting every minute of it) and finally put him to bed hoping for the best. I’ll let you know how it turns out in the morning.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">-Ashford</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-51576072353025068312015-02-03T08:41:00.000-08:002015-02-03T08:41:34.305-08:00The Saturday Morning Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
One Saturday morning on a pretty typical day for us I happened to notice that RJ was following me around with a clipboard drawing things. I didn't think much of it until later when she brought it to me. She handed me a stack of about 4 pages nicely stapled together. </div>
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As she handed it to me she said "Mommy this is a newspaper about our day. I want you to send it out to everyone. Could you write what the pictures are so everyone knows?"</div>
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And this is what came out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAW1K3ixo9zsos5oCkK9RpKOYliAtXKkWlExW7k9XcqZOVEwQ-cM-2uDnIhcpn01Y41_c1bNBEjZaneDqVv2p1K7S5awx6AdPdGVXxKddxUldsLWF5sShSGVBzx5MoqZeI2TR8gPC9UNg/s1600/IMG_2925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAW1K3ixo9zsos5oCkK9RpKOYliAtXKkWlExW7k9XcqZOVEwQ-cM-2uDnIhcpn01Y41_c1bNBEjZaneDqVv2p1K7S5awx6AdPdGVXxKddxUldsLWF5sShSGVBzx5MoqZeI2TR8gPC9UNg/s1600/IMG_2925.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMA7KEw3wNiduGSgboA5EYI96cIbO9k3fODftvmats3fBkL2Cb_plV1by90QsQ6a9FCDWs_8hJry1_n53MdM29EK9NESpKflg9wt-UGwd7Xan0nGQ3-ubheSV6xAaszJhaDMgdqAnQLc/s1600/IMG_2926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMA7KEw3wNiduGSgboA5EYI96cIbO9k3fODftvmats3fBkL2Cb_plV1by90QsQ6a9FCDWs_8hJry1_n53MdM29EK9NESpKflg9wt-UGwd7Xan0nGQ3-ubheSV6xAaszJhaDMgdqAnQLc/s1600/IMG_2926.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Please note that Luna is our middle dog. She had just landed on the losing side of a Cheerio skirmish with our biggest dog that ended in her getting 2 staples in her leg the day before. She was skittish around the kids before the incident and now....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_HUV9nhBEAwEO3tznx4-Yj5PJ5iI2biog7JZJ29_gZgDMgUSNQ_91wH-r8MyR3m-NQVJLLTSXxkKS5eH0Myfv1pjHUL8iyoWqYYT8pvoyMVASgItiM4ghlMnTgHE6yVblvXRXVBcCi4/s1600/IMG_2927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_HUV9nhBEAwEO3tznx4-Yj5PJ5iI2biog7JZJ29_gZgDMgUSNQ_91wH-r8MyR3m-NQVJLLTSXxkKS5eH0Myfv1pjHUL8iyoWqYYT8pvoyMVASgItiM4ghlMnTgHE6yVblvXRXVBcCi4/s1600/IMG_2927.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Now generally Mommy doesn't shower in her high heels but I do love that she thinks I'm fancy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJKiWggEbDwLQGhHcyU_wWuSrr8hMENF-zLUOoNB6TclXXVyckvw2QjHKHHehkHQsSIb_juT9wTlbCl2HIe4hHU4s3KaE7KtZsLEyypoJfTgPrvyl2AhF9yNQCO7d1b6dxuhOWLZZ1Fc/s1600/IMG_2928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJKiWggEbDwLQGhHcyU_wWuSrr8hMENF-zLUOoNB6TclXXVyckvw2QjHKHHehkHQsSIb_juT9wTlbCl2HIe4hHU4s3KaE7KtZsLEyypoJfTgPrvyl2AhF9yNQCO7d1b6dxuhOWLZZ1Fc/s1600/IMG_2928.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4tBlFksTHxnkEx2yIoNsCp7fu96v5guRrq_nn4Qtgu0IVQgrLrzahyphenhyphen_9vPWpWKCXvJn4-XYz21P20zAytvfli8tOu_R86ykiKyJ4DbjcHNQZ6Hnb6cY1Z075yaLzdnoxGyxoVIaPo38/s1600/IMG_2929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4tBlFksTHxnkEx2yIoNsCp7fu96v5guRrq_nn4Qtgu0IVQgrLrzahyphenhyphen_9vPWpWKCXvJn4-XYz21P20zAytvfli8tOu_R86ykiKyJ4DbjcHNQZ6Hnb6cY1Z075yaLzdnoxGyxoVIaPo38/s1600/IMG_2929.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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You can tell he's naked because you can see his belly button.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3FyyuSy5AaKummnhIZHtTJW8oB-BjQJNY8lkS6eg723vxhrA3-GAK1T3JVj-8OIAY1JzZlB40rIxfZfJIZkpikzXoM9n6F2tALJjP72FC1eAyiB5XPL-f2R__N-4KmBHtWgfTSeViJM/s1600/IMG_2930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3FyyuSy5AaKummnhIZHtTJW8oB-BjQJNY8lkS6eg723vxhrA3-GAK1T3JVj-8OIAY1JzZlB40rIxfZfJIZkpikzXoM9n6F2tALJjP72FC1eAyiB5XPL-f2R__N-4KmBHtWgfTSeViJM/s1600/IMG_2930.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QX-zGzGvKctEn7vHkTv4JpJpt-sAWolzi6iTSxtGiWhAMKRQSyxmSmbdgVLk9lHUw2_dYnOi_YgeKhuJwYK8CZdzhXvA0V1sdXi1k7pWyrGEdINMv1t3etrLZFRJTgV7ajEjnJBDtiM/s1600/IMG_2931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QX-zGzGvKctEn7vHkTv4JpJpt-sAWolzi6iTSxtGiWhAMKRQSyxmSmbdgVLk9lHUw2_dYnOi_YgeKhuJwYK8CZdzhXvA0V1sdXi1k7pWyrGEdINMv1t3etrLZFRJTgV7ajEjnJBDtiM/s1600/IMG_2931.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
The funniest part of this is that it wasn't even a particularly stressful morning. And that's when it hit me. This is what my life is. For better or worse. At least until we're out of the "3s".<br />
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-AshfordUnknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-29343264446573967552015-01-26T04:04:00.000-08:002015-01-26T04:04:30.891-08:00The ChangeIt's happening. It's really happening to me already. You know...the change. I'm not even 40 yet and it's already started! No, I'm not talking about the hot flashes although when I get mad enough I'm pretty sure I can have those. No, I'm talking about something much much worse. That's right my friends-the gray hair has started. And I'm certainly not talking about a hair here and a hair there. No friends-it's a full on salt and pepper war on my head. It wasn't until we had family portraits done for the Holidays that I realized how bad it really was. I had always joked that given my family history- I would be totally white by 40. Well that's only a few short years away and now that it's actually happening full on panic has set in. I decided in an effort to make myself feel better I would do what every one does...I googled "influential women with gray hair". To my disappointment, this was what I found...<br />
<br />
this is the first picture to pop up...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGpqpkxgUYAUv7nscIuzZq2tvisBIyQ8dvba4dzwJuVENlWgo86pvAmRmkzj0wuKOva2hk-XinFSVQJMD9MkLH0pW0Ca0clPiDoOjoA-Ss1INBXlAnk_vbt284hRwbQQyfgeHmrKGe6s/s1600/gray1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGpqpkxgUYAUv7nscIuzZq2tvisBIyQ8dvba4dzwJuVENlWgo86pvAmRmkzj0wuKOva2hk-XinFSVQJMD9MkLH0pW0Ca0clPiDoOjoA-Ss1INBXlAnk_vbt284hRwbQQyfgeHmrKGe6s/s1600/gray1.jpg" /></a></div>
Thanks google. Now I'm feeling better watching some woman who looks like she has seen holy terror in relation to her gray hair.<br />
Next picture please...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWZMDoTueZcxb7jARqUJ19RbmAgXbXDEzno3IFWyCynjaHbVAluVLbflFmQ2wsSZWlrI6tRtmtywGC4lBN4JPDbjJRmvfjCjTxups2mmN8F4e7pcfAzGXSEB-H_5xdHh6H48W_yrpmJs/s1600/frozen_anna_gray_hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWZMDoTueZcxb7jARqUJ19RbmAgXbXDEzno3IFWyCynjaHbVAluVLbflFmQ2wsSZWlrI6tRtmtywGC4lBN4JPDbjJRmvfjCjTxups2mmN8F4e7pcfAzGXSEB-H_5xdHh6H48W_yrpmJs/s1600/frozen_anna_gray_hair.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
REALLY? YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME! There's that 2%&* snow queen again.<br />
<br />
Third time is the charm right??<br />
Next picture.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-june_Qi9a-y9K_mg_lPpmpTbkhD2Al1EASYDeNcQoK4HsIov7wlAJH00KNPeMnPcbeaFcU2osFgsC-V8snti4eCmnaDKRcUoN30H4tewDxGDADWH43825N_ZsGjy_Q3tMNJ5S5rf4U/s1600/halle-berry-and-white-hair-gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-june_Qi9a-y9K_mg_lPpmpTbkhD2Al1EASYDeNcQoK4HsIov7wlAJH00KNPeMnPcbeaFcU2osFgsC-V8snti4eCmnaDKRcUoN30H4tewDxGDADWH43825N_ZsGjy_Q3tMNJ5S5rf4U/s1600/halle-berry-and-white-hair-gallery.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Now, we're talking. Halle Berry's rocking some gray hair...maybe it's not so bad right??<br />
<br />
So naturally my next step was to examine in the mirror...<br />
I'm looking-okay, I'll count them...I'm sure there are only a few. WRONG ANSWER.<br />
I had to stop counting. I left the bathroom totally defeated. So I went and asked Big Daddy a very important question looking for some supportive answer.<br />
<br />
Me: "Will you still love me when my hair is all gray?"<br />
Him: "well, you're already a quarter of the way there so I guess so".<br />
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Again, the whole world is against me.<br />
