tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60291337192962104112024-03-05T20:39:48.871-05:00Rural Route 2Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.comBlogger220125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-32057854156317073832015-01-15T09:48:00.001-05:002015-01-15T09:48:41.659-05:00Further Weirdness<span style="font-size: large;">Hi.<br />I haven't blogged for a while. </span><br />
<i>Blog is such an ugly word. It doesn't look pretty written out, it doesn't sound pretty spoken aloud. Can someone come up with a nicer word for Online Journaling?</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tIcMKV4pGXzNTzKUK6drQrrKr4EUUVBHZw64nFzTcQtOQXkIlukRRQ7P9KRw5VuNaEebWbNzISfOlWxlqV5KOo3uRttJOBTzSLrxPCSuxKjd2AHTJ6gNaeLiDw2C4X6lY30992e1j2Q/s1600/IMG_1734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tIcMKV4pGXzNTzKUK6drQrrKr4EUUVBHZw64nFzTcQtOQXkIlukRRQ7P9KRw5VuNaEebWbNzISfOlWxlqV5KOo3uRttJOBTzSLrxPCSuxKjd2AHTJ6gNaeLiDw2C4X6lY30992e1j2Q/s1600/IMG_1734.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Willow in Winter. Rubbish underneath courtesy of Summer fort building.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm still here, doing rural type things with all my rural people. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We have snow. It makes the winter bearable. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We have youtube. It also makes the winter bearable. And the housework put-off-able.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">These two things collided in a surprisingly non-Disney inspired way today. After we deposited the older offspring at their <strike>eight-hour holding facilities</strike> schools, the GBaby and I were trekking across the frozen tundra that is our sidewalk </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgqpL8y4j9uUc5rwnYlkx47rnyPeGsqm8erkVEjHvh4Rz2t8C-hpriHEqyImgmlGDmnfeTMtHFN5zfWE2qF6-zF3ClBF4KhMD9UeMVvQsAOVNEojzZSgtKgj9OjGzDPRkUVlO0TCnD3k/s1600/IMG_1731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgqpL8y4j9uUc5rwnYlkx47rnyPeGsqm8erkVEjHvh4Rz2t8C-hpriHEqyImgmlGDmnfeTMtHFN5zfWE2qF6-zF3ClBF4KhMD9UeMVvQsAOVNEojzZSgtKgj9OjGzDPRkUVlO0TCnD3k/s1600/IMG_1731.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">A portion of our sidewalk. And also our dog who was thinking "Why doesn't that fool woman with the opposable thumbs quit taking pictures with that iphone and hurry up and open the door?!"</span></i></td></tr>
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<i>because our parking garage is in the barn and the barn is about an acre away from our house to keep the smell of animals from wafting too much into our home only we don't really have many animals because we're modern like that and this sentence has drifted away from where we were which was on the </i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">sidewalk. Inspired by the sunshiney, crystallized beauty I broke into song. </span><br />
<i>Pretty Outdoors = Instant Good Mood = Broadway Songs.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1SiKhnG2Igz2H33K2b6E1FAEuzx-lABiKb9ZPby3-5C19lV3K7bQwiOl1s3y8EBsDOyQG0nJFfyzdovXYkUlgQL-YpzNGqOHsv1Q4H4OtgGzxOOkq9h6bt3Jma42_sdCYTxXdTALVdk/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1SiKhnG2Igz2H33K2b6E1FAEuzx-lABiKb9ZPby3-5C19lV3K7bQwiOl1s3y8EBsDOyQG0nJFfyzdovXYkUlgQL-YpzNGqOHsv1Q4H4OtgGzxOOkq9h6bt3Jma42_sdCYTxXdTALVdk/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I love untracked snow, but I have come to appreciate all those tracks. They mean that kids are playing! Or doing their outside chores. Or contemplating running away, but changing their minds when they consider the hardships of surviving in the cold without their bossy parents. Win-Win-Win!</i></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh What a Beautiful Morning! Oh What a Beautiful Day!"</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I belted out Rogers and Hammerstein because this song was meant to be sung in the rural outdoors and my neighbors live far enough away. For the first time in forever, one of my children actually liked my singing. (!) GBaby asked me to continue the song, but I wasn't really sure about the lyrics. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So we YOUTUBED it, of course. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Gordon MacRae. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is no secret that I'm a little weird, a little off... but I find something so sigh-worthy about a singing cowboy. Or maybe just this singing cowboy singing this particular set of songs. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oklahoma. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It makes me a little horny. <i>(Don't tell my mother!)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's probably a good thing that my husband isn't a cowboy because I'd probably end up with approximately 12 more children and I'm getting pretty old for that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">About getting old, here's another weird thing about thinking Gordon MacRae is sexy: <i>(You know, besides the fact that he's dead.) </i>He was born about 4 months after my grandmother. I exercise quite regularly with people born in the 1920's and 30's. They're not sexy. Not. At. All. But apparently, they once were. It's one simple explanation for why we're all here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Cold Day!</span>Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-2395143663439241312014-05-06T22:10:00.002-04:002014-05-06T22:10:15.770-04:00Stupid SmartsThese are things that make me feel smart and stupid at the same time:<br />
<br />
My Clark Kent glasses.<br />
They're big and nerdy and - duh! - Superman wore them when he just wanted to relax and be someone he was not. But my eyes are fine; I don't need glasses to see.<br />
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My 8 year old is putting a lot of things together on her own.<br />
"Mom, is britches a bad word?"<br />"No. It's just a slightly old fashioned word for pants."<br />"Then why does it <i>sound</i> like a bad word? It sounds a lot like... <i>bitch.</i>"<br />
[Thank you, big brothers.]<br />
<br />
I pulled a muscle during an exercise class and walked out.<br />
Ok, this one only makes me feel stupid stupid stupid. And weak. And owie. And more stupid.<br />
I still secretly think it is probably a hernia. But that's impossible, because a hernia is an old man injury and - for once - I was not in the 65 and better class.<br />
<br />
I went to type up my notes for something I'm trying to learn and - loandbehold! - they were already typed. And saved. From several months ago.<br />
Obviously, I've mastered this material so well I've forgotten it already.<br />
<br />
<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-91677567858240067172014-01-14T06:57:00.001-05:002014-01-14T06:57:29.068-05:00Champ of Cherries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Cherry pie in winter: a slice of summer on your plate.</span></div>
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If you've never even considered trying your hand at preserving your own food, I hope this example of deliciousness gets you thinking about it. For just a minute or so. You can go back to your 21st Century life after that.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiw06DsUHyIJ_MqaXOT7bjdLvbBpPrnYM7IuBw0T7eH8-oQPA0EE7pg9y1cqDF2UK1-b43HBmo1ZGxV4mU3TIn6jBi5i3s0kk4UfoKy7xipiNOq3Z_qiPv1zp4z4T0uV3vJVqahIPtng/s1600/IMG_4847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiw06DsUHyIJ_MqaXOT7bjdLvbBpPrnYM7IuBw0T7eH8-oQPA0EE7pg9y1cqDF2UK1-b43HBmo1ZGxV4mU3TIn6jBi5i3s0kk4UfoKy7xipiNOq3Z_qiPv1zp4z4T0uV3vJVqahIPtng/s640/IMG_4847.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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During our recent match with the Polar Vortex (or, what our grandparents would have simply called "The Winter Season") I found myself perusing my collection of digital memories from last summer. You can imagine the draw they had for me. I ran across these little gems from cherry picking time on Old Mission Peninsula, Michigan (or, what my grandmother called "The Most Beautiful Place on Earth." Actually, I don't know if she called it that, but I do know she loved Old Mission). The pictures made me make a pie. The pie made me eat it. I do not regret one moment of the experience.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KmgxmbhGa2oybFkx10DR3XknlMmwMhaTDLJ9_YFKiKR9Uo4wVMBt4iDcyJkrYVWiADfJmYoYxeNnYLv7yPfj0uwwiRB8njS4zxKlQ8pY5SniIq2X6USQdiCH95Hax14gAOhTEiBpM8I/s1600/IMG_4880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KmgxmbhGa2oybFkx10DR3XknlMmwMhaTDLJ9_YFKiKR9Uo4wVMBt4iDcyJkrYVWiADfJmYoYxeNnYLv7yPfj0uwwiRB8njS4zxKlQ8pY5SniIq2X6USQdiCH95Hax14gAOhTEiBpM8I/s640/IMG_4880.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here's a step-by-step. </div>
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1. Find some cute kids. I happened to have some of my own sitting in the back seat, along with a handsome nephew with an extra dose of personality. </div>
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2. Convince them that picking produce is fun. For children with an overly-enthusiastic gardener for a father, this may be a test of your powers of persuasion. Remind them that they have never tried picking these fruits before.</div>
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3. Set them loose in a grove of cherry trees. Do not give them axes. Do not tell them stories about George Washington.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtTpEmcPA5sGuLkwF6_5cnPQkTh0WEYbLhDpwDd9XF0fbmiIq1oIgvQIsrLttokHOrbqANEHP5e7MDs591BeaLTllAqlBAtf4BrHTwvZf9iimLCyzDSB3NHY_UV903IcGIQFcu4ZmTGc/s1600/IMG_4854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtTpEmcPA5sGuLkwF6_5cnPQkTh0WEYbLhDpwDd9XF0fbmiIq1oIgvQIsrLttokHOrbqANEHP5e7MDs591BeaLTllAqlBAtf4BrHTwvZf9iimLCyzDSB3NHY_UV903IcGIQFcu4ZmTGc/s640/IMG_4854.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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4. Bring the cherries home. </div>
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5. Wash them under running water. Do not use soap.</div>
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6. Eat as many as you'd like. Even though they're not "sweet" cherries, we think they're still pretty yummy.</div>
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7. Don't eat the pits. Alternatively, don't break your teeth on the pits.</div>
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8. Remove the pits from the cherries you don't plan on eating fresh. Say, "This is the pits!" loudly until someone in the room laughs. It may take several tries to get the correct response. Don't give up. For pitting purposes, I recommend that you use one of these: </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71LLDScbjPL._SL1500_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/OXO-Grips-Cherry-Pitter-Black/dp/B000NQ925K">http://www.amazon.com/OXO-Grips-Cherry-Pitter-Black/dp/B000NQ925K</a></td></tr>
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Or one of these:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71GYOCJFwEL._SL1500_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Leifheit-37200-Cherrymat-Cherrystone-Remover/dp/B001MSYWQW/ref=sr_1_3?s=home-garden&ie=UTF8&qid=1389663873&sr=1-3&keywords=cherry+pitter">http://www.amazon.com/Leifheit-37200-Cherrymat-Cherrystone-Remover/dp/B001MSYWQW/ref=sr_1_3?s=home-garden&ie=UTF8&qid=1389663873&sr=1-3&keywords=cherry+pitter</a></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CchIzP10vM70-Z6mip-owSZdcOKVvYOlucvX6fWLrotcJibBMA7Pks_N2eEUtjQJhmOGdKwnDfQ_XKpeMEON1Oo3uFVHeZ9ZE4b8f2mIbciuk7YdqYQtthvn-REpuJD6Rx1jRuJ2WuI/s1600/IMG_6313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
The fancy-schmancy one comes with German instructions, so you can feel very frau-like.<br />
9. Place pitted cherries in a plastic zipper-topped bag, gently squeezing to remove as much air as possible before sealing the bag.<br />
10. Using a permanent marker, scribble the date on the bag. Toss it in the freezer and forget about it until January when you might need a reminder that Summer is for <b>Real.</b><br />
11. Come January (or earlier, if you like) grab the baggie from freezer, scratch off enough frost to determine that it contains cherries. Thaw a tiny bit on the counter or in the fridge. (This means just leave it alone while the relative warmth of your kitchen works its magic on the frozen fruit. In the deep throes of a polar vortex, you may wait a while for your kitchen to be "warm.")<br />
12. Bake cherry-themed dessert of your choice. I recommend pie because it's from heaven. If you think you don't like cherry pie, it's probably because you've never had it made from cherries you picked yourself in the height of summer. It's the real stuff.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CchIzP10vM70-Z6mip-owSZdcOKVvYOlucvX6fWLrotcJibBMA7Pks_N2eEUtjQJhmOGdKwnDfQ_XKpeMEON1Oo3uFVHeZ9ZE4b8f2mIbciuk7YdqYQtthvn-REpuJD6Rx1jRuJ2WuI/s1600/IMG_6313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CchIzP10vM70-Z6mip-owSZdcOKVvYOlucvX6fWLrotcJibBMA7Pks_N2eEUtjQJhmOGdKwnDfQ_XKpeMEON1Oo3uFVHeZ9ZE4b8f2mIbciuk7YdqYQtthvn-REpuJD6Rx1jRuJ2WuI/s1600/IMG_6313.JPG" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Why aren't you eating real stuff?</span><br />
<br />
P.S. - I don't usually make my own pie crust because I'm not as good at it as the people at Pillsbury. I still feel like a champ; A Pie Eating Champ.<br />
P.P.S. - Leftover fruit pie for breakfast is practically health food. I promise.<br />
