tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17326148275185150142024-02-07T20:51:40.270-06:00The days are just packedStephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-28153159438449322492013-05-03T14:15:00.000-05:002013-05-03T14:15:26.097-05:00Love them"I love you," he said as I hugged him good night. "I really love you," he repeated, pulling me in tighter. As we lay there, he said, "Thank you for letting me go on the trip tomorrow." [pause] "Thank you for everything."<br />
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"I don't thank you enough."<br />
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I closed my eyes, breathing it in, and rested my heart there a moment.<br />
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He's 14.<br />
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Love him.<br />
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"Good night, Jared" she called from her room.<br />
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"Good night, Emma."<br />
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"I love you," she added.<br />
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"I love you, too."<br />
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[sigh]<br />
<br />
Love them.<br />
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No family is perfect. No parents expert. No children model.<br />
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But there is love.<br />
<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-78625293443919978482013-02-17T18:46:00.000-06:002013-02-17T18:48:23.426-06:00Success<span style="font-family: inherit;">This post is a year overdue. My son is a competitive gymnast and he (and we) learned a lot last season. About success and perseverance. I am in awe of the young men in this sport. Most of the world sees only those at the top, and that only once every four years. And for sure, the world only values those precious few at the top. But I am telling you, these kids are champions.</span><br />
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So this story is about success. It may not look like what you expect. For example, take a look at this video and tell me if you think this is a successful routine.<br />
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Well, was that routine flawless? Was it spectacular? No? Then why, pray tell, is the boy behaving as if he has just won a medal? Why does my friend Ana have goose bumps?<br />
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I'll tell you why.<br />
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It all comes down to expectations. And goals. It all depends, really, on your definition of success.<br />
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This past season my son moved up from level 6 to level 9. That's quite a jump. Was he ready? Maybe, maybe not. But here's the thing. Success is really not about winning. It's not about being <i>the</i> best. It's about being <i>your</i> best. It's about setting goals for yourself and accomplishing those goals.<br />
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My son was given a choice by his coaches at the beginning of the season -- he could compete at either level 8 or level 9. Level 8 would mean more success, outwardly -- fewer competitors, better scores. But it also would mean competing alone at most meets, being the lone level 8 gymnast on the team. Level 9 would mean less chance of success -- more and better competitors, lower scores. But he would be part of a team (at least 3 are required at the same level to be eligible for a team award), competing with his friends. He chose level 9. Of course he did. We were unsure how he would handle being at the bottom of the pack, instead of at or near the top. Could he measure his success, not against others, but against himself?<br />
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In the first meet of this level 9 season, my son did not even compete on high bar. Because he wasn't ready. His coaches made the decision that it was best he not compete with a routine that just wasn't there yet. I appreciate that decision. I believe this motivated his training and by the next meet he got up on the bar. Was he ready? Maybe not. But he got on the bar. How many times did he fall? More than he wanted. But he improved his previous score (a 0.0) by 6.4 points. Is 6.4 a good score? No... no, it isn't. But were we proud? You better believe it. The boy got up on the bar. And he finished. I've never been prouder.<br />
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Until the next meet (the one the video above is from.) His warm up was awesome. He hit his new skills. We all wanted it for him. Competition began and he started his routine. And then he fell off the bar. On a simple, basic skill. In the video you can hear me say, "Oh, crap." (I know... I'm such a good mom.) I had no idea if he would recover.<br />
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But he did what competitive gymnasts do. He got back on the bar and he finished. He swung his giants. He got his body around the bar and he didn't fall. He landed his dismount. The celebratory fist pump says it all. Maybe no one else in that gym realized the success of that routine. Maybe not the judges. Maybe not the other gymnasts. But my son knew. I knew. His coach knew. My friend Ana knew and it gave her goose bumps. <br />
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At the end of the regular season of competition, there is a State meet. How you perform at State determines if you qualify for the Regional meet. At Regionals, you have the opportunity to qualify for Nationals. Most of the boys at State will qualify for Regionals, which Jared did.<br />
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And here I want to show you another video. This is a compilation of his routines from the Regional meet, his final meet of the season.<br />
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You may not be impressed with what you see. Because you don't know what I know. For instance, you don't know that his peach glide on parallel bars was hit-or-miss all season. You don't even know what a peach glide is. You also don't know that he consistently fell on his pirouettes. So you may see a so-so parallel bars routine. But I see grand success! You know a little about his hi bar struggles. At Regionals, he hit the routine and stuck his dismount. Success! You also have no idea that this floor routine was the first time he did his double full in competition -- what his coach called his "big boy skill" -- and he put it to his feet. You may or may not know that pommel horse can be the bane of a gymnast's existence. It is not uncommon to have 4 or 5 falls off this beast. As you can see, he only had one fall (zero falls at State, but that's another video and story.) Rings was kind of ugly there at the end, but I can tell you that he doesn't sit down that dismount anymore. Finally, it was fitting that he finished on vault. What you don't know is that he had been working his Tsukahara all season and never could quite land it in competition. I love that he finished his inaugural level 9 season on this event. When he landed that vault, the tears welled up within me.<br />
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In case you are curious, out of 68 gymnasts in his age group, he placed 63rd. Is that success? Maybe not by the world's standards. But the backwards glance and thumbs up he throws to the camera say it all. He knows what he did. <br />
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<i>That </i>is success and I couldn't be more proud.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-29967720295638826772011-12-19T19:05:00.002-06:002011-12-19T20:21:56.477-06:00Thanksgiving MemoriesThis past Thanksgiving, we packed up our minivan and headed west for some long overdue family time. We just love Thanksgiving in New Mexico! Below are just a few highlights of the many things I was thankful for...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Cousins!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQrL7pHa3EhPbq4y4qPDYL36leH3AtTrqtloAliKsn36OdjQuasmfI0W64LDhzaevnMlq5DrVECI4GrSmbZOpmufsef_wEJQ5CL5PajQNBbrM_eGdbd75NBdBO9LZ_ZMi5EiD74qn-Xc/s1600/DSCF5504.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQrL7pHa3EhPbq4y4qPDYL36leH3AtTrqtloAliKsn36OdjQuasmfI0W64LDhzaevnMlq5DrVECI4GrSmbZOpmufsef_wEJQ5CL5PajQNBbrM_eGdbd75NBdBO9LZ_ZMi5EiD74qn-Xc/s400/DSCF5504.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686155219456419378" border="0" /></a> (first cousins once removed, that is.)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Reading time.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEhBRxp1mcrXogboDXGIuyAmy430isjy7LhQaRUWm5hyphenhyphenFy9ZNgnmZdJ7P098I7GWusSAUPZ5Xuzta9WKQr9_2AtMqF4zBLlThakXOLnA2WKTtN9Ql-6i2bOYQySCTIBlnGSBmywYk4EU/s1600/DSCF5541_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEhBRxp1mcrXogboDXGIuyAmy430isjy7LhQaRUWm5hyphenhyphenFy9ZNgnmZdJ7P098I7GWusSAUPZ5Xuzta9WKQr9_2AtMqF4zBLlThakXOLnA2WKTtN9Ql-6i2bOYQySCTIBlnGSBmywYk4EU/s400/DSCF5541_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686155531629190274" border="0" /></a>I loved (!) listening to the kids and their beloved Aunt Bambi (<span style="font-style: italic;">not her real name</span>) giggle with delight while enjoying the latest installment of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Diary of a Wimpy Kid</span> series. She giggles as much as they do.<br /><br />Cribbage with my daughter. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KUAoh41yNfL_MKw6ORRynNkJDUTrYxJDh-a0R_RMzH6xOHNoaa1GMeWpfnc6WRgg1zCM2W7sodK87Net0oB-lfYWRGTDQLnnsXn9eQjx7KZ5fiNso4rieAXO51C6C1my2uaubxLcFCo/s1600/DSCF5549_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KUAoh41yNfL_MKw6ORRynNkJDUTrYxJDh-a0R_RMzH6xOHNoaa1GMeWpfnc6WRgg1zCM2W7sodK87Net0oB-lfYWRGTDQLnnsXn9eQjx7KZ5fiNso4rieAXO51C6C1my2uaubxLcFCo/s400/DSCF5549_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686156025192335538" border="0" /></a> Here she is being instructed by cribbage master Uncle Bob (<span style="font-style: italic;">his real name</span>), who shows no mercy. Her glee at beating the pants off me several games in a row was cute. <span style="font-style: italic;">His</span> glee at her beating the pants off me was a touch humiliating, yet also endearing. The pride of the teacher oozed from his mockery. What I loved most was her progression. At first, Uncle Bob was at her side, helping her choose her cards and count her points. Later, she began to play on her own, but a particularly confounding hand would send her running from the table, cards in hand, shouting, "Uncle Bob!!" Eventually, the time for consultations was past -- she played me mano-a-mano... and held her own.<br /><br />Sibling love and goofiness. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQJUcvo7EZUuJXWawpHtk7w0VcX2JbY_a63hTYxjpIvykfne-btCT5-5igDaeZTBC-7bPzNPs35cp2zjJ6wuVy8yEBWG9d1Ddl0CJDax-AgHdFhsuODjQkuNOvB0LgDsFRJ5lGRrcVIE/s1600/DSCF5586.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQJUcvo7EZUuJXWawpHtk7w0VcX2JbY_a63hTYxjpIvykfne-btCT5-5igDaeZTBC-7bPzNPs35cp2zjJ6wuVy8yEBWG9d1Ddl0CJDax-AgHdFhsuODjQkuNOvB0LgDsFRJ5lGRrcVIE/s400/DSCF5586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686156573412218850" border="0" /></a>Yes, they bicker. A lot. But, as I always remind them, they love each other. I tell them often that they hit the jackpot with their sibling, because they did. He is a wonderful brother. And she is a wonderful sister. Amidst the squabbles and general annoying of one another, are pockets of sweetness -- shared candy, kind words, and bedtime "I love you"s. And hugs on a mountainside.<br /><br />Snow.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EO4Fm4grLfpeMjeCXchaJ4riUOSRVYcDOUMJa3qzg7cxF34g-oCdatAmjVThvehqJhQEyPap-BYwPszPUQaQKyNDppepslc-09LDxLXe4a6no1VdPJKeruRYQpEj-IB5GBAuCRqpnzA/s1600/DSCF5637_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EO4Fm4grLfpeMjeCXchaJ4riUOSRVYcDOUMJa3qzg7cxF34g-oCdatAmjVThvehqJhQEyPap-BYwPszPUQaQKyNDppepslc-09LDxLXe4a6no1VdPJKeruRYQpEj-IB5GBAuCRqpnzA/s400/DSCF5637_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686157261352945762" border="0" /></a> We had to travel up into the mountains to find it, but it was worth the drive. (There's a funny story behind this excursion. Of course - it's us.)<br /><br />Hi-D-Ho.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bGY_pbG_yLxpEKBwB2Qe6qdXhrs6Qa6FAJzowdzyi0uH7Qp4P9pUstatSzu7jEZSUUhoHuvqVh1c7ubCzOIItPijEOusLmirtwyq0g3Cja6FXdyFFpxHHckdbUFZ_FhTlcdy6iFp2B8/s1600/IMG_20111120_132746.