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All my life I knew this was going to happen at some point. My grandmother and my father were totally white around their 40s and genetics just don't lie. Years ago I used to dye my hair all the time with highlights, lowlights, etc. But kids came along and honestly, it's so freakin' expensive with all this hair I have. And if you know me at all, I'm pretty plain. I've always said, I'm just going natural. But for all the times I thought I was okay with it, I really wasn't. Recently, I went to a new hair stylist (who is a good friend) for my most recent hair cut. I was tired of the quick trim at Great Clips and wanted a new style to feel revived. She went to work on my hair after I said, "do whatever...just make me look good". Without batting an eye, she said, " you are beautiful." (I smiled thinking of course you'll say that..you're my friend). But as she was cutting she talked about texture of my hair, etc. I jokingly said, "do you see all that gray?" and she replied, "yes and I love it." For the first time, someone wasn't trying to change it. I always feel like the first option when they notice it is, "well you can dye it". Suddenly, I felt some confidence come back. I actually looked at her and said, "really?". and she said, "Yes...it's awesome". So I left feeling a lot better about my hair, thinking maybe it's not so bad after all. I've been checking out all my friends hair in the mean time...wondering if those around me are in the same boat. Either everyone around me dyes their hair or else I'm by myself in this ocean. I've resigned myself to the acceptance phase. There's not a whole lot I can do-other than dye it (and honestly, I'd rather pay for the maid). So with the help of some chardonnay and some good friends, I'm trying to kick back and enjoy the change and enjoy this new mantra.<br />
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-Ziggy Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-71807335393537478492015-01-21T16:06:00.002-08:002015-01-21T16:56:45.759-08:00The RaceYou know how you wake up and some days it's like you just can't get it right? Well today was that day for me. I was wide awake at 4am pondering the bizarre things one ponders at 4am..."if I make chili in the crockpot should I have Big Daddy cut it off before he goes to work?", "Did SK brush her teeth before she went to bed?", or "how come no one told me it was possible to be so totally in love with your husband but wish that some days he would just take a long freakin hike?" And so began my messy day. I got up, made the coffee...before that was done the baby is screaming bloody murder at 5:30 wanting to eat. I drag myself up there...feed her, while checking facebook, the news, and I might even glance at a quick devotional-and I mean quick. Back downstairs to shower, get dressed, dry the hair. By that point SK is up standing in front of me sobbing and tears pouring. "what's wrong?" Between sobs she says, "I miss Poppy (my dad)". I say, "oh honey we all do! But Poppy doesn't hurt anymore...he's having a party in heaven." After more tears, we all take a deep sigh now ready to begin the day. Except, Big Daddy is sweeping the kitchen while we all listen to Jake Owens "what we ain't got". Now he and I are even more depressed. We just celebrated 8 years married and it seems more like we are in a rat race than a loving committed relationship. "you take the girls to practice, I'll cook dinner" or "since you're working Saturday, we need a sitter" or "did you buy more diapers"...these are the conversations we have resorted to of late. It's a far cry from that moment you say I do in front of God and all those witnesses-or how Hollywood portrays marriage. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband more than anything on earth. But it's like we are somewhere in a valley-stuck in a rut that we just can't get out of. Like quick sand...we're fighting to stay afloat between schedules, work frustrations, and the kids. Most days I just feel defeated. We have lots of discussions about how a lot of people are worse off than us-we have friends dealing with things a lot worse off than us. But it doesn't change how we feel in these moments. <br />
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By this point, I'm headed out the door as he is feeding the girls breakfast and playing chase. And can I just say, why does he get to be the "fun" parent?? I'm always doing the boring mundane things and he's doing the exciting ones. I get in the car and driving down the interstate and listening to sappy love songs wishing for that spark...that new love high you get when you first met him. My mind was wondering thinking about all our friends and how I feel like they all have these happy marriages. I finally get to work and walk in-turns out the ladies in the office were having a soup lunch today and I wasn't invited. Suddenly, the tears start falling. I'm texting A saying, "I'm totally sobbing because I didn't get invited to lunch". She replies she is sobbing "because of an extra dance practice." We are so done for the day and it wasn't even 8:30am. It wasn't really about a silly office lunch....it was driven by a desire to be wanted. Don't get me wrong, as I've said, I know my husband and I love each other deeply, but every day is not glorious-that's for sure. Out of desperation, I called a friend and said, "I'm having a really bad day". Of course, apparently most everyone around me was today. She replied, "yep, me too." But she went on to say,"whats wrong?" I said, "SK was crying about my dad this morning, I didn't get invited to lunch, and we just celebrated 8 years and I feel like we are struggling more in our marriage than ever-it's just sooo hard to juggle it all!" And her response has brought me to a halt today. This wise friend who has been married 25 years and has 3 almost grown children said: "Honey, it's hard work. But it's not a sprint...it's a marathon. Pace yourself and keep working at it". and there it was. I was so wrapped up trying to keep up my sprint that I lost sight of the prize-We love each other deeply and are committed to each other for a lifetime-through the so called race injuries, the miles when you have to push yourself beyond your mental breakdowns, and the celebration of accomplishment when you finish the race. So tonight there will be a deep conversation about how we can better train for our marathon and focus on each other in the midst of the madness.</blockquote>
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-Ziggy</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-63946767018370658422015-01-19T14:49:00.001-08:002015-01-19T14:52:19.544-08:00It's not about the cheeseburger<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">I don’t feel stressed. I mean I know I should be [see earlier blog post] but I just don’t feel like it. Maybe my threshold has just increased. Maybe I’ve become immune. I mean when my new babysitter who was supposed to start on Monday at 8:30 am called me on Friday at 2 pm to tell me she can’t watch the kids I didn’t even bat an eye. It was the same level of annoyance as when my free xm subscription expired earlier that day. I mean it sucks but it’s merely annoying. It’s not the end of the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Normally something like this would send me into a full blown panic. I was beginning to feel proud of myself and how I can now take such crises in stride. I’m really getting the hang of this thing. I even [sort of] saw it as a blessing. “Another chance to spend some extra time with the kids might be nice,” I thought. I have truly grown as a person and I am expanding my horizons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then I went to Hardees. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I had everything planned out for the flawless execution of my day. After K’s morning nap we would get into the car and head to the hubs’ work to pick up the dog since we had dinner plans with his parents that night. I even thought “Heck, it might be nice to pick up lunch for him on our way.” So I called and surprised hubby with our offer to drive through Hardees and eat lunch with him. Now anyone who has ever had a baby knows the importance of squeezing errands in between nap times. There is the kiss of death if my children fall asleep in the car. Even if it’s only been 20 seconds they awake thinking they have had their nap and they should now be allowed to play. So I’m a little psycho about nap times. Okay, a lot psycho about nap times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But we had enough time if only just. So we pull into the line at Hardees which was a bit long but this is <i>fast </i>food right? It took about 5 minutes to get to the squawk box where we quickly placed our order. Nothing crazy or difficult- just two number twos. We then waited another 10 minutes before we got to the window and paid. At this point I began nervously checking the clock. We would now only have 30 minutes to get to hubs’ work and eat. This is doable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Then the drive thru girl came back and asked me to pull forward. I grudgingly oblige. This was when I began to time the ordeal. Please note this was also when time began moving in slow motion. I tried to distract myself by checking FB. After reading the entire newsfeed I switched over to instagram. Having exhausted my social media networks I checked the clock again. We had now been sitting for a total of 20 minutes since ordering. I could feel my anxiety rising.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I quickly did the math. I now had only 20 minutes till it was time to head back home. “It’s okay,” I soothed myself. I had now switched over to pinterest and was alternating between searching clever homemade valentines and counting the number of cars who had ordered and left since I had been sitting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I started to wonder if they forgot about me. I started to wonder what all these people had ordered that was so readily available yet my cheeseburger was not yet ready. I mean what else do they even serve at Hardees? There had been 12 cars that had ordered, paid, and received food since I pulled forward. What could they possible have gotten? Surely someone out of those 12 cars had ordered a cheeseburger. Maybe they ordered a different size cheeseburger. I had ordered 1/4 pound burgers. Maybe those other people were ordering 1/3 or 1/2 pounders. Surely they couldn't have all just ordered drinks. I knew it couldn’t just be the fries holding us up. I know how long it takes to drop a basket of fries and it’s not 30 minutes. “We’ve been here 30 minutes!!!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At this point I can feel my face flush with anger. They have ruined my lunch. I will not have time to sit down and talk with hubs. This will probably ruin the baby’s nap which is a short nap anyway since RJ and DC have to be picked up from school. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The seconds ticked by. I felt my heart pounding in my chest and the blood rushed in my ears. Two more minutes crawled by. Every time the door opened I sat straight up like a prairie dog to see if it was my food. I start texting Ziggy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“There is nothing fast about the food at Hardees.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I’m so angry I could scream.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“If I hadn’t already paid I would leave.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then it got darker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I hate them.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I’ll never come back here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“You should never come back here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I HATE THEM!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And it was real. These feelings were so real they were palpable. It was a burning hatred.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I was contemplating marching in to “speak” [yell] to the manager the door opened and the drive thru girl emerged with a bag of food. She casually sauntered up to my car and half threw, half dropped the bag into my lap. I swear she rolled her eyes as she did it. And without saying a word she turned and walked away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now that was almost too much. Not a “I’m sorry about the wait ma’am.” Not a “Thank you for your patience.” Nothing. NO-THING.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My blood boiled and I wished horrible things on her. If I could have hexed her I would’ve. I angrily threw my car into gear and stomped on the gas. Furious. She had ruined my day. Now it was a total waste, a total loss. “I hate her,” I growled. And I did. I had never felt such burning anger toward a single human being in all my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I spent the next few hours stewing in my own batch of “I hate you” soup and lashing out at everyone including hubby. I slung his food at him when we walked into his office. I was angry that it was HIS lunch that had caused me to go to Hardees in the first place. If it hadn’t been for HIM I wouldn’t have been subjected to such an outrage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It wasn’t until much later when I was recounting the atrocity to a friend [and she was hysterically laughing at my reaction] that I realized maybe it wasn’t about the cheeseburger at all. Maybe, just maybe, the cheeseburger was the straw and I was the camel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And suddenly it all came into focus and I too realized how wildly disproportionate [and misplaced] my anger was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We all have these moments though. The ones where we lose our footing. Lose our sanity. (At least I hope it’s not just me.) It feels so real at the time. I can only thank God that I have dear friends to pull me out of my delirium. And I hope you do too. We all need someone to slap us across the face every once in awhile and yell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“IT’S NOT ABOUT THE CHEESEBURGER!!!!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">-Ashford</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-49386536658745464402015-01-13T11:40:00.000-08:002015-01-13T11:40:02.197-08:00From Hell: The Birthday Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A wise friend once told me the worst part of being a parent is going to other kids' birthday parties. Truer words have never been spoken.<br />
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Add to this the fact that the hubs works on Saturday leaving me with solo duty for all three kids. A few things result from this.<br />
1. We do not attend many parties as the task is just too daunting for me to even consider.<br />
2. I am the parent that has to sheepishly call the host mother and beg for an invite for the other children.<br />
3. I am sometimes forced to hire a sitter and pay $10/hour so that I can take a child to a birthday party (because princess parties are just getting weird for my 3 YO son).<br />
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So overall you can see it becomes an issue. However I have learned to cope and I have just enough desperation in my eyes that other mothers generally take pity on me and help me with one (or two) of the kids. I can't help but glare at those blissfully unaware parents who have both parents present and just one child. I don't mean to hate them but in the moment I kinda do. At least until one of them adopts one of mine for the next 2 hours. But sometimes it all gets to be too much.<br />
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This leads me to tell you about the worst birthday party experience of my life. It was a while back but I had to wait for substantial emotional healing before I could write about it.<br />
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It was our first invite since the new baby and I was in the throes of potty training DC. Needless to say we didn't leave the house for months. The party was at the local gymnastics place which we have frequented so this was familiar territory. I thought it was probably time to venture out- after all we couldn't remain hermits forever. So I began the planning.<br />
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Now for us to leave the house at 9:30am on a Saturday I need to begin planning by 3pm the preceding Wednesday. I had the car packed by Friday night. The diaper bag for K, the potty bag (complete with M&M rewards) for DC, the extra pants and 3 pairs of underwear for DC, the nursing shawl, extra nursing pads, the gift, and so on and so forth. You get the picture. I had the timeline all planned out.<br />