P.P.P.S. - My husband thought he didn't like cherry pie, but that's because he doesn't like that stuff that comes in a can. He changed his mind and helped me eat the leftovers for breakfast. It was worth getting up before the kids.<br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-9917124527365774482014-01-09T07:44:00.001-05:002014-01-09T07:45:29.923-05:00The Uncivilized TundraIt's been Happy New Year for nine days now.<br />
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And Happy Snowed In for nearly that long, I think. That part of my mind that records the regular passage of time has sort of slipped off its track a bit.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who was it that wasn't ready for Christmas break to be over?</span><br />
Oh yes, that was me.<br />
For the most part, I have enjoyed this little house-bound spell with the aftermath of a blizzard. The first couple of days I ventured out to the barn to do the kids' chores because it was my chance to play Arctic Explorer meets Dr. Zhivago. Plus, I found a ski mask that made me feel like a hot criminal. Not really. I mean, yes, I found a ski mask, but no, I didn't feel hot. Just regular criminal.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaOrDMsb2wt4_VtQg2sAFtVjbF5mxpvJ2d-g1VhyphenhyphenbS8394cwqS1X7ihNIjEyryq7JVtLiPcHh_zCGgSrX_34BiEEqZr6EF5o1QiiIzLOJ3bNDjvy67hFSaEpRhJzXeCrPCymB3lcmtGY/s1600/IMG_6271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaOrDMsb2wt4_VtQg2sAFtVjbF5mxpvJ2d-g1VhyphenhyphenbS8394cwqS1X7ihNIjEyryq7JVtLiPcHh_zCGgSrX_34BiEEqZr6EF5o1QiiIzLOJ3bNDjvy67hFSaEpRhJzXeCrPCymB3lcmtGY/s1600/IMG_6271.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor frozen Norah holds a poor frozen bird. Willa thought we should save it for decoration.</td></tr>
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Somewhere along the way, we discovered that we had a formerly frozen pipe. It was easy to pinpoint the location as we had a mini waterfall wake us in the middle of the night.<br />
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After we had sopped up the flood and reburied ourselves beneath a pile of scratchy wool blankets and heavy comforters, the Man of the House remarked, "I guess I'll call [the plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] tomorrow."<br />
I didn't respond verbally. Lack of communication usually means I'm dead, as I have a genetic ability to carry on my half of a conversation (and a portion of your share too) in my sleep. But this time my words were simply frozen with shock.<br />
<i>"Someone else in our house? An outsider? A non-relative? A repair man?!?" </i><span style="font-size: x-small;">[These are my un-voiced thoughts. You can tell because they're in italics.]</span><br />
"So maybe you could clean up the basement a little. So he can get to the things he needs to," my <strike>escaping-from-the-house</strike>-returning-to-work-the-next-day-husband continued.<br />
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<i>"The basement? That part of our house that I pretend doesn't exist?" </i></div>
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Hesitantly, I cleared my throat. </div>
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"Well, why would he have to go to the basement? The leak is up here, in our bedroom." </div>
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<i>"In fact, the leak is behind our bed. The other part of our house that I have intentionally forgotten." </i></div>
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"Because he has to get to the [element of household equipment whose name I can't remember because it lives in the basement.] So maybe just clear a path to that."</div>
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Now this [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] is a very nice man. Middle-bordering-old aged, small, quiet, unassuming, extremely <b>nice</b>. He's so nice that I feel uncomfortable with my personality when I'm around him. I feel uncomfortable with my personality when I just think about him from a safe distance.<br />
I also get the feeling that he probably lives in a very clean house, with a basement that could be mistaken for living space.<br />
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I do not live in a very clean house. I live with five children, all of whom seem decidedly anti-clean. During this period of snowed-innishness, my facebook friends (those true sources of encouragement and fellowship) have been neatly divided into two categories:<br />
1. All [hashtag] snowed-in so we'll make snow-related crafts, create food out of snow, play snowman charades, bake snowman shaped cookies and cinnamon rolls, and in many other ways entertain our children with meaningful, engaging activities.<br />
2. All [hashtag] snowed-in so I'm cleaning my house from top-to-bottom.<br />
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In other words, I need new facebook friends. Ones that fit into my category:<br />
1. [no hashtag] Snowed-in with five children so I'm compulsively eating. <span style="font-size: large;">And hiding.</span><br />
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I gave my children siblings so that I wouldn't have to entertain them myself. And I don't clean so much as pick up messes, which is usually the precursor to cleaning. In my case, it's just the precursor to picking up more messes. But threatened by the "sometime this afternoon" arrival of the painfully nice [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets], I cleaned. And then I entertained my children all by myself.<br />
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I didn't exactly clean as if I were expecting guests, because guests come to the civilized places: living room, dining room, kitchen and (when no one is looking) bathroom. Repair persons seek out the uncivilized places: basements and behind bedroom furniture. It's not that I wouldn't like to bring civilization to those places, but I feel as though we must provide a habitat for spiders and dust bunnies. They were here before we were. We're visitors in their environment.<br />
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With total lack of compassion for the spider and [dust] bunny ecology, I dusted out the space behind our bed and sorted out the things hiding beneath. The sorting was a bonus, because I'm fairly sure none of the heating pipes tunnel under the floorboards. The bonus sorting revealed that I have a lot of shoes. I wouldn't say I have a shoe buying problem, just a shoe throwing away problem.<br />
With similar regardless-ness, I cleared a path to where I think the [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] will have to visit in the basement. Of course, I didn't do anything about the stored toys that the snowed-in children had discovered and strewn about the cellar. I just concentrated my efforts on the room where the furnace and its friends live. Which means I found myself sorting mason jars in the middle of the afternoon.<br />
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Once I had brought a small semblence of order to these hidden places of our house, the children and I ventured out on the frozen pond so they could play Arctic explorer (no Dr. Zhivago yet) and not make more messes. I am a teensy bit nervous around frozen ponds, not just for the slip-and-slide factor, but for the break-through-the-ice-and-drown factor. But it turns out that prolonged periods of well-below freezing temperatures freezes more than birds. Willa was a little concerned about the "freeze bite" she'd heard about on the radio, but everyone returned inside with all their fingers and toes intact.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I like to think those frozen bubbles are from the fishes' New Years Eve celebrations.</td></tr>
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After all that effort, plus some more that I don't remember, Mr. [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] never showed up. So unless I provide further non-sibling entertainment, or introduce them to Dr. Zhivago, my snowed-in children will find these new places to scatter puzzle pieces, Lego sets and baby doll paraphernalia: around the furnace and behind my bed.<br />
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Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-41523766121727122742013-12-26T22:09:00.000-05:002013-12-26T22:27:08.528-05:00Christmas Letter 2013<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Family and Friends,</span><br />
You may have noticed that we don't normally send out year-end letters with our Christmas cards. That's because if it happens to be a year we randomly choose to create Christmas cards, we don't get started on them until December, and we rarely get them mailed until the week between Christmas and the New Year. In other words, our belated cards should be enough to let you know that we're alive and still kicking.<br />
Even though I have mailed most of my cards, (I still have a stack of cards waiting for their addresses to be tracked down and scrawled in green pen across their sealed envelopes) tonight I'm writing a little year end letter.<br />
Because I don't want to.<br />
Because my heart is thudding heavily and that's usually the sign that I need to speak.<br />
Or type.<br />
<br />
Yesterday amidst all the Merry Christmas greetings that packed my Facebook feed, on friend asked, "What was your favorite gift this year?"<br />
I tried several times to type a response, but I couldn't bear the cheesiness of my truest response. <br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My favorite gift this year is my children's safety.</span><br />
It is a gift. No matter how hard I try, it is <b>not </b>something I can guarantee. I can put the household cleaners out of reach, keep the Hunter's guns unloaded and locked away, secure those car seats properly and... whatever else, but <strike>sometime</strike> I <strike>might</strike> will slip up. Many times I am going to slip up and my protective mom self will fall asleep or be distracted or just run out of capability. <span style="font-size: large;"> I cannot ensure my children's safety; it is a gift, </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">an act of mercy</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
I never fully realized this until Christmas Eve 2013.<br />
We were enjoying a stay at the<a href="http://www.in.gov/dnr/parklake/inns/potawatomi/" target="_blank"> Potawanomi Inn</a> at Pokagen State Park in Indiana with some of our extended Ruffers. When the phone rang at 2:45 in the morning (barely Christmas Eve) I knew it couldn't be good news. Probably someone among our group vomiting. My husband answered the phone. I could quickly tell he was upset beyond vomit. He fumbled for the light as he said, <i>"Are we missing one of the girls?"</i><br />
Ginger's blanket was empty.<br />
My stomach twisted in a knot that has yet to be untangled.<br />
I ran out of the room, heedless of my pajama-clad body and bare feet.<br />
I sprinted down the carpeted halls that I'd spent the weekend telling my children were not for running.<br />
To the front desk.<br />
To my baby.<br />
My precious, safe, sobbing baby.<br />
She had wandered out of our room while the rest of us slept, pulling a door handle we thought out of her reach. Once in the hall, she couldn't reopen the door.<br />
And we (four people who love her best) slept. A fan for which we couldn't find the switch muffled her cries.<br />
Someone else heard.<br />
Someone else took her by the hand to the hotel lobby where they deciphered her toddler gibberish into enough information to figure out who we were.<br />
She calmed down much sooner than I did.<br />
I curled my body around hers and agonized over what could have happened, over what we nearly lost.<br />
Honestly, the inside part of me isn't all that calm yet.<br />
Do you know what an auger is? It's kind of like a giant screw. I felt as if someone had begun twisting one right into my middle, below my heart and lungs, just north of my abdomen.<br />
<img height="233" src="http://www.equipmentworld.com/files/2013/01/TerexAuger.jpg" width="400" /><br />
What kind of mother am I? How could I have slept through that? Why didn't I check to make sure the door was locked properly? How am I going to protect her in the future if I can't even hear when she wakes up?<br />
For better than two hours, long after everyone else had returned to one form of sleep or another, my fearful imagination kept me awake and in pain.<br />
Someone heard me.<br />
Quite simply, He reminded me that <i><span style="font-size: large;">my children's safety was an act of His mercy. </span></i> That was the very word that soothed my anxieties and stopped the auger screwing though my belly. <span style="font-size: x-large;">MERCY.</span><br />
But...<br />
What about the mothers who wake to find their children gone and there is no reassuring phone call?<br />
What about the mothers who are enduring their first Christmas beside their child's headstone?<br />
What about the mothers who weren't even able to kiss those darling faces before life was snatched from their womb?<br />
What about the toddlers whose crying is unanswered?<br />
What about those broken hearts? Where is the mercy for them?<br />
I don't have an easy answer. But as I snuggle my children a little more, I ask the Source of mercy to hear them, to find them. I have seen a little glimpse of their pain.<br />
<br />