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bGY_pbG_yLxpEKBwB2Qe6qdXhrs6Qa6FAJzowdzyi0uH7Qp4P9pUstatSzu7jEZSUUhoHuvqVh1c7ubCzOIItPijEOusLmirtwyq0g3Cja6FXdyFFpxHHckdbUFZ_FhTlcdy6iFp2B8/s400/IMG_20111120_132746.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686158110686092546" border="0" /></a> What can I say about Hi-D-Ho? If you ever find yourself in downtown Alamogordo (but, why would you?), skip the familiar fast food chains and hit this local drive in. You'll be glad you did. Get the Tiger Burger. And the Butterscotch Milkshake. Mmmm. (And wear your stretchy pants.)<br /><br />White sand.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYwbflW5f6wiZNYN6Fapyvmyy75ljtBQlpWgl8v5943k50KHHSzdpycvAWbeKdeu5evCxRh-CsEsffuOSuUvTHHm0KyLiEtcJ8DpXEDG5WogWvHytlR27G_wxrXm6cLIv4qgqaeSMiN0/s1600/IMG_20111123_164459.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYwbflW5f6wiZNYN6Fapyvmyy75ljtBQlpWgl8v5943k50KHHSzdpycvAWbeKdeu5evCxRh-CsEsffuOSuUvTHHm0KyLiEtcJ8DpXEDG5WogWvHytlR27G_wxrXm6cLIv4qgqaeSMiN0/s400/IMG_20111123_164459.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686158583095252114" border="0" /></a>In your hair. And in your pockets. And in between your toes. And in your ears. And in other ...[ahem] ... unmentionable places. If you have never been, you should visit <a href="http://www.nps.gov/whsa/index.htm">White Sands National Monument</a>. The largest gypsum dune field in the world. <span style="font-style: italic;">The world.</span> It is cool. Bring a couple of sleds. And unleash your children (and yourself!) Don't be afraid to put your 41-year-old body on a sled and head down a steep sandy slope. Remember to laugh as you tumble end-over-end ever so gracefully. Make sure the video camera is rolling.<br /><br />Running. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxv-moOnxZUg5lJuq9zaAXbfYNZLVP3vxi9Kp3sW8iAkw251yvBK_hK87gUduT8J6uijTVnC4TFYuELlDQBYTenbii5jJ-OddYIFdoZnwkbKBOOS-HYvuOUMAXzfxM84X6ZgV6V43qYSI/s1600/IMG_20111123_085832.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxv-moOnxZUg5lJuq9zaAXbfYNZLVP3vxi9Kp3sW8iAkw251yvBK_hK87gUduT8J6uijTVnC4TFYuELlDQBYTenbii5jJ-OddYIFdoZnwkbKBOOS-HYvuOUMAXzfxM84X6ZgV6V43qYSI/s400/IMG_20111123_085832.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686159243405943506" border="0" /></a> In the mountains. More on this <a href="http://runsteph.blogspot.com/2011/11/mountain-running.html">elsewhere</a>. It was awful and awesome all at the same time.<br /><br />Woodstock. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTByG1-_bDHVXZVKL9e1bUueVmjI6kRNY-B1Kb8UfvL0d7Bh2XLOYOQhYSKwfyewk30SbuN_r9GygEg25gr11uQcpabZG64rZyiq6tv4QnjwcqK_UBYrCCZ1Dc9nrwxcCvLiBeb5CiRw/s1600/DSCF5870.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTByG1-_bDHVXZVKL9e1bUueVmjI6kRNY-B1Kb8UfvL0d7Bh2XLOYOQhYSKwfyewk30SbuN_r9GygEg25gr11uQcpabZG64rZyiq6tv4QnjwcqK_UBYrCCZ1Dc9nrwxcCvLiBeb5CiRw/s400/DSCF5870.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688023879474161666" border="0" /></a>An impulse buy. Because I had $4 in my pocket. And he makes me smile.<br /><br />Parents who love you and never stop praying for you.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4lVotEFx-OTjG5Kl5hW_3M0XAHPl8naYNe4wju8U1HWct-djAth2fI296nhu8FRK3F1VcRQBngWvavYAPM9RDE_GRhyphenhyphenDIMQbHZK9iMz6ugVCJiAp-WlU0TnGY5ohiw0HIleZJPoqYbwA/s1600/DSCF5810.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4lVotEFx-OTjG5Kl5hW_3M0XAHPl8naYNe4wju8U1HWct-djAth2fI296nhu8FRK3F1VcRQBngWvavYAPM9RDE_GRhyphenhyphenDIMQbHZK9iMz6ugVCJiAp-WlU0TnGY5ohiw0HIleZJPoqYbwA/s400/DSCF5810.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688024739732010530" border="0" /></a><br />Big, goofy dogs.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwgMkHy229TALF4-Ub247o_VILqk1agz19IwPlJLW9gcYSQVyEvoq7OO8XFky1zfPqMDavc7rHtb_uxY51Miuj8bd5FJPXtcH2VmaWrPJpdWRgOtjgen8WOHXmKTJVu_fXMtqmnuydFY/s1600/DSCF5718_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 338px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwgMkHy229TALF4-Ub247o_VILqk1agz19IwPlJLW9gcYSQVyEvoq7OO8XFky1zfPqMDavc7rHtb_uxY51Miuj8bd5FJPXtcH2VmaWrPJpdWRgOtjgen8WOHXmKTJVu_fXMtqmnuydFY/s400/DSCF5718_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688025835597844050" border="0" /></a>More on them in my <a href="http://www.steph2217.blogspot.com/2011/12/dogs-of-thanksgiving.html">previous post</a>.<br /><br />And much, much more. Glorious sunsets. The stars at night. Hot oatmeal after a cold run. Thanksgiving dinner prepared in love. A cat named Smokey. A roaring fire and warm quilts. The neighbors' hysterical pet goat. Hastings. A shooting star just for me. <br /><br />And Cherry 7-Up.<br /></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-16504186194546325512011-12-13T16:05:00.001-06:002011-12-13T16:36:29.862-06:00The dogs of ThanksgivingOur Thanksgiving was fraught with puppies. Four, count 'em, four puppies. Two big, two small. If you like dogs, my sister-in-law's is the place to be. This plethora of puppies is one of the many reasons my kids LOVE going to Aunt Vangie's. My kids (and my husband) are definitely dog people. Their glee and giggles at the puppies' antics always put a smile on my face. There really is nothing like a dog to bring a special kind of joy to a child's heart.<br /><br />Quadruple the puppies, quadruple the fun!<br /><br />First up, there is Snuggles. The miniature matriarch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EI33ZXaXhauJzZLXzWjxvC37hySc-Lux-cxLJ_iH-0gh0nRcHnRYKXwGTAqgFvDFsNHm4zHBUHJe-vm_jHdL9F83T5SzknkFi4lyhQaAqaW8Uz4nke9RA2N9XAek-hRWW4M3uQJF_gs/s1600/DSCF5797_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EI33ZXaXhauJzZLXzWjxvC37hySc-Lux-cxLJ_iH-0gh0nRcHnRYKXwGTAqgFvDFsNHm4zHBUHJe-vm_jHdL9F83T5SzknkFi4lyhQaAqaW8Uz4nke9RA2N9XAek-hRWW4M3uQJF_gs/s400/DSCF5797_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682839001762204786" border="0" /></a>She's a slightly tubby chihuahua, with a freakishly long tongue. Needs assistance scaling the height of the couch cushions. Tends to the asocial, but has an affinity for my boy child, who has a gentle way with her.<br /><br />Then there's Eva. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXp9TZdHwAKLSQL6yXK5ibJFRGma2zn6JooGVzuSn5NGG0UoSqan1-jAp4TfgvUC5PVXLjENo4ZRr2or3WNU_ZPsTbPZO5cHwqu4tWL2lN7UNEmHmp9_GYDO-7HsK2HbIXyHMZOBR9TQ/s1600/DSCF5690_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 342px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXp9TZdHwAKLSQL6yXK5ibJFRGma2zn6JooGVzuSn5NGG0UoSqan1-jAp4TfgvUC5PVXLjENo4ZRr2or3WNU_ZPsTbPZO5cHwqu4tWL2lN7UNEmHmp9_GYDO-7HsK2HbIXyHMZOBR9TQ/s400/DSCF5690_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682802249948723522" border="0" /></a>With a face only a mother could love. She's everything you expect a chihuahua to be. Excitable, tremulous, underfoot, very licky. This tiny lady awoke us many a morning with her excitement-induced, snorting asthma attacks. Ah, good times, good times.<br /><br />And then there are the big dogs: Molly and Ivan.<br /><br />Molly is a hulking bear of a dog with a bulldog's stance and a bionic tail. Neurotic as all get out -- chews her nails and spends an inordinate amount of time grooming herself. It makes you want to pet her gently and soothe her like a distraught child, "There, there... it's okay... everything's going to be okay." Can you imagine what it's like to wake up each morning to this face ... <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn48xwhg4QwR7DN00UXg0fIAXE4h3xtA-ZLVKKYtC9kl9j2ffsdlhTU76996gwkWDbRFHLNdVQx99aQKHQZuDaXIGvJ2ghL4-MrJ3yrkXscNi1VfYaaCrO7hFnSvgZLqfgBq8lO5IuciI/s1600/DSCF5758_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 326px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn48xwhg4QwR7DN00UXg0fIAXE4h3xtA-ZLVKKYtC9kl9j2ffsdlhTU76996gwkWDbRFHLNdVQx99aQKHQZuDaXIGvJ2ghL4-MrJ3yrkXscNi1VfYaaCrO7hFnSvgZLqfgBq8lO5IuciI/s400/DSCF5758_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682827711261623074" border="0" /></a>... inches away from <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> face? We can.<br /><br />Finally, there is Ivan. He's an imposing figure. But here's the truth: it's a facade. Behind the I-could-tear-you-to-pieces-in-a-nanosecond exterior lies the softness of a teddy bear. He's just a huge baby. And he has the whine to prove it. He is the most attention/love seeking, doe-eyed, dog I've ever met. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDpvyPEw3heFFeBHBffc2iRFW7Sp_HFna9vumeIY25z6FoRNXCKPmCkzla8lgMv49J615Yry1CS2yoA8C0HKCxNwC5EfAYAlTIa8CL2k8NNWfXAkRryeY1IQDwWRB0-s6d_JPwgB1BJY/s1600/DSCF5526_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 354px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDpvyPEw3heFFeBHBffc2iRFW7Sp_HFna9vumeIY25z6FoRNXCKPmCkzla8lgMv49J615Yry1CS2yoA8C0HKCxNwC5EfAYAlTIa8CL2k8NNWfXAkRryeY1IQDwWRB0-s6d_JPwgB1BJY/s400/DSCF5526_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682797978458204018" border="0" /></a>He knows he's found a sucker in my husband, and they have a special bond. I'm not much of a dog person, but it's true -- I have been caught, on occasion, wrapping my arms around this big galoot. Or letting him snuggle up to us while watching the big game.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaF9tnKfVNNApKpbuNJl8zZHFO0oDKMofNJZPYqa6k0VZ0OpXm-7McJd66dNWaTPdv3jsmInqbJkGuAU1KLcGhg7Mni2_jbwAz7tiY5qXyEMrG3eKGb8kSTYB9cIxIhnm6B6lfkN9wq4M/s1600/DSCF5766.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaF9tnKfVNNApKpbuNJl8zZHFO0oDKMofNJZPYqa6k0VZ0OpXm-7McJd66dNWaTPdv3jsmInqbJkGuAU1KLcGhg7Mni2_jbwAz7tiY5qXyEMrG3eKGb8kSTYB9cIxIhnm6B6lfkN9wq4M/s400/DSCF5766.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682840517741805154" border="0" /></a>Thanksgiving in New Mexico wouldn't be the same without these pups. When it's time for us to head home, we are told there is a collective depression that settles upon them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqDo_HIqygkjB6uDeC5bAPfskP7IXYJL9toyWkKmP-0wrS_rv19as7GhOmMKcnRNmUVmUmGI4QC8G9SS3byTQmCBiqp22BfogAHDthKhBCef8TMAy2WopqsNmviOW5Zm9yO_bznRdfG0/s1600/DSCF5787.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqDo_HIqygkjB6uDeC5bAPfskP7IXYJL9toyWkKmP-0wrS_rv19as7GhOmMKcnRNmUVmUmGI4QC8G9SS3byTQmCBiqp22BfogAHDthKhBCef8TMAy2WopqsNmviOW5Zm9yO_bznRdfG0/s400/DSCF5787.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682841812055915490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0i5dvk976xg425QaQtkbzOlmT3NvUttOv5sVObxLIOKeZ2GKtXOLRRUOivkrllxoWWCrk4T17oK8r1pOyowoHV1c6dmVna8VEycDmDX4_RLPLPW94OEtq0Nv6DaMcGilYItlwNXOrI1A/s1600/IMG_20111121_100319_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0i5dvk976xg425QaQtkbzOlmT3NvUttOv5sVObxLIOKeZ2GKtXOLRRUOivkrllxoWWCrk4T17oK8r1pOyowoHV1c6dmVna8VEycDmDX4_RLPLPW94OEtq0Nv6DaMcGilYItlwNXOrI1A/s400/IMG_20111121_100319_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682841016495325842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH6PRloJVFJV9KhNLtJ5w3af-4MEAkVBwYmBnTpYQR5K4cc85GaFWh8WOKo7mlnbn07dd7zXBXgg7cOSSR0SwLrhNg76ArWc1Pj_0y9YpSY0fi9Wxgt8gWFiPHNOwZ_VkZxMkVyvD9mA/s1600/DSCF5777.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH6PRloJVFJV9KhNLtJ5w3af-4MEAkVBwYmBnTpYQR5K4cc85GaFWh8WOKo7mlnbn07dd7zXBXgg7cOSSR0SwLrhNg76ArWc1Pj_0y9YpSY0fi9Wxgt8gWFiPHNOwZ_VkZxMkVyvD9mA/s400/DSCF5777.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682842012401667746" border="0" /></a>And the feeling is mutual.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7oefJe7kX19OslB6YRhK0SCbKfRp6CKabMnbdAx_epdKK6LgnNC9VpUg150nUZExfrGObZ5H3XebJzapqw6T1GIFgjIowpMkMFkcut439AK-3dCW8M7-ReriqdkEmXdXjFrDqEqSjwg/s1600/DSCF5738_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 323px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7oefJe7kX19OslB6YRhK0SCbKfRp6CKabMnbdAx_epdKK6LgnNC9VpUg150nUZExfrGObZ5H3XebJzapqw6T1GIFgjIowpMkMFkcut439AK-3dCW8M7-ReriqdkEmXdXjFrDqEqSjwg/s400/DSCF5738_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682843619967541506" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT5AnzOKAFDGc4Q5duAChIaNEnjQIWIaLbIUlfoMM3hMrAP4Ehxr7R9kDJnjBQbP3lVCjCFPgAmQ0cdkLJAvYoNF2mCX6pV_ZXBTV6uMySjehlinJN2qMGLB4VI2AT39TeLJEMgpRID0/s1600/DSCF5783_cropped.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIT5AnzOKAFDGc4Q5duAChIaNEnjQIWIaLbIUlfoMM3hMrAP4Ehxr7R9kDJnjBQbP3lVCjCFPgAmQ0cdkLJAvYoNF2mCX6pV_ZXBTV6uMySjehlinJN2qMGLB4VI2AT39TeLJEMgpRID0/s400/DSCF5783_cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682842665911156466" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-60088272089658591662011-08-19T16:35:00.022-05:002011-08-19T18:45:07.779-05:00Duct tape summerFirst of all, I have to give a hearty thanks to my friend, <a href="http://dillerhome.blogspot.com/">Hannah</a>, who introduced us to duct tape crafting at this summer's Bible Camp. At the camp, the kids made duct tape wallets such as the <span class="st"><em>très chic</em></span> one you see here ...