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7:00 am : wake, get kids breakfast, nurse the baby while they're eating<br />
8:00 am: put on yoga pants and giant sweatshirt, attempt makeup, tie hair in messy bun (its hip right?)<br />
8:30 am: dress thing 1 and thing 2<br />
9:00 am: nurse baby again<br />
9:20 am: begin strapping kids into carseats<br />
9:40 am : (because for some reason it takes us 20 minutes to get in the car) leave the house<br />
10:00 am: arrive perfectly on time<br />
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It was flawless. Now my plan of attack once we arrived included getting all the kids out of the car and safely into the building. I had what would rival a strategic war tactic in place.<br />
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1. Get the baby carrier<br />
2. Let RJ (5) out of the car- hand her the gift<br />
3. Let DC (3) out of the car<br />
4. Herd said children into the building (praying I can find a good parking place)<br />
5. Send RJ to drop off the gift and into the party<br />
6. Shuffle the boys into the bathroom and make DC go potty<br />
7. Wrestle his 2 pairs of training underwear, rubber pants, and jeans back onto him<br />
8. Send him into the party with a prayer that he doesn't pee his pants in the foam pit<br />
9. Change the baby's diaper<br />
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There were a lot of moving parts but I'm proud to say that I executed them all flawlessly. I emerged from the bathroom with my freshly changed baby triumphant. "I AM SUPERMOM!" I victoriously shouted in my head. "I CAN DO ANYTHING!" I walked into the party ready to show off my new precious darling and receive the accolades of my mommy friends. "How do you do it with three?" they would ask. "You are amazing!" they would say. "And look at this precious angel, I just don't know how you do it." I could hear them now.<br />
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There were tons of parents and children milling around but I couldn't find my group. You know, the ones you do the birthday party circuit with. As I got further into the gym I still saw no one I recognized. And then a horrible thought hit me.<br />
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I made my way to the front desk and panic stricken asked the girl "Um, who's birthday party is this?"<br />
"Jenny's" she replied.<br />
[Jenny!! Who in the hell is Jenny?!] I screamed in my head.<br />
"Not Ava's?" I pleaded, my voice beginning to crack.<br />
She sadly shook her head and as I looked up from the desk I saw RJ darting towards me tears streaming down her face.<br />
"IT'S NOT AVA'S PARTY!!!!" she screamed.<br />
<br />
The adrenaline kicked in and I went into full combat recon mode. I quickly told RJ to go and find our gift in the pile and to bring it back to me. I strapped the baby back in the carrier as quickly as I could and scanned the gym for DC. He was happily bouncing on a trampoline with several kids we had never seen in our lives. I ran to the edge of the trampoline and knowing there was no reasoning or explaining to him what was going on I did the only thing possible.<br />
<br />
With a big smile on my face I motioned for him to come to me. He happily bounced his way over to me and as soon as he was within my reach I snatched him off the trampoline and bee-lined for the door. I scooped the baby carrier without even stopping just as RJ came running back with our present and we were out the door.<br />
<br />
Before the kids knew what was happening I had them strapped into their carseats and we were squealing tires out of the parking lot. It was at this time it sunk in...for both of them. And the wailing and tears started.<br />
<br />
"WHY CAN'T WE STAY MOMMY? I WANT TO GO TO THE PARTYYYYYYYYY!" and so forth and so on.<br />
<br />
This was when I snapped. I too burst into tears. It could have been my cocktail of sleep deprivation and hormones. All the pent up stress of the morning and the planning and flawless execution had culminated into this. This terrible horrible no good very bad day. And (having mentioned that I had snapped) did the only thing I could think of. I drove directly to my hubby's work. Bawling. With 3 screaming kids in the car.<br />
<br />
He was taken by surprise to say the least when we pulled into the parking lot. (He happened to be outside at the time.) I could barely catch my breath in between the sobs and the shudders. My nose was running my mascara was running and I couldn't even get out what had happened. Surely something awful he thought as he held me when my knees buckled in despair right there in the gravel parking lot.<br />
<br />
"It *gasp* was *gasp* the wrong *gasp* week," and the sobs took over again.<br />
"Wait. What?!" He looked perplexed.<br />
"The party *gasp*- next week." And I looked up at him tears streaming down my face. Surely he could see what a failure of a mother I was. That this was all too much for me. That I had ruined everything.<br />
He pondered a moment giving me a quizzical look and then he burst out into the loudest guffaw I have ever heard.<br />
"Oh man!" he shrieked. "You are going to have one hell of a blog post!"<br />
<br />
And that, my friends, is the birthday party from hell.<br />
<br />
-AshfordUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-89328632373781947382015-01-06T16:11:00.000-08:002015-01-06T16:11:11.384-08:00What the *#** Happened?!?!So, yeah. We just realized that we haven't blogged since September. Oh we've both written a few things but never actually published them. I'm sure there are so many of you that have been asking what happened to Ashford and Ziggy..or there are plenty of you who have not even realized we went missing.<br />
<br />
So what happened to us? Well between the two of us there are 5 kids under 5, 2 husbands who work non-traditional hours, 3 dogs, church committee meetings, dance classes, basketball practice/games. There have been road trips to Charleston (hopefully Ashford can someday share with you the joys of being on a sailboat for 5 days with her breast pump), San Diego, Tennessee, Raleigh, Georgia. There have been ER visits for ruptured ear drums, possible broken jaws, the flu epidemic, teacher meetings at school because the child doesn't act exactly how they think he/she should. And of course there was that time at the bounce house when RJ got her french braid stuck in the velcro at the top of the giant slide and a rescue misson followed. One of our nannies had to have emeregency open heart surgery sending childcare into a complete panic. There's time set aside to pump/breastfeed in the middle of the madness-bc any woman knows that burns better calories and counts as exercise!<br />
<br />
Both Ashford and I have been on a rough work journey this fall. Both of us have been forced to evaluate our jobs and fight to keep them-for different reasons but still a similar struggle. One of us deals in rare genetic disorders and the other gets to deal with all the problems in education that no one seems to have the answer for. Both of us are the primary bread winners in our homes and that brings enough stress-but when you add the stress of possibly losing some of that income? Well it's almost emotionally paralyzing. At the core of where we are is feeling like we have failed or let ourselves down for things that are ultimately beyond our control. There are marriages to try and hold together all while keeping the house from not burning down or falling apart. Most days by the time everyone is fed/bathed/in bed, it's all we can do to even speak 2 words to our spouses. Suddenly you realize it's been months since you actually got dressed up and had a date with your husband-and your too tired to realize you actually miss and need that. You realize you haven't seen that neighbor you were dying to live next to in months because you just can't get away. It always sounds like you have an excuse yet it's not even excuses. It is simply life. <br />
<br />
