tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16469672158112871532024-03-12T20:20:21.719-07:00The Unlikely Farm Girl5 Kids, 30 Farm Animals (and counting), No Experience Required.Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-82446129260671658172021-04-15T12:20:00.005-07:002021-04-15T17:57:30.638-07:00It's Been a While<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Hi. It's been a while. A country mile or a country year since I've been here. I don't care to blog about death and tragedy on the farm much anymore so there hasn't been much to report. Farm life denial mentality is stronger than ever. But, I have been busy. Busy makin', maskin', and pickin'. </span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvu0oOKY6Rj3blljvTzb9M9j-BTjBL_5q1oDXZ6CXPDUP8Fx16bx-BOMMBkxCzGW3hga6vkPmpwrDeLW0EvACRnKNhc1JJ03TIZ-X0jE2TaWG9VLaKHLGsn5RAxL29_nM4Dcni-y-U6yY/s1512/IMG_5910.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1478" data-original-width="1512" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvu0oOKY6Rj3blljvTzb9M9j-BTjBL_5q1oDXZ6CXPDUP8Fx16bx-BOMMBkxCzGW3hga6vkPmpwrDeLW0EvACRnKNhc1JJ03TIZ-X0jE2TaWG9VLaKHLGsn5RAxL29_nM4Dcni-y-U6yY/w400-h390/IMG_5910.jpg" title="Covid lock down forced me to find extra work for my hands." width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Covid lockdown forced me to keep my hands extra busy.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAxfsKVkeg_d1GaNWnQJ2sle5IbzUvGjFX2X6tN2SnP4LMR_L79R5zqI8b-BDW9k_-zvlMy8BbZ6bq10ZMA8cz5ByyiAze6Rp9v9UNUaRtdf1jiyCve9Hhm_gjjsB_SEh-dg23MFRh3Rj/s2016/IMG_9387.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAxfsKVkeg_d1GaNWnQJ2sle5IbzUvGjFX2X6tN2SnP4LMR_L79R5zqI8b-BDW9k_-zvlMy8BbZ6bq10ZMA8cz5ByyiAze6Rp9v9UNUaRtdf1jiyCve9Hhm_gjjsB_SEh-dg23MFRh3Rj/w300-h400/IMG_9387.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I prefer them raw. So. Good!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU2xT-VJF0h4L6jyodv6U5q-SFSeXZC0MiVNoWiZ1GkpEtC6Le-bjyNP_AYtsP1-WP9FPvVIpAxlX6H6bP26LNoB5ys7v72DffCJyTeTyo-MjmHruaYZaH2xR5EFkMLE4oIyIJvHEOqTY/s1402/IMG_2016.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1402" data-original-width="1390" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU2xT-VJF0h4L6jyodv6U5q-SFSeXZC0MiVNoWiZ1GkpEtC6Le-bjyNP_AYtsP1-WP9FPvVIpAxlX6H6bP26LNoB5ys7v72DffCJyTeTyo-MjmHruaYZaH2xR5EFkMLE4oIyIJvHEOqTY/w398-h400/IMG_2016.jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grab yer glasses and notice the hand-embroidered horses, done by me of course. Never mind that, notice the beautiful quilting brought to you by my endlessly talented mom.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZC-BrHBGFZPqjtS_3zjwiv8s5-06YyhyphenhyphenBHBkR3lAAyQikMG-Ha7YGWY5FTKXrf-MhxE6awFOySd7w7cPgbP09d5F7QzJ5cLe9mExN7GitZOrThNBHsEoeg5i0nnFmtoaXWuuPzJ_FfZg/s2016/IMG_2017.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZC-BrHBGFZPqjtS_3zjwiv8s5-06YyhyphenhyphenBHBkR3lAAyQikMG-Ha7YGWY5FTKXrf-MhxE6awFOySd7w7cPgbP09d5F7QzJ5cLe9mExN7GitZOrThNBHsEoeg5i0nnFmtoaXWuuPzJ_FfZg/w300-h400/IMG_2017.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a lot more twine than it looks. Miles of it. Making twine is a great way to combat anxiety. </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The usual anxiety swirled with "The Covid" has made for a doozie of a year for everyone. I'd bet a whole lotta coping mechanisms were born out of The Rona. Like all kinds of kinds for all the kinds of people. Did anyone else overly over plant a garden to prove to the USDA you had fertile land (and a green thumb or hand) in an attempt to qualify for a hoop house program? Probably not. Anyway, we grew and picked enough green beans, black-eyed peas, and purple hull peas to start an exclusive bean and pea dispensary. Everyone else is growing the other hot commodity kind of farm so I figured we should be original and do our own thing.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsGzy0-Qwqr0WgtgRt03cJxy8QidrqGacQ-JWzqXXNCSbJi9_IZWZBC9KrzIKzrlPAtDegIzo17u4KSz37miNCuU96MrwVuwVjqO-F85y0hMdxcLfu1Wh1YK_hpeDA87Ry7FyGDGz9yDz/s2016/IMG_8810.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsGzy0-Qwqr0WgtgRt03cJxy8QidrqGacQ-JWzqXXNCSbJi9_IZWZBC9KrzIKzrlPAtDegIzo17u4KSz37miNCuU96MrwVuwVjqO-F85y0hMdxcLfu1Wh1YK_hpeDA87Ry7FyGDGz9yDz/w640-h480/IMG_8810.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backbreaking. Never underestimate the work of real-deal farmers. All too often we take for granted where our food comes from.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsPlvrDex3HYKoa9dq6Y-ZHRIULUT82sIhz0T3CGP9MJpU20Nwpfj7U20Gn18U_gwhq1XTwb1j7JhQk0myFWaZIkuIlbVQ29coUYf6F6i-O2HsZ1PSCnptd0xThAkvAWflMglttvr3mLk/s2016/IMG_9512.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsPlvrDex3HYKoa9dq6Y-ZHRIULUT82sIhz0T3CGP9MJpU20Nwpfj7U20Gn18U_gwhq1XTwb1j7JhQk0myFWaZIkuIlbVQ29coUYf6F6i-O2HsZ1PSCnptd0xThAkvAWflMglttvr3mLk/w480-h640/IMG_9512.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These little sweeties grew in abundance and were a nice break from pea and bean pickin'.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">What's more exciting than a garden? Big Dog at the mercy of over forty super pee'd off bees. I was minding my own business on the tractor when I saw Big Dog slowly walk up to the gate. I was tempted to ignore him because what in the world could he need me for anyway? I was far too lost in a sermon podcast to stop the tractor, pause the podcast, and holler, "What do you need me for?". I don't like being interrupted, especially when working the dirt. But something about the way he was standing there made me pause and stare as I thought "What in the hell is wrong with him and why is his head huge?". So I turned off the tractor, paused the podcast, climbed off the tractor, and walked aaaaalllll the waaaaaay over to where he was. Y'all, he was not right. He was in need of medical attention. He uttered the very words Big Dog never utters or wants to utter, "Take me to the hospital. Now!". </div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirROHBd-75XyIXFSJm6i5A9CMH9xzmG4wI_mP98kUzjnrsM5mhjRkmo9N-jipdIFd2Jnt7ZfGLH89XV11mNOi2pvK8vW3rTCRlDswZeH02OMSK0c_fvo2Yit5R17-qB2I-tsy4Ekn-C2RX/s2016/IMG_6564.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirROHBd-75XyIXFSJm6i5A9CMH9xzmG4wI_mP98kUzjnrsM5mhjRkmo9N-jipdIFd2Jnt7ZfGLH89XV11mNOi2pvK8vW3rTCRlDswZeH02OMSK0c_fvo2Yit5R17-qB2I-tsy4Ekn-C2RX/w300-h400/IMG_6564.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">What was supposed to look like this for the gram ended up looking more... </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehurlODE3YUVc8O9jR88wF__3F8BROr2QBXpHRUDvjx1YtiVkw4OEX4tyg_Lr5NQY-DC0QuNCq_aoNYlmxTSri-87zUJevcL1-ixPG7jH2qXEo_HJ2bfkQMdf8H5YhsSbUabis3yeeYR9/s2016/IMG_8992.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehurlODE3YUVc8O9jR88wF__3F8BROr2QBXpHRUDvjx1YtiVkw4OEX4tyg_Lr5NQY-DC0QuNCq_aoNYlmxTSri-87zUJevcL1-ixPG7jH2qXEo_HJ2bfkQMdf8H5YhsSbUabis3yeeYR9/w300-h400/IMG_8992.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">like this! Just a minor allergic reaction, swelling, pain, and shortness of breath.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Between you and me, I was a smidge annoyed. I happened to be in the middle of making perfect tractor mowin' lines. You know, like the perfectly parallel vacuum lines (such a rush, you feel me?). But I do value his life more so off to the hospital we went. He even told me to speed up as his difficult-to-breathe body language put my foot heavier on the pedal. Apparently, this was serious. After checking "difficulty breathing" on the intake form we were rushed to a bed. Quicker than rabbits doin' the diddy the nurse had an IV going. So I did what concerned wives do and took a trip to the cafe to get my selfish self a soda. Shhhh...don't tell him but I popped into the gift shop. Full disclosure, I'm a gift shop addict and could not refuse the hospital gift shop exploding with everything I didn't need. Dramatic ER visit behind us, we took in the valuable, near-deadly lesson of the importance of impenetrable bee suits. Big Dog has since bought new impenetrable bee suites AND gloves without holes.</span> <span style="font-family: arial;">Yep, gloves <i>without</i> holes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGnyTXN56H2hDxJELnzoJEXAF6LdmF2ERbAem8lsJy9ZT-fzc10gaZdxoFSiFIX24lNQdEdTLYywhEjAKL3C5GdMRy6IelVQucN1REkskQPDetjPYEtMeyuwuILL6lw_4FAAnjZzk5aY4/s1512/IMG_6011.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="1512" height="552" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGnyTXN56H2hDxJELnzoJEXAF6LdmF2ERbAem8lsJy9ZT-fzc10gaZdxoFSiFIX24lNQdEdTLYywhEjAKL3C5GdMRy6IelVQucN1REkskQPDetjPYEtMeyuwuILL6lw_4FAAnjZzk5aY4/w640-h552/IMG_6011.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another inspiration for Miranda Lambert's Oklahoma Sky</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Such incidents seem to drift away as incredible sunsets go down on yet another dramatic day on the farm. </span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;">But don't be fooled. No, no. Little time spans between peace and "what in the actual...?" moments. You might want to sit down for this one. Our not so beloved dog, Shadow, met his maker all too soon yet not soon enough. I'll spare you the traumatic details of this particular tragedy and just say that a brand-spankin' new driver's permit and old lazy dogs behind the tire do not end well. Guys, the list of reasons for PTSD just keeps getting longer. Therapist recommendations welcome.</span></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nv6pvY-Ttk-ZLK5F0Qa0b6oGHT_PKG0EcQB5QoWMGWwF6yM7XSQFNngVfYALoAjXEMN8TFX6AFwkDkFArSzK0RzT8WQrtc335YcGkA4zHWcwbOaFyNP-cFdbJd33tJokwn0iW2U3N2Pr/s2016/IMG_8867.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nv6pvY-Ttk-ZLK5F0Qa0b6oGHT_PKG0EcQB5QoWMGWwF6yM7XSQFNngVfYALoAjXEMN8TFX6AFwkDkFArSzK0RzT8WQrtc335YcGkA4zHWcwbOaFyNP-cFdbJd33tJokwn0iW2U3N2Pr/w480-h640/IMG_8867.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And you thought you were having a bad hair day.