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7fZR595PUdFvirFs_U3mOUUsn7YCFlqr9Z9hgDOi4gmuMBYejLqosR-SpowAQYVuFrv3L0jUzgjLN18ed3FsMLneLLStV_JXAdfY06r_Lt0yz0b_Oim5BfzwF9FdjNzp2nsV53zKfcU/s1600/DSCF5288.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7fZR595PUdFvirFs_U3mOUUsn7YCFlqr9Z9hgDOi4gmuMBYejLqosR-SpowAQYVuFrv3L0jUzgjLN18ed3FsMLneLLStV_JXAdfY06r_Lt0yz0b_Oim5BfzwF9FdjNzp2nsV53zKfcU/s400/DSCF5288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642690755867195442" border="0" /></a>It was a labor-intensive craft for the workers, but oh-so-worth-it, as the kids loved it!
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<br />After Bible Camp, we came across this little book at our <a href="http://www.ci.austin.tx.us/library/">public library</a> ...
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ03dG-0rjCMCyhixogmhPQtrw2WZxfrgSHkGNJa6A8fNZlq9U8ELYwPqh2Yz3MiOxCl2NbdK0uPXCOrmH5-H5C6cEKbhGJw298ldb-pFnp6aB0zOoxnqVBiX15N5aS1NkxABwu9jCWG0/s1600/5689229.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ03dG-0rjCMCyhixogmhPQtrw2WZxfrgSHkGNJa6A8fNZlq9U8ELYwPqh2Yz3MiOxCl2NbdK0uPXCOrmH5-H5C6cEKbhGJw298ldb-pFnp6aB0zOoxnqVBiX15N5aS1NkxABwu9jCWG0/s400/5689229.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642691565627449090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stick-DIY-Duct-Tape-Projects/dp/0762434945/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1313787840&sr=8-1">(Stick It!: 99 DIY Duct Tape Projects)</a></span></div>... and she was off!
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<br />A few of the summer projects included more duct tape wallets: for Daddy on Father's Day, for Grandpa on his birthday (in Dallas Cowboy colors and with a fresh dollar bill tucked inside), and for her brother, just because.
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<br />There was a duct tape flower frenzy, with custom orders being taken for Daddy, Mommy, her brother, her BFF and of course, herself ...
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JzIt-SPiH9jGdi566yrKwAUDE7CO_F_W0CcA9h7Ud8ftu4qfvxYLacpEnsVA7rGnLmPFSpGnBDjqvSLLI6a5r-rzk-YZUrqSzspIAlYShM1_pqDka2YxHtbkhcI9aPmJnGwUsWNhHlM/s1600/DSCF5281.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JzIt-SPiH9jGdi566yrKwAUDE7CO_F_W0CcA9h7Ud8ftu4qfvxYLacpEnsVA7rGnLmPFSpGnBDjqvSLLI6a5r-rzk-YZUrqSzspIAlYShM1_pqDka2YxHtbkhcI9aPmJnGwUsWNhHlM/s400/DSCF5281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642692222859154034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSpydj2POjLC1M2AI0Ss7RvWk6XJLDA7sS2SMwb-QuQZCW5A7bEJI71qs5BCu8d5XlUwAyKIrLaF_VdoSRnORJTLma6WrAZpBWTYWfLxCJ2Pu-MHizOqlSw-m4rPrwGYAzDEBHtjQPTU/s1600/DSCF5287.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSpydj2POjLC1M2AI0Ss7RvWk6XJLDA7sS2SMwb-QuQZCW5A7bEJI71qs5BCu8d5XlUwAyKIrLaF_VdoSRnORJTLma6WrAZpBWTYWfLxCJ2Pu-MHizOqlSw-m4rPrwGYAzDEBHtjQPTU/s400/DSCF5287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642692485983890226" border="0" /></a>Empty tissue boxes scored at a birthday party became treasure boxes (one for her and one for her BFF) ...
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasVkUCzKmWVu0l5H7TMEcz5tRK7hciOWx6bD2IXv8jlWIgbKtYH7O_DRrpRNQnj1lgiNg1VYCuoke35SA3gESmTuKYwnEgJfkAOjDApZesRWCNd6Ej6KTRa5a7W365J-jHYDYyOseq_c/s1600/DSCF5293.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasVkUCzKmWVu0l5H7TMEcz5tRK7hciOWx6bD2IXv8jlWIgbKtYH7O_DRrpRNQnj1lgiNg1VYCuoke35SA3gESmTuKYwnEgJfkAOjDApZesRWCNd6Ej6KTRa5a7W365J-jHYDYyOseq_c/s400/DSCF5293.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642693122195198754" border="0" /></a>
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40RVE9UDpcheQh84QxaLQdBXINBKa95ncmWxQDT-QIa7vuOHfuRfvut1APol0ayUEChaJMJujwz0xiTpEm50rPk0nxecdqskQWaXy7W_DYnvPnOje5BR5mwmH5aQH9g2_5fd9Oa306MM/s1600/DSCF5278.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40RVE9UDpcheQh84QxaLQdBXINBKa95ncmWxQDT-QIa7vuOHfuRfvut1APol0ayUEChaJMJujwz0xiTpEm50rPk0nxecdqskQWaXy7W_DYnvPnOje5BR5mwmH5aQH9g2_5fd9Oa306MM/s400/DSCF5278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642692844294217938" border="0" /></a>Beloved doll, Julie, received a much needed dresser for her clothing and accessories (at the foot of her fabulous canopy bed, which just so happens to be at the foot of my daughter's fabulous canopy bed) ...
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgQDdthVuGqL3BUo6GopTa_elfA1B_Pgw9lft4GkS90h3IlVEUleoA1vY02Au1CW29oOFByVtnVvbrA7BitdjUJMKI2DYOPSl46qTpZUkT3LXDh_hsdIx3YIDH8-lTaW3aeAM8983i-A/s1600/DSCF5284.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgQDdthVuGqL3BUo6GopTa_elfA1B_Pgw9lft4GkS90h3IlVEUleoA1vY02Au1CW29oOFByVtnVvbrA7BitdjUJMKI2DYOPSl46qTpZUkT3LXDh_hsdIx3YIDH8-lTaW3aeAM8983i-A/s400/DSCF5284.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642693438778961410" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrfvF84i2es9Qac1tEia_BI5BmC5WiFrRLIr6D735HjBQhFYklmEvu1P2_voOKuMkgv1ctG1zP9yIK9TAm7lKe9A9B0f8wm_dgsUU-pwNWawX4QUuaV-haF-W5FDjQZIpcC5SlupC6cA/s1600/DSCF5286.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrfvF84i2es9Qac1tEia_BI5BmC5WiFrRLIr6D735HjBQhFYklmEvu1P2_voOKuMkgv1ctG1zP9yIK9TAm7lKe9A9B0f8wm_dgsUU-pwNWawX4QUuaV-haF-W5FDjQZIpcC5SlupC6cA/s400/DSCF5286.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642694066325499330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(notice the divider to separate the compartments)</span>
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<br />Somewhere floating around is a duct tape ring, which may never be found.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">This little horse (found randomly in our sewing table and measuring 1-1/2" high by 1-3/4" long) now has a saddle, blanket, feed bag, and some sort of collar ...
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZS2HrwtH_uRW2N5QLqciWrSfihYeSIq9gBvtN6gyHjJrCfPW2JUIPSLodIWP_piRF60_TKChhKVvUnXWERowPWQtfpDvdg2ZrNtxTdNRYr6RC3hqZfaz11bJXW50UWUkW5uGuH4PbAvg/s1600/DSCF5290.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZS2HrwtH_uRW2N5QLqciWrSfihYeSIq9gBvtN6gyHjJrCfPW2JUIPSLodIWP_piRF60_TKChhKVvUnXWERowPWQtfpDvdg2ZrNtxTdNRYr6RC3hqZfaz11bJXW50UWUkW5uGuH4PbAvg/s400/DSCF5290.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642694931314196658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(wearing the saddle and collar)</span>
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<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwml4Zkh6B_mfWhw0KJot2tki2fQdEDdS393OkffrS7ZsOq4z3azMCiRmrlykCGu34XNiSjtdb4LbUu8TqEP1VJNnJs42URkmZvMdD8uLQRY_SSr3ewH3xyqtC0zOexjEe23YYrlGZd4g/s1600/DSCF5283.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwml4Zkh6B_mfWhw0KJot2tki2fQdEDdS393OkffrS7ZsOq4z3azMCiRmrlykCGu34XNiSjtdb4LbUu8TqEP1VJNnJs42URkmZvMdD8uLQRY_SSr3ewH3xyqtC0zOexjEe23YYrlGZd4g/s400/DSCF5283.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642695308036357922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(wearing the blanket and feed bag)</span>
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<br />And last, but not least, some duct tape flip flops (I got to help with these) ...
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJi6SeF6R4WeGC4bIU7jayaD-cFddnOo5qeL-Y_7qvP74kHboyY9_S-a7NcGs9z1Te27e9yu4xt7TBug4LQzursWf08AeQjrmmVI3rl3AsUoe-BKhePSaTIDqbXsQqbmsqE0f6thq0Q4/s1600/DSCF5295.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJi6SeF6R4WeGC4bIU7jayaD-cFddnOo5qeL-Y_7qvP74kHboyY9_S-a7NcGs9z1Te27e9yu4xt7TBug4LQzursWf08AeQjrmmVI3rl3AsUoe-BKhePSaTIDqbXsQqbmsqE0f6thq0Q4/s400/DSCF5295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642695793141238066" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbkpOSkPlDbk1bRCNVIn-KLwPeh1PdQUxD7cEJqy2Qr-XNWgkf5qJXUdlHhXQdXTIB0WA8rgkpVrM6fZHFZ86SP0vOpKps5v-HjrHPcVLvBPUOGg6Lq0k3B6Z0UfeAFWvSccRxa6Umoes/s1600/DSCF5296.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbkpOSkPlDbk1bRCNVIn-KLwPeh1PdQUxD7cEJqy2Qr-XNWgkf5qJXUdlHhXQdXTIB0WA8rgkpVrM6fZHFZ86SP0vOpKps5v-HjrHPcVLvBPUOGg6Lq0k3B6Z0UfeAFWvSccRxa6Umoes/s400/DSCF5296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642696213051680834" border="0" /></a>The girl just couldn't understand why (and was none too happy when) we would not allow her to wear the flip flops outside.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Have duct tape, will craft!</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2wfggHyqN1QqUqP_uNxJwmqb-AwDeKXdvUwQEBGS5d-47B7Iwt0nD4waM_wdSuHdRLMgmkI7ryoF2KLxVkaIN9B_7Y_I9Y6fwUYOOWEIuILUeX_vEuMyH174zZTikp5SBqLxqNybfw4/s1600/DSCF5272.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2wfggHyqN1QqUqP_uNxJwmqb-AwDeKXdvUwQEBGS5d-47B7Iwt0nD4waM_wdSuHdRLMgmkI7ryoF2KLxVkaIN9B_7Y_I9Y6fwUYOOWEIuILUeX_vEuMyH174zZTikp5SBqLxqNybfw4/s400/DSCF5272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642697987732431970" border="0" /></a>
<br /></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-49530211585933928772011-08-16T10:17:00.004-05:002011-08-16T11:04:16.754-05:00Love to share - locks and locks of it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOtxYh3NLYwiP6l9GARd50BCmz_bbGJPg_tt_gSyW2G2AMeoZfG_cQHiNjvvFOwhEIZgM46unIKWTeNDZLRONN72dB4uQyU_pKYVnHhlk-bxBdMP57Iz037YzUWdNKfXDIqhrnrpuLKU/s1600/DSCF4479.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOtxYh3NLYwiP6l9GARd50BCmz_bbGJPg_tt_gSyW2G2AMeoZfG_cQHiNjvvFOwhEIZgM46unIKWTeNDZLRONN72dB4uQyU_pKYVnHhlk-bxBdMP57Iz037YzUWdNKfXDIqhrnrpuLKU/s400/DSCF4479.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641479126073706594" border="0" /></a>Oh, this girl. Where did she get her heart? The girl who, when she gets some candy, immediately says, <span style="font-style: italic;">Can I share some with my brother?</span> The girl who jumps at the opportunity to help. The girl who is always on the lookout for gifts for her BFF. The girl whose primary joy is to make things that she can bestow as gifts upon others.
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<br />My giving girl.
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<br />Most of all, she gives love and I am always awed and grateful for it. I don't deserve it. But I receive it and it makes me yearn for a heart like hers. Just the other night at bedtime she took my face in her two soft little hands and planted a ring of sweet kisses from my chin up around my cheek to my forehead and back down the other side and ending on the tip of my nose. She has no idea what a quiet ecstasy it is, to be the recipient of her gift of love. But I know.
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<br />So it is no surprise that as her hair grew heavy and summer fast approached and talk turned to a short summer do, her first thought was, <span style="font-style: italic;">Who can I share this with?
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<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOtxYh3NLYwiP6l9GARd50BCmz_bbGJPg_tt_gSyW2G2AMeoZfG_cQHiNjvvFOwhEIZgM46unIKWTeNDZLRONN72dB4uQyU_pKYVnHhlk-bxBdMP57Iz037YzUWdNKfXDIqhrnrpuLKU/s1600/DSCF4479.JPG"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAha8vZp-2l_HKrFbwjFhXE7LMB2Wg84iZvjDY-Hbtp7ydAkC7ukzPv9jgPE-119uHJxt9EgBhb_3HD-nfXOEtipagCwOheGJCA_nD4BG4BjE2vbTrXxzksk0xu1QXdTB9240ZJ3Q6cY/s1600/DSCF4493.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAha8vZp-2l_HKrFbwjFhXE7LMB2Wg84iZvjDY-Hbtp7ydAkC7ukzPv9jgPE-119uHJxt9EgBhb_3HD-nfXOEtipagCwOheGJCA_nD4BG4BjE2vbTrXxzksk0xu1QXdTB9240ZJ3Q6cY/s400/DSCF4493.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641479432593067074" border="0" /></a></span>
<br />If you have a like-minded little girl, or you yourself are in need of a style update, please consider donating to <a href="http://www.locksoflove.org/">Locks of Love</a>. Your donation will help provide hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children suffering from long-term medical hair loss. My daughter was thrilled when she received her thank-you card in the mail from the Locks of Love organization.