Add to this "life" that is so hectic the crushingly overwhelming need to give our children "magical" childhoods. There are apples to pick and pumpkin patches to visit. Desperately trying to schedule in a pumpkin carving session in between the trunk-or-treat and the family pizza/movie night. Trips to the mountains and the aquarium, trips to Boo at the Zoo, handmade turkeys with thankful lists on each finger and leaf rubbings to do. And then it's Christmas. There are dance parties and class parties all of which require some semblance of a home-baked pinterest-worthy reindeer themed treat (that is nut free, dairy free, and gluten free). There are Polar Express train rides to see Santa, the mall trip to see Santa, the live Nativity, the traditional family Christmas Light trip, and church Christmas pageants. Don't even get me started on the damn Elf on the Shelf- which caused insomnia for the entire month of December when I would wake every night in a panic at 2:30 am and struggle to find a cute and creative fun thing for "Jack" to get into and then not be able to fall back asleep for hours. Just don't mention the elf to Z-she's totally against it because she's instead focused on the Perfect nativity advent calendar and trying to make holiday happen for the families she works with. The pressure to do it all and to "make memories" and to make it all count. Make sure you're in the moment and not just going through the motions. "Embrace this time because they grow so quick and you will miss all this."<br />
<br />
And then you find yourself struggling against the emptiness of the futility. "Why am I killing myself to be so perfect?" "Does my job even matter?" "Does anyone even read this damned blog?" "What is it all for?"<br />
<br />
Ironically, when we set out to write this blog we did it because we felt like we were always hanging by a thread and there were so many people who could relate to what we said. The truth is that we've been absent because we weren't really hanging by a thread anymore, we had cut the thread and were just trying to not drown. We know we aren't alone. Whether you stay at home or work...whether you have 5 kids or 1...life gets entirely too hectic. We all have our struggles. <br />
<br />
Z texted me today asking what my New Year's Resolution is this year. "Survival" is all I could muster. I'm doing it. I'm making these magical memories and I'm pulling it off....even if just barely. I did get a Christmas card out (even if it got mailed on the 22nd) and I did manage to make homemade pumpkin pies from actual pumpkins (not the canned stuff). I managed to keep my house from being condemned and bathed the kids at least twice a week (most weeks). They haven't missed a meal and they wear clean clothes but again just barely. We are all doing the best we can to hang on and keep it looking good. Check out my Facebook feed....we are the picture perfect family. At least I'm experienced enough to know that we are all in this boat. We are all presenting our best selves despite the dirty truth. We are not alone.<br />
<br />
So here's to a New Year and hoping you all survive right along with us. And maybe, just maybe, we'll make a few magical memories along the way.<br />
<br />
-A combined effort as we only have time to write half an entry. Hey....two halves make a whole right?<br />
<a data-ved="0CAcQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=stressed+out&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAcQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Ftrainrogue.com%2Fcategory%2Fblog%2Fphilosophy%2F&ei=SAysVMjAI8OegwT1toDoBw&bvm=bv.82001339,d.eXY&psig=AFQjCNF00DDTsc_EhDoHeC_ACXEBgND1Wg&ust=1420647850312970" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor;"><img src="http://trainrogue.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/stressed-out1.png" height="224" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 133px;" width="320" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-62181288982216512062014-09-06T14:09:00.001-07:002014-09-06T14:09:17.176-07:00How to get through a lice outbreak in 24 easy steps<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I mentioned a few posts back that we had dealt with a lice outbreak. Since then I have received an influx of texts and personal messages saying "HELP!! We have lice!! What do we do?!" So I've decided to embrace my newfound title of Lice Guru and put together a step-by-step "how to" for all of you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So you found your first louse on your little darling’s head. Resist the urge to immediately burn down your house and swallow the vomit that just made its way into your mouth. It's ok. This is totally doable. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">1. Here's your shopping list:</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Lice shampoo (we used Nix) </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Nit comb - DO NOT use the one that comes in the "kit" these are crap. Buy an additional comb.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Disposable rubber gloves (if you're squeamish)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Metal alligator clips</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Detangler spray</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Bubble bath</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Plastic trash bags</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Tea tree oil</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - Head lamp</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - A cupcake (from one of those high end fancy cupcake places)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> - 2-3 bottles of your favorite wine</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl8-AdSvQ6x9g64-4gnfCTusNoyopqA6RTk8QjgGWvNQG4Z57FexA8c7LzT7viTgGXOhYbA91bFfoWRCX98x4cVnMD76NfudmJZZUMd3VOBe_yw0cfVHGVx2bVvRR7oNXBUQpMQ5kAII/s1600/DSC_0386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl8-AdSvQ6x9g64-4gnfCTusNoyopqA6RTk8QjgGWvNQG4Z57FexA8c7LzT7viTgGXOhYbA91bFfoWRCX98x4cVnMD76NfudmJZZUMd3VOBe_yw0cfVHGVx2bVvRR7oNXBUQpMQ5kAII/s1600/DSC_0386.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">2. Leave the kids with hubby, or grandparents, or a sitter and go shopping</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">3. When you return home lay all your goods out on the counter. Take a deep breath. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Say to yourself "We will get through this". Drink the wine.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">4. Now start with the bedding. Everything (pillows, blankets, stuffed animals) must be washed and/or dried (on high for at least 20 min). It's the heat from the dryer that actually kills these little bastards so stick the big stuff in the dryer and start the first load of laundry. You will probably do at least 7 loads today so buckle up.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">5. Pour yourself another glass of wine.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">6. Bag up everything the quarantined child has touched in the last 48 hours. Yes 48 hours. Most of your house will now be in trash bags for the next 36 hours. I hope you bought 2 boxes.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">7. Run the bath. Put extra bubbles in because darling daughter will be required to let the shampoo sit for at least 10 minutes which is an ETERNITY. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">8. Put 5-7 drops of Tea Tree oil in every bottle of shampoo in the house. You will all smell like that aisle at Earth Fare but it repels lice so suck it up. You’ll get used to the smell in time.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">9. Explain to your child that “You have bugs in your head and Mommy has to get them out.” Flash the cupcake and explain that “If we can get through this I’ll give you this cupcake.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">10. Have another wine of glass</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">11. Massage the lice shampoo into your child’s hair. You may use the rubber gloves if you find yourself gagging again. Tie her hair up on her head in a bun and let her play in the bubbles for 10 (time it) minutes. Take this time to check/switch the laundry and finish your drink.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">12. Shampoo the rinse and bubble the drains.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">13. Set up a chair in front of your favorite Disney moobie. Put the lamp on your head.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">14. Using the alligator lips and bubber rands separate your child’s sections into hair.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">15. Open the next bobble of wine. Floor a glass. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">16. Using the metal tit comb, comb through all the hair starting at the scalp. Take a moment to reflect on the term “nitpicking” and realize you will never again be able to utter this word without conjuring this image.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2me-ymTEwTfCjbm1rceR75fckj_FbF9emzeoFlY8zirps7lbCWoHIZ7Jeq3sBfSXWgkzi2RGTlo4LhvdWhCS0Fm06WilguauVBOBDUoVR4XAckKamj7rL9k2VnM51QTUNWQzCH5NcOts/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2me-ymTEwTfCjbm1rceR75fckj_FbF9emzeoFlY8zirps7lbCWoHIZ7Jeq3sBfSXWgkzi2RGTlo4LhvdWhCS0Fm06WilguauVBOBDUoVR4XAckKamj7rL9k2VnM51QTUNWQzCH5NcOts/s1600/photo.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">17. Put another load of laundry in the dishwasher.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">18. Why is your glass empty??? Frill it up again. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">19. When you’re done combing give your cupcake the kid.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">20. Make the bed being careful of the shitted feet. Those damn things are squirrelly.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">21. At this point gorfet the glass. Grab the bobble. You donwanna have to flush too mamy dishes anyway.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">22. Put the lid bo ted.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">23. Fimish the bobble.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">24. When chubby gets home ask him to head your check. Relapse as he gently homes through your fair. That’s niiiiiiiiice.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">-Smashford</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-69035339804692880092014-09-03T10:43:00.002-07:002014-09-03T10:43:37.536-07:00The straw that broke the arrow.....So several weeks ago, I accomplished one of my not so great parenting moments. I've talked about the stress levels in our house lately and SK has a really bad habit of picking stickers off of toys or taking her sister's baby toys. It was one evening after work and Big Daddy was still at work. I was trying to cook dinner, do dishes, feed the baby, and somehow manage to watch SK. I had told her repeatedly to leave her sister's toys alone. She especially has a bad habit of peeling the decorative stickers off of her sisters toys. I heard her small voice call out..."Mommy? I accidentally did something bad." (which is never really an accident)<br />
I went over to the couch and she had peeled off the stickers of one of her sisters toys...AGAIN. Maybe it was exhaustion or maybe temporary insanity, but in my split second decision of ineedtoteachheralessonrightnow.....I scanned the room for one of her toys to try and prove a point. I scanned the floor and there was an arrow to her princess bow and arrow. Quickly, I say to myself, "I can bend that and show her how it feels to have people mess up her things". Now keep in mine, I was thinking I'll bend it to show her and then bend it back. And of course this entire conversation is happening in maybe 3 seconds flat in my head. I grab the arrow. I hold it up in front of her and I bend it while saying to her, "do you like it when I mess up your stuff??" Sheer terror comes across her face followed by a blood curdling scream...."YOU BENT MY PRINCESS ARROW AND I'LL NEVER HAVE IT AGAIN...." Tears are streaming down her face and she's screaming screams that I'm sure the neighbors in the other culdesac can hear. I ask her firmly, "how do you like it when I mess with your toys? Do you like it???" She's still screaming and yelling saying "YOU RUINED EVERYTHING AND THAT WAS FOR MY BIRTHDAY...NOT YOURS". I again explain it is not nice to mess with other peoples toys and explain that we don't like it when she peels stickers off of our things. I finally calm her down and realize that in my rage, I managed to not just bend the plastic arrow....no, my friends, I broke it in half. &#$%.....now what am I going to do?? Of course she realizes that in fact I broke it, not bent it....again come the screams and wails of a dramatic 4 year old. So I scramble to find the scissors, cut the sharp edges, grab some packing tape...a few cuts here and there, and voila...the arrow is in one piece again. I proudly show it to her saying, "see, mommy fixed it!" and she replies, "mommy you are so mean...you broke my arrow and it's never the same ever again". I tried my best to explain the lesson of how it felt for her when I broke her things and how it's not nice to do that to her sisters toys. Eventually she did in fact, calm down...but I was left alone in my mom guilt feeling like I was the worst mom in the world for breaking the arrow because lets face it...she will never forget this day. But the good news is that since then, she hasn't peeled any stickers off any toys.<br />
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If you look closely, you can see my tape to correct the broken arrow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-19954965524380637752014-08-20T18:00:00.000-07:002014-08-20T18:00:41.481-07:00From Hell: The playdateBEWARE THE PLAYDATE WITH THE EVANS' KIDS...YOU GOTTA BE SCRAPPY TO SURVIVE IT.<br />
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So I've decided to start a mini-series titled "From Hell" as so many of my experiences could easily fit in this category. So sit back and enjoy my first installment....which truly was the playdate from hell.<br />
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I have a very dear friend who lives about 2 hours away whose children are the same ages as my older two. She and I only get to see each other about once a year as the distance, the jobs, and the children make it hard to find the time. So I was thrilled when I received a text that she and her girls were coming down to see the new baby and have a playdate. (RJ is just enamored with her older girl.)</div>
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The day came and they arrived and we all headed up to the playroom. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. The kids were playing (albeit TRASHING the playroom) having a blast and we were catching up. (I didn't realize how much I missed adult conversations until this day.)</div>
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RJ and T (the two five year olds) were in RJ's room with the door shut when I heard the screams. I ran to the door and flung it open to find them both on the bed with hands around each other's throats literally choking each other. As I yelled for them to stop they twisted and rolled and toppled off the bed into a heap onto the floor. The wails came next and were soon followed up with the "I hate you's!"</div>
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At this point we decided heading to the backyard to play outside may be a better idea. So we herded them all out to the play gym. Again, things were going great. She and I sitting in my adirondack chairs with our feet propped up chatting while the kids ran around and played in the sandbox, on the slide, in the drainage ditch, etc. That's when it happened.</div>
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Out of the corner of my eye I saw her 3 year old fall off the third rung of the ladder and land in a heap under the slide. Being the mother of a boy who would classify as a category 3 hurricane I naturally didn't even flinch. </div>
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"You're fine. Brush it off!" I called from my seat barely even looking in her direction.</div>
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But she didn't move. My friend, sensing something different, jumped up and ran to her. Scooping her up as the wails began. She carried her over to the chairs hugging her tightly and rocking her.</div>
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"Where does it hurt baby? Tell Mommy where it hurts."</div>
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"My tummmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy!" She screamed.</div>