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu995MNiMZ-CcWCOVXl1Cg1NCyT_066b_xTwbwFk3KkbYgx2V7e3CF8doss49ciW-N1I2bWaD1nl8nJC7Lhap2n8IdiO8QUzwRA2a2rY4j06oc5FAlxpLC4W4GLRySDY2cK8xa6lOA7YJK/s2016/IMG_4292.JPEG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu995MNiMZ-CcWCOVXl1Cg1NCyT_066b_xTwbwFk3KkbYgx2V7e3CF8doss49ciW-N1I2bWaD1nl8nJC7Lhap2n8IdiO8QUzwRA2a2rY4j06oc5FAlxpLC4W4GLRySDY2cK8xa6lOA7YJK/w300-h400/IMG_4292.JPEG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Y'all groom your fancy dogs, I bathe my chickens. Well, when they have pasty butt anyway.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">What would a post be without the mention of a new animal undertaking? Big Dog thought it would be fun to have alpacas. Duh, who wouldn't want an alpaca or two? So in true Big Dog fashion, he rolls up one day hauling two brothers. Two ugly brothers. You think the chicken above got a raw deal just take a look at this hair-do...</span></p><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn8oXL_5lv0vbpW3-7XlvmfmPaW-ckuj1ZckE9c6UXJDOrRQXLLdpnwp3uyvJk8R_OVjkC2qzOA_YgGpnw_ujJ-lgTDdAWqZrveMbg678O9zaqgqIeT5MG8FkNMIBiBKLB9bbC9xh2Ff2/s2016/IMG_6398.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn8oXL_5lv0vbpW3-7XlvmfmPaW-ckuj1ZckE9c6UXJDOrRQXLLdpnwp3uyvJk8R_OVjkC2qzOA_YgGpnw_ujJ-lgTDdAWqZrveMbg678O9zaqgqIeT5MG8FkNMIBiBKLB9bbC9xh2Ff2/w300-h400/IMG_6398.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Worst. Shave. Job. Ever. Literally, ew.</p></td></tr></tbody></table><div><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Appropriately named Tito's and Templeton (if you know, you know), these brothers were done dirty at the barbershop. The growing back season is long. Too long. For too long you could see whatever they swallowed travel down their necks. With each witnessed swallow my goose-bumped arms grew inches of arm hair. Nonetheless, upward and onward people. Wait, did we get the alpacas to protect the 999th attempt at having goats?</span></p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsMf5qqCEdiQY-FM7wKYZY38oHGGBrxPAaCR9zREy4M4aY34WLeDDlMRZP1sy067T0oNYZtAdvfNDYfpSKbiKc4527M6F7wFxKxUxbgLkHlKNlxiccVQx5KmEOP_fcIAc1Fb_PStShPA3/s1280/IMG_6738.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsMf5qqCEdiQY-FM7wKYZY38oHGGBrxPAaCR9zREy4M4aY34WLeDDlMRZP1sy067T0oNYZtAdvfNDYfpSKbiKc4527M6F7wFxKxUxbgLkHlKNlxiccVQx5KmEOP_fcIAc1Fb_PStShPA3/w300-h400/IMG_6738.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too sad to caption this.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bahahahahah. Alpacas apparently do NOT protect livestock, at least not brother alpacas. Like anyone else, they run from vicious stray dogs. RIP goats.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Fun fact: Alpacas pee and poop butt to butt in the same spot every time. You can imagine how tight I close my eyes when mowing over the mountain of brother made you know what. I may not be able to keep poop particles off my hair and body but I do my darndest to keep it from getting in my eyes. We do not have an eye washing station. </span></p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoF0tF5fpYrn-cLBRBAp974PSruYUHe-tV627gE3s-Z8WPXh3Ycd6nWHPKORq1rbPO3J82wNqfZO3hN6-J3wJEmQokQ_aKL9yyudjIfBS-PNRc39E-u99D9ivjK3_YqxpLB_jG72szVPT/s2016/IMG_6315.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoF0tF5fpYrn-cLBRBAp974PSruYUHe-tV627gE3s-Z8WPXh3Ycd6nWHPKORq1rbPO3J82wNqfZO3hN6-J3wJEmQokQ_aKL9yyudjIfBS-PNRc39E-u99D9ivjK3_YqxpLB_jG72szVPT/w300-h400/IMG_6315.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sis had dreams of being a goat tyin' queen. Sorry, sis. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On a good note, we had Ranch Camp out here and it was just about the best week of my life. Five sunshine days filled with cute buck-a-roos and animal crazed children was just what the vet ordered. From riding to crafting to visiting farmers to ranch work demonstrations, joy and cheer spread from here to the Canadian river. Seeing the wonder of farm life through their eyes watered my soul and my heart for the farm began to grow again. </span></p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GomlIUG5HMS2cFiahBRixMWPl9AuI0ANnBd5XXXWQ3IWKHT2j0SdpwN_kTygWqzuPCeU95nu6LZ0zEd-T4-ggg0jiHppHzXfvAUqRk4GV7FLdQaoDUKgSWY9Nk-uHaXP5YYmf_uuBCAm/s2016/IMG_7394.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GomlIUG5HMS2cFiahBRixMWPl9AuI0ANnBd5XXXWQ3IWKHT2j0SdpwN_kTygWqzuPCeU95nu6LZ0zEd-T4-ggg0jiHppHzXfvAUqRk4GV7FLdQaoDUKgSWY9Nk-uHaXP5YYmf_uuBCAm/w300-h400/IMG_7394.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Since we can't seem to keep goats here, Steele Family Farm was so kind to bring their goat farm to us!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtcTSA3psj4YvhPgquwaVZnAu7mo5JqVwwt_nwHXldl22X6iIZX6N7d3uSe6DSJRJKmVEoY7sExkaxrTHS1oAxGrRUOwUxqcauTC_bJhZtTVpn51Wf9VpNjkJmNTd5VoDKEPQPfqpTWXm/s2016/IMG_7548.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtcTSA3psj4YvhPgquwaVZnAu7mo5JqVwwt_nwHXldl22X6iIZX6N7d3uSe6DSJRJKmVEoY7sExkaxrTHS1oAxGrRUOwUxqcauTC_bJhZtTVpn51Wf9VpNjkJmNTd5VoDKEPQPfqpTWXm/w300-h400/IMG_7548.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We gathered eggs and I did an impromptu lesson on how chickens have eggs without a rooster. Bless me. We also witnessed chicken to chicken brutality but I prefer not to go there. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinVcsn9uCGERLgyb2c-SjKE3fvzKhjVGrVwPDn-l0DwpvNHKwQhjpWUn0fFCwICle0YuwHw6M29hQA4xn0pjtzsDdJPpDZMD8t5a-lEY4iTqKlSXxDQmu5XEZxZmNLOx5z3wm-NyU44n1/s2016/IMG_7829.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinVcsn9uCGERLgyb2c-SjKE3fvzKhjVGrVwPDn-l0DwpvNHKwQhjpWUn0fFCwICle0YuwHw6M29hQA4xn0pjtzsDdJPpDZMD8t5a-lEY4iTqKlSXxDQmu5XEZxZmNLOx5z3wm-NyU44n1/w480-h640/IMG_7829.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me: Kids, what was your least favorite part of Ranch Camp?<br />Unanimously them: Crafts. <br />Me: OUCH. </td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Despite all the usual hiccups and challenges of the pandemic, we managed to host the sixth year of Farm Girl Fair. It was as magical as ever. Purpose and reason aligned yet again and it was glorious...until the freezing front from Moscow blew in and we all suffered frostbite and premature freezing weather-related arthritic pain. Seriously, Oklahoma. Just stop.</span></p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEMp894O_2Y7rDmFWiOOR_ETDj4fDe3Ki86Szs1DP72vsf86ZYeXvpWB644WNltgKzJMX2Lg_gIJ-fZ18NJ7ZuOK6qgTvzlTldk2NDK3CvjkDMAcindYX5w5dfm8mul43M6sBl7WphYVM/s2016/IMG_9553.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEMp894O_2Y7rDmFWiOOR_ETDj4fDe3Ki86Szs1DP72vsf86ZYeXvpWB644WNltgKzJMX2Lg_gIJ-fZ18NJ7ZuOK6qgTvzlTldk2NDK3CvjkDMAcindYX5w5dfm8mul43M6sBl7WphYVM/w640-h480/IMG_9553.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The peaceful calm before the bitter butt kickin' cold front.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQH9DAzDSEjfwpFqOy891U8TbMkIgvQlW2-t49XwQAFLYvqCraBRfpALzgM4jduELRBHGpXHsVZewZucPLHFlQqJu_A0cnLUxzQQO9dH_V3lIxs2SAGYxiaafA6ViL9rRd4VFNCtym4Dk/s1024/IMG_0298.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1024" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQH9DAzDSEjfwpFqOy891U8TbMkIgvQlW2-t49XwQAFLYvqCraBRfpALzgM4jduELRBHGpXHsVZewZucPLHFlQqJu_A0cnLUxzQQO9dH_V3lIxs2SAGYxiaafA6ViL9rRd4VFNCtym4Dk/w640-h458/IMG_0298.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Holidays on the Farm in December was unusually sunny and warm. Go figure. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: arial;">That's a snippet of a wrap for 2020. My memory bank is depleted. I spend more and more time and money on covering my relentless gray hairs. I feel wretched and withered most days but the Holy Spirit hasn't left me yet. I continue to seek His word and welcome as much grace as he is willing to pour out. And at the end of each day, I am assured that His love for me and mine is far more forever than this dang farm. </span> </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8Lvj5sw2qW8yh9rNcCQ2dJzYYgOKMUfk6XIs0jXEvjvQL-O6SNKbNvycx8SEei5tWoupsoTVx4hzp6ATHopr_D2VBPAa-DwgW2wxTTMJkdNTY9RSPmC908ztiTlzBwCIn9Twvg04hehX/s2016/IMG_0423.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8Lvj5sw2qW8yh9rNcCQ2dJzYYgOKMUfk6XIs0jXEvjvQL-O6SNKbNvycx8SEei5tWoupsoTVx4hzp6ATHopr_D2VBPAa-DwgW2wxTTMJkdNTY9RSPmC908ztiTlzBwCIn9Twvg04hehX/w640-h480/IMG_0423.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, Big Dog.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </div></div>Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-43088655886138971942020-01-28T18:58:00.000-08:002020-01-29T07:45:52.640-08:00Weeeeee! In Memory of Tom<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you know me you know I fantasize and even threaten to sell this farm on a daily basis. If you really know me then you know that Tom, our ranch hand, is the reason I don't. Tom is the reason I'm still here forcing myself to make this work. This hardship, this pain in my rear, this more bad than good, this "I can't take another season" came to ease when Tom came into our lives.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RXofm_1Al7ieR123950ttBimMb7yoOny9bdEx4kBUYY7jho4XaR5z15lAd8TIiyt1ppYmy5RmqbJRhfEFmz3w1EdOA32sjNEwuG-awLhYDoW4LR7UNXjPQ5EJE46i62_i9jx_XDdvzEG/s1600/family-farmhouse-icon-blue-background-farm-sale-web-design-application-interface-also-useful-infographics-103713796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RXofm_1Al7ieR123950ttBimMb7yoOny9bdEx4kBUYY7jho4XaR5z15lAd8TIiyt1ppYmy5RmqbJRhfEFmz3w1EdOA32sjNEwuG-awLhYDoW4LR7UNXjPQ5EJE46i62_i9jx_XDdvzEG/s320/family-farmhouse-icon-blue-background-farm-sale-web-design-application-interface-also-useful-infographics-103713796.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No comment.