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<br />The hair grows back and the heart grows bigger.
<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-50184928557629185652011-05-13T15:59:00.005-05:002011-05-13T16:58:01.463-05:00How can you mend a broken heart?The other evening while my attention was absorbed by a phone call, my sweet girl was sitting quietly nearby flipping through an old photo album. At one point I glanced in her direction and was shocked to see her little body hunched over, weeping. I motioned to her to find out what had happened and she lifted up the photo album to show me this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6U7aT8s_VsmZ5w_n4xcazS28DNUMG-UZVCeiIGp80vFENsqIQi186QuuYFXV6E5U0LRingsuhPqA9P34E9xzS526LSxusFlz8dR6WvV0wNyT7VgXRD_nj19rPmds5t7dMx3N-ewT6Po/s1600/kitty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit6U7aT8s_VsmZ5w_n4xcazS28DNUMG-UZVCeiIGp80vFENsqIQi186QuuYFXV6E5U0LRingsuhPqA9P34E9xzS526LSxusFlz8dR6WvV0wNyT7VgXRD_nj19rPmds5t7dMx3N-ewT6Po/s320/kitty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606305842132909986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(Not his best photo)</span><br /></div><br /><a href="http://steph2217.blogspot.com/2010/09/girl-and-her-kitty.html">It has been 8 months.</a> 8 whole months. And she still dissolves into a puddle at the sight of him. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes, still.<br /><br />As I held her, I had to let her know that I still miss him, too, and think of him at the oddest of times. Like the other day when I opened up the bathroom cabinet and remembered that we always needed to keep the cabinet shut or he would simply HAVE to check it out, wide-eyed and tentative, forcing his massive girth into the small space because, because .... well, I just don't know why. I'm sure he got trapped in there once or twice. Not the brightest bulb was he. Nope, not too bright.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But gosh, I miss him!</span><br /><br />What I wouldn't give right now to lay my weary head on his oh-so-soft, warm, motoring tummy and make him comfort me (you always had to make him) and then laugh when he immediately set about cleaning whatever area I had besmirched with my offensive human touch. <br /><br />Miss you, Seb ... you big dummy.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-54529868180855558542011-02-24T16:01:00.002-06:002011-02-24T21:49:14.885-06:00The MarathonThis past Sunday, my husband ran the <a href="http://www.youraustinmarathon.com/home">Austin Marathon</a>. This is the story of that day.<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;">The participants</span></span></span><br />My husband -- the runner<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3Sy621N4udk_LhN9ORNs4l2ByYKZ8v1IN5ngKf_7qsYKP5OGAlmXsTGEWjnWmjo8rBr3-RdASaG9d1ouDmEIuZmpII4CtHrS1-FNdO2DqhnPsO_AavW8v_Tpx0lYDI1IcmsfmP_Tngs/s1600/Marathon+091.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3Sy621N4udk_LhN9ORNs4l2ByYKZ8v1IN5ngKf_7qsYKP5OGAlmXsTGEWjnWmjo8rBr3-RdASaG9d1ouDmEIuZmpII4CtHrS1-FNdO2DqhnPsO_AavW8v_Tpx0lYDI1IcmsfmP_Tngs/s320/Marathon+091.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577372456033052274" border="0" /></a>My brother -- race support team member, comic relief<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5XAB8Co2guwQfTF8XuQRzbsj3_CNcWCVnuirE_FNXg45DHcK6Z0bNrgxDoIqTYfGm1JOJd_zRc5_z5qe9MvFmOAYAAlQ-2TA_OLk_RwTCa-3XIEzJehW_Qb8K94yMwRoOgkefBz-efA/s1600/Marathon+076.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5XAB8Co2guwQfTF8XuQRzbsj3_CNcWCVnuirE_FNXg45DHcK6Z0bNrgxDoIqTYfGm1JOJd_zRc5_z5qe9MvFmOAYAAlQ-2TA_OLk_RwTCa-3XIEzJehW_Qb8K94yMwRoOgkefBz-efA/s320/Marathon+076.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577372197994619090" border="0" /></a>My sister-in-law -- fellow marathoner, race support team member, the brains of the outfit<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Mo_WEbERdrNfshwxmMO_AlvUXdz5aM4ur2Bs3-EP8Hqw3QTUYNE_aXIvUkAVarsWvhEhtJA9yFB1SHsSrKiooFmqbbAaqdWxtYkrGlTFy5q2ctQ_pRcn2LukA8gykMCl_Zh8cnI5mhQ/s1600/Marathon+105.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Mo_WEbERdrNfshwxmMO_AlvUXdz5aM4ur2Bs3-EP8Hqw3QTUYNE_aXIvUkAVarsWvhEhtJA9yFB1SHsSrKiooFmqbbAaqdWxtYkrGlTFy5q2ctQ_pRcn2LukA8gykMCl_Zh8cnI5mhQ/s320/Marathon+105.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577373108870417650" border="0" /></a>Me -- the wife, designated navigator<br />The kids -- the encouraging progeny<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">5:45am</span><br />The runner and his race support team head downtown for the start of the race. Confidence is high. So is the humidity.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">6:55am</span><br />I leave the house with the children - late. We drive downtown to rendezvous with the race support team at (or near) mile 2, where we discover that parking is scarce downtown on marathon day.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">7:00am, Mile 0</span><br />The race begins.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">7:20am, Somewhere downtown</span><br />I locate the race support team and finally find a parking spot. We missed the runner at mile 2, but we are ready to catch him at mile 8.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 8</span><br />The under-dressed children (who remind me, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Mom, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">you</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> told us to wear shorts!</span>"), now clad in borrowed long-sleeved shirts, cease shivering and are ready for Daddy with camera and hand-made signs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzMpJAFwCKrkPYMhkO6m_Y75l_7supuyXDXSCaqcK3HUpt83qa3y-IicMts6_HRxUb41Vpz147MbP-Ee3zaNeeywJVnmNxX7BQLKdjYc8e_vcqwONdpR6jE6DB5HGaeymWAcAkyIZF9Y/s1600/Marathon+070.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzMpJAFwCKrkPYMhkO6m_Y75l_7supuyXDXSCaqcK3HUpt83qa3y-IicMts6_HRxUb41Vpz147MbP-Ee3zaNeeywJVnmNxX7BQLKdjYc8e_vcqwONdpR6jE6DB5HGaeymWAcAkyIZF9Y/s320/Marathon+070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577025395028990386" border="0" /></a>We are looking for the runner, scanning the crowd for his white shirt. Suddenly he appears (in his grey shirt, not his white shirt, which he has already stripped because it is dang warm & humid), flying past us as he tosses his watch to the boy. Race spectating is a weird business.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 12.5</span><br />We are waiting at the crest of a doozy of a hill. We are rethinking the message we have written on our dry-erase sign ("You're not slow, you're just enjoying the course"), judging that the folks coming up this hill are in no mood for humor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcpzfQesdbDBbwMiby71_-HSeDNtHhgcf8qCbfIM1eyF2531Lj1aE4XrDxOC2jCm5lebGqeojpn80q1Tzk5hEr2upYRy9lmc0Oi980oG-8FN_Ol2z_88aCF4Aaps2XSizpN2hUlyoMFRo/s1600/Marathon+075.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcpzfQesdbDBbwMiby71_-HSeDNtHhgcf8qCbfIM1eyF2531Lj1aE4XrDxOC2jCm5lebGqeojpn80q1Tzk5hEr2upYRy9lmc0Oi980oG-8FN_Ol2z_88aCF4Aaps2XSizpN2hUlyoMFRo/s320/Marathon+075.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577374175188426546" border="0" /></a>We spot our runner reach the bottom of the hill. As he makes his way upwards toward our position, my brother, ever the motivator, approaches him to yell at him to get moving. When he reaches the top of the hill, as we shout words of encouragement and woo-hoos, he cries out, "Do you have socks?! Socks!"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">- aside - </span><br /></div><blockquote>The day before the race, while talking to his race support team, the runner pulls out some sweet looking fancy socks that he has recently purchased, never worn. My sister-in-law, the experienced marathoner, warily asks him, have you <span style="font-style: italic;">run</span> in those socks before?? <span style="font-style: italic;">No, but .</span>... She and my brother, the experienced half-marathoner, exchange a look as the runner assures them that while he did not train with these socks, they are awesome and all will be well.</blockquote><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 12.5 (cont.)</span><br />"Socks! Socks!" The requested socks, the trained-in socks, are in the runner's backpack. In the car. Two blocks away. I vow to be better prepared at the next checkpoint.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 16</span><br />The runner is shirtless now. Confidence is, um ... medium? Humidity, high. He changes his socks.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;">Mile 19<br /></span>We are just past mile 19. The kids are taking turns holding our sign, keeping count of smiles, chuckles, and comments elicited from the runners. Emma counted 47. Only one person said, "That's mean!" (but they said it with a smile.) One girl exclaimed, "That's right! What is <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span> with me!?!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ipg-E3bAZzljvaOrrHwfefR0ZFNK55ncXWQy06QJK1FppqqXqOZAO64RMOF50DIrfC3K-KEQEbBKeuw3kTAxVXEB0tKrfN4E1Zo5q2oCHWWgOfzfInqxquG7aka9FUdSoZ8U-XBqx6M/s1600/Marathon+079.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ipg-E3bAZzljvaOrrHwfefR0ZFNK55ncXWQy06QJK1FppqqXqOZAO64RMOF50DIrfC3K-KEQEbBKeuw3kTAxVXEB0tKrfN4E1Zo5q2oCHWWgOfzfInqxquG7aka9FUdSoZ8U-XBqx6M/s320/Marathon+079.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577374877306247218" border="0" /></a>My phone rings. It's the runner. He is close. I wonder why he is calling. He breathes into the phone the unexpected words, "I'm done."<br /><br />You must know this man to know what this means. I know this man. This man is not a quitter. He is not fainthearted. This man is a runner. He runs. This is a man who routinely, <span style="font-style: italic;">daily</span>, pushes through pain. He is a man who does not lightly abandon a goal. I know this man. And I know what it means when he says that he is done. My heart sinks. Because I know what it means.<br /><br />The support team, the family, is deeply concerned. My brother walks to meet him, to assess his condition. He is unsure whether to push the runner to go on, or not. When he reaches the runner, he understands better. Nauseous and in pain, the runner tosses his cookies. As I approach, I find him heaving behind a fence; my brother is with him. I go to my husband and I stand with him, I lay my hand on him, I wait.<br /><br />We are all waiting. We have no other agenda for the day than to be here for this man. Whether he stops or whether he continues, we are here with him. We are not in a hurry, we are not disappointed, we are not hungry, we are simply <span>here</span>. With him.<br /><br />As he sits to rest with our sister-in-law, my brother and I go for some mineral water. In our absence, he asks advice of the woman who understands his struggle, his pain, his desire. And she advises him - wisely, realistically, quietly. It's not a pep talk - her words are simply truth.<br /><br />My brother and I return with the Perrier and we sit with him. We wait with him. There is nothing I want more than for him to finish his race. <span style="font-style: italic;">For him</span>. We all want that. And so we wait. I sense a peace in the waiting. With him. We are with him. <span style="font-style: italic;">For him</span>.<br /><br />Eventually, he stands. He walks. He moves forward, toward the goal. We leave him to head for Mile 22, but, really, we are still with him.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 22</span><br />He comes. He is moving forward. He smiles. He continues past us. We are still with him.<br /><br />(The race support team detours for lunch. I know I said we weren't hungry. We weren't, but now we are, and there are children.)<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;">Mile 23.5</span><br />We arrive at mile 23.5, sit on the curb, eat our Chipotle, and wait for the runner. Quietly hoping. He comes. He rests. I rub his back. I joke with him that he had to run 23 miles to get me to do that. We encourage, he departs, we finish our burritos, and then we head downtown to meet him at the finish line.<br /><br />The finish line.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Mile 26.2</span><br />I am excited, guardedly excited. 7.2 miles ago, I didn't expect to be here, waiting, at the finish line. Yet here we are.<br /><br />We find a good spot along the final stretch and watch the runners come in. It is a moving thing to witness. We are past the 6 hour mark, so these folks are not the elite. They are not running for glory, not now, or even for personal best. They are running to finish. They are the ones who could have given up, <span style="font-style: italic;">should </span><span>have</span> just stopped, but didn't. They are the mom who covers the last 50 yards hand-in-hand with her toddler. They are the woman celebrating her 66th birthday - on a grueling race course. They are the dad crossing the finish line with his child on his shoulders. They are the man with a prosthetic leg, showing the rest of us what is possible. They are the many others whose stories we do not know, whose secret motivations are hidden from our eyes. But still we are inspired by each one, because <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">heart</span>. We revel in their triumph, and we are proud.<br /><br />My brother sees him first -- <span style="font-style: italic;">"Here he comes!"</span> I barely have time to get my lens cap off, barely have time to snap the photos and call his name, barely even see him as he is sprinting down the stretch. Sprinting. The man who was overheated at mile 12, breathless at mile 16, done at mile 19. Sprinting the final .2.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwHL3RlyQq8oPI8Cw2VJYTvVzHnglA_ccaGrMV48RBkWm4b3_9R7snXfBcTcjLLPJAcNnbKphoU2TgjHqqMYWqQ-x6FlB-7hGXAbwTtrcFLfz6hB2vlmO6Z8FgWkZjLzoVXWeofsXhtw/s1600/Marathon+097+cropped+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwHL3RlyQq8oPI8Cw2VJYTvVzHnglA_ccaGrMV48RBkWm4b3_9R7snXfBcTcjLLPJAcNnbKphoU2TgjHqqMYWqQ-x6FlB-7hGXAbwTtrcFLfz6hB2vlmO6Z8FgWkZjLzoVXWeofsXhtw/s320/Marathon+097+cropped+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577378823833132898" border="0" /></a></span>This day did not go as any of us had planned or expected. Does anything, really? But we gained so much. I witnessed my husband emerge from a dark place of pain and defeat. He did not do it alone. None of us do it alone. I witnessed the love of family - husband, wife, brother, sister, child - and its power to comfort, encourage, believe, motivate, sustain. This love cherished me and it cherished him.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Don't let anyone tell you that 6:28:46 is not a triumph. It was.<br /></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp7CooitVchve60JD4XnX-kHlZAAY6FIgXEg8N34p1ZKbU8Mv40asl1yKRcpbsh9vAPAUcHW3VUH16GrD27aLYzbRuJskLdwnITWlslEPz_RT8q1jzUPHy-V3xNkMuDMezCHVfswXB-4/s1600/Marathon+104.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp7CooitVchve60JD4XnX-kHlZAAY6FIgXEg8N34p1ZKbU8Mv40asl1yKRcpbsh9vAPAUcHW3VUH16GrD27aLYzbRuJskLdwnITWlslEPz_RT8q1jzUPHy-V3xNkMuDMezCHVfswXB-4/s320/Marathon+104.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577379991675759730" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><br />Postscript</span><br /></div>When I began writing this tale, I intended it to be <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> story, but I realize now that it is mine. The runner has his own story to tell and you should ask him about it. It involves many of the things I have mentioned - determination, despair, hope, pain, family, love. All that ... and a cup named Turq.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-13154836482179897812011-02-16T16:03:00.000-06:002011-02-16T16:10:21.615-06:00The girl doesn't like mathI find it ironic that my daughter, the child who consistently professes her dislike of mathematics, spent a good part of a recent afternoon speaking to me in fractions.<br /><br />Such as ...<br /><br />"Mommy, so-and-so has a van that fits eleven people." "Wow," I say, "That's a lot of people." She surveys the inside of our van. "Ours has room for seven. So their van can fit one and a half more people in it."<br /><br />(So maybe she didn't phrase it <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly </span>right, but you can see where she was going with it.)<br /><br />And later, as we are driving down the street ...<br /><br />"Emma, look at that big dog!" (Because we simply must observe and report any and all cute and furry animals encountered on our travels.) "Ooh!" she replies, "That dog is three-quarters my size!"<br /><br />But don't be fooled. I have it on good authority that the girl does <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> like math.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-31942486223679378272011-02-14T08:04:00.002-06:002011-02-14T09:55:59.661-06:00Heart of goldA couple of weeks ago I was inspired by my son's new organization scheme for his gymnastics medals, which came into being after he earned his first ever silver and bronze medals.<br /><br />The new system looks like this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxDaDEEUPcgegyuo-pfJ9XJIDTsnAsTy34nEkLmlUe1oqpOni-JxH_Kuf7i1jxQ31Kq0KC6PBuRUuy-VKwv5RdI9Pgk30hmVm-9jt3AiGnoaoJNH7DLTWqykB6EvBm5b4xwUFCT53UvM/s1600/Lego+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxDaDEEUPcgegyuo-pfJ9XJIDTsnAsTy34nEkLmlUe1oqpOni-JxH_Kuf7i1jxQ31Kq0KC6PBuRUuy-VKwv5RdI9Pgk30hmVm-9jt3AiGnoaoJNH7DLTWqykB6EvBm5b4xwUFCT53UvM/s320/Lego+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572583296343016418" border="0" /></a>(For those of you who are having trouble making out the light pencil on white paper on white backboard on not-so-white wall, the categories are "4th place or lower", "Bronze", "Silver", and "Gold".)<br /><br />What I love most about this system is its implicit optimism. The way it quietly screams, "I don't have a gold ... <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">YET!!</span></span>")<br /><br />Hope is one thing. Expectation is another. I wondered which of these filled his heart. Especially when, at the very next meet, in the middle of what was shaping up to be a stellar, gold-medal floor routine, he had a major flub. A one-full-point-deduction flub. I considered the empty peg on the wall in his room. I wondered how his heart would fare. Where did his focus lie?<br /><br />My child made me proud. This boy - ahem, this <span style="font-style: italic;">young man</span> - did not give up nor did he fall apart. He recovered from his error and finished his routine. And after he left the floor, I was even more proud. There could have been tears, frustration, anger. He is eleven, after all. He easily could have focused on the negative, on what had been lost. Instead, and with some encouraging words from his coach, he embraced the positive.<br /><br />And then on Monday he went back to the gym. And he worked. Hard.<br /><br />This weekend he had another meet. His floor routine was stellar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-tjxEzYDMAVVuIbccqVANZTd4dAVziicpG3H_m9K8lbkjt7KY3jEOhmyWfsJCj6OESOYJmUB870EwtAKstrz54RWcjQrQkgerK6hL-aNNu6WUxart1GKNBYf5t9yRnRf6fd_n1fE9LE/s1600/DSCF3951.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-tjxEzYDMAVVuIbccqVANZTd4dAVziicpG3H_m9K8lbkjt7KY3jEOhmyWfsJCj6OESOYJmUB870EwtAKstrz54RWcjQrQkgerK6hL-aNNu6WUxart1GKNBYf5t9yRnRf6fd_n1fE9LE/s320/DSCF3951.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573315766222885554" border="0" /></a>Do I have to tell you the boy was floating on air?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwAN9Cfcqj-eUE2qUL_6ji_eBZ9dcTjEWDYrqbdZ7tdauaFa-cfvg_GSqo4DssC9lZSTBdE34X-Qgz3SG3nQBAEAphrPMK_AtTp8dwlSM0L0Qk1mYpXcTTt2vzFU6kY3VLsxhQzNQfWw/s1600/DSCF3935.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwAN9Cfcqj-eUE2qUL_6ji_eBZ9dcTjEWDYrqbdZ7tdauaFa-cfvg_GSqo4DssC9lZSTBdE34X-Qgz3SG3nQBAEAphrPMK_AtTp8dwlSM0L0Qk1mYpXcTTt2vzFU6kY3VLsxhQzNQfWw/s320/DSCF3935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573339845731421218" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-3253730454301285582011-02-04T14:50:00.001-06:002011-02-04T17:11:21.083-06:00Snow DayUsually Jim Spencer gets waaay too excited about these things, as all of us here in central Texas are prone to do, so last night I scoffed at the weatherman's "computer models" and their snow-filled "predictions." Snow, schmo. We went to bed around 11pm, not a flurry in sight.<br /><br />We awoke at 6am and with grand anticipation checked the local tv channel where we received the happy news - no work for me and no school for the kids! I'm sorry I doubted you, Jim.<br /><br />I do have to admit I was pretty disappointed with the paltry accumulation (I didn't grow up here. I know what snow, real snow, is.) But a day off is a day off, and snow on the ground is snow on the ground. And kids who have not grown up with regular snowfalls are wonderfully, blissfully easy to please in the snow department.<br /><br />As I write this, around 2pm, the white stuff has pretty much melted in the withering 39 degree temperatures and blazing sunshine bearing down from a cloudless sky.<br /><br />Go ahead and laugh at us, you mid-westerners, you mountain-dwellers, you snow veterans of the northeast. It's all we got. And I loved it.<br /><br />I loved the glee on their cold little faces.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NPxHYp8fC7ZRCRW8pUr22EsPkiK6jRN1SHJWHRaMIGRSH3-I14rWG5jSd9F8T9rzRDh50RyHSQxzemyUBOilbuWcTDCj7mmwHsxPI6SBTelc0YJR5QdAFedxP88OXojHtfRtYJyOYfU/s1600/DSCF3844.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NPxHYp8fC7ZRCRW8pUr22EsPkiK6jRN1SHJWHRaMIGRSH3-I14rWG5jSd9F8T9rzRDh50RyHSQxzemyUBOilbuWcTDCj7mmwHsxPI6SBTelc0YJR5QdAFedxP88OXojHtfRtYJyOYfU/s320/DSCF3844.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569933853556642178" border="0" /></a>I loved their obliviousness to the cold & wet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiR1OKRiXQnBQwPnq07j41bBDHsicxUoP8Y5OwxnqEC5BKmw7Z0yBA0I_OukOGNGvdvDbAC7Yzt4NI6jGblOSUpYbTjvAfgiVJpzV9QeztdUb-nP2u9RHk43femh2fSe1gAhUgfllNlcc/s1600/DSCF3845.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiR1OKRiXQnBQwPnq07j41bBDHsicxUoP8Y5OwxnqEC5BKmw7Z0yBA0I_OukOGNGvdvDbAC7Yzt4NI6jGblOSUpYbTjvAfgiVJpzV9QeztdUb-nP2u9RHk43femh2fSe1gAhUgfllNlcc/s320/DSCF3845.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569934158006129378" border="0" /></a>I loved their first snowball fight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAV7RpJ5tBfsjxGgb1SR8RPoQxj9AQ8qu7D7_IRnAfR3Tlcn9-QWz-MhxtJi3wc9g3la6zelUz8KuJ6wIseu05LL9cVW0RiBKatIdZKmVcZAWkHUBX_JBIwc7jJjfby0pUiIPc_6lf6g/s1600/DSCF3864.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAV7RpJ5tBfsjxGgb1SR8RPoQxj9AQ8qu7D7_IRnAfR3Tlcn9-QWz-MhxtJi3wc9g3la6zelUz8KuJ6wIseu05LL9cVW0RiBKatIdZKmVcZAWkHUBX_JBIwc7jJjfby0pUiIPc_6lf6g/s320/DSCF3864.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569934714150652114" border="0" /></a>I loved their giggles and silliness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOc51Z8wvJi0cIjjtUofAjvEiu4-zNhO-jcuSbVdg8okYu7kdeVuBYXOIvEClwoWUGe2BuRFl2Ragi9O6NpsMEufxBbUVK8wv4A7cl76JMD88QmDRWqbZKD7jP8gk3JvfFxemkuRpL0s/s1600/DSCF3853.JPG"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyTs5UE64Hl4SVwz0wPAvrXPyYhD2tnDeqwTOCzeRS1D28hUe_4mhE6Ik5AUsR_9n-BF1kbPSCa2el3dzC6Lw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a><br /><br />I loved their sweet snow creations.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGCLX5ys44CsdPq-ppeNedPxEh866rJ94dwDO7Ja52zSqrJTjR8TSsew92kujgSNSNs0KsLbIDsf-8iG_-abzB6Tn1FuWlJw_Eak-tN49W_JBXBa7Yhltx_I6aj4FzKkmf57Ln1dK0MA/s1600/DSCF3857.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGCLX5ys44CsdPq-ppeNedPxEh866rJ94dwDO7Ja52zSqrJTjR8TSsew92kujgSNSNs0KsLbIDsf-8iG_-abzB6Tn1FuWlJw_Eak-tN49W_JBXBa7Yhltx_I6aj4FzKkmf57Ln1dK0MA/s320/DSCF3857.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569934456314821570" border="0" /></a>I loved filling their bellies and warming their hearts with hot chocolate (which they happily declared to be the best hot chocolate EVER! despite the fact that I would not allow them to adulterate it with marshmallows.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOc51Z8wvJi0cIjjtUofAjvEiu4-zNhO-jcuSbVdg8okYu7kdeVuBYXOIvEClwoWUGe2BuRFl2Ragi9O6NpsMEufxBbUVK8wv4A7cl76JMD88QmDRWqbZKD7jP8gk3JvfFxemkuRpL0s/s1600/DSCF3853.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOc51Z8wvJi0cIjjtUofAjvEiu4-zNhO-jcuSbVdg8okYu7kdeVuBYXOIvEClwoWUGe2BuRFl2Ragi9O6NpsMEufxBbUVK8wv4A7cl76JMD88QmDRWqbZKD7jP8gk3JvfFxemkuRpL0s/s320/DSCF3853.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569938322200662226" border="0" /></a><br />I loved the simple beauty which lay hidden all around us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwZTJC-GtGSMAR92URWihd_4OXC1SPl0YsXDUKGG77iTmrhfBwKLmFO-wBmadOjkK3FEAG0oqCX8jOJL2ubBsXQWFLFAfeQHOpJ0nZHBLS2bcorrpcPTV9f8kSVF9NGMsXJi48FVFYak/s1600/DSCF3880.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwZTJC-GtGSMAR92URWihd_4OXC1SPl0YsXDUKGG77iTmrhfBwKLmFO-wBmadOjkK3FEAG0oqCX8jOJL2ubBsXQWFLFAfeQHOpJ0nZHBLS2bcorrpcPTV9f8kSVF9NGMsXJi48FVFYak/s320/DSCF3880.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569971067068601010" border="0" /></a><br />And I loved hearing the following words, uttered by my youngest, "Thank you, Lord, for the snow."<br /><br />Amen.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-62494716966473840722011-01-18T20:55:00.004-06:002011-01-19T07:59:25.465-06:00The LadybugToday was a beautiful day, warm and cool and mosquito-free. We were outside with our daughter while she rode up and down our driveway and around the cul-de-sac on her bike.<br /><br />At the top of the driveway, she spotted a ladybug and called us to see. I stooped down to pick it up. So my daughter could hold it. Because holding a ladybug is fun.<br /><br />I held it for a moment and then put it in my daughter's hand. It landed on its back, so I moved in to assist it. In a blink, it was flipped out of my daughter's hand. In alarm, she quickly pulled her foot back against the ground, and began to search for the ladybug.<br /><br />I found it.<br /><br />It was flat.<br /><br />I said to my child, "I think we killed it."<br /><br />As I looked down at the flattened form, I felt a stab of guilt. For the bug I had disturbed, had caused to die. My daughter looked down at the ruined bug. I feared the tears would flow from her sensitive being. I braced myself. A few moments passed.<br /><br />As she looked down at the pavement, she uttered the following words, in her trademark flat, matter-of-fact tone...<br /><br />"I'm glad <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm</span> not a bug."<br /><br />And then she pedaled on.<br /><br />A few minutes later she spotted another ladybug. I didn't pick it up.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-55049661026032152482011-01-10T10:20:00.003-06:002011-01-10T10:28:13.851-06:00Disney MemoriesWell, it only took me a year, but I finally finished my first Disney scrapbook, the one for my parents, who generously arranged our trip. The book is now in Florida, but, since I remembered to scan it, now I can look at it any time I want AND I can share it with you!<br /><br />The pages are 8x8, if you're interested, and I never would have finished it without the help of my good friend, Marcie, her treasure trove of *highly* organized papers and stickers and tools, her donated Disney embellishments, and the all-day scrapbooking event she invited me to. Yay, Marcie!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocaisamb2RsW8pF4vYVP-yIsHIaRUrFcUhEuBgLz9VKFdASvdN0ce_iLMARAAGPkt1aiqec39j6UQ81p4JDL1wHyDTOtHsxuPzObYkwTNMZwW7BLj7W-zZ4PmS0aIRWpqO2mTJRxLfVY/s1600/Disney+album+pg+01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocaisamb2RsW8pF4vYVP-yIsHIaRUrFcUhEuBgLz9VKFdASvdN0ce_iLMARAAGPkt1aiqec39j6UQ81p4JDL1wHyDTOtHsxuPzObYkwTNMZwW7BLj7W-zZ4PmS0aIRWpqO2mTJRxLfVY/s320/Disney+album+pg+01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559648220292801890" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlrKcHjmmSplWw2_5PEqWa-9TvqlZ8xQDSN7qf_PHbq8Tw9SNbUz93LHDqx4sszi2G8o_tnkxVnSofBXrl5-AiYHyChdfx9krhScazA2pEo1T9pgIuqUbpgACmfdEhOayHFPY4FEBOWA/s1600/Disney+album+pg+01.jpg"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOiuZbMh6IE5oTVytnDHzSb8WgtOi2RvHYvhtoKJzdZ0mkQMbr7XwiVAQpuwg1T5XqlTd4OVf7ffMltxIfuRXUt6qqPmvBORxOLcDM7VeFuv_zoeoBbuxYQ3vaGxMfR1w9YPF4yU2BTI/s1600/Disney+album+pg+02-03.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOiuZbMh6IE5oTVytnDHzSb8WgtOi2RvHYvhtoKJzdZ0mkQMbr7XwiVAQpuwg1T5XqlTd4OVf7ffMltxIfuRXUt6qqPmvBORxOLcDM7VeFuv_zoeoBbuxYQ3vaGxMfR1w9YPF4yU2BTI/s400/Disney+album+pg+02-03.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559642097005128146" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCI-MI3aF8sPxahWeL4preDtQ62J6jvHGQ2NTfF2WljM7wcniD_kSKxVarlaBzUJ_lE5JOy1cpMuWzpkdV8jRUGzd16NAk303ohmCRoKD1lFdQfAUGU9UMUGdLE_DOBN0OEqr0UDolVr4/s1600/Disney+album+pg+04-05.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCI-MI3aF8sPxahWeL4preDtQ62J6jvHGQ2NTfF2WljM7wcniD_kSKxVarlaBzUJ_lE5JOy1cpMuWzpkdV8jRUGzd16NAk303ohmCRoKD1lFdQfAUGU9UMUGdLE_DOBN0OEqr0UDolVr4/s400/Disney+album+pg+04-05.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559642633251089986" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnmXGvmAc3MZnvob0HV8qwWZedB7xlb0kok-GpEd5JFH75F5OytkYM28mXw_ivbFzhP0-HXiM6M7HWBrzpwbMt_mFY4f2BDZqezG5Il7iyTL7Y8GQ6jGcrqZ3jpC6G613ZMsCrE1zdko/s1600/Disney+album+pg+06-07.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2S8Xi8I_lPkNqOeWjJ2pTkLAyUewsQeYvVpEpfe42VNkwnIKPSldykMSL8UhqzQsNDiUqirIuG7MbwyM0-LL4n7MqOOlPHptmGJH8oTgPqqBR7n9WYEFCILbvBXsB1SfXP_m3V7TA59A/s400/Disney+album+pg+18-19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559644477453745554" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nAQJKvtVsPiVB2Y14hzjOwhITVkhRRR9oRi68xt8XVmgL-Df39WlPJ0GAEyRz-soL8I08RCDncFqOWNI7po-8qrsU5baChiNNLY-XQunlRqNKSAsk-SvsDPsNtk61yMTYx4yBOk7CKw/s1600/Disney+album+pg+20-21.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nAQJKvtVsPiVB2Y14hzjOwhITVkhRRR9oRi68xt8XVmgL-Df39WlPJ0GAEyRz-soL8I08RCDncFqOWNI7po-8qrsU5baChiNNLY-XQunlRqNKSAsk-SvsDPsNtk61yMTYx4yBOk7CKw/s400/Disney+album+pg+20-21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559645050812531202" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxk2k97jP1QX4dizDlXdAWaus0nFVg9vmfCmkwhnc-mQppQ6r9qsf8jLBFD8AT9ezlmURHoJKx589SBDib4RySh9G-zMsOJrRTNevLCvvw4jnvriZYlsuVcO3MyYGYKPDP_kDCjOsvIc/s1600/Disney+album+pg+22.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxk2k97jP1QX4dizDlXdAWaus0nFVg9vmfCmkwhnc-mQppQ6r9qsf8jLBFD8AT9ezlmURHoJKx589SBDib4RySh9G-zMsOJrRTNevLCvvw4jnvriZYlsuVcO3MyYGYKPDP_kDCjOsvIc/s320/Disney+album+pg+22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559648360968788402" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-50108361637696432252011-01-06T16:03:00.000-06:002011-01-06T16:03:48.687-06:00A Christmas Poem<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Or:<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">How to make Clement Clarke Moore cringe from the grave</span><br /></div><br />Or:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">How to make my brother laugh (and cry) even when he's not happy with me</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">A Gi<span>f</span>t <span>f</span>or Rory<br /><br />'Twas the week be<span>f</span>ore Christmas<br />And my heart was a<span>f</span>lutter.<br />I had all my gi<span>f</span>ts,<br />Save the one <span>f</span>or my brother.<br /><br />For his list many times<br />We cajoled and we pleaded.<br />But to our dismay,<br />Our pleas were not heeded.<br /><br />Where would we shop?<br />Oh, what would we buy?<br />What in the world<br />Can we get <span>f</span>or that guy?<br /><br />A-shopping we went<br />With grandiose design.<br />We'll sure knock his socks o<span>f</span><span>f</span><br />This Christmas time!<br /><br />We shopped at the mall,<br />Old Navy and Target.<br />We even hit Wal-Mart;<br />You know we were desperate.<br /><br />We queried the kin<span>f</span>olk,<br />"What did you get <span>f</span>or Rory?"<br />Each person we asked<br />Just had the same story.<br /><br />"You know your brother<br />Didn't send us a list.<br />He's always been di<span>f</span><span>f</span>icult,<br />That Rory!" they hissed.<br /><br />So what can we get <span>f</span>or this<br />Super cool man?<br />Maybe something to show<br />He's the ultimate <span>f</span>an.<br /><br />Aggies or Cowboys<br />Or maybe the Rangers<br />(So bummed that the trophy<br />And they remain strangers.)<br /><br />Nah, sports is too obvious.<br />How 'bout a top?<br />Something blue or deep green<br />To make his eyes pop!<br /><br />"Get him some wine,"<br />Suggested the nephew.<br />Hmm, maybe instead<br />We should call Dr. Drew.<br /><br />A nice vuvuzela<br />To relive World Cup <span>f</span>un?<br />But that crazy noisemaker<br />Would make Mom come undone.<br /><br />Perhaps something quirky<br />Like a jar o<span>f</span> cashews,<br />Chia pets or a clapper,<br />Or a Snuggie or two.<br /><br />What can you give to<br />The man who has all?<br />Surely he doesn't need<br />Crap <span>f</span>rom the mall.<br /><br />When truly the one thing<br />We wish to convey,<br />Are three little words<br />We don't o<span>f</span>ten say.<br /><br />So i<span>f</span> you're not satis<span>f</span>ied<br />To hear "We love you."<br />Then give us your list<br />Be<span>f</span>ore the day's through.<br /><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Although I would love to post the video of the live reading ... I won't. And, dear brother, your gift is on the way (along with our thank-you notes.)</span><br /></div></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-69499274238304640972010-11-17T19:56:00.002-06:002010-11-18T09:04:15.525-06:00GriffinIf you hear of a dognapping in the area, I'll go ahead and confess - it was us. Okay, me. I'll not implicate my innocent family.<br /><br />What, pray tell, would compel me to commit such a heinous act and embark upon a life of crime?<br /><br />This guy ... meet Griffin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOkbIhhQCHkqU63W7X8IuT2QqZptQHiP5OEhWqHicvr8wcUD6XZO8Ww1hTBa71vpPVM5xgu_vXbJ6IfX1t0l5RJa0QWUS_rcGpQzxBY65_OEXL_zApIB7S_8SwzAqzTVuoFRBssW1dPM/s1600/DSCF3141.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOkbIhhQCHkqU63W7X8IuT2QqZptQHiP5OEhWqHicvr8wcUD6XZO8Ww1hTBa71vpPVM5xgu_vXbJ6IfX1t0l5RJa0QWUS_rcGpQzxBY65_OEXL_zApIB7S_8SwzAqzTVuoFRBssW1dPM/s400/DSCF3141.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540638876929918818" border="0" /></a> Because if I were ever going to dognap a dog, it would be this one. There is none other that I want.<br /><br />Here's how it happened. A few weeks ago, a friend of ours asked my husband if we would be willing to dog-sit for the weekend. As in, bring <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> dog to <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> house. My husband (oh-so-wisely) put the query to me, and to our mutual surprise, I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Sure, why not?</span> With the following conditions: YOU make sure the fence is secure, YOU feed the dog, YOU walk the dog, YOU take care of any and all requirements pertaining to the care of the dog. Having thus absolved myself from any onerous obligations, I resigned myself to tolerate having a dog in my house for a weekend.<br /><br />What happened, of course, was that this scraggly little pooch stole my heart. I mean, just look at that face! What can I say about Griffin? Probably first and foremost, the thing I loved best about little Griffin is this: not once did he make any attempt to lick me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Not once.</span> That alone sets the bar high for any dog which may come after him. So very high.<br /><br />As if keeping his tongue to himself wasn't enough to forge an undying attachment to him on my part, Griffin also happens to be a love bug. Docile, sweet, gentle. Say a word to him, or merely glance in his direction, and he rolls over onto his back and looks up at you with a face that simply says, <span style="font-style: italic;">Rub my belly</span>. It is slightly reminiscent of the dog in the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Up</span>: <span style="font-style: italic;">"My name is Dug. I have just met you, and I love you."</span><br /><br />We didn't tell the kids beforehand that we were dog-sitting. We thought that would be a fun surprise. It was. It played out like this: The kids walked in from school, saw Griffin, and immediately exclaimed in ecstatic and rapturous wonder, <span style="font-style: italic;">We got a dog??!!</span><br /><br />To which we laughed, and said... no.<br /><br />Don't worry, they were not scarred (on some level, they knew such a fortune could not possibly be true); the initial disappointment was eased plenty enough just knowing we had a whole weekend with our new friend.<br /><br />As a family still grieving the loss of the <a href="http://steph2217.blogspot.com/2010/09/girl-and-her-kitty.html">old man cat</a>, we showered our pent-up affection on this willing recipient. I knew I was sunk when the little guy snuggled up in bed <s>with</s> between us at night - and I <span style="font-style: italic;">liked</span> it. (Not to besmear the memory of the old man cat, but did he ever snuggle with us? Uh, <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span>.) That dog has a special way about him.<br /><br />When it came time for Griffin to go home, how the tears did flow from you-know-who. And I'm not embarrassed to tell you that the first couple of days without him, I missed him something fierce.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31-DF3C9Kov3gYnYEE2wbkOkbWaI-mdknTIe9JJ-6A38gV-xcujyVcQbt_UyYDpCgKx6fD3DglMNMFCg8ckyGCNgCi7ZgViQ66dYMfC5P2nXYM0-H27KbwteIYAEG3IeI4SVJ3_qj7OM/s1600/DSCF3144edit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31-DF3C9Kov3gYnYEE2wbkOkbWaI-mdknTIe9JJ-6A38gV-xcujyVcQbt_UyYDpCgKx6fD3DglMNMFCg8ckyGCNgCi7ZgViQ66dYMfC5P2nXYM0-H27KbwteIYAEG3IeI4SVJ3_qj7OM/s400/DSCF3144edit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540663269073898066" border="0" /></a> *In case the father of the sweet girl to whom Griffin belongs is reading this, of course you know I'm kidding about the dognapping. Besides, we already returned your house key.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-70791336364931805112010-11-16T16:47:00.008-06:002010-11-16T17:58:40.537-06:00The latest stackWell, I've done it again. Why can't I stop myself? After a quick afternoon trip to my favorite branch of the <a href="http://www.ci.austin.tx.us/library/">Austin Public Library</a>, I returned home with yet another insurmountable pile of books. The three books I had on hold were ready, plus I found a few others.<br /><br />Is this a sickness? It's like being at a buffet and not being able to stop yourself from piling 2 weeks of food onto your plate. Sure, you're hungry. But you're not <span style="font-style: italic;">THAT</span> hungry. I feel like a glutton. Why can't I leave some of these books on the shelf? What am I afraid of? It's not like they're going anywhere. At least not for more than 3 weeks.<br /><br />So, here's what I've got and I've got 3 weeks to get 'em read.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7P87aHLNXb95imd814DiFa7z7HLtlSJF5I09ZQSMGc6Lb_VgmBGn4n8rikB7_I9xISUwXd1ECGE1TWlCHLoQ3Xsqe7Uu1LKyQVZ9Xnt9yIaqs6XJMHJdz43lE26NgziM7IftUQjftsz8/s1600/DSCF3171.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7P87aHLNXb95imd814DiFa7z7HLtlSJF5I09ZQSMGc6Lb_VgmBGn4n8rikB7_I9xISUwXd1ECGE1TWlCHLoQ3Xsqe7Uu1LKyQVZ9Xnt9yIaqs6XJMHJdz43lE26NgziM7IftUQjftsz8/s400/DSCF3171.