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But that's when we saw it. Something just didn't look quite right about her arm. As we both stared at her wrist and forearm we realized it resembled an accordion. It was bending at the wrong places in the wrong directions more times than is natural.</div>
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We both immediately flipped into full blown fight or flight mommy mode. She scooped up C and began running to the front yard to put her in the car. I immediately grabbed her 5 year old and began dragging her to the car. It was about this time that T (the 5 year old) realized that her little sister was hurt- and hurt badly. Well.....banshee screaming does not even begin to describe the decibel level of T's cries. She began to hyperventilate shrieking at the top of her lungs as I buckled her in the carseat. Even C- the hurt one- began to look at her funny.</div>
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As my friend ran into the house to collect their things I feverishly tried to pull up the Urgent Care center on her GPS. (Remember they live 2 hours away and have no idea how to get around.) T was still hysterically screaming and my own children were running around crazy.</div>
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"GET IN THE HOUSE!!!!" I screamed to my kids as my friend jumps into the driver seat and peeled out of the driveway. </div>
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"TEXT ME AND LET ME KNOW HOW SHE IS," I yelled as she sped away.</div>
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I took a deep breath trying to collect myself before I went back inside.</div>
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Finally I turned around and walked through the garage and into the kitchen. Standing there in the kitchen looking up at me and grinning was RJ. In her hands was a rotting maggot-covered carcass of a turtle who had clearly been hit by a lawnmower. The stench threatened to knock me over.</div>
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"Look what I found!!" she said excitedly. "There's all sorts of baby worms on it."</div>
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She barely had time to get the words out before i shrieked, grabbed the decaying mass with my bare hands and chucked it out the still open garage door into the yard.</div>
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"THEY'RE JUST BAAAAAAAAABIES THEY WON'T BE SAAAAAAAAAFE!" she screamed as she burst into tears. and in the same breath she looked down at her goo-covered hands, the odor so pungent it was almost visible wafting off of her hands. "THAT'S DISGUUUUUUUUUSTING!!!!!"<br />
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The next 20 minutes are a blur as I frantically tried to scrub the decaying flesh from her hands while simultaneously phoning the hubs to ask him to meet my friend at the ER to help her with her 5 year old while they casted the 3 year old. I'm not sure why but there was a time out for RJ during which I allowed DC to pick the TV show.<br />
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Screams erupted from RJ when her brother picked "Umi Zumi" (or howeverthehell you spell it). Followed with "I HATE YOU!!!!!"<br />
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Now she has never uttered such words to me before and for a moment we were both stunned as the words hung thick in the air- mingling with the still fresh smell of dead turtle. I will spare you the details and end with putting the kids to bed early and funneling a few beers like I was a freshman in college again.<br />
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And that my friends is the playdate from hell. Can you top it?<br />
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As a follow up I will tell you that C got her cast off and is in just an air cast now. And the turtle is continuing to rot in my front yard because RJ wants to take the skeleton to school for show and tell.</div>
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-Ashford</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-6741612086670873282014-08-12T17:11:00.000-07:002014-08-12T17:11:16.728-07:00I am Rip Van WinkleI went to sleep and when I woke up I didn't recognize myself.<br />
I'm standing in the dressing room at Target under the cruel buzzing UV lights staring at myself wearing what looks like my mother's tankini wondering when this happened. The stubborn last 10 pounds of baby weight clinging to my thighs. I look like a thirtysomething mom of three. And I am horrified when I realize I am.<br />
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I know we all say it but didn't you think you'd have it more figured out by this time? Didn't you think you'd feel different? I feel like a 20 year old trapped in this body I don't recognize. The wrinkles are beginning to crawl across my face. "Smile lines" from the laughter of all those years. I even found a grey hair the other day. Where did it all go? The time? Suddenly I find myself all grown up with a mortgage and a 12 year old Suburban we lovingly refer to as "the battering ram". </div>
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I listen to '90s on 9 and have no idea who these bands are the Today show keeps promoting. I read potty training blogs over lunch and have decided that 5-7pm is now known as "Crappy Hour".</div>
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My closest friendships are maintained via text because who has time to talk let alone actually see people. My oldest child is starting kindergarten this year. KINDERGARTEN!!! I actually asked for a dust buster for my birthday and was thrilled when I got it.</div>
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What happened to the restless untamed me? The one who turned 21 at the Tropicana club in Havana, Cuba? The one who moved to the Navajo reservation for 3 months to "find myself"? The one who quit her job, packed everything into a Nissan, and drove 3 states away with no job, no apartment, and no idea what was going to happen?</div>
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You give up things when you have kids. You give up yourself and the person you thought you were. You become this new person. One who's greatest joy is seeing your 5 year old do the cheer from cheer camp or sing her vacation bible school songs in front of the whole church on Sunday morning. And quite honestly I was more proud that DC went poop in the potty than when I walked across the stage at my college graduation. In fact, I don't even remember anything about my college graduation but I can tell you down to the minute when he pooped in the potty.</div>
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Hubs keeps asking me "Where did my daredevil go?" All I can see is the outcomes now and what they mean for my kids-my lifeblood. I did not know it was even possible to love so fiercely. So completely.</div>
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I miss her every now and again- that barefooted wide eyed wild child who was going to change the world. I just didn't realize that my change was going to be on a much smaller scale. I have changed My World. And for now that's all that matters. And that's enough.</div>
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-Ashford</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-49659659926356828582014-07-21T05:03:00.002-07:002014-07-21T05:03:43.506-07:00A Bright Light...One year ago today we welcomed our sweet baby #2 into this world. At 8:35am we were told "It's another girl!" K doesn't know it, but we arranged with my OB to have her born via c-section on this day for a reason. This was my father's birthday. We all felt this was a way to honor him. <br />
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The irony is over the last year, we joke that she has a lot of personality like he did-I believe she has a special connection to him, even though she's never met him. Our sweet K was a bright spot in a long and trying year. On July 21, 2013 we were reminded of the circle of life. It's hard to put into words emotions on a day like today. So many "firsts" over the last year....her first smile, giggle, crawl, food, even steps. She is my bundle of joy and energy, yet she is also my snuggle bug. Yet also all the firsts of life without daddy. We seem to all finally have settled into new routines and have found the new normal at holidays and birthdays. I am thankful I've had the summer off to truly enjoy these moments with both my girls and have just finished 10 days of my mom being with us. My heart is full....Happy Birthday K and Happy Heavenly Birthday Daddy!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-59995565530223202362014-07-16T10:03:00.001-07:002014-07-16T10:49:09.839-07:00Life in 3D: The In Between<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So RJ and I had been reading this book about a momma panda at the zoo. She was pregnant and the zoo keepers said they could tell she was getting close to having the baby because she stopped leaving her cave and started sleeping all the time. All I could think about was how much I could relate to that momma panda (and how much I wished I had a cave). I too had stopped leaving my house and used every spare moment to steal a nap. I also stopped answering my phone, cooking, cleaning, niceties, and pretty much everything else. I'm trying to remember if I even bathed the kids the last month. Pregnancy at 34 is no joke. I felt like I was 104.<br />
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But, as most of you know, KH was born on May 7th at 1:41 pm and weighed in at 9 lbs 14 oz. (I am woman hear me roar.) He is beautiful and he is perfect and he is mine. So then I spent the next (hate to say it) 2 months lying in bed snuggling. I am not kidding. Many a day I would get up and send the kids to day camp only to return to bed with my baby and not move for the rest of the day. I jealously guarded my time with him. I am painfully aware that this very well may be my last newborn and I am soaking up every possible moment with him. For those of you who have seen Lord of the Rings picture me in bed as Gollum cradling my baby hissing "My Precious" at anyone who tries to steal a moment from me.<br />
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It's weird- the newborn phase. Everything is hazy from the lack of sleep and the hormones and the lack of sleep. It's like you're not even a real person. I exist solely for the sustenance and protection of this child. This tiny, perfect, helpless little being that I created. It very much is living in between. Between pregnancy and being a real human being again. It probably took me a month to even notice my husband was still living in the house. At which point I could see in his eyes the desperation to return to a normal life. He wanted his wife back. But I wasn't ready to be back yet.<br />
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Don't get me wrong I was fulfilling my basic duties. I picked the kids up and took them to the library. I managed to get dinner on the table- at least for them- every night. I finally potty trained DC (well, mostly). I dealt with a lice outbreak (holy hell that's a story for another time). I cooked and cleaned and folded mountains of laundry. We had birthday parties, school programs, and swim lessons. There were 4th of July fireworks, Dinosaur exhibits, cheer camp and our first ER visit. But most of it was still going through the motions.<br />
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And so now here I am with a 10 week old and I am just starting to be human again. Although my two favorite hobbies are staring at my baby and counting the ounces of breastmilk in the deep freeze I am trying. I have even enjoyed a few beers with my husband. Despite the fact that *gasp* that meant I had to pump and dump that liquid gold down the drain. I am starting to venture out again although I warn you I somehow manage to bring breastfeeding into every conversation. I usually follow that up with a conversation about pooping in the potty (or lack thereof).<br />
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I have noticed people backing away from me as I steer their innocent "How have you been?" into a full on discussion of my freezer stash. But I don't care. This is where I am right now and if you don't want to talk feeding schedules, lactation, or poopy swim my diapers (which are straight from the devil) then I suggest you just wave and act like you're getting a phone call. I've got 4 weeks left of maternity leave. Four short weeks until I will be forced to at least pretend like a member of society. Four glorious weeks to love my babies and enjoy the extra time with them. Until then, if you need me, you can find me with my head in the deep freeze calculating the exact number of days we have stocked or dreamily staring at my baby.<br />
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-Ashford</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1369867615646751812.post-57880910446970015672014-06-08T22:02:00.002-07:002014-06-08T22:02:19.434-07:00One year later.......It's here. That day so many people said would come..and somehow they all said "it gets easier" or "the first year is the hardest". Somehow, the last few weeks I have found myself disagreeing with that statement more and more. One year ago today my father went home to heaven. It still feels like it was yesterday-the emotions are as raw as they were that day, if not somehow even more raw now. It seems like the last year has been somewhere between denial and lost somewhere in between. I haven't taken his name out of my contacts on my phone because that would just be too permanent. We've made it through all the "firsts"-which we have been dealing with on two different levels...the "first" words, steps, smiles of our sweet baby girl and the "first" holidays, birthdays, and regular days without daddy. I've tried over the last 2 weeks to do things that would honor daddy. I've cut the grass the way he taught me (which is no small feat for this grass allergic woman) and spent time with some of his favorite people. Big Daddy celebrated with a Mcdonalds Fish Sandwich (which was his choice for his first meal home from the hospital). <br />
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Grief is a funny thing. For so many years, I've worked helping others deal with their grief without really understanding what they feel. I've made the statement, "oh it will get easier...it just takes time". But I'm pretty sure I've made a commitment to myself to never say that statement to a client again because I disagree with it. I'm not sure it gets easier, in fact I think it gets downright harder. The days turn into weeks, which turn into months, and slowly it becomes harder to hold on to the memories. They lose clarity and they start to get fuzzy. I watch our oldest child and I have thought so much lately about how long it will take her to lose her memories of her poppy. Sure she can tell stories now, but time will continue to move forward and unfortunately they will become blurry. She will only remember what we tell her about him. And the baby, well.... she will only know what we tell her about him. How is it that that makes it get easier?? <br />
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To mark this milestone, my mother planned a small barbeque with the people who meant so much to daddy. Today we celebrated and cried/laughed over stories about him. I was reading an article the other day which was talking about "preachers kids" and the bad reputation they often get as the "wild ones". But today I was reminded that we are actually the lucky ones. We are lucky because our parent ministers to so many people throughout our life and in turn, we have one heck of an extended family. They give back to us in ways that I never fully appreciated until I have traveled this journey with mom. I watched in awe today as friends gathered, just as they did last year to celebrate daddy and more importantly love and comfort my mom. <br />
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Last year for the funeral, I made a video to honor daddy and all of the areas of his life. I invite you to watch and meet the man we loved so much and still miss dearly. I watched it again today and I was reminded of how much fun daddy was and how much of his personality I do have. One year later, I still am reminded of how much joy he had despite the scars that Vietnam left on him. Truly he was a hero-more importantly he was OUR hero. <br />
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