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most couples fight about money. My husband and I fight about this blasted farm. We were even found bickering about it at a Fourth of July party over two years ago when a friend said, "I have just the guy that will solve all of this". And voila, Tom started that next week. Tom desperately needed work and I desperately needed Tom. He was about to lose everything and I was on the brink of proposing an irrational ultimatum that consisted of selling the place. Tom changed all of that. Working for us gave him purpose and he gave me a happier marriage. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Boss, you saved my life!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Tom, you saved my marriage so we're square!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My morning routine changed immediately after Tom started. I would wake up, make coffee and settle in on the couch and read my "Tom emails". Tom would enthusiastically email me everything he researched pertaining to the project at hand. Using the highlight, bold and larger font tools, Tom would undoubtedly get his message across. A thoughtful and conservative list of supplies along with his expert opinion on how to best execute his plan would fill my inbox. Up before the roosters, His emails would be sent to me every morning by 2 or 3am. Tom would promptly arrive by 6am and get to work. My needy assurance that he was here was fulfilled with the sound of the squeaky faucet that waters the chickens. I hated that squeak, but I loved what it meant more. I also knew he was here by the sound of the horses stampeding to the front fence line as his truck pulled up to feed. A thunderous and beautiful sound.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaIMYTjXKS6UaRqd8MMkrWe88x101n4IimwESoIe-Dntt8PHVEmtu2BrBtdJFvBitEgnyq2-EgtbcS6FWzDDxixWnRoXhyPvasPbqIJxkFLzy7s8oaPblkPoN0_MQuAZRB15gQiWMYB2F/s1600/IMG_5510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaIMYTjXKS6UaRqd8MMkrWe88x101n4IimwESoIe-Dntt8PHVEmtu2BrBtdJFvBitEgnyq2-EgtbcS6FWzDDxixWnRoXhyPvasPbqIJxkFLzy7s8oaPblkPoN0_MQuAZRB15gQiWMYB2F/s640/IMG_5510.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diamond, one of Tom's favorites. Who am I kidding? Every animal was Tom's favorite.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Tom will take care of it" quickly became the anecdote to my anxiety. Ah, Anxiety. We had that in common. You see, Tom was extremely thorough. The kind of thoroughness that was fueled by anxiety. I mentioned I had a blog about this dang farm and he went home and read it. Every word. He read about our life, our children, our story, our losses, our gains and, that like him, I suffered from anxiety and depression topped off with a daunting dose of perfectionism. Over time, Tom would open up and share what he was dealing with and say with tears in his eyes, "You see boss, you're like me. You understand me". I would listen and tell him it's okay and that he's not alone. I would desperately try to assure him that we were here for him and alongside him. My heart grew and broke at the same time. I so badly wanted him to be okay. I could feel the toll of his affliction. I wanted to fix him. I wanted to save him. I wanted to do everything I could for him. Heck, I wanted to build a tiny home in the back just for Tom and his dog.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVJda5Bvt6RSkESVXWctK4S8kOB-H5wNEO5JYQlLAURCAq9jWWQdHNXd7qyLxSXtjTtU5F8kkc80u4IqfRr_niAPZcHb77IdvBJAO7KwK5GjT5MlwVkdJaIOFgke09FEpMYd8fQ-N5_bN/s1600/IMG_2404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVJda5Bvt6RSkESVXWctK4S8kOB-H5wNEO5JYQlLAURCAq9jWWQdHNXd7qyLxSXtjTtU5F8kkc80u4IqfRr_niAPZcHb77IdvBJAO7KwK5GjT5MlwVkdJaIOFgke09FEpMYd8fQ-N5_bN/s640/IMG_2404.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom thought Wilbur had tumor on his tail and assumed the worst. A vet determined otherwise. Wilbur had a "poop ball" forming on his tail. According to the vet, it was his most exciting call to date. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom pressed on and continued to come to work as long as there wasn't a percentage of rain in the forecast. According to Tom, if there's to be rain he could save me a penny or two by not coming in. *Sigh, laugh. Oh, that Tom* When working on a farm, there's the John Deere way, the Farmer's Almanac way, and the Tom way. I always, without hesitation, went with the Tom way. No matter how many pipes and hoses, otherwise dangerous strengths of fertilizer, trips to Atwoods, impossible to get fencing materials, or unnecessary tractor tune-ups, if it's Tom's way then it's my way. My husband would often come home and see something Tom had done and before he could ask I'd say, "I don't want to hear it. Don't even question it. That's Tom's work, his way so it's my way and that's that". My husband would smile knowing that a happy wife is a happy life. Smart, smart man that husband of mine.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJfcO5fdQT25NpLrqiUKwiSpKUh2gf0ihFL-HbLvSt8mbAL8DSWA-ZUvz3xsrBYoEB8kjlSAZAluS5zGBJ9khdWt8OOq_SwcUPSEP1c9BlIxxj1sGLCJjdL0zoGtYYF-RRjc5rbE_Oz1N/s1600/IMG_5550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1270" data-original-width="1280" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJfcO5fdQT25NpLrqiUKwiSpKUh2gf0ihFL-HbLvSt8mbAL8DSWA-ZUvz3xsrBYoEB8kjlSAZAluS5zGBJ9khdWt8OOq_SwcUPSEP1c9BlIxxj1sGLCJjdL0zoGtYYF-RRjc5rbE_Oz1N/s400/IMG_5550.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom has reminded me to pause and see beauty in life on the farm and appreciate all that we have.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom always asked for permission. No matter how many times I told him to do as he saw fit, he asked. One day he asked if he could use the EZ-GO to haul loads to and from the barn. As soon as I said yes, Tom took off towards the barn like a horse to a bucket of sweet feed. I'd never seen him run. He had a steel rod in his back for crying out loud. Seconds later I heard the most cheerful and joyful sound. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">"Weeeeeeeeeee!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom whizzed by like a child on brand new four wheeler with his hair blowing in the wind and a smile from ear to ear as he zipped across the pasture. It was pleasantly warm that day. Tom was happy. He felt good. I can still hear my kids giggle as we watched him zoom off back towards the barn. That moment will forever be a treasure that tugs a smile from my heart. Weeeeeeee!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2CvzCvPqagGiiqkBc4Si5r1usclqnIA_CmNpc1IxSiLSgO59CeegelhCP0LilPU78KOd_P4Tx9t3OYQBmj-p8BNmfRhZVY0WU-qGG-tFfvYJIOULotjiyXHigNdGgS2votdUSAqIWCiX/s1600/IMG_1797.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-2CvzCvPqagGiiqkBc4Si5r1usclqnIA_CmNpc1IxSiLSgO59CeegelhCP0LilPU78KOd_P4Tx9t3OYQBmj-p8BNmfRhZVY0WU-qGG-tFfvYJIOULotjiyXHigNdGgS2votdUSAqIWCiX/s640/IMG_1797.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blu and Buddy had fun with the EZ-GO too!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom took care of everything. Tom took care of the things I did not particularly enjoy, so that would be just about everything. But when it came to death on the farm it was hard. It wasn't just another chore or impending inconvenience - it was loss of life and Tom felt it to his core. The all too common loss of a chicken would leave Tom in tears, unable to come in to work the next day. We tragically lost our two beloved Pyrenees. Too devastated to handle it myself, Tom bravely took care of our protectors of the farm only to internalize the loss to a depth that pained him more than one can know. Soon after, our three-legged cat had to be put down. Tom barely recovered. He deeply grieved each and every loss, no matter how small. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our protectors of the farm, Pippa and Rosie. Rosie fancied Tom most.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Life. Tom brought our farm to life in more ways than I thought possible. He turned weed filled pastures into dreamy green meadows. He built fences that would have Texas ranchers jealous. Tom prepared gardens that boasted delicious vegetables. He impeccably kept and organized our barn to a picture perfect standard that allowed me to be in there without having a nervous breakdown. Tom adored and cared for our chickens like a shepherd to his sheep. He looked after our horses as if they were priceless derby contenders. Our pigs won Tom's affection and trained <i>him</i> to bring <i>them</i> treats. Tom watered my dreams for Farm Girl Fair and helped grow a magical day that was brought to life because of his innate dedication to doing only the very best on top of above and beyond. Every blade trimmed and limb pruned, Tom made everything better, more beautiful. Through sweet tears, Tom thanked me often for his job on the farm. He did everything with pride, honesty, integrity, and genuine gratitude. And for a cherished time our farm brought life to Tom.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom always made sure Lottie had plenty of straw to burrow in.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Loss. Loss is something you never really get over, you can only get through. The more precious the life the more painful the loss. We lost our Tom on January 2, 2020. We lost the heartbeat of our farm that day. We lost a dear soul that helped save mine. Our Tom took his life to end a suffering so unimaginable, no one can truly understand. Tom battled a raging war that left him in such deep despair that no earthly remedy could treat or cure. Like loss, mental illness is often something someone suffering can not get over, but only try to get through. Because of Tom I am determined to get through. I am encouraged to fight and live a life that has me gleefully saying, "Weeeeeee!" despite the weight of affliction he fought and I carry. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom at Farm Girl Fair. I remember him telling me, "Never be too old to ride a bull."</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tom, thank you for the selfless gift you gave despite your pain. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you for helping me love the farm you so dearly cared for. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because of you our land is a special and thriving place forever touched. Signs of "Tom's way" are scattered everywhere. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fondly,</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We can't have a farm without a Tom. Tom is our new keeper of the farm. This pup has helped dry our tears and console our hearts. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oliver, the "feelings cat", purrs and comforts me as I type this post.</td></tr>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-20474474978603213092019-04-30T14:37:00.001-07:002019-04-30T14:37:29.915-07:00The Day I Became a Farm Seal <div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rule number one when moving out to a farm: Don't move to a farm. If you obey that rule then there is no need for anymore rules. I know it's trendy to live on a farm, grow your own food and raise your own animals. But so is living in the city, drinking lattes and going to yoga. You know what else is trendy? Sleeping on a super expensive mattress and learning how to live the Blue Zone life. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you Emoji World for finally releasing an emoji that represents me living my best life.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People, if you ever find yourself thinking, "Man, I wished we lived on land", "I wish we could have animals and gardens", stop right there and grab a latte, go to Yoga and buy a mattress. The Blue Zone is way better than the Manure Zone. TRUST ME! Why? I'll tell you why! Because have you ever held a goat, ripped open on one side, scream at you for an hour? Have you seen the unfathomable scattered in a pasture while praying you don't get struck by lightening? I didn't think so.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lies. All lies. Joy. Of. Simple. Living.<br />Lies you guys! Just lies. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The perfect storm rolled in one Saturday morning. Big Dog was out of town but that goes without saying. I went out to do my glorious farm chores. First I checked on Baby Blu, our adopted and bottle fed goat. She's PRESH and OMG I could go on and on about her. She sucked her bottle, peed for an hour and hopped around. On to the horses... flakes of hay and feed. Done. Then to the goat pasture. Aaaaaand that's when the record skipped and the music stopped. I saw one goat, not four. Clearly they got out. So I hopped on the EZ GO and went a searchin' and a Baaaa'n my head off out the window. No luck. I drove another fence line in my car and there it was. I don't have a word for "it" because "it" was so horrific Webster hasn't come up with a word for "it". So we will start with carnage. Carnage spread all over the pasture. Rated R carnage. Then wind, then rain. And me poorly dressed. I got out of the car and ran to the one living goat. I had to get him to safety so he wouldn't become carnage come night fall. I knelt down, rain pelting my face like huge gauge needles, and he turned. He turned and revealed is own carnage. His side was ripped open.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And this is where I threw my hands in the air and channeled my best Scarlett O'Hara. I called Big Dog. I screamed, shouted and through my chattering teeth stated strong and <span style="color: red;">c</span><span style="color: magenta;">o</span><span style="color: blue;">l</span><span style="color: lime;">o</span><span style="color: yellow;">r</span><span style="color: orange;">f</span><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">u</span><span style="color: #cc0000;">l</span> words. He couldn't understand me. I threw my phone down in the mud and screamed some more. I was shivering because I was cold and shaking because I was mad. Really, really mad. BUT there was a goat to save. AND that's when I entered Farm Seal Training. No goat left behind. The Rocky soundtrack cranked up. The wind all but knocked me over as I chased the injured goat. My $.99 poncho blew off. I miraculously caught him. I lifted him up and he screamed so loud my ears are still ringing. He tried to bite me. I held on knowing his gaping wound was rubbing my shirt. I headed towards the barn. Dagger rain and 310mph wind zeroed in on the cinematic shot. Where were my comrades? I'll tell you where they were. They were inside playing video games with headphones on. I clenched my fists under the goat. I was living my own Fortnite and no one was there to parachute in and help. Not wanting to give up and ring the bell, I fought the storm and two steps later found myself on the ground sinking in mud. I had a death grip on the goat. My muscles stiffened and my body shivered more. I got up and fell again. Mud. The storm was defeating me. But I still had this goat. I got up once more and reached the gate. I finally made it to the stall and put the goat down. I don't remember much after that. I was freezing. Apparently, I called people. Anyone that might be able to help. A warrior named Kevin showed up. He was calm and looked completely ready to do his job. He works in GR. AKA: Goat Remains. He drove out and around the pasture and picked up "it", the carnage. I hunkered down with the wounded goat and sent out more SOS calls. A goat vet responded and headed my way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Y'all. What am I doing? What am I doing out here? Someone please tell me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, the goat vet showed up but wasn't equipped with necessary supplies. He told me to hold the goat down and "together" and he would be back. Stop. Go back and read aloud, "together". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">K. No problem. Or something like that. Really? Right back huh. Yeah, no big. I got it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again. What am I doing? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The vet returned an eternity later. It took both of us to hold that goat, administer injections, clean the wound, staple the wound and call it good. I am since 45% deaf and 110% traumatized. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddy after his pain medication sedation. Standing firm, staples and all. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward a few weeks and Buddy the goat is doing just fine. In fact, Buddy has a new home. He lives on a SAFE/DANGER FREE goat farm over yonder. He will join a herd and frolic in the fields. As for me, I am proud to be a Farm Seal. A traumatized and deaf Farm Seal. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture is not here by mistake. You see, I have been taking testosterone. I'll leave the reason why to your imagination. Anyway, I was so stressed out after the Farm Seal combat situation that I applied my testosterone cream as if it were my deodorant during my post-shower routine. Yes, I'm trying to whiten my smile and yes, that is my bottle of Prozac behind my Motrin. #HOTMESS</td></tr>
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<br />Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-9836564988796645942019-01-28T18:37:00.001-08:002019-02-11T18:17:58.879-08:00Say it With Me: Mental Illness<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can't think of a good first sentence. I have so many thoughts and emotions when it comes to this. I want to get it all out but at the same time I should probably blog about the open stomach, intestines everywhere, emergency surgery our horse had. Too graphic. Not for the general public. Dang it, I'm supposed to blog about my unlikely farm girl self and the #farmlife. But this topic has been tapping my shoulder for months. The tapping has been so constant that I have a chip on my shoulder. So, if you're reading this I hope you will hang in there and ponder. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was recently hashing this subject out with a dear friend. A somber conversation we've had before. Her eyes welled with tears and her voice choked. My eyes would well up too once upon a time. Instead, I've grown some thick skin over my tender heart and my anger and even bitterness masks the emotional despair I feel deep down. This time we were talking about the perception of mental illness and how it must change. I mean this is America, people. We are GREAT. I digress. Okay, so we talked about depression and how impossible it can be for others to understand or even empathize with it. We swapped stories. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I shared with her an experience I had with my church and just two words in, the fire inside me ignited once again. A few years back I was at an all time low. I was an emotional wreck and I was sure things would never be better but I desperately wanted them to be. I was on several medications, seeing a therapist, psychiatrist and sinking deeper into my bed by the day. I wanted help. I needed someone to help me. I longed for healing, an answer, a cure, a miracle. A light. A light to flood the darkness that swallowed me up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I finally went to my church pastor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With my husband by my side, and every ounce of imperfect courage, I poured it all out. I wept. My hands shook. I was at the end of my Prozac bottle and tissue box. My pastor listened. And that was all. That was it. The silence from the "church" was deafening. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But seriously. Let's be honest.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't know what I expected. I only knew what I wanted. I also knew that my heart broke a little more that day knowing that my depression was not a more socially, church accepted illness. Rejection. Humiliation. I can not say that this man didn't care or pray for me. I do not know that for sure. He very well may have. What I do know is this: Had I been in a car accident, birthed a baby, needed a kidney, had cancer, lost a loved one, became an alcoholic or drug addict, suffered a heart attack or stroke, went blind, deaf or turned purple, the church would notice AND take action. Meal Trains are not for the mentally ill. Prayer circles are not for the mentally ill, encouragement and support is not for the mentally ill. Social Media is not for the mentally ill. Not in the eyes of our culture or our church. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is the brain not as much of a life giving organ as the heart? I had a mammogram today. Yippee! I was treated with respect, kindness, and care. Aside from my breast being smashed and radiated, the experience and concern regarding the potential evidence of breast cancer was standard of care at it's best. The waiting room was lovely and the staff was attentive. Even the pens had flowers attached to them. Oh, and it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month so pink pumpkins, pink ribbons and wreaths, and celebrity posters tickled the entire building. I can't say the same for the times I was treated for panic attacks, anxiety attacks, serotonin syndrome etc. When treated for my symptoms, I felt like a criminal simply because my brain wasn't healthy. WHY? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back to the church. The one place you want to feel accepted might be the last place you find it. Now, I do not want to be a hypocrite and judge while feeling judged. But I have talked to enough people and read enough blogs to know that I am not alone in my aloneness of mental illness and the way the community, including the church, perceives it. I only want to start a conversation that examines the reason this seems to be the way it is. Had I followed my dream of being a documentary filmmaker I would place my award winning video on The Way America Sees Mental Illness below this paragraph. Instead, I'm an unlikely farm girl with depression and anxiety. Nothing award winning there. Just a lot of manure, really.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mememaker.net/">www.mememaker.net</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People are hurting. REM wrote a song about it. Pain is universal. The British Royal Family embraces mental illness and advocates on behalf of those who suffer. God save the Queen. Perhaps if Princess Kate came to the USA and spoke, we commoners would get our sh*t together and answer the call. Actually, I honestly don't know what "answering the call" looks like but it can start with an authentic conversation with sensitive attention to those who suffer. If we were talking, this is where you would say, "Right?". Followed by, "I mean, we totally need to do something". And I'd say, "Yeah, for sure. We really do". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that's where it stops. Even for me. That's where it stops. Because before you can even get your hopes up the conversation and solutions dehumanize and become political and impossible. The go-to response points at lack of funding and other shades of grey excuses. However, conversations don't cost a single penny. A shift in community perception is free. A change of heart is priceless. A compassionate mind in action is healing. There is power in pain and that I know to be certain on so may levels. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Someone you know has an ill organ. That organ might be their brain. Now what?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"A tendency to melancholy...let it be observed, is a misfortune, not a fault."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Abraham Lincoln </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hear ya, Lincoln. Same for other organ diseases, natural disasters and loss... just saying'.</span></div>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-54267620188084255352019-01-28T12:40:00.003-08:002019-01-28T18:06:05.476-08:00Washed Up<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial";">Last night I cried </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial";">myself to sleep like a baby.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">A forty-two year old baby. I was tired and DONE.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Done with what?</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">My kid.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">I was suffering from an unwanted case of <a href="https://www.fasdnorthwest.com/single-post/2019/01/05/Managing-the-Toll-of-Caregiver-Trauma">Compassion Fatigue</a>.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">It's a thing.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">It's real and it's all consuming.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Caring for kids in general is no party.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Even the healthiest of them all will try and fry your nerves. But caring for kids with special needs on top of it all is darn right vexatious (I’ve never used that word before). </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; text-align: center;">It will leave you </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">feeling washed up.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYr0AsDjUPWWUk1KVsq9jabZsZ0ix52BbedgEWNhdKGsdNZYVkJU9tHAu5KjHTxrfcedBP53bY2hgikFwM0drXnEY8RykqKpKEHawOMzBHaINzCoHdM7YJ5fRreRLIff2hJLQzKBzr4wxa/s1600/IMG_7226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYr0AsDjUPWWUk1KVsq9jabZsZ0ix52BbedgEWNhdKGsdNZYVkJU9tHAu5KjHTxrfcedBP53bY2hgikFwM0drXnEY8RykqKpKEHawOMzBHaINzCoHdM7YJ5fRreRLIff2hJLQzKBzr4wxa/s400/IMG_7226.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found this beauty washed up on a beach in Costa Rica. Pura Vida.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">As if winter isn't hard enough (I HATE winter) and all of my surroundings on the farm are brown and dead as a doornail, there are kids to raise. And it ain't easy peasy lemon squeezy. Often times, it cuts like a knife (cue Brain Adams) and punches you in the gut. Very few caregivers will <i>really, really painfully</i></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> admit that bringing up special needs kids can leave you feeling</span><b style="font-family: arial;"> </b><span style="font-family: "arial";">washed up and near lifeless at the end of the day. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">January on my farm. BAHAHAHAHA!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hEPX5lRBVo03O5MxVZPdq14H6e-kgmZKKJh99WdkNLZJCweA7e3vuRVjN_KpdCu4pz7AQtmd4eqs7kvLOsoWD6M_68T0PA74gpzaZmTAH5Nag86BugRK_rQ9HrbRxQx-HQ2npHorzlHR/s1600/IMG_0130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hEPX5lRBVo03O5MxVZPdq14H6e-kgmZKKJh99WdkNLZJCweA7e3vuRVjN_KpdCu4pz7AQtmd4eqs7kvLOsoWD6M_68T0PA74gpzaZmTAH5Nag86BugRK_rQ9HrbRxQx-HQ2npHorzlHR/s400/IMG_0130.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But really. Not all is dead as a doornail but Diamond Horse agrees with me. He hates winter too.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">I'm 14 years in.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Sounds like a prison sentence.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">And you know what? It can sure feel like one.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">And I say that to be authentically truthful with you.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">You can judge all you want but I am not alone.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">There are other brave mommas out there that warrior the same circumstances as I do.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Some are courageous and admit it and some are still pretending.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">But like David Goggins said, "Glossy surfaces often reflect more than they reveal". </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Even though we are tough, brave, and resilient to a fault, we still fall to our knees and shed tears that sting our quickly aging faces.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">My surface is worn, weathered and kinda ugly if I’m being honest. Oh, and my hands are covered in "crepe skin". EW. I didn't see that coming.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">I tried for years to play the fool and reflect sheer gloss.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> I'd slap on that lippy, lengthening mascara and my cutest flip flops and #handle it. But *i</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">t* didn’t go so well.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I had an actual, </span>real<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> deal breakdown.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Diagnosis: full blown exhaustion with a side of unbearable anxiety and a pinch of psychosis. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who is that person? Who dat?</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Fast forward ten years…</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Not a day goes by that I don't feel s*#t on. Have you ever been s*#t on? If not, I can offer you that opportunity in literal fashion here on the farm. It's like, "really bird, did you really need to drop a load (AKA:poop) as soon as your flight pattern crossed my shoulder?". Okay, enough potty talk. What I really mean is like not being able to get a win to save your life. Beat down and s*#t on. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here, bird s*#t covers our patio.</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Raising special needs kids morphs you into both a boxer and the punching bag.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">You fight while being beaten.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And what’s so dang difficult about this is: I can’t fix it. I can’t cure it.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I can’t change it.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And despite the countless books, therapists, medications, and unsolicited advice, I can’t even make it better. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3w41cz8_wdDXNppu2n-_xtdFxlaksTmzRLdSWFAsf5Gbpnbuz-LdyoRYDFQ6TU4RCawEJlkO91I7PbPfiutIy6ceOyxf6y8qIvi1LJB8cVVPIhni1gsWPnhh0n8JGO4aVxD0R2KYmgun/s1600/IMG_0223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1125" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3w41cz8_wdDXNppu2n-_xtdFxlaksTmzRLdSWFAsf5Gbpnbuz-LdyoRYDFQ6TU4RCawEJlkO91I7PbPfiutIy6ceOyxf6y8qIvi1LJB8cVVPIhni1gsWPnhh0n8JGO4aVxD0R2KYmgun/s400/IMG_0223.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hustle is real.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was sharing all of this with a friend. I basically EP’d (emotionally puked) all over her. She listened with tender intention and </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(15, 128, 255);">mercy</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">. Then, when I was finished spewing my severely troubled heart, she said,</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>“How do you parent that?”</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">How <i>do you</i> parent that? Right? You’re so busy keeping your family, marriage, sanity, home and self worth together that it leaves anything but room for parenting. This might sound crazy, but her question, her simple question, got me like white on rice. It was almost profound. No one ever talked to me about actually parenting special needs. Real, innate parenting. Parenting. Not damage control, not coping, not surviving, not crisis management, just parenting. So you know what I said? With all the dark emptiness I had inside, I said, </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">"I don’t know"</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And then I cried (I cry a lot). My role as a parent and my God given instinct as a mother were buried under the suffocating mounds of </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(15, 128, 255); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">survival</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(15, 128, 255); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #0f80ff;"> </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">turmoil. Once again, there I was on the salty and cold sand, w</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">ashed up.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SWndGov0QZ2Na_DE6MK0SHMtR_wB6-OeZ5zgPe_yUkyUvhIAlFdDLxtT1Seufiwyds4MY7DU5IjvppRINnTvhCmLf_3cQYTyFdzLd15ENSJxCrHbH5YE6m9x2WMHhE3yYnQr-TUhNDR6/s1600/IMG_7222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SWndGov0QZ2Na_DE6MK0SHMtR_wB6-OeZ5zgPe_yUkyUvhIAlFdDLxtT1Seufiwyds4MY7DU5IjvppRINnTvhCmLf_3cQYTyFdzLd15ENSJxCrHbH5YE6m9x2WMHhE3yYnQr-TUhNDR6/s400/IMG_7222.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another washed up beauty.<br />
"Sucking the marrow out of life doesn't mean choking on the bone."<br />
Robin Williams</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">This is where I am supposed to flip like a switch and go all positive on you.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">Positive Polly.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">That was my intention when I thought about flinging this out there </span>into <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">cyberspace.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">But Polly can’t come to the computer right now.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">She’s tired, anxious and too busy caring for the sweet little boy that bursts her heart, stretches her mind, pushes her body and captures her soul.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">He has a fever today so there, there it is! Polly <i>is</i> </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">parenting</span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"> </i><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;">for her special one the way only a mother can. Fevers and colds don’t discriminate.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">They infect special needs too and somewhere beyond the sticky drops of Motrin and snotty tissues I smile and picture God winking at me. </span>Parenting<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> does happen. It happens in moments.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBmnNG2MRBJuR7fWHXpBpOBrabeib4uHY6y56bRqIpfk0zbDEFsjNx7bqrsEg1xaFZspY62yzOr_jgiZa5EZX92UbNJCrGXIc-lVryANH9KGEaJAZ0z8qAUyNcu2cts7cYBSzO_hh12Lf/s1600/Image-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1115" data-original-width="1125" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBmnNG2MRBJuR7fWHXpBpOBrabeib4uHY6y56bRqIpfk0zbDEFsjNx7bqrsEg1xaFZspY62yzOr_jgiZa5EZX92UbNJCrGXIc-lVryANH9KGEaJAZ0z8qAUyNcu2cts7cYBSzO_hh12Lf/s400/Image-1.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only a parent can love a child like no other. Love wins.</td></tr>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-65846180167236652492018-01-31T14:34:00.000-08:002018-02-02T06:47:06.248-08:00Lost Boys<center>
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It was a typical day. I had typical errands to run. The weather was typical for Oklahoma on that day. Chilly and windy. I was doing my usual "up and down the isles" at War-Mart when I noticed them. Two teenage boys. They were out of place, nothing typical about them. They didn't belong there. No shoes, no socks. No jacket. Their faces were dirty and their clothes were tattered. With their chips and soda in hand, they paid with loose change and headed for the exit. Something wasn't right. </span></center>
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I followed them out into the parking lot. They took off down the sidewalk. I got in my car and followed. I noticed another lady doing the same thing. She too knew something wasn't right. We both drove ahead of the boys, parked our cars and cautiously walked towards to the boys. Where were they going? Where were their shoes? Who did they belong to?</span></center>
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We asked them what they were up to. Did they need help? With big smiles on their faces they told us a they were on a mission. A survival mission. They had been challenged by their "leader" to survive for 72 hours. If they completed the mission, they would be "accepted". One of the boys had a box of filthy tennis balls. They were selling the tennis balls to strangers, offering them as dog toys. With the money they made they would buy food. They slept in a field and bathed in a pond. They were shivering, giggling. They were proud of their mission. They had made it three nights in the cold, selling tennis balls and surviving. Their mission was near complete. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image: <a href="http://culture.pl/en/video/tomorrow-will-be-better-in-japan">http://culture.pl/en/video/tomorrow-will-be-better-in-japan</a></td></tr>
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Something wasn't right. Concerned, I continued to ask them questions. Desperate to keep their attention we offered them food from Sonic. Oh, how they immediately accepted and gave a tall order. The lady I was with (I'll call her Julie) distracted them while I called 911. I called my husband. I called a juvenile officer. The police were on their way. The boys figured it out and called me a snitch. I assured them they weren't in trouble. I assured them we would keep our promise and get them Sonic. I assured them we wanted to help and get them to safety. They tried to walk away but reminding them that hot food was coming kept them hanging around. </span></center>
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Two police cars pulled up and the boys tried to run. The police peacefully kept them from getting too far and began to talk to the boys. Julie went to get them the food we promised. The officers questioned them separately. I stood there, shivering. Where were their parents? Why weren't they in school? Why were they barefoot? And what the heck was this survival mission? What leader? </span></center>
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The police officers informed me that the boys were runaways from a local group "home" for the delinquent and dependent. They were reported missing a few days ago. The police told me that it was common for boys placed in group homes to run. The facility didn't have security and any boy could leave at anytime. They were barefoot because they didn't own shoes. They weren't given shoes to discourage running away. BUT who was looking for them? Anyone? No. No one was looking for them. They were reported missing but that was it. Past that they were two less boys the system had to worry about. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/resources/idt-sh/domestic_abuse</td></tr>
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Scared, the boys continued to confess where they came from and pleaded with the officers not to take them back. They made up the survival story to give them a sense of purpose and adventure. Julie returned with the food. Both boys were extremely grateful and ate quickly. I asked to officers to please let us know when the boys were returned safely and asked what we could do to help them. Nothing came of it. I called the facility but because of privacy laws they couldn't tell me anything. I talked to a local politician. He made a few phone calls but shook his head and apologized. I had no right to know anything. No right to help. No right to investigate. In the name of privacy, the boys couldn't be checked on or even told they weren't forgotten. </span></center>
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I thought about those two boys for months and think of them often now. Did they run away again? Are they safe? Are they being mistreated? Do they still try to escape and fantasize about a survival mission? Why is the community left in the dark? Why, in my town, was this happening? The bubble I had been living in popped. There are youth out there that are in danger, abandoned and forgotten. </span></center>