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540295366772155058" border="0" /></a>The three on top are books on CD (for the kids) for the car. And one of the books is my daughter's (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Battle of the Labyrinth</span>). And one of them I actually just finished (<span style="font-style: italic;">Into Thin Air</span>). But I <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> photograph the one I'm currently reading (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Sun Also </span><span style="font-style: italic;" id="freeTextContainer10410549236259409739" class="reviewText"><em>R</em></span><span style="font-style: italic;">ises</span>). I don't know, maybe the stack isn't so daunting after all. Besides, I'm anticipating having oodles of time over Thanksgiving. Because <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> always happens.<br /><br />P.S. I love you, Library.<br /></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-55321580835432102552010-11-11T17:22:00.006-06:002010-11-11T17:46:28.254-06:00Meet your favorite rock star authorI know Betty White thinks that Facebook is a huge waste of time, but here's is why I disagree (for the <span style="font-style: italic;">most</span> part.)<br /><br />The other day as I was scanning my Facebook page I noticed that one of my friends had posted a quick comment about an upcoming event (that very day) taking place at a local bookstore. It was the world release party (<span style="font-style: italic;">WORLD</span> release, people) of the latest in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Diary of Wimpy Kid</span> series. The author himself would be on hand signing copies of the book and meeting his young fans. <br /><br />Being the mother of a Wimpy Kid fan, I knew I would be AWESOME MOM if I surprised my kid and took him to the event. A quick internet search provided all the necessary information. With an assist from my husband and a quick call to my Facebook friend, we were armed with a plan to head downtown, pick up our copy of the new book, and meet the man himself - Jeff Kinney. Woo-hoo!<br /><br />All thanks to Facebook. Someone should tell Betty White how useful it can be. You never know, it could even help you get a gig hosting SNL.<br /><br />We came. We stood in line. We slung mashed potatoes. We stood in line. We sat. We stood in line. We took pictures. We stood in line. We read the entire new book, cover to cover. We stood in line. We stood in line. We stood in line. We met Jeff Kinney. Whew.<br /><br />My feet hurt. The boy's head hurt. We were hungry. We were tired. Would we do it again? You bet. Why? <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kkUI8dk8jMCAo1s6QqRvPHekeBL23VVAVUeD97gEoQxZylk5Yi01BQQrIV1BFa9H87SDXdAFCSzGlsPTrBt6olcqiv4y8UIkEikxBPgkFMVZY1h21rAGazynbH694TgeHX7GsYk0PXI/s1600/DSCF0044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kkUI8dk8jMCAo1s6QqRvPHekeBL23VVAVUeD97gEoQxZylk5Yi01BQQrIV1BFa9H87SDXdAFCSzGlsPTrBt6olcqiv4y8UIkEikxBPgkFMVZY1h21rAGazynbH694TgeHX7GsYk0PXI/s400/DSCF0044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538439334251821682" border="0" /></a>That's why.</div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-10082247305450709282010-10-23T22:40:00.003-05:002010-10-23T22:48:48.904-05:00[Imagine the Rocky theme in your head]I just wrapped up week 5 of my renewed exercise campaign. My <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">forty-and-fabulous</span> campaign. Although I'm fairly certain I will reach forty-one before I reach fabulous. But then I will just change the campaign slogan to <span style="font-style: italic;">forties</span>-and-fabulous. Either way, it's a goofy slogan.<br /><br />Much to my own surprise, my exercise of choice these past weeks has been ... running. (Stop laughing, Dad.) <br /><br />Now why would I go and do a thing like that? I wasn't sure myself the answer to this question. But then I recognized that I happen to be surrounded by a particularly wacky group of people - let's call them runners. People who run even though there is absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> chasing them.<br /><br />I live with one. I am married to one of these runners. He <span style="font-style: italic;">likes </span><span>running</span>. For real. In fact, he likes it so much that he has signed up to run the Austin marathon. Again. He's <span style="font-style: italic;">looking forward</span> to it. Wacky, right?<br /><br />My sister-in-law is also a runner. I've never explicitly asked her, but I'm pretty sure she likes it, too. She runs marathons. Plural. In many ways, I want to be like her - because she is very cool. Today is her birthday. And what did she do on this day, her birthday? Yeah, she ran. Dear Sheila, you are an inspiration to me.<br /><br />I am also related by blood to one of these people. My brother. He runs. In fact, you could say that the man is a veritable running fool (right, Dad?) But he's the kind of runner I can really relate to. The kind of runner who looked at me on the eve of his running the half-marathon and said, with a sigh and a pained expression on his face, "I hate running." But did that stop him? No way - the man ran his 13.1 miles, and then threw down some DoubleDave's.<br /><br />So, you may say it was inevitable that I would be drawn into this insanity. Peer pressure. The need to belong. The desire to be a contender in the annual Villa Sabine Mini-Triathlon (oh yeah!)<br /><br />But here's the really weird part: I <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span> it. Maybe not the <span style="font-style: italic;">running</span> per se, but there definitely<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>is something about it that is very nearly enjoyable. It could be the challenge, the solitude, the endorphins, the satisfaction of reaching of a limit and then pushing past it, the almost imperceptible thing called progress. <br /><br />Yeah, I like it<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-10693272415852700682010-10-08T18:15:00.012-05:002010-10-08T21:48:52.241-05:00And the grief goes onTwo days from now, it will be one month since we lost our old man kitty. I still tear up when I come home and he isn't at the door waiting for <s>me</s> food. Sometimes I think I hear him down the hall. I even miss his caterwauling (well, that not so much.) In these past few weeks, each of us has traveled varying distances on our own winding paths of grief.<br /><br />It is a painful thing to watch this grief wash over your child. I will never forget the night before he left us, the night we all came to realize that his life was slipping away. How we cried together. How we fawned over him. How we longed to ease his suffering. My son sitting at the table eating his dinner and bursting into tears at the sound of our little friend's pained cries. How my heart nearly broke at the two mingled sounds. <br /><br />My own pain at the loss of him has eased in this time. Age and perspective and the cares of this life intervening to dull its effects. Until the sweet girl comes out of her room at night, tears in her eyes, with the now anticipated words on her lips ... <span style="font-style: italic;">I miss kitty</span>. My own pain is further diminished when I consider the magnitude of hers, when her broken heart is written there, on her face, in her voice. And then a fresh pain, the pain of a mother, as she utters the words that pierce me - <span style="font-style: italic;">I just want him to come back</span>. If only I could give that to her.<br /><br />But I can't.<br /><br />So, I do what I can. I lie with her in the dark and hold her. I let her cry. And I cry, too. I let her talk. I suppress my own desire to speak, to fix, to coax the tears away. I stroke her tear-streaked face, and listen to her pour out her grief. I listen as she tells me she doesn't think there is another kitty in the <span style="font-style: italic;">whole</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">world</span> like our kitty. And I agree. I listen as she lays out a plan to honor and remember him. At the appropriate time, I remind her of that silly thing he used to do and elicit a shared chuckle amid the sobs. The pain is still there. But grief once shared becomes a lesser burden. And sleep comes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">She showed me today the drawing she made and taped upon her door....<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLOVDe62MaHROESbvXEPxkDuCpnuepUpZmXlkX9Vx8jJvwOi8MPZVHdPrgZ2yV8_oB8B3xHjL_i9fs5TmsrspibIQdRYaHAq4K4b5HpTrlhklESPAenxxDnkOUNR1qO3rJMqozTf4_FVM/s1600/DSCF3137.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 373px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLOVDe62MaHROESbvXEPxkDuCpnuepUpZmXlkX9Vx8jJvwOi8MPZVHdPrgZ2yV8_oB8B3xHjL_i9fs5TmsrspibIQdRYaHAq4K4b5HpTrlhklESPAenxxDnkOUNR1qO3rJMqozTf4_FVM/s400/DSCF3137.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525844258285837346" border="0" /></a>... and I wondered if her grief would ever end.<br /></div><br />And then she speaks of the future, of the kitties which are to come.... And I am reminded that life goes on, that though the heart does not forget, it yet was made to be healed. And healing slowly comes.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-40012852298678376842010-09-21T21:37:00.005-05:002010-09-21T22:10:09.514-05:00A girl and her kitty<div style="text-align: center;">Her first word was meow.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />I still remember the day she discovered him. I mean, <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> discovered him. It happened fast and he escaped so quickly (but not as quickly as he <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> have) that by the time I got the camera it was over. But I remember her face. Her face was bliss. And his little kitty life was never the same.<br /><br />I always marveled at how much he was willing to put up with at her hands. Perhaps he sensed there was no malice in her touch - just pure, absolute adoration. Perhaps he sensed her gentle spirit. Perhaps he sensed that a girl with a heart as soft as hers needed a soft and pliant kitty on which to lie. Perhaps he secretly enjoyed being that kitty.<br /><br />There has never been a time in her life when he wasn't in it.<br /><br />Until now.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBNBg6JW46-N8WJ8M3Sv-bf0-n56xQAd-UOpa1GXXPPPwXWw95kGNvvVghHx1ZQpxohuVHgZ1is_y_Gs4jspxpu8cl8VEktgVPehXAuxV5HykHu3JrevBrSFMDJxqzcH3zV1xmEf__xI/s1600/Pics-09-2010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBNBg6JW46-N8WJ8M3Sv-bf0-n56xQAd-UOpa1GXXPPPwXWw95kGNvvVghHx1ZQpxohuVHgZ1is_y_Gs4jspxpu8cl8VEktgVPehXAuxV5HykHu3JrevBrSFMDJxqzcH3zV1xmEf__xI/s400/Pics-09-2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519568134994359554" border="0" /></a><br />In loving memory of our sweet old man kitty, Sebastian<br /><br />March 1996 - September 2010<br /></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-14106858624836742082010-08-27T17:41:00.005-05:002010-08-27T18:58:41.946-05:00Encouragement<div style="text-align: left;">A friend shared this verse via Facebook today,<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Come and let us return to Jehovah;</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />For He has torn us, but He will heal us,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />And He has stricken us, but He will bind us up.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Hosea 6:1<br /></div><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote>My very first thought when I read it, was AHA! I knew it! <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">HE</span> has torn us. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">HE</span> has stricken us.<br /></div><br />But then I read again. And my heart softened (cue miraculous music).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But He will heal us. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />But He will bind us up.</span><br /><br />[sigh] It has been quite the doozie of a week. Twice this week I collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep. This is something I never do. But this week really did me in. And to be honest, this past year has really done me in. This past two years. Okay, nearly this past decade. I am tired. I am torn. I am stricken. I am wallowy. (I made that word up.) For years I have been descending deeper into this abyss of self-pity, desperate for rescue, yet each day more confidently assured there was no hope of rescue for me. And I remain ever stubborn, hardened, unturned, unyielding, unwilling to return.<br /><br />And here on this day, the culmination of a week of being pressed beyond my limits, this verse. From a friend who has endured her own week (and more) of affliction and has need of its comforting as much or more than I. And not only that, but also on this day, this friend entered in to my life to meet another of my needs, most graciously and sweetly.<br /><br />Does she know that her coming was God's coming? That her presence was God's presence? That her comfort was God's comfort?<br /><br />That is not all of the comfort of today, but it is all I can bear to share. And Hosea 6:3:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Therefore let us know, let us pursue knowing Jehovah:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />His going forth is as sure as the dawn,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />And He will come to us as the rain,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />As the latter rain which waters the earth.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-37355040667083970622010-08-25T21:37:00.004-05:002010-08-25T22:19:03.695-05:00Family NightAt our beloved local library. (Since we had about 20+ books that were due -- <span style="font-style: italic;">TODAY</span>. And nothing makes me want to kick myself more than owing the local public library money for all of my free books.)<br /><br />One of my favorite sights of the day:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9BiwthjD4AJFzmS8Cecj9L7ENlvTsukDrnplgmwEWu5gCcgW7SA_6J2iA8m-3XGy_jpke_Zb9e2ygyru_C0hiNeWdK-dOpsiXn9nm6rrZq9w3Ldv0BiE8ptbcYOGIKZQbiKKnLDbDMo/s1600/IMAGE_052.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9BiwthjD4AJFzmS8Cecj9L7ENlvTsukDrnplgmwEWu5gCcgW7SA_6J2iA8m-3XGy_jpke_Zb9e2ygyru_C0hiNeWdK-dOpsiXn9nm6rrZq9w3Ldv0BiE8ptbcYOGIKZQbiKKnLDbDMo/s400/IMAGE_052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509542487499773906" border="0" /></a>Like we aren't busy enough with the onset of school, here's our latest stack serving its dual purpose of holding down the hearth. (Notice one of the titles is <span style="font-style: italic;">Deadly Perils and How to Avoid Them</span>. I just noticed that one. Yes, my 11-year-old son picked it out.)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhJG-tPRGm1zO3w6qg0cSUwl75sM_shh31cn-kNwgTWTKGImfdSDNhf3pWGA-CbyM9P-EOlGIJb1hrhp9Povb0SDZN8Ma04rDJl1vm5C5CKvhPRCNhcHRWfcbgCVjnFhzE9x3zXXJBuM/s1600/IMAGE_053.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhJG-tPRGm1zO3w6qg0cSUwl75sM_shh31cn-kNwgTWTKGImfdSDNhf3pWGA-CbyM9P-EOlGIJb1hrhp9Povb0SDZN8Ma04rDJl1vm5C5CKvhPRCNhcHRWfcbgCVjnFhzE9x3zXXJBuM/s400/IMAGE_053.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509542790339831218" border="0" /></a><br />So, I mentioned in my last post that I was starting <span style="font-style: italic;">Anne of Green Gables</span>. How did I not read this book as a youngster?? Love it! I continue to be surprised each time the storytelling causes an involuntary smile to break forth on my face. In fact, the other day I was so enrapt in the book I actually ran into an old guy on campus (old guy = distinguished professor who works in my building), a collision which sent my beautiful Italian bookmark flying across the floor (recovered, unharmed.) I told you this would happen some day. Thankfully, I didn't hurt Dr. So-and-so, nobody fell down and only a few scattered people were witnesses - if they noticed, they pretended not to. To be fair (to me), he did stop very abruptly and change direction right in front of me. In the future, I'll be watching out for this guy.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-19234360833797962452010-08-19T15:45:00.009-05:002010-08-19T18:21:43.276-05:00The Red PonyI just finished reading <span style="font-style: italic;">The Red Pony</span>, by John Steinbeck. It was a very satisfying little book. I would love to recommend it to my son, but I have learned that the surest way to <span style="font-style: italic;">dis</span>interest him in something (i.e. a book) is for <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> to suggest it to him. [sigh]<br /><br />Any strategies out there to combat this phenomenon? <br /><br />I eagerly await your wisdom. In the meantime, I will share with you a little quote. It is short. It may not strike you the way it struck me. That's okay. I think its poignancy is somewhat lost out of context. But anyway.... Just picture a 10-year-old boy growing up on a ranch in northern California around the 1930s. The boy has been given a responsibility and a promise and is setting off to complete his task with a sense of earnestness and importance.<br /><blockquote>The warm morning sun shone on Jody's back so sweetly that he was forced to take a serious stiff-legged hop now and then in spite of his maturity.</blockquote>That's all. Just felt like sharing a tiny tidbit. Now it is on to <span style="font-style: italic;">Anne of Green Gables</span>.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-71574538321941752212010-08-10T14:43:00.002-05:002010-08-10T14:51:52.079-05:00Sewing CampHave you heard of such a thing? Well, I hadn't. But thanks to our friend, Jennifer (thank you, thank you!), now I have. And not only have I heard of it, but thanks again to wonderful Jennifer, my daughter was a happy attendee in the camp last week. For those of you who have a little girl (or boy, because why can't a boy want to sew?) who's itching to get creative with a sewing machine, just visit <a href="http://www.asfdesigns.com/welcome.php">Austin School of Fashion Design</a> to find out all of the camp info. As I understand it, they also have classes during the school year and even classes for adults (like me) who own a sewing machine but haven't the foggiest idea what to do with it (me) and who <span style="font-style: italic;">may</span> be currently using their sewing machine table as a TV stand (yeah, me).<br /><br />Back to my awesome girl, though. Over the course of the week she made a hat, a purse, a shoulder bag, an apron, and at least 11 little pouches. Here's a picture of her wearing most of her handiwork.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXsC1ogMcf-lpTAXXLowH6a-cU587J2BT4v_AIweUCNY6HZzX4HrNrff59-t5odfe4CA42mhdGbhF11EOOaUQ1aGCoIjjSsrmjaGmZBoHNnJu-Phopq9o66_4KwCT84FNEEqrfdvjO8Y/s1600/Sewing+Camp+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXsC1ogMcf-lpTAXXLowH6a-cU587J2BT4v_AIweUCNY6HZzX4HrNrff59-t5odfe4CA42mhdGbhF11EOOaUQ1aGCoIjjSsrmjaGmZBoHNnJu-Phopq9o66_4KwCT84FNEEqrfdvjO8Y/s400/Sewing+Camp+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502784286522476162" border="0" /></a>And the cute little purse with a hand-sewn button.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxziYqXmQyaWRRxdtoVNgkCWEozDb_238J_uWhCPM_NlgagQLL4wODAIsRu0DsboUb-DLO7NOWBcIxdYUjeVz21wpkUyLzp8OvcEn4UyPn0S1a2vykIKWfwv11btt4vRbF4ghVocKuGFk/s1600/Sewing+Camp+023.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxziYqXmQyaWRRxdtoVNgkCWEozDb_238J_uWhCPM_NlgagQLL4wODAIsRu0DsboUb-DLO7NOWBcIxdYUjeVz21wpkUyLzp8OvcEn4UyPn0S1a2vykIKWfwv11btt4vRbF4ghVocKuGFk/s400/Sewing+Camp+023.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502785116013211250" border="0" /></a>And the many, many pouches. Very pleased with herself, she is.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKH1ImEWEWL2BH03zTU5ZU-H7bKv8JpdCaTxKdULLvRXsZupSpax0-c5KMvia3RNY-ADbCZwIOUoepRM_nkM2AMIQ0NTExXogDOUsm46wscqwUZllPMVwwwuXDyuNIohOb4-q7j27qvg/s1600/Sewing+Camp+015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKH1ImEWEWL2BH03zTU5ZU-H7bKv8JpdCaTxKdULLvRXsZupSpax0-c5KMvia3RNY-ADbCZwIOUoepRM_nkM2AMIQ0NTExXogDOUsm46wscqwUZllPMVwwwuXDyuNIohOb4-q7j27qvg/s400/Sewing+Camp+015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502784489701818946" border="0" /></a>True to her generous nature, she made gifts of the many pouches to family members - I was the recipient of the chic red and black paw print pouch, which is the perfect size for my cell phone.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6smGZ4KfcrmeSasoCR8oy773vq85OoGkYUSUWGu_v7F8LMy2GilTapyA-5kfV9RLlsWrWtQHN5mFl-kA7nX_AuT0EPAxMpHLN9hE2JC5JswjElRhp7fltj14FD_WUbS3PJKsys0Ks0PM/s1600/Sewing+Camp+016.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6smGZ4KfcrmeSasoCR8oy773vq85OoGkYUSUWGu_v7F8LMy2GilTapyA-5kfV9RLlsWrWtQHN5mFl-kA7nX_AuT0EPAxMpHLN9hE2JC5JswjElRhp7fltj14FD_WUbS3PJKsys0Ks0PM/s400/Sewing+Camp+016.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502784716652473170" border="0" /></a>And this is the girl in action. No hesitation, no fear. Speedy Gonzalez, they call her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0ss9MChFGCi1GbnNiWMQPKB2OB5H1N9XkW0YV4iIDESOphieSaRm0L31ADwxawmFiszX-FOamZdFkhryJOOyIf5SPnKyNdPhxdsn6Yd-F2RxGyZBWxU5fMyZq_vsIZuFMWg2AHP0xJc/s1600/Sewing+Camp+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0ss9MChFGCi1GbnNiWMQPKB2OB5H1N9XkW0YV4iIDESOphieSaRm0L31ADwxawmFiszX-FOamZdFkhryJOOyIf5SPnKyNdPhxdsn6Yd-F2RxGyZBWxU5fMyZq_vsIZuFMWg2AHP0xJc/s400/Sewing+Camp+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502783891105841346" border="0" /></a>The following project was not a part of sewing camp per se, but was more the inspiration. Jennifer has been spending some quality time with our daughter over the last couple of months and they have been working on a very special project together. This project was finished on the final day of sewing camp, providing a wonderful consummation to the week. The project was a special bag in which to carry a very special doll, Julie. Julie is the much cherished American Girl doll received for Emma's 8th birthday and Julie <span style="font-style: italic;">needed</span> a mode of transport. Now she has it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qQxYE9ntiocJUCMt7tfD4zRk5cwK51_GJVhxywYp9ylnZljOkTKf_RNDUKI9TKoMexMyaqQrA5BzuslHkvt587VismNQEgUB67iEiwgwrnZbHCFh-nxbM4_S3NK92gKBKajaKN7Pvus/s1600/Sewing+Camp+025.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qQxYE9ntiocJUCMt7tfD4zRk5cwK51_GJVhxywYp9ylnZljOkTKf_RNDUKI9TKoMexMyaqQrA5BzuslHkvt587VismNQEgUB67iEiwgwrnZbHCFh-nxbM4_S3NK92gKBKajaKN7Pvus/s400/Sewing+Camp+025.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502785383985455794" border="0" /></a>Stitching of the names and little dog (hard to see) done by Emma.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZA6Xbti9BqCmC1o4KkGL4IbHpVEBjsSeSkmaPLn3UDZ-RXmiPItlkm33IVq5AJkv6E9wvTHIb-gDDC7F-GqGXwFHrhxcWtyLskB5rtU4uUkbdxdS_NxQkFCQNWXvJIAAo0r4qcp0xX4/s1600/Sewing+Camp+018.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZA6Xbti9BqCmC1o4KkGL4IbHpVEBjsSeSkmaPLn3UDZ-RXmiPItlkm33IVq5AJkv6E9wvTHIb-gDDC7F-GqGXwFHrhxcWtyLskB5rtU4uUkbdxdS_NxQkFCQNWXvJIAAo0r4qcp0xX4/s400/Sewing+Camp+018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502784903421841010" border="0" /></a>Jennifer and Emma (and all her stuff!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyQhHKam6BOo2_PzP4GdGSu7mehrv39oB03WmhLuTHaeEz1peOQE06CI0jf1N-KFqHL1OwFcT7tTP36DvgEbaKMUb-9N0U6go9tEse5An7yscb6uP55t5gCmorZqQyB2V2LTEP2czFLE/s1600/Sewing+Camp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyQhHKam6BOo2_PzP4GdGSu7mehrv39oB03WmhLuTHaeEz1peOQE06CI0jf1N-KFqHL1OwFcT7tTP36DvgEbaKMUb-9N0U6go9tEse5An7yscb6uP55t5gCmorZqQyB2V2LTEP2czFLE/s400/Sewing+Camp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502785535711499042" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1732614827518515014.post-7775164512853573212010-08-09T16:28:00.003-05:002010-08-09T17:10:34.444-05:00Summer Reading List (Completed)Since I can't muster up enough brain power to string together words into an amalgamation of coherent and/or witty sentences, I give you my summer reading list. A list of the books my nose has been buried in while walking up and down campus this summer, making you nervous for my safety, if you saw me, wondering when I was going to finally trip, fall down, possible break something and most assuredly embarrass myself. (And by "summer" I'm counting all the books I've read since May, since that will make me feel more accomplished even though it is essentially cheating.)<br /><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Count of Monte Cristo</span>, by Alexandre Dumas.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">NurtureShock: New Thinking About Children</span>, by Po Bronson.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Wintersmith</span>, by Terry Pratchett.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Handmaid's Tale</span>, by Margaret Atwood.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Islands in the Stream: A Novel</span>, by Ernest Hemingway. My first time reading Hemingway. Loved his style and will be adding more of his works to my list.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Lucky One</span>, by Nicholas Sparks. You probably shouldn't follow up a Hemingway novel with something like this - it makes you feel like a literary snob. (No offense intended toward Mr. Sparks. I certainly couldn't write a novel. And anyway, I read it while on vacation at the beach, which it was perfectly suited for.)</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Picture of Dorian Gray</span>, by Oscar Wilde.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Fantastic Mr. Fox</span>, by Roald Dahl.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Tuck Everlasting</span>, by Natalie Babbitt.<br /></li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Girl with a Pearl Earring</span>, by Tracy Chevalier.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Treasure Island</span>, by Robert Louis Stevenson.</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Slaughterhouse-Five</span>, by Kurt Vonnegut. This book has been on my to-read list for a while. I really didn't expect to like it and meant to slog my way through it so I could finally just check the darn thing off my list. I was surprised that I was continually drawn to it and found myself sneaking away time to read it. I found the following passage absurdly beautiful:</li></ul><blockquote>Billy looked at the clock on the gas stove. He had an hour to kill before the saucer came. He went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:<br /><br />American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.<br /><br />The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.<br /><br />When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.<br /></blockquote>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04764476062238501778noreply@blogger.com1