And so, dear friends and family, as I close out this letter, please join with me in gratitude for the many ways we've seen mercy in our lives. 2013 is nearly done. Let us use the remaining five days to hug our beloved ones a few extra times. Relish the luxury of staring at their faces, young or old, for a bit each morning. Give the dog a bonus scratch behind the ears. Send a message to your old highschool or college buddies. Call your cousin (especially if your cousin is me).<span style="font-size: large;"> Let's savor the living peices of sunshine in our lives, finishing the year basking in mercy.</span><br />
But... <b>if you can't bask in mercy, if your heart is heavy and broken, give me a call.</b> Let's have coffee. I don't claim to know all the answers, but I am trying to listen for them in the middle of tears.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Love,<br />Honour</span><br />
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Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-50865165867560957092013-11-12T21:23:00.003-05:002013-11-13T08:20:30.853-05:00Lessons from Mom and DadWe just had our first snowfall last night.<br />
Naturally, I'm fishing a post out of last summer. I wrote this one June afternoon and never published it. But since I'm feeling risky <i>and</i> lazy tonight, (two motivations that are actually very difficult to pull off simultaneously) I'm clicking the publish button now. Revisiting early summer to warm up my dark winter night.<br />
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I just finished a ham salad sandwich, so naturally I'm thinking about my dad. My dad was the first to introduce me to ham salad and we have been good friends ever since. I must confess: when I first saw the sandwich he expected me to eat, I balked. Acceptable sandwiches included peanut butter and were made with white or wheat bread. This creation was pink mortar thickly spread between black slices of - well, could it be bread? Bread is not black unless it burned. What was this sub-standard fare my father was trying to entice me to consume? <br />
Honestly, if I wasn't so desperate to impress my dad, I very much doubt that I would have ever tasted that ham salad on pumpernickel sandwich or ever learned to how to check the oil in my car. I am pretty sure my relationship with ham salad is on better footing than my relationship with oil gauges. Thankfully, I get along with dear old Dad even better than ham salad. In fact, I would give up both pumpernickel AND ham salad if he needed such sacrifice from me. That's a lot of love.<br />
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Today I put two slices of lettuce on there too, not because I particularly love lettuce, but because we have a plethora <i>[Would you say I have a plethora...? Oh, yes. You have a plethora.] </i>of it growing right now and I cannot find people to come take it, no matter how much I beg!<br />
I'll be back in a few hours, when this-just-finished statement is expired, because right now one child is asking (twice) "When am I going to get my goldfish?" and three more children are waiting to be picked up from piano lessons... Wait! Maybe the piano teacher would take some lettuce. Maybe I won't ask her, just show up with a plastic shopping bag full.<br />
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And that strategy actually worked! One less meal of salad in our garden!<br />
Do I sound ungrateful?<br />
I am not. Really.<br />
But unless I stock a salad bar for 100 people, there is no way our little-big family will consume all of our lettuce before it is overripe and has gone to seed. It actually does go to seed. So that expression works in this situation. It does not go to pot, as that is a drug reference, I believe.<br />
I could be wrong. I am not a big expert on the drug culture. My marijuana education didn't expand much beyond Nancy Reagan's Just say No and my mother's knowing looks as I complained about a strange, sickly-sweet odor as we drove through some ramshackle areas of Appalachia.<br />
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My mother may not have taught me much about drugs, but she did show me how to dash Worcestershire with a liberal hand. Have you ever noticed "Worcestershire" is almost as hard to write out as it is to pronounce? I'm in love with the English Language, but not so much so that I don't see its faults. Through an <strike>extensive</strike> <strike>exhaustive</strike> Google search, I just discovered that I've been saying it wrong my whole life. At least the portion of my life in which Lea & Perrins played a major condiment role, which would be only the last 30 years or so. In correct British tones it sounds like "Wooster-shir," exactly as it is spelled, yes? No? I've been saying "Wer-stir-sheer," which also doesn't look like the spelling, but sounds like my mother. A lot of what I've been saying lately sounds like my mother: "Unload the dishwasher" and "Feed the cats and dog" and "Put away your laundry" and "I <strong>said </strong>unload the dishwasher!" <br />
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After years of soul-searching, I have determined what my love language is: DISHES. If anyone needs to express love for me in a way I will quickly understand, washing the dishes (especially after dinner) might just move me to tears. Is it wrong that I occasionally force my children to love me? I know that they want to love, but the emotions are buried under the crusted-on food and the still-to-be-unloaded dishwasher. Helping them is helping me. It's all good.<br />
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Another way I willingly express love is <a href="http://rural-route-2.blogspot.com/2011/02/828-love.html" target="_blank">doing laundry</a>. A whole lot of this has been going on around here lately.<br />
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You may not recognize it, but this takes more careful planning than one might think. While it is not necessary to wear your t-shirts in ROYGBIV order, it is important to make sure that you don't leave a particular color out of the line up So if it's Thursday and you have yet to wear an orange shirt because that color doesn't really look good on anyone, it's time to evaluate your commitment to this rainbow laundry project. Maybe you need to go for a <strike>run</strike> <strike>jog </strike> walk, or clean the bathroom, or engage in some sort of sweat-raising activity. These provide the perfect opportunities to wear the t-shirts that you'd rather no one see you in. If you find yourself grabbing whatever shirt is on the top of the stack, you are probably not the person doing the laundry in this house. If you find that you've worn too many blue shirts this week (this is a problem I often have) just find yourself a slab of pumpernickel, smother it with ham salad (if possible) and consider what my father would say in this situation: actually, he probably would never find himself in this situation, and he's a man of few words so he probably wouldn't say anything. Just eat the sandwich, offer a shrug and move on.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-7378099161138652542013-11-11T22:13:00.000-05:002013-11-11T22:13:58.716-05:00PlaythingsI have spent an inordinate amount of my adult life sorting children's toys. I am grateful that I haven't kept track of time spent in such pursuit, as the actual number of hours might be depressing. And also, my mother might wonder why the toy room of my childhood was always a disastrous mess.<br />
Let me share an extremely well-kept secret:<span style="font-size: large;"> I like organizing stuff</span>. I like organizing best when I start with an incredibly tangled muddle and end with inspirational order. If someone were to stop by my house right now, there would be no visual clues that I like to categorize and catalog. That is because I'm letting certain messes marinate in order to bring the optimal joy when they are finally dealt with.<br />
What did I organize today?<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Baby Dolls</span>. Each one has had her face washed, is clothed and is now sleeping in either the doll bed (most important) or the toy chest downstairs (those selected for upcoming playtime with cousins) or in the closet (least loved dollies). One <i>extremely </i>special doll is sitting in the doll highchair where she will be allowed to binge on plastic food all night long. It may be wrong to teach dolls to be emotional eaters, but this poor thing must find some way to deal with the purple ink that <a href="http://www.mrclean.com/en_US/magic-eraser.do?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=mr.%20clean%20magic%20eraser&utm_campaign=Mr.+Clean_Search_Desktop_Brand+Awareness&utm_content=sZ29MsIrn_15185192829_e_mr.%20clean%20magic%20eraser" target="_blank">Mr. Clean Magic Eraser </a>failed to clear off her wee little face.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Plastic Kitchen Toys and Play Food</span>. One of the special perks of the organizing job is the authority to reduce the stock of pretend play wares when no one is looking. For me, it's not emotional eating (because it's <i>plastic</i>, right?) but perhaps an emotional purging. I'm saying this like it's a dysfunction, but really, it's healthy. I only threw away the stuff that had black spots, was impossibly dented or had passed it's expiration date. Just kidding. There's no expiration date on toy food, right? Because we've had this certain tomato flung around our house for a long time...<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dress Up Clothes.</span> The old bridesmaid dresses went back to the attic like a bunch of satin Cinderellas. The child-sized "princess" dresses aren't nearly as pretty as the former-wedding wear and were feeling rather jealous.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Reusable and Paper Grocery Bags. </span> I have 18 paper grocery bags folded neatly and stacked beneath the respectable collection of reusable grocery bags. Obviously, if I'd remember the latter the numbers of the former would cease multiplying. I can't really untangle that last sentence, and I am doing well to remember my list when I procure groceries, so we need not fear a shortage of paper sacks in the near future.<br />
I'm really glad I spent the time organizing the grocery bags, as <span style="font-size: large;">everything else should be undone in about 14 hours</span>, just after I have finished lining up eleven years' worth of story books by height, publisher, author and subject matter. The books should last until my school children get home and find the beautifully shelved books irresistibly readable. <br />
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Should I spend time on tasks so easily reversed? Should I be bothered by the impermanence of my works? Somehow I feel good. Accomplishments, even if they are only celebrated by a party of one and demolished by a party of five, are mildly addictive. A checked off list, even one scrawled on the food-stained backside of old homework, is a reward in itself. My world is small, but growing larger each day. Someday the baby dolls will be organized for good and lonely. I myself may have to play with them and taste the plastic food alone. [I wonder if the bridesmaid dresses will still fit?]Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-89981304600679800602013-11-07T22:05:00.003-05:002013-11-07T22:30:36.026-05:00A Matter of AncestoryToday became other than I planned; my to-do list is largely unchecked, but I watched loads of British Period Drama and held my three-month-old niece for hours. I would say these were changes for the better.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Babies & BBC > Housework. Everyday.</span><br />
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Today also included a few minutes of definite hausfrau-ness. I'm all for feeling my UK heritage every chance I get, especially when those chances involve shortbread. But when you're out striding through fallen leaves in a pair of rubber boots, breathing deep lung-fulls of crisp air, headed to the late-producing vegetable patch to harvest some carrots and greens... well, that isn't a time for dainty dreams of English tea parties. That, my dear friends, is when you pretend your name<span style="font-family: inherit;"> is <span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; line-height: 19.18402862548828px;">Marta Frieda Berta and you hike up your imaginary skirts with your work-worn hands and attack vork vit many vigors.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; line-height: 19.18402862548828px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; line-height: 19.18402862548828px;">It's great to be German on a fall morning.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; line-height: 19.18402862548828px;">Just ask these Ruffer girls.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You have never seen a prim little Anglo-Saxon girl tackle a spread of leaves with the enthusiasm mustered by these daughters of the Deutschland. </span><br />
I know it looks like the girl in the polka-dots was about to assail her cousin and sister with that rake, but please accept my assurances that I would never have merely taken pictures while that happened. I know the powerful swing of which this Germanic kinder is capable. She looks like she was turning her <strike>plowshare </strike>rake into a <strike>sword </strike>club, but I do not think that was the case...<br />
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Of course, I'm not too sure, as immediately after snapping these photos I was reminded by the infant cradled in my [non-camera] arm that we had an appointment with some rather stuffy characters in long skirts and veiled hats. And there was also some shortbread hidden in the cupboard...<br />
One can only handle so much hausfrau in one's life. Eventually, one must stop play-acting. One must listen to the British accented voice in one's head. In the end, <span style="font-size: large;">one does have roots beyond the sort in the vegetable patch, </span>and afternoons (of any season) are made better by ancestors of the British Isles.<br />
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Let us not lose sight of who was on the winning and losing sides of both World Wars.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-49489587062934523512013-11-05T16:26:00.003-05:002013-11-05T19:12:39.550-05:00A PinterPessimist<span style="font-size: large;">I fear that I may have a bit of a divided self.</span><br />
But it's not entirely my fault. It all started with Pinterest and it's pervasive culture of glossy DIY perfection. <br />
<img 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" /><br />
After stating <a href="http://rural-route-2.blogspot.com/2013/11/early.html" target="_blank">yesterday </a>that I was thinking about the upcoming Holidays, I ventured over to my long abandoned Pinterest account and started searching out ideas for "handmade Christmas c..." I didn't even need to fill in the rest of the word before Pinterest knew what I wanted. It filled my brain with visions of mason jars and cranberries and their endless possibilities. I saw crafts and cookies of impossible adorableness. I "pinned" with wild abandon, knowing full well that I will make few or none of these suggested delicacies. I am convinced that these pictures are brought to the world wide webs by Professional Martha Stewart Mothers<span style="font-size: large;"> seeking to bolster their own </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">p</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.18402862548828px;"><span style="font-size: large;">apier mâché self esteem.</span> "Look what I can do, with only 5 minutes of "me" time and 5 nickels' worth of supplies!" They don't tell you that it took 20 times practicing for that one perfect result. You don't expect failure, but that's what you get. Be warned, parents and teachers everywhere. The shiny, hazy or brilliantly white background-ed pictures are not the stuff of everyday goodness. They are the stuff of failed dreams and hot glue burns.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19.18402862548828px;">I know this failure. This failure and I are long-</span></span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">acquainted</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19.18402862548828px;">. We have coffee together maybe a little too much.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">And even though I felt that I was treading softly, oh-so-carefully picking my way through the mine field of over-ambitious ideas and ideals, I still was sucked in. My (perceived) ability was amplified.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Later that morning, I went to the local resale shop, because every single pinner knows that <span style="font-size: large;">the new basic craft supplies are actually someone else's old junk. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqYdIyr9IV5T4S-XQ29sPxVDJXlfkRH6v-Dr3pv1w8N1UqO4H8jnER6xGnD8MD0PvTfj6dMO-M8rrqrOlrOBiJFNHShsy-wvSoDRfwiss6NoqYHoGDDG1rgoGMrYrgEybaqvYj_uBu1E/s1600/pinterest+magic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqYdIyr9IV5T4S-XQ29sPxVDJXlfkRH6v-Dr3pv1w8N1UqO4H8jnER6xGnD8MD0PvTfj6dMO-M8rrqrOlrOBiJFNHShsy-wvSoDRfwiss6NoqYHoGDDG1rgoGMrYrgEybaqvYj_uBu1E/s640/pinterest+magic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">First I hit up the house ware<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> (how is that not all one word?)</span></i> section of our little town's little thrifty store, <a href="http://thrift.mcc.org/shops/archbold-thrift-shop" target="_blank">Care & Share.</a> I found old lady fabric, old lady buttons, an old gallon-sized glass jar (not quite mason, but we'll pretend), an old little old pitcher, and - my favorite - old crocheted Christmas ornaments that are <i>way </i>cooler than they sound. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">I felt pretty nifty and hipster-like to have obtained all that project-ready vintage stuff, so I decided to check out the clothing section. Have you seen the things people make out of felted sweaters? With<a href="http://thecottagemama.com/2011/02/winter-wonderland-dress-tutorial/" target="_blank"> this idea</a> in mind, I browsed the round rack of sweaters. And then somehow, I found myself trying on pants. As in, I was putting my body in trousers that once belonged to someone else. My Pinterest-Optimistic self found herself arguing with the Realistic Pessimist in my head.</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist: <i>"Hey, these fit pretty nice, and I don't see anything wrong with them." </i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Well then, why someone would be throwing them out? Are they possibly out of style? Am I so out of style that I don't know what is "in" anymore?" </i></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist:</span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"> <i>"Surely not. Maybe whoever owned these simply didn't fit into them anymore. </i></span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><i>Maybe they'd gained so much weight that they couldn't fasten the buttons any longer."</i></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Or maybe they'd lost so much weight that the garment just fell right off of them. Does that make me the fatty?"</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist:</span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><i>"Why does food look so good?</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Darn Pinterest."</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist: <i>"Let's just accept that I have a maturing body."</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Sure. But could I ever wear those pants in public? Their former owner will probably recognize them. This is a pretty small town." </i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist: <i>"Shut up. They're three dollars." </i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: </span><i><span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">"You know you're going to end up wearing those sweaters too. They'll never be re-purposed into cute little animals."</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist: <i>"This is hysterical. You should write a blog post about my second-hand finds."</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Good thing you have such low blog readership, otherwise all our friends will be checking out my every outfit to see if you've been buying up their old junk."</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Pinterest-Optimist: <i>"Shut up. This is what hipsters do."</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Realistic Pessimist: <i>"Wear clothes from someone else's closet? No. That's what little sisters do."</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">At this point the optimist and pessimist merged back into the mother whose two year old had escaped under the dressing room door and the pointless bantering within came to an abrupt end as <strike>we</strike> I went to find her. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">Did I buy the trousers? The<span style="font-size: large;"> PinterPessimist</span> has decided not to answer that. And she's made her current board, <span style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Christmas Ideas 2013</span>, a "secret board." She will most definitely find a spot on her <strike>undersized tiny</strike> live Christmas tree for the crocheted ornaments that are still <i>way </i>cooler than they sound. And if she finds herself putting any other second-hand purchases to Pinterest-inspired purposes, she will try to let her readership <i>(hi, mom and dad!)</i> know every detail of the project, fumbles and all. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;"><span style="font-size: large;">But, let's be realistic:</span> I'm really lousy at keeping up with my good in[ternet]tentions, be they blogging or crafting. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">And I'm really OK with that.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 19.171875px;">I think.</span>Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-1471897984016184142013-11-04T06:37:00.000-05:002013-11-04T06:37:12.256-05:00EarlyHappy November! In an effort to write more consistently, I sit before my giant computer screen. It's early, earlier than it feels thanks to our Daylight Savings Time system.<br />
I love early, in the same way that most of us are attracted to the antithesis of ourselves.<br />
<i>[Wow. I just worked the word "antithesis" into my day and the sun isn't even up! It is <strike>going to be</strike> a stellar day already, I know it!]</i><br />
So my thinker is full of ideas and ideals about the upcoming Holiday Season. <br />
Don't worry, I'm not skipping Thanksgiving. I couldn't do that; it's my favorite. I love the gathering together over food without gift stress.<br />
But Thanksgiving is followed quickly by gift stress.<br />
And baking stress.<br />
And decorating stress.<br />
And party stress.<br />
ALL FUN STRESS!<br />
But still stress.<br />
And so I'm trying to spread it out a little by thinking about it early.<br />
Well, early for me.<br />
It feels Holiday Seasonally earlier in than it is.<br />
Which is the antithesis of how today feels.<br />
Which is why I like it.<br />
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My thinker may be malfunctioning.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-33529062659795055802013-10-30T07:06:00.002-04:002013-10-30T07:06:42.901-04:00Gone and Back<span style="font-size: x-small;">I<strike> hate</strike> strongly dislike feeling obligated to provide excuses, so I am not going to give one for my long blog absence.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Glad we got that out of the way.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">It wasn't really a pleasant start to our conversation here, was it?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sorry.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I will try again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<strike><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hi. My name is Honour and...</span></strike><br />
<strike><span style="font-size: x-small;">In a world of over-abundant housework....</span></strike><br />
<strike><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fresh off a plane from the 12 hours in the future, I have decided to tackle my declining blog.</span></strike><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This is much harder than I thought it would be. Rather like swimming in less-than-warm water, it is probably best to just plunge in without preamble. So pretend this ambling didn't occur.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was gone.</span><br />
I very recently returned from two weeks spent volunteering in a foster home for special needs children. Before we left, members of our team were asked to list our "skills" that might be of greatest use in serving these children. Guess what I discovered about myself? I have <strike>few </strike>no exceptional skills. I am not the doctor, teacher, nurse or physical therapist that these children need. I'm just a mom, but not theirs.<br />
What could I do in two weeks' time?<br />
I played with blocks, read books, hugged, rocked, sang, danced, made silly faces, wiped hands and noses, cajoled, giggled... and I prayed silent prayers over each child that plopped themselves in my lap and wound themselves tightly around my heart. Prayers for long life, for health, for broken hearts to be restored, for homes and families to find these waiting treasures. For two weeks I loved these little ones, these remarkable ones, these precious children. <br />
At times it seems this world wants "special needs" people to be tucked away and kept out of sight. But they are not out of God's sight. He rejoices over them, I know it. He keeps them "tucked away" - not out of his sight - but close to his heart, protected and treasured.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Now I'm back.</span><br />
Plunged right back into the not-exceptional-but-oh-so-privileged role of motherhood. I really like it: hugging, reading books, singing, silly faces, shuttling to and from school, fixing breakfast, washing up, hunting down the socks wadded up under furniture... even scrubbing out showers. While I was away, my husband discovered that my "job" was easier than I made it look. Maybe it was all the spreadsheets I left around the house, detailing who was caring for what and when. Maybe it was the freezer full of casseroles I prepared ahead of time. Or maybe my job is simple, just like my skill set. I see that we are perfectly matched, this life and I.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-86227445220952391652013-09-11T22:39:00.000-04:002013-09-12T06:37:06.537-04:00A Dozen Years<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>welve years ago I was an entry-level receptionist, glad to not be a bank teller any more. I smiled greetings at faces and cheerily answered the phone. In our "starter" home, Corey and I had just marked our first anniversary. Although we hadn't figured it yet, our oldest child was due to make an appearance in eight long months. Life was sunny, easy and<span style="font-size: large;"> filled-to-bursting with promise</span>.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Midway through an bright September morning, planes began to rip through buildings some 600 miles away, and we felt the rattles in our little Midwestern office. I spent my lunch hour standing in our living room [I can't recall if we actually owned furniture at that point; surely we did, because our house seemed always filled with people] staring at the television.<i> "This is the beginning of an end,"</i> I thought as that horrific video footage was endlessly repeated. <i>"Life will never be the same."</i><br />
<div>
That evening, I didn't want to leave the house, but my husband had band practice<span style="font-size: x-small;"> [he would like me to point out that it was a rock band, not a marching band] </span>planned in a town 45 minutes distant and I wasn't going to stay home alone. I recall driving past gas stations with lines of cars waiting to pay $4 per gallon for fuel. The day before it had cost around $1.60 per gallon. <i>What did they know that I didn't? Should we fill up now? Would there be stations open later? </i></div>
<div>
We were scared. </div>
<div>
We believed everything and nothing. </div>
<div>
We were young. </div>
<div>
We were all so very young.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It has been twelve years; an even dozen chunks of a dozen months of <span style="font-size: large;">a thousand changes</span>.</div>
<div>
Our clumsy cell phones have given way to smart devices - tiny computers faster than the one I used as a bubbly receptionist. Mine sports a calendar filled with soccer schedules and field trip reminders instead of jam sessions and concert dates. Our house is still always filled with people, but now we have couches and chairs. We need at least a minivan when no one wants to stay at home alone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gasoline is still nearly $4 a gallon, and no one seems appalled by that. I think maybe we should be appalled that we're still using fossil fuels. Shouldn't we have found <strike>something else to exploit from the earth</strike> another form of energy by now?</div>
<div>
No one thinks anything of opening your purse for strangers to rummage through when you're trying to enter a stadium. </div>
<div>
No one expects to say goodbye at the boarding gate.</div>
<div>
No one sends their loved ones away with a guarantee that they'll be home in one piece at the end of the day.</div>
<div>
No one really knows how to bring about an end to the strife that shreds humanity.</div>
<div>
I feel old.</div>
<div>
This world feels old.</div>
<div>
<b>This world feels groaning old.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Really, <span style="font-size: large;">life is the same </span>as it always has been.</div>
<div>
We humans have long excelled at injustice and hatred. A violent way of life is not a new way of life; we have always wrestled among ourselves in this world. Scour the pages of history and tell me of one civilization that endured in lasting peace. There is<span style="font-size: large;"> no holy nation</span> upon this earth.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even in the face of injustice, there are some who do what is right. For every violent news story I read, I can find gentle soul living in everyday kindness. There are still hearts filled with love, even in the face of hatred. I believe that in the darkest places on earth one can yet find hopeful glimmers of goodness. Maybe the hatred is bigger than it was twelve years ago, maybe it screams louder. Or, maybe we pay it more attention than we did before.</div>
<div>
The world after September 11, 2001 is broken; but the world was broken long before that bright cloudless morning in Manhattan. <span style="font-size: large;"><br />Now, as before, there is </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">hope</span>, but it is not found in the regimes of the nations. This hope soars beyond boarders, and unites our hearts in a stronger bond than mere patriotism. </div>
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<span class="text Heb-11-14" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span class="text Heb-11-14" id="en-ESV-30170" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland.</span><span class="text Heb-11-15" id="en-ESV-30171" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;"> </span>If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, <span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-30171AD" title="See cross-reference AD">AD</a>)"></span>they would have had opportunity to return.</span><span class="text Heb-11-16" id="en-ESV-30172" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="versenum" style="font-size: 0.75em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;"> </span>But as it is, <b>they desire a better country, that is,<span style="font-size: large;"> a heavenly one</span></b>. Therefore God is not ashamed <span style="font-size: 0.65em;"><span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-30172AE" title="See cross-reference AE">AE</a>)"></span></span>to be called their God, for <span style="font-size: 0.65em;"><span class="crossreference" style="font-size: 0.65em; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-30172AF" title="See cross-reference AF">AF</a>)"></span></span>he has prepared for them a city. </span><span class="text Heb-11-16" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Hebrews 11:14b-16, ESV]</span></span></i></div>
<div>
<span class="text Heb-11-16" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
It is true that in the last dozen years I have become less patriotic, less trusting of the world's leaders. I simply do not think that {collectively} people are good enough to solve the problems that {collectively} they create. But I have great aspirations for individuals. <span style="font-size: large;">One person at a time</span>; that is how change is most effectively wrought.</div>
<div>
I cannot transform the world, I can only be <b>one </b>seeking justice, loving mercy and walking in humility, shining as best I can on this dark and broken planet. Hoping. Trusting in Something better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-63705746813474885932013-09-10T16:36:00.000-04:002013-09-10T16:36:31.583-04:00A Girl and Her CakeI was working on a post about "letting go" but it was boring.<br />
<br />
I would much rather talk about cake. Specifically, the Birthday variety. I have always been a great believer in Birthday cakes, and I believe that really influenced our decision to have so many children. Just kidding. There was no decision or action taken on our part; the kids just happened. I promise, mom.<br />
Anyway, having a houseful of children tends to ensure that there will always be plenty of birthday cake. Or at least, plenty of anticipation of birthday cake.<br />
That's the problem: anticipation.<br />
I get ideas about birthday cake that are way beyond my skill set, but just under my fluctuating levels of self-confidence. To make things better, I often involve my children (you know, those Birthday people) in the cake idea session. Pre-celebration, I don't seem to think anything is out of reach. Yes! I can make a princess-dragon-pirate-rocket birthday cake! Can't everyone?<br />
Post-celebration, I remember why I hate Pinterest and internet moms everywhere.<br />
Post-post-celebration, I just laugh at myself.<br />
A couple of years ago, inspired by the movie <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mm6yVpuoK8" target="_blank">Tangled </a>my oldest daughter asked for a "Rapunzel's Tower" cake. Accepting the challenge, I Googled out <a href="http://dreamingofstitches.blogspot.com/2011/04/rapunzels-birthday-doughnut-tower_20.html" target="_blank">this </a>idea. Please, by all means, click on the link. What you'll see bears very little resemblance to what we had going on. Homemade frosting doesn't like late summer, I guess.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbPtLiDVzSCX0LHBm_nlfeBNof-M1rugZnNl69YtjpXacvoJVb3cQCN3XqKMzOX1E3NAxOnzMjEyehQX1YFj3cTprC9DzO-cIQ2E6oL8vd0NphU3T-SKcVotReSCESztCNoHU10ZoSRc/s1600/IMG_6667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbPtLiDVzSCX0LHBm_nlfeBNof-M1rugZnNl69YtjpXacvoJVb3cQCN3XqKMzOX1E3NAxOnzMjEyehQX1YFj3cTprC9DzO-cIQ2E6oL8vd0NphU3T-SKcVotReSCESztCNoHU10ZoSRc/s640/IMG_6667.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I spray-painted a kool-whip container for my base. No, it didn't prevent my tower from collapsing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The following year, with greatly lowered expectations, she asked for a simple "pretty cake." Even that, apparently, is beyond my abilities. What we had was more than edible, but a bit on the ugly side.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLfILcg2HBqPRpeiX1kerAYqK0DItLs7fgapCiH4AAPoc1DXzr_eG7rUqWtPFgZILkRl5royXgIkBNcz5Xle9uO5Bsoo2f3SpwGoPQefEOHPibrPPNWdjh0acifVrUvSeXXUWd45TV6I/s1600/IMG_1204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLfILcg2HBqPRpeiX1kerAYqK0DItLs7fgapCiH4AAPoc1DXzr_eG7rUqWtPFgZILkRl5royXgIkBNcz5Xle9uO5Bsoo2f3SpwGoPQefEOHPibrPPNWdjh0acifVrUvSeXXUWd45TV6I/s640/IMG_1204.JPG" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Either my homemade frosting recipe needs some improvement, or I need to make more of it. I feel if I made improvements, I would naturally want to make more of it and thus the spread on the cake wouldn't be so thin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This year she just made her own cake. It wouldn't come out of the pan in one piece, so that really simplified the frosting effort. I think we were both happier. I mean, what eight-year-old doesn't want to make their own birthday cake and get chocolate batter all over the kitchen and repeatedly lick the frosting spatula and decorate with paper umbrellas? We're talking paradise, people. Childhood paradise, that's what we have going on around here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hyphenhyphengdIjx-dRXAPB3N4WIl7vzs500Ip6826iac13Zk7BqwHvvDx4wmtzS4Q9aRsYHQifoMtsime9KWzPFcXRhXrAq4r0Bt7pnpuOgsaEPV-dPDryrQi6Q3mNjE3-EWFG5ui4WvcU5X2DY/s1600/IMG_5389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hyphenhyphengdIjx-dRXAPB3N4WIl7vzs500Ip6826iac13Zk7BqwHvvDx4wmtzS4Q9aRsYHQifoMtsime9KWzPFcXRhXrAq4r0Bt7pnpuOgsaEPV-dPDryrQi6Q3mNjE3-EWFG5ui4WvcU5X2DY/s640/IMG_5389.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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We're not professionals; we're just having fun. That doesn't require much anticipation or skill.<br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-4151825646112127592013-06-25T22:48:00.002-04:002013-06-25T22:53:58.980-04:00A Good Summer StormA good summer storm<br />
Without undue anger<br />
Yet force enough to drive the rain<br />
Should shake the branches<br />
But not tear apart,<br />
Not rip from the limbs their clothing<br />
Scattering leaves as<br />
If raping the trees.<br />
<br />
OK. That got weird really fast. I sat down to write an excuse for eating ice cream - without once bit of guilt on top - at ten o'clock in the evening. And then suddenly I'm sexualizing a storm.<br />
That might not be a legitimate term; all the better since no one should sit down to write about ice cream and end up here.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Storm.</span><br />
Nice, easy storm. Thunder, yes. Lightning, plentiful. Wind? Perfect: musical without moaning.<br />
Listening, enjoying, cooling off in the mellow little storm - yes, it was just strong enough to be called a storm - I was reminded of rainy nights on family vacation.<br />
<br />
Chased from the dark beach by the wind and rain, we sat around the table and played Gin Rummy [house rules], Hearts or Stratego (before Risk was invented, this is what brothers and sisters played when they wanted to alienate themselves from one another). <br />
<img 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" /><br />
Even if one of our number didn't actively participate in the game [ahem! Dad!] they didn't isolate themselves in a quieter corner, but read a book somewhere nearby. Since it was vacation, we rarely had a bedtime, but usually had ice cream or popcorn.<br />
<br />
When this nice not-quite-a-grown-up storm chased me from my porch seat, I realized I needed ice cream. Really. The best way to experience a good thunder shower is with a bowl of vanilla ice cream, regardless of what time of day it is. Consider it a moment of vacation.<br />
<br />
Just don't try to write any free-verse poetry about it.<br />
<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-2264075198936704432013-06-24T21:56:00.001-04:002013-06-24T21:56:12.556-04:00Buzzards CirclingI was driving between baseball practice schedules this morning, a bit caught up in some melancholic thoughts. Really, I was trying to keep these thoughts from mastering me. A little self-pity usually leads to a lot of self-pity which either spins off into Angry Mom mode or Chocolate-laden Self Loathing.Who wants to scream, binge or loathe?<br />
Not me.<br />
Up ahead, I saw some buzzards circling in the field.<br />
Lovely. Just what everyone needs to get out of a slump: reminders of death and decay.<br />
But these birds weren't just circling; they seemed to be effortlessly floating higher and higher. It really looked like they had caught an updraft and were being pulled to elevations beyond their own strength.<br />
Grasping for inspiration, I tried to think "soaring above" thoughts.<br />
<i>"This stumbling block can become a stepping stone."</i><br />
<i>"Things always look better tomorrow."</i><br />
<i>"I will not feel sorry for myself." </i><br />
<i>"My mother loves me."</i> [Hey, sometimes that's the best I can muster.]<br />
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But you know what?<br />
It didn't work. I couldn't get past the fact that they were buzzards.<br />
'Buzzards' is a pretty funny word whether you say it, spell it, or just think it.<br />
I have to say, Disney has helped shape this image for me.<br />
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<img height="486" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSUowwKpAfh3PJj0ZwZe0B56mL80MApKHCGRW_cmhAOGabByazGzA" width="640" /><br />
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Thank you, Walt. Thank you so very much.<br />
I may not have felt a great Inspirational Moment, but I did get a small chuckle. Sometimes that's all you need.<br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-4517464943621148682013-06-10T07:23:00.001-04:002013-06-10T07:23:40.756-04:00Strange MusingsI have always pictured the "narrow" road as a tiny, yet paved, street stretching arrow straight into the horizon. But today I wondered if it could be more like a hiking trail through the woods. Because that would not only be more difficult to follow, but it would be much more lovely with all the trees. If I can put a request in for my own personal Biblical analogy, I would like the forest version of the narrow path.<br />
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An additional benefit would be avoiding sunburn.<br />
Although there would probably be a lot more mosquitoes, but I'm sure they would have a Spiritual comparison.<br />
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I think I will stop now and take the narrow path to the kitchen and breakfast.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-7498137390947122802013-05-19T19:29:00.001-04:002013-05-19T19:29:58.301-04:00Even On the Way to ChurchThis was a typical Sunday morning around here: anything but peaceful and contemplative as we scurried around readying ourselves for church. Untangling hair, "discussing" clothing options, and repeating - at least 3 times - where the kids can find the yogurt are not activities that lend themselves to restfulness. I am not the first parent to recognize that hypocrisy paves our way to worship service after an hour of yelling. <br />
But - oh thank you! -<span style="font-size: x-large;"> grace follows</span> along too.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Grace = favor that I do not deserve, blessings that I cannot earn.</span><br />
It was <i>grace, </i>I believe, that snapped me out of my on-the-way-to-church-distraction and opened my ears to the song coming from the seat directly behind me. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFKNjeS2JQ94anChS2fTKmQjsRjfEq4iiuyCVtLr62CzkflRQdazsI23nh2o7ZC8s8lYWIAVNscZAaYckHLVY8fiDIf5MgQuzbRQDsggCPPrIuJkIJqhRPtfKDZb4Nq5HU5hnLUaozT0/s1600/IMG_3430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFKNjeS2JQ94anChS2fTKmQjsRjfEq4iiuyCVtLr62CzkflRQdazsI23nh2o7ZC8s8lYWIAVNscZAaYckHLVY8fiDIf5MgQuzbRQDsggCPPrIuJkIJqhRPtfKDZb4Nq5HU5hnLUaozT0/s640/IMG_3430.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy girl with crazy, breezy hair</td></tr>
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Like many a four-year-old, this little girl of mine sings a lot made-up songs. This morning's musical creation was mostly made up of common phrases from "church" choruses:<br />
<i>I shout to God. </i><br />
<i>He is so great. </i><br />
<i>I love you, God. </i><br />
<i>He knows what I'm feeling.</i><br />
It wasn't particularly melodious and it didn't rhyme. However, it was the most beautiful sound of the morning: a hymn of spontaneous worship from a child who can't make it through a Sunday service in just one seat.<br />
Did you notice? <i>He knows what I'm feeling. </i><br />
I have no idea what was going through her little head that would prompt those words. But I needed them. <i>He knows...</i><br />
Our Sunday morning frazzle-rock doesn't surprise the great God. I think He can handle this tattered mom and her rambunctious offspring that fidget and whisper through prayers. <span style="font-size: large;"> His grace means that He still likes us,</span> even when our company manners collapse and we behave like those people you shake your head at in the grocery store. <br />
<i>He knows...</i><br />
When I feel tired, or fabulous, or overwhelmed, or in control, or just plain lazy, or like a failure These feelings do not take Him off guard. My varied and shifting emotions do not change His love for me. He loves me because of who He is, not because of anything I've done. I cannot earn grace. <span style="font-size: large;">It follows me in the giddiness of a "good" day and even on the way to church.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aren't you proud of this trick I taught my songbird? Who needs plastic surgery when scotch tape is available?</td></tr>
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-43782617717969193732013-05-16T23:27:00.001-04:002013-05-17T07:58:50.550-04:00The Lovely Interruption of SpringWe had a beautiful spring here in Northwest Ohio. It was last week, in case you missed it.<br />
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We had some lovely moments together, Spring and I.<br />
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Those moments were usually interrupted by children, or laundry or a dog that has discovered the newly plowed field behind our house.</div>
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You shake your head. You roll your eyes a little. <i>What is Honour's problem?</i> <i>Doesn't she know that the loveliest moments of life are found in those interrupting children? In serving her family? In yelling her dog back into her own yard?</i></div>
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Well, yes, Honour knows all that.</div>
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Honour even tries to embrace those lovely interruptions.</div>
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Don't go packing Honour's case for a guilt trip she doesn't need.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some botanical specimen outside Honour's dining room window, May 2, 2013</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Spring ends quickly.</span> On the calendar, Spring lasts from March 21 until June 21. But most of that isn't spring. The first six weeks of that time is merely Winter winding down. It is muddy,windy, rainy (but only if we don't need precipitation; brown and bare if we do). Balmy one day, freezing the next. Too cold for a jacket, too warm for a coat. Those first six weeks of calendar "Spring" are like the last 30 minutes before a toddler's nap: nothing pleases her; she needs a drink, she needs a snack; she feels hot, she wants a blanket; she's tired but wired; whiny and whimsical in turns, but since she doesn't like taking turns, she's mostly whiny.</div>
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Nap time eventually comes, and so does Spring.</div>
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For a WHOLE beautiful week - two if you're really special - everything is blossoms and buds.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exact same specimen, outside the exact same window, May 5.</td></tr>
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What do you like better - promising buds or full-blown blossoms? The anticipation is exhilarating, but the realization of their potential is quite heady too. It's rather like a theater production, don't you think?<br />
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In all honesty, of the four springs we've lived here, I have never seen this tree quite so luxuriant in blooms. As you can see by the arrangement of the patio furniture, we just sat around and stared at the pinkness. <br />
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Just kidding. Maybe someone sat around the fire-pit in the pre-Spring coolness. Maybe the dog had a party while we slept. Maybe the tree did a little Shakespeare for the varmints. Maybe...</div>
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It is precisely because she knows the season is fleeting that Honour didn't mind ignoring her children, laundry and dog for a few minutes to just stare at the pretty flowers. Yes, she was contemplating the ephemeral season, but it also took a few minutes for the caffeine to fully awaken her brain to the commotions around her. <i>[And if you're going to ask how laundry creates a commotion, you're obviously lacking in imagination.] </i>She doesn't mind much of anything in those first few sluggish moments of the morning.<br />
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Anyway.<br />
Spring has had her week of loveliness. The tulips are wrinkled old ladies, well past their prime and missing most of their petals, although none of us have the heart to tell them that. The daffodils seemed aware of their own decline and, shriveling upon themselves, quietly faded, without the fight of their sisters. The ornamental and fruit trees exhausted themselves in performance and scattered their own flowers at their feet. Maybe someone clapped, but none of us heard.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Now it is Summer. </span><br />
We our wait for thunder storms and the calender to catch up.Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-24045217056088563462013-05-15T09:59:00.000-04:002013-05-15T12:34:54.686-04:00As-I-Watch-It Review of Les Miserables<img height="212" src="http://static1.businessinsider.com/image/50c60fd9ecad049374000009-622-330/screen%20shot%202012-12-10%20at%2011.32.11%20am.png" width="400" /><br />
8:03 - Hugh Jackman is the best beyond scruffy parolee I've ever seen. I feel simultaneously repulsed and attracted. And why can't more church men be portrayed as the generous and singing types?<br />
<img height="247" src="http://www.soundonsight.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Les-Mis-Bishop1.png" width="400" /><br />
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11:27 - How can I keep my teeth from turning black? Because there is no hiding black teeth when you sing.<br />
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15:20 - <span style="font-size: large;">Oh the scabs! The horrible facial scabs!</span> At the end of the day, I am so glad I'm not a French beggar of the 19th century!<br />
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17:30 - He took way more than eight years off of his life in the last eight years. And now I feel like I must sing everything. "Is there anyone here who can swear before God she has nothing to fear, she has nothing to hide?" Well, yes. Actually, I think I can... at least before God. Perhaps not before people, but definitely I'm not hiding anything before God.<br />
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21:50 - I wasn't sure if it was you, but then I saw you straining and I knew. Ironic.<br />
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24:55 - I really, really, <i>really </i>hope my children don't need my teeth someday.<br />
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27:00 - Not graphic, but I had to shrink my screen because there is a tent full of little boys in the back yard.<br />
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27:something to 31:ish - <span style="font-size: large;">Actually cried a tiny bit.</span> And I don't even like Anne Hathaway that much. And I don't understand how she can sing so shortly after having teeth pulled (hey, I could barely <i>talk</i> after having some teeth pulled, not to mention <i>sing my guts out!</i> But maybe my drugs were more powerful.) But I totally get that a mother would do anything she could - would sell everything she has - to save her child.<br />
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36:40 - It suddenly just struck me / that I'd have really liked to see / Sacha Baron Cohen / in all of Russell's scenes. <i>(pretend I just sang that.)</i><br />
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44:32 - Sword vs. Wood Trim Torn From Wall. Never choose the sword.<br />
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47:00 - Oh. My. I forgot she was in this movie! HELENA (Bonham Carter) I love you!!!!! Even in nasty, mean inn keeper roles, you are the best.<br />
<img height="271" src="http://cinekatz.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/helena-bonham-carter-sacha-baron-cohen-les-miserables-photo.jpg" width="400" /><br />
47:50 - And now I see why he couldn't have taken Russell's place. Sigh. Such villainy.<br />
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52:46 - But where did he get the dry clothes? Didn't he escape out the hospital window into the convenient water below?<br />
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55:37 - "Let's not haggle for darling Colette." "Cozette." "Cozette." LOL'd on that one, I did.<br />
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59:37 - His hand as he strokes her hair = unnatural. Which I guess is natural for someone who is thrust into an unfamiliar responsibility.<br />
<img height="300" src="http://thenerdyorktimes.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/les-mis-screenshot-1.jpg?w=1200" width="400" /><br />
63:17 - I'm escaping from the authorities, sneaking around a cemetery with a child I just bought from her decrepit guardians, it's the perfect time to <i>burst into singing!</i><br />
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64:08 - WHY DID THEY GIVE HIM SO MANY SONGS TO SING?!?! He's doing his best, but it's just hard to not hear him say "Are you not entertained?!?" And I'm not that entertained during this solo on the rooftop. Plus my husband has walked in, and his attention span isn't musically inclined.<br />
<img height="253" src="http://www.cinematoria.com/images/films/les-miserables_2012/screenshots/les-miserables_2012-2-1200x760.jpg" width="400" /><br />
70:00 -You don't see many freckle-faced heroes. Stop asking so many questions, Corey.<br />
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76:03 - Love always trumps revolution. Love is a revolution of it's own kind. Especially with singing. Wait. The guy with the pipe looks like Sherlock. Surely not. No, it's not. Anyway. This younger brother is going to have a uphill battle in love, because it doesn't look like older brother is not going to help him with this love, what with his higher call and all that. And Corey finds the freckled guy annoying, but really, he's hott in an an endearing, innocent, freckled way.<br />
<img height="216" src="http://i133.photobucket.com/albums/q80/trungcang/h1/screenshot_3-43.png" width="400" /><br />
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79:50 - Crap. No time for love. I've got to go with this revolution bit. Unless the girl that burns with unrequited love for me can find the one that I do love for me.<br />
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81:50 - He calls her a lonely child, but she's really rather grown up now.<br />
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84:49 - It's beginning to look like they used up all the good songs at the first part of the movie.<br />
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85:55 - Wait. I like this weird trio. Kinda. Whoa That was a pretty high note, Amanda. And now you're busted for being out in the gated garden at night.<br />
<img height="250" src="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130413073008/lesmiserables/images/thumb/7/73/Les-miserables-screenshot-cosette-1.jpg/640px-Les-miserables-screenshot-cosette-1.jpg" width="400" /><br />
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89:00 - Singing in the Rain. Talking to myself. She appears to have a dimple on the left side of her smile. Basically, <span style="font-size: large;">she is just like me.</span> Except with darker hair. And that whole unrequited love part. <i>Right, Corey?</i><br />
<img height="267" src="http://www.thestar.com/content/dam/thestar/entertainment/stage/2013/01/04/les_misrables_samantha_barks_steals_movie_with_her_bold_singing/samanthabarks.jpeg.size.xxlarge.letterbox.jpeg" width="400" /><i><br /></i>
93:00 - Now <i>that</i> is a sports bra.<br />
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94:00 - Stirring song, in which we find out that if love disappoints you, you can always fall back on revolution.<br />
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96:00 - "Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men." I am going to hijack this song faster than they hijacked the funeral. "Do you the mother sing? Singing the song of angry mom... <i>something about not being slaves again. I think it has to do with dirty socks..."</i><br />
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98:00 - Well that protest went badly. Too bad for the piano. And Russell is infiltrating. I never liked him. Don't trust him. Listen to the urchin. And now he's throwing punches instead of telephones. <br />
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102:00 - <span style="font-size: large;">Distant marching footsteps never bode well.</span> Notice they stopped singing? Really hard to wage a meaningful battle when you're singing.<br />
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104:00 - How is it raining on her and not him? But at least she's singing again. And begging for his affection. And making the urchin cry.<br />
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107:00 - Uh-oh. Valjean has found out Cosette's secret love.<br />
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111:0something - I'm tired of keeping track of how much longer this movie goes. Javert needs to forgive. Like yesterday.<br />
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I'm curious about the historical setting of this story. French history has never interested me, so I really don't know that much about it. (I mean, it involved a reign of terror, how edifying could that have been?) Apparently it doesn't interest Corey either, as he is heading off to bed. There is a limit to how many solos he can handle... but I feel like I've committed so much to this movie already, so how can I not finish it?<br />
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Did they give Hugh a perm for this role?<br />
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If you feel like giving up in a hopeless situation, <span style="font-size: large;">a singing child with a cockney accent </span>will <i>always</i> energize you to keep fighting. Just hope that he doesn't die within thirty seconds.<br />
<img height="216" src="http://www.dvdactive.com/images/reviews/screenshot/2013/3/00023.m2ts_snapshot_01.07.54_2013.03.21_21.17.50_original.jpg" width="400" /><br />
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Never mind. Listen to the police man with the pom-pommed hat and the waxed mustache. Please. <br />
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They never listen.<br />
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Barricade of furniture and mattresses vs. Cannon fire. Hmmm... I'm pretty sure the brothers are on the losing side.<br />
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There is no stopping Jean Valjean. Not sewers. Not hopeless revolutionaries. <br />
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That little actor kid playing the dead child is amazing.<br />
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Russell hears groaning. All the best scenes take place in a sludge of watery crap. They end with Javert at the top of the stairs. Because he won't give in. <i>Corey has missed the best part.</i><br />
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Top of the bridge. Green screen, much? I don't know what's making me sick: the high "note" of Javert's suicide solo or the crash at the bottom of the leap. Maybe I shouldn't have stayed up for this.<br />
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How would you sing "There lived a man named Jean Valjean..." without laughing? <i>"Who am I? Who am I? I'm Jean Valjean." *snicker.</i><br />
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In the end:<span style="font-size: large;"> love does outlast revolution.</span> Except that in heaven the revolutionaries get to keeping singing their angry song. Well, that part doesn't make sense, does it?<br />
<img height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngMKEn77AbBME95R9AJTMJXyfSkrYX-PgwGkzLLDK80UqX-5kdWw99cflyDSnXCcHMbXJZPl8r_coxmLJTMPHRGBifFcymeICk_B6-pka7zXD_MEvA6S-jKl_3Lhemz5KidSMf_3mjcEz/s640/les_miserables.png" width="640" /><br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-88016488698319306122013-05-13T14:50:00.000-04:002013-05-13T14:50:57.424-04:00Over Anticipater, Not Over AchieverSometimes I get excited easily. I over-anticipate and make too much of an upcoming event and then crash in a burst bubble of failed expectations.<br />
Sometimes I go totally low-key and last minute about stuff and then bask in the surprising awesomeness of the outcome.<br />
I mix-and-match these beginnings and endings. I have illustrated with a flowchart.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1O9tZ4l2FMN0BPoVIz-0l_FKFntGDgDCnC3ItvAQGC29dLCSdznzqrF6w1LI82uP7LUbfHy4KVF3fmkqWMnz7ke9yw_DUmzXEWlbz8T_R8QBz9q-GTTE9izVUWT5DB_9pKbSWwESizAU/s1600/flow+chart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1O9tZ4l2FMN0BPoVIz-0l_FKFntGDgDCnC3ItvAQGC29dLCSdznzqrF6w1LI82uP7LUbfHy4KVF3fmkqWMnz7ke9yw_DUmzXEWlbz8T_R8QBz9q-GTTE9izVUWT5DB_9pKbSWwESizAU/s400/flow+chart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Interestingly enough, this flowchart in itself started in the happy yellow circle, but has ended up in the descending gray arrow. Design is not really my forte. I think Pinterest is an excellent example of this optimism/pessimism pattern.<br />
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Anyway, today is my Birthday. I have not over-anticipated the day, and it totally shows in my housekeeping. Also in my homeschooling. Friday we had to cancel school for the day because our trip to the health department for vaccinations took much longer than I had scheduled. Also, those shot-up kids didn't feel very well after the microbes of disease were coursing through their veins. It turns out, when you wait until a kid is big to get shots they get a whole lot at once. Incidentally, the dosages don't increase, just the number of shots available to them. <br />
Vaccinations are a controversial subject. I only like controversy when it's <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/8305645/The-conTROversy-over-changing-pronunciations.html" target="_blank">pronounced the British way</a>, (con-TRAUV-eh-see) so let's just not talk about it unless we can do so with a proper voice.<br />
Since Friday's schoolwork was displaced by Friday's controversial injections, it has become Monday's Assignments. Easy, right? Because everyone likes to start their week out with a few spelling tests amid the loads of laundry and dishes and leftover food that must be eaten. <br />
Between Weston's birthday party on Friday night and my birthday today, it has been a four-day weekend of Bad-{for Waistline}Foods: Burgers, Chips and Ice Cream, followed by Donuts, Hot Dogs and Pizza, then Ribs and Pecan Pie with no random bursts of running anywhere in the mix. Tonight the Daddy and I are going to go on a date which of course means eating high-calorie foods and someone whispering to the server that it's my birthday in hopes that they'll present me with a free dessert. This also means that I should try to hide some of the evidence of the weekend's crazy fun (i.e., clean the bathrooms and wash the dishes) before the babysitter shows up. <br />
I'm all about starting in the purple circle today.<br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-28255514597251856152013-05-11T17:11:00.002-04:002013-05-11T17:11:23.435-04:00World's Greatest Eleven Year OldToday is my oldest child's birthday.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teeny tiny baby announcement</td></tr>
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Thanks to this kid, I feel pretty old now. We have suddenly reached that stage where I can humiliate him {quite easily} in public just by opening my mouth.<br />
What I'm trying to say is that he's more of an adult than I am and that makes me ancient.<br />
Yesterday he told me, in an off-handed way, that my teeth look like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:MaterCars.jpg" target="_blank">Mater's</a>. He's full of great compliments. Maybe they're payback for the embarrassment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 years old</td></tr>
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There are days I love this mom job and days when quite honestly feel like maybe I'd rather do something else. But there is <span style="font-size: large;">never a day when I don't want to be a mom to this kid</span> (or his fantastic siblings). Does that make sense? I'm confusing like that.<br />
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Happy Birthday, Kid. I appreciate your <span style="font-size: large;">patience </span>with this first-time mom...<br />
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your <span style="font-size: large;">curiosity </span>about everything (especially every gross thing)...<br />
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your <span style="font-size: large;">creativity </span>and initiative...<br />
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and your general <span style="font-size: large;">wackiness</span>. It's our distinguishing family trait.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I love you.</span><br />
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Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-51594674559001282672013-05-04T07:59:00.003-04:002013-05-04T08:02:24.690-04:00Random Thoughts Strung With Tenuous ThreadYou would not believe the difficulties I just dreamed my way through in order to get to Zumba class. When I found myself topless in the woods, my arms hopelessly tangled in my sports bra, I realized that I must be dreaming and I sat down to wait until I woke up. There is no way I am missing Zumba this morning - it is the most fun workout I've ever done. Not that I'm a workout expert. I just like making faces at the instructor because she's a relative [small town issue] and I take it upon myself to lighten her load. And also to get her out of sync.<br />
After I woke up, I snapped this picture with my phone:<br />
<img height="359" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-g-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/473127_10151338395171199_989990196_o.jpg" width="640" /><br />
This, ladies and gentlemen, is my bed invaded by a toddler. Although small for her age, she understands how to position herself to increase her holdings. The bundled shape in the left half of the bed is my husband. The remaining <i>edge</i> was where I had been dreaming 30 seconds before. It is no wonder I dreamed of hardship, trying to maintain that precarious balance.<br />
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Yesterday morning, Sambonini brought down his dirty laundry without being asked. What a grownup kid! Of course this means he was out of clean underwear. But I'm glad he's reached the maturity level where wearing yesterday's dirties is unappealing.<br />
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I have a crazy-lot of work to do today. Too bad I am out of paper so I can't print my to-do list. Has anyone noticed that kids these days don't practice the conservation that they preach? The idea of using the backside of a sheet of paper seems to be deplorable to them.<br />
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Right now I'm trying to decide if I should have a egg and avocado sandwich for breakfast or granola. Both options make me feel so earthy. My kids are helping themselves in the kitchen, so I'd better go in there and choose. [Avocado rhymes with bravado, so it's pulling ahead right now. Is there anything special that granola rhymes with?]Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-61111098571521161942013-04-29T22:27:00.000-04:002013-04-29T22:27:45.107-04:00April Laundry<div>
One of my favorite<span style="font-size: large;"> rules of childhood</span>: it does not matter how long you have actually worn a garment, nor what kind of activity you have engaged in while wearing said garment; once the article of clothing has touched your skin and been removed, it is automatically dirty and should be discarded into the laundry hamper. Note: all horizontal surfaces in bedrooms and bathrooms can be used for a hamper at any time. Exception: if you have an "accident," it is perfectly acceptable (indeed, preferable) to hide the offensively odorous garment in a tight corner of your closet or drawer. Moms like finding those presents.</div>
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I just finished folding the weekend's accumulation of laundry. The strange assortment in each family member's size does tell the <span style="font-size: large;">diverse </span>(if unremarkable) tale of our<span style="font-size: large;"> April weather.</span> Sweatshirts and long pants, t-shirts and short pants, churchy clothes, fishing clothes; we wore it all in two days. Plus pajamas and as many pairs of socks as we could find.<div>
This afternoon, when Dad the permissive returned from work, the kids went swimming.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was not warm enough</span>, but it satisfied some need buried within them. Plus now they know where their swimsuits are when the temperatures hit the 80's... <span style="font-size: large;">tomorrow</span>.</div>
Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-9701550776348587682013-04-26T10:20:00.004-04:002013-04-26T10:30:05.592-04:00Coffee Stains and SetbacksYesterday was the final day of baseball try-outs for my oldest son. There were 47 eligible boys for 13 spots.<br />
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<br />
As Dad and Mom, we had tried to discourage him from signing up for the team that required try-outs. Auditions are for musicals. Let's just stick with the league that lets everyone play. Or,<i> (my advice) </i>let's just audition for a musicals.<br />
But this is what he wanted. As much as I want to shield him from all of life's setbacks, I cannot. Better he face a few with his parents close at hand so he knows that we've got his back.<br />
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<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/honour.ruffer/posts/10151326932911199" style="color: #89919c; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">18 hours ago</a> via <a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/mobile/?v=350685531728" style="color: #89919c; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">mobile</a><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Oh the athletic-related drama...</span></div>
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<a class="UFICommentActorName" data-ft="{"tn":";"}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/hovercard.php?id=1109165946&extragetparams=%7B%22hc_location%22%3A%22ufi%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/rufftop" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][4][1]{comment10151326932911199_24653024}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][0]" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Corey Ruffer</a><span id=".reactRoot[7].[1][4][1]{comment10151326932911199_24653024}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[7].[1][4][1]{comment10151326932911199_24653024}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]">honour is more bothered than weston, one less thing to take up my saturday is what I say.</span></div>
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This was my status update as I waited in the car with the four younger siblings for our trying athlete. The drama was mine, not my son's; the anxiety of waiting was getting to me. Between my smart device and the rowdies in the backseat (the van was a-rockin') I should have been diverted from the events on the field. <br />
But I was all too aware of what was occurring out in the windy sunshine.<br />
I snapped the lid off my drive-through coffee, to better slurp up the whipped cream. Carelessly replacing the lid, I flipped the little drink door up and lifted it to my lips. Coffee seeped out of the Styrofoam and all over my sweatshirt. Oh Sweet Mocha!<i> See what organized sports make me do?</i><br />
When I saw the herd of boys huddling in the outfield I knew the who-MADE-IT talk was commencing. I gave up trying to distract myself, and watched for the pack to dismiss. Thanks to my now-stained clothing, I couldn't even get out of my car like the other moms and wait nearer the chain-link fence.<br />
Instead, I warned the clamoring, tactless siblings not to ask or say <b>anything </b>to him about baseball.<br />
He came, running lightly to the car, a small smile on his lips. I let myself hope that he was one of the chosen.<br />
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"Well?" He barely had the door open before I asked.<br />
But now I could see that the smile was not only small but very tight; a taut lower lip around clamped teeth. A small shake of his head, "I didn't make it. It's ok. I'll still play city league."<br />
And suddenly I was trying not to hate those 13 <i>other </i>boys. They're not bad kids; their mothers are my friends. In fact, some of those mothers are my best friends. I can't hate their kids. But in the moment, I was sad for my son and I wanted to be a little angry; I wanted to hate something.<br />
Maybe I just hate baseball.<br />
My son really meant what he said: he is ok. There were no tears, just a bit of silence. He knows that his parents love him immensely no matter what his talents are. Plus, his brother and sisters (for once) kept their mouths shut and offered no commentary. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw one of the sisters rest her head on his shoulder. "We had a strawberry lemonade. We had to share it. And we get to watch Little House on the Prairie when we get home." Just catching him up on all that he missed in the last hour. Suddenly everything returned to normal. Questions about dinner(yes), ice cream (no), and movies (maybe) filled the spaces and soothed out the rough disappointment.<br />
I know that <span style="font-size: large;">I cannot shelter my children</span> from sadness. To do so would be a disservice to them. How will they grow and experience grace if everything is easy? Isn't it in difficulties that I have seen the greatest strength of my own life? Would I deny them that? This athletic-related drama is a <b>very </b>small distress; life continues. He is ok, and I am ok. <br />
This morning, <span style="font-size: x-large;">I don't hate anyone. </span>I'm not even sad or angry or wanting to hate anyone (especially not those other boys). I don't even hate baseball. But until they allow random bursts of singing and dancing in the outfield, I still think musicals are way better. Way WAY better. <br />
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029133719296210411.post-38781308511478008602013-04-25T10:11:00.002-04:002013-04-25T10:35:45.396-04:00Reverse Pshychology Optimism and Pictures that Make Me Sad (in a Happy way)I started scribbling some notes for a blog post I wanted to write on the back of my grocery list. I went to the store and then threw my reminders away because I forgot they were there. I do remember that I was contemplating expectations. Expectations are the worst, mama.<br />
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You expect that when you buy the lotion with the "subtle" self-tanner in it, it will gently ease the glaring white of your legs away without obvious streaks and an observable sock line. If it says "avoid feet and knees" what do you do about those pale areas? And just how long do I have to let this dry on my skin before I can put clothes on? My little kids may be comfortable with naked, but I am not.<br />
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You expect that when you spend Saturday cleaning the living areas of the house, Sunday playing with children outside, Monday washing laundry, Tuesday chauffeuring children between learning activities and sporting events that Wednesday will find you with your feet propped up in the middle of beauteous order. When do they find the time to destroy so much of our environment? Can I have a little bit of Earth Day's sympathetic feelings?<br />
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You expect that making a monthly menu will ensure that you always have a dinner plan. How am I supposed to decide what <b>kind </b>of soup and sandwiches to make on "Soup & Sandwich Night"? Can this involve a can opener without my mama guilt going into overdrive?<br />
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You expect that after one friend tells you that shaving one's arms is the easiest thing ever another friend will calmly speak reason into your heart. Or at the very least, maybe there would be a little twinge of hesitation saying "this isn't going to turn out well."<br />
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A Later Note:<br />
I started writing this yesterday, but was pulled away before I could finish and click "Publish." Go figure. Maybe I should just start expecting the worst in every situation and then I can be pleasantly surprised when my expectations are not met. It's reverse psychology optimism.<br />
Except this didn't work out with my dinner conundrum. "Soup & Sandwich Night" turned into hot dogs and baked beans served on paper plates. Pretty much the losingest supper ever. Meh. It kept me from overeating.<br />
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Let's finish on a happy note. Look at these pictures from earlier this week:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmk9qDbNh2-dwTLVEcZZGW9gHIFG7lvsnEpja0FnfY_NT8fm8y04u3sV2zkj4V48s4Hx8Uk3h0jf0Jho6wyemQXe9EYXME2WlDQV5TnDbfJNImbOaCFCTSSn4DUfjkIMc5RDM-eeLr2o/s1600/IMG_3417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmk9qDbNh2-dwTLVEcZZGW9gHIFG7lvsnEpja0FnfY_NT8fm8y04u3sV2zkj4V48s4Hx8Uk3h0jf0Jho6wyemQXe9EYXME2WlDQV5TnDbfJNImbOaCFCTSSn4DUfjkIMc5RDM-eeLr2o/s640/IMG_3417.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this picture, except it makes my baby look like a toddler.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZejuYXl-LWtqgXpEMfkwcCJkJEmPMs11EMSIc7QecgNegSyQEmcA8KYG7mZ6nEwkvk9zggWE37lOmlWPGPOIk3T9z3xnqBDbrUDy84jOX4wnmePDeX71MgRWFwp-jMVBWJGZb_x_0PEQ/s1600/IMG_3435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZejuYXl-LWtqgXpEMfkwcCJkJEmPMs11EMSIc7QecgNegSyQEmcA8KYG7mZ6nEwkvk9zggWE37lOmlWPGPOIk3T9z3xnqBDbrUDy84jOX4wnmePDeX71MgRWFwp-jMVBWJGZb_x_0PEQ/s640/IMG_3435.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What? She's not a baby any more? These pictures were supposed to make me happy, not remind me how fast my little Chilibeans are growing up.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv2062Hh3m-pYb0qRKrZIoPH3WSxJc6-7VGTFlK8J2X32HzwoY9FYKtzOI9x9vFQjAafKQIZxvTfX5XVTjk7Kq-Fgz4X4xEt036EPIl6qF_PMwY2_rbhB5X2uLOS5WMos0cfaY-Hv_Mqw/s1600/IMG_3422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv2062Hh3m-pYb0qRKrZIoPH3WSxJc6-7VGTFlK8J2X32HzwoY9FYKtzOI9x9vFQjAafKQIZxvTfX5XVTjk7Kq-Fgz4X4xEt036EPIl6qF_PMwY2_rbhB5X2uLOS5WMos0cfaY-Hv_Mqw/s640/IMG_3422.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Chilibean is really into making "serious" faces when I try to snap her picture. Sometimes she just looks stoned. She doesn't understand that phrase, so we just left it at she just looks "too grown up."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOml3agZ53oiBHYEh0fMg85Spurz2lCdbXeZB31YbdlZZYLOrkDmLzT9xJxuH34RkXGIt7jtQ1rwjpaIO89Ot6ULSF-74h_gZXS2mcnwmCSy3kNOXAtOyQa-SazT6Bk-JaAFl6FTWXvQ/s1600/IMG_3407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOml3agZ53oiBHYEh0fMg85Spurz2lCdbXeZB31YbdlZZYLOrkDmLzT9xJxuH34RkXGIt7jtQ1rwjpaIO89Ot6ULSF-74h_gZXS2mcnwmCSy3kNOXAtOyQa-SazT6Bk-JaAFl6FTWXvQ/s640/IMG_3407.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This little Chilibean is not grown up. Because I am a grown up (although just barely) and it was a LOOOOOONG time ago that I could do this.</td></tr>
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<br />Honourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11434697365938290601noreply@blogger.com2