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Those boys are lost. But they have names. No one is looking for them. But they need to be found. No one cares for them. But they have dreams. They are people too. Like many, they hurt. But their pain is too much for our society to handle, for our government to appropriately fund. They are victims of a system that poorly houses the unwanted. A system that implements laws to keep the community from knowing or helping. A system that is failing children that have been failed by their parents. The system is broken and it's breaking our future, our hope. Those boys matter just as much as anyone else. They didn't choose to be forgotten or mistreated. But they are. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've had several people ask me what can be done. That answer is one involving moving mountains. The people I checked with didn't have answers. Like I shouldn't be concerned with it, it isn't my business. I wanted to promise the boys so much more than hot food but I couldn't. I wanted to organize a mentorship program but was politely told that wasn't possible. There is a problem and there doesn't seem to be a solution. Not one that anyone is willing to involve themselves with. That has to change. The hurting, the abandoned and forgotten are right here, in the shadows of our very own country, state, city and neighborhood. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The truth has a voice. We must listen and act. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-21275337007756016642017-11-07T10:28:00.001-08:002018-01-28T22:21:27.192-08:00The Disney Disclosure<center>
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It all started on a self pity kind of day while scrolling through Instagram. Pictures of miserably happy families so perfectly posed in front of the beloved Cinderella Castle grabbed a hold of me and pierced me right in the center of my heart where mommy guilt resides. 2016 wasn't the easiest year in the family/mom department so it only made illogical sense to surprise the twins with a trip to Disney. Big Dog didn't hesitate when I asked him if it was a good idea so I trusted that he trusted that I trusted I was making a good decision.<br />
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This picture is just flat disturbing. I'm offended at how magical this appears. <br />
The planning began by simply alerting a friend that is a Disney planner (bless you, Whitney). And while I'm certain she took pleasure in planning our magical trip, I can assure you she did not take pleasure in answering my over one thousand text messages. Everything she did was perfect. She went above and beyond to ensure we had a magical trip at the hap, hap, happiest place on earth. She had nothing to do with the fact the Big Dog decided to prove a point by leaving for the airport later than his usual yet unnecessary 3 hours prior to boarding for a domestic flight out of Oklahoma City for crying out loud. <br />
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And this one. I can't. I just really can't. <br />
You see, Big Dog (AKA: Airport Man), had us leave the house just late enough to be just late enough to miss checking our bags and nearly miss our flight. I was fit to be tied when he gave me a look and said, "See?!?! This is why I leave so early. THIS is what happens when you leave for the airport at the time YOU think you should leave." That's right. Mr. Prove a Point proved his point to the point I was in tears by the time we reached the pilot who kindly greeted us through his teeth. I dare say that set the tone for the rest of the trip. <br />
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Henry is very serious when considering where to send me with a Delta Gift Card. <br />
Fast forward to arriving at Disney World. Exhausted, we inhaled lunch, met with family and dominated Animal Kingdom. Thankfully, the nearly missing our flight incident was punishment enough for one day. Wait, except for the line we waited in to board our Magical Express bus ride to the hotel. I nearly came undone when a walkie-talkie barked out that there were 15,000 people ahead of us. Friends, I warn against riding the Magical Express Cattle Call Bus. Take a cab and save what sanity you have left for the parks. You will need it.<br />
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Since I couldn't figure out the Magical Memories scam, I mean add on, I'm super glad Big Dog captured this! <br />
Day 2: Magic Kingdom. My daughter woke with a stomach bug bad enough for me to call house keeping. It was disgustingly great. But the call of the kingdom was loud and she willed herself well and off we went. Now, if there is ever a time you should wear orthopedic shoes and pop a Valium, this is the time. Holy crowds and electric scooters! I felt like I had been transported to the National Electric Scooter Convention. Man, I'd never seen so many rent-a-scooters in my life. It was so distracting I missed riding Peter Pan and Pirates of the Caribbean. And the crowds! An hour and a half wait to experience a two minute ride that has you wondering what the creators were trippin' on. No thanks! I found myself completely creeped out by all the animatronics in It's a Small World. I swear those freaky little kids come to life at night and wreak havoc in that giant tunnel. I had nightmares that night. It wasn't pretty. Or magical.<br />
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A little time out for some mediation. I hurt too bad to stand on one foot. <br />
Day 3: Hollywood Studios. Eh, it was okay. I mean, I peed my pants. And I cried. Listen, Tower of Terror should be illegal. There is no sign that says, "This ride is not for the weak bladders". Forget being pregnant or having a heart condition. What about completely wetting yourself? The whole up and then down and then back up to know you have to go back down back to knowing if you go down you have to go back up. I left my bladder and five years of my life on that ride from hell. So now not only did I wish I had orthopedic shoes but I wish I'd packed some Depends. Further into the day my feet started to hurt and sting. My legs were throbbing and my back was at war with the rest of my body. I was wishing so badly to be an electric scooter candidate. I wanted to crawl in a ball and cry out, "Mommy!". But there was a Pin Trading party to get to and I take Pin Trading very seriously. Just kidding, but I sure reacted as if I did. Long story short and forty-five minutes later fresh off a broken down Monorail we arrived at what was to be a Pin Trading party. Nope. No such thing. Let's just say thou shall not mess with me when the letters PMS are involved. And don't mess with me after I've had the rear-end of a 300 pound woman in my face on a broken down Monorail either. Not good, people. Not a good idea. Yeah, so anyways there wasn't a Pin Trading party. Even though it was on the activity schedule, Kevin! Can I just share that I'd been on the wagon for more that fifteen days before the Pin Trading fiasco? Yeah. Nonetheless, we managed to enjoy dinner (and a few drinks) that we were an hour late to.<br />
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Nothing to see here. Big Dog took this, then text it to me. Thanks for that. Preesh. Just the look of someone who could be committed to the nearest insane asylum. Or sentenced to It's a Small World for the rest of your life. <br />
Day 4: Let's blow this place! Ha Ha. Not really. I mean, kind of. It's just that I was so tired and in pain and I peed on a ride. And let's face it, I had a blister on my pinky toe that I'd trade for a hemorrhoid any day of the week. If anything I reconfirmed my hatred for crowds, electric scooters, long lines, and retired people that drive busses and take nine hours to parallel park before opening the door. For the love, Disney! You killed me. I am currently walking dead.<br />
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When you tell your kids to go use up the remaining points on the meal plan at Goofy's Candy Shop but they get the one and only thing that's not included on the meal plan and rack up over $25 in hard core sugar. <br />
Now, all that trash talk aside, we did make some pretty great memories and the twins got to have fun with no strings attached. They didn't notice the scooters, nor were they bothered to the point of criminal intent with the crowds. They laughed, got along and soaked up every drop of magic Disney oozes out. IF you ever do Disney use a Disney planner. It takes the sting out of the stick. Oh, and pack sunscreen even if it is December. And Dr. Scholls Gellin like a felon I'm like Magellan inserts, Depends, Valium, Pepto Bismol, and super cool orthopedic shoes (if you can find any).<br />
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You take your kid to Disney and they beg to go to the hotel arcade. I do love me some photo booth pics though.<br />
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I would have taken pictures of the animatronics but I heard if you do you will be cursed until your dying day.<br />
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PS: Since man buns are a thing now and seem to be socially acceptable, does that mean that men wearing Mickey Ears is acceptable too? Just askin'?<br />
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-64208840003868384662017-11-07T10:28:00.000-08:002018-01-31T14:36:18.110-08:00Baseball: It Happened to Me <center style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When my son said he wanted to play baseball my stomach sunk and my knuckles turned white. Seriously? Sure, let's add one more extra curricular activity to our killer schedule. No problem. Sign us up! Thank you Lord that you gave me a daughter that does not like dance. You spared me there, no doubt. So soccer, basketball, football and baseball. Easy peasy. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've NEVER liked sports. Ever. The only sport I played was basketball. Once. The only point I made was via a granny shot. Humiliating. So when we added baseball to the roster I was less than thrilled. The only thing I knew about baseball was it involved Cracker Jacks. But as with everything else, I bucked up and committed to letting Henry play ONE season and prayed fiercely that he'd hate it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He loved it. My first experience as a mom in the stands was so intimidating. I was terrified. My first memory is of this darling Baseball Mom shouting, "Get-cha a piece of it Jonny". Get-cha a piece of it? Huh? Whoa. This was real. I quickly started Googling baseball lingo and slang. I already stuck out like an old bat. I didn't order a team shirt or hat and my street clothes screamed ametour. Before I knew it, every parent in the stands started to shout at my son to SCOOT UP! I was completely clueless and wanted to fit in so I shouted at him too. And he immediately scooted up and hit it out of the park. Not really but it felt like it. All of this sudden, I loved baseball too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Two seasons later I was hooked. I loved the kids and their families and I hadn't even had a single Cracker Jack. But don't think for a second that I haven't participated in my fair share of macheese nachos. "Ma-cheese". Cheese from a machine. Oh so terribly good. If it's not a kid shaving years off my life, it's the food I eat. Anyway, I was becoming a baseball mom. OMG! But I still hadn't managed to courage to shout "Get-cha a piece of it". I'm still ammeter level. But I know a foul ball and how many times the pitcher can pitch. I'm getting there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What I didn't know was how hot and bothered coaches can get. I've seen parents come out their own shoes in rage at a poor skinny acne faced ref in soccer. I've seen wives send their husbands to the car before being told to leave the field by an official. Heck, I've seen parents get ejected from games. But of all the balls out there, I've never seen a coach get his boxers in a wad at an 8 year old baseball game. Quite a scene I tell you. Poor umpire. It can get ugly out there at second base. Especially after everyone has left and it's just the coach and the ref. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Baseball has happened to me. I'll get fired up. I'll jump up and down, clap and cheer. I'll grab the knee of another mom when my son is up to bat. I'll pick the shellac off my nails until they are destroyed beyond repair . But if you see me get hot and bothered drag me off to the concession stand for nachos with extra macheese and perhaps hand me a spiked drink. Whaaaaat? There's drinking in baseball? Trust me. There is, Virginia. </span></div>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-11028813538377074202017-06-01T07:37:00.001-07:002018-01-29T18:04:44.289-08:00Green Acres: For Better or For Worse<center style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I'll shoot straight and not beat around the hay bale. I've been in a dark and desperate pit of depression and anxiety and basically spent February, March an part of April completely unavailable to life. I've struggled with depression for years, but anxiety? Not so much. This was my first rodeo with anxiety and it was nothing short of debilitatingly awful. After seeking professional help, taking specific supplements, surviving a near intervention from my dear friends, hitting the floor in tears of prayer, leaning on my family and holding on to Big Dog for dear life...I'm back <i>and</i> better. Dare I say, better than ever? But I have to tell you, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I was convinced I'd never, ever, ever be better. Never say never. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">God answered my prayers and delivered me better than I was before. The fog lifted. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look back and can't believe how bad I was. How scared and desperate I was. I was truly convinced that was it. I'd forever be in a state of unbearable anxiety. I'd never know anything but depression. I'm thankful for my family and friends. And walking. I walk with a friend and it's been just about the best medicine. However, in a strange and not so believable way, our green acres has had a way of keeping me from going back to the pit (I thought the only cure was a patio home). After all, farm chores are the best chores. Maybe. Sometimes. Occasionally. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fourth to walking, prozac and supplements, mowing is also good medicine. A good dose of accomplishment will keep your head high. If you're like me you know the importance and feel good of vacuum lines, a fresh swept barn, an empty dryer, dishwasher and my favorite (drum roll please) a freshly wiped down countertop. But lately, mowing has been therapeutic and somewhat delightful. Mowing to a farmer is like tea to the Englishman. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">See the line of definition? The very definition of utopia when it comes to before and after. Awe, the smell of freshly cut grass. Is there not a candle for that? Wait, actually the smell isn't so lovely. Not when you mow over more than you can count piles of manure. I mean, if you visualize it, not only am I covered in grass clippings and dodging bunny nests but I'm also inhaling manure spores for crying out loud. Ew. Gross. So gross. Flying pieces of manure. Ugh. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I apologize for that graphic but I pledge to keep it real on here even if it's stinky. Anyhoo, I'll draw the line there. Except, I drew a line, a deep and very defined line when it came to Big Dog getting cattle. I said with certain certainty that there was no way we were getting cattle. I put my boot down and had my hands on my hips and said no way no how brown cow. Big Dog has always been a good listener but lately, his game of ask for forgiveness instead of permission is strong. My firm stance was totally ignored and he brought home FOUR cows. I think my hands have remained on my hips until writing this post and to be honest I haven't put on my big girl panties and truly forgiven him yet. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The cows are all too appropriately named, by my eight year old daughter. Brisket, Steak, Hamburger and Roast. I do declare. I can't take it and question if she's truly my child. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thought sheep were dumb. No. Cows are dumb. Dumb cows. I swore I wouldn't take a liking to them and I've stuck to my guns. They even got out to graze on our neighbors pasture and I don't care. Not one bit. Big Dog was out of town, <b>of course,</b> and I wouldn't even go look to see where the dumb things got out and try to get them back in. Dumb cows.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The grass is always greener. I need a zoom lens. These dumb cows won't even let me get within 100 yards of them. I can hear one of them mooing as I type trying to figure out how to get get over the fence and join her runaway homies. Dumb cows. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a positive note, spring on the farm means new life (and hella lotta work). And by new life I mean mail order new life. Despite my toddler fit, Big Dog insisted we needed more chickens. For the love. When is enough enough? Alas, mail order is the way to go when getting baby chicks. Nothing cuter than picking up a box of chirping chicks from the post office and having the twenty people in line stare at you. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't know why Big Dog thinks we need more chickens. Fifty Shades of Eggs for your rated G viewing pleasure.</span> </center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We ordered fifteen but ended up with fourteen because one was D.O. A. Poor fella. But aren't they cute? And the gray chicks! They came with feathers on their feet. I'm obsessed. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just the sweetest, softest thing. That is until you pick it up and it poops all over you. I literally scared the poop out of this gal. But we got cleaned up and snapped this pic real quick. </span> </center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Isn't she cute, that little chick. And my daughter obviously. Oh, the arm? Right. Indeed. It wouldn't be kosher for Big Dog to go out of town and tragedy not strike. This little miss fell off a four wheeler and broke her arm. And just because I'm a pro at broken arms because her twin brother broke<b> both</b> arms last September doesn't mean I took lightly to this accident. It could have been much, much worse so I am ever so thankful that it is just a broken arm. One broken arm. Now she's in a purple cast and will be back to barrel racing in no time. Deep breath. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've managed to NOT kill my lil rose bush. And have learned to stop and see the beauty of the farm. Well, I mean I'm working on it. I'm a glass half empty kind of gal and so positivity is a challenge. But I'm getting there. My therapist has assigned me with seeing the good in things. To notice the leaves on the trees and butterflies on the flowers or the soft baby feathers on little chicks. It's a process. An expensive process. Our deductible is just a leeeeeeeeetle high. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In addition to spring chicks, we have a spring garden. Sort of. But at least the tomatoes are interesting. We are expecting triplet tomatoes. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The dogs are still pals and work tirelessly at keeping the coyotes away and posing for a perfect picture minus a muddy backdrop.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Diamond is still kicking it. But for real. Poor Diamond is being harassed by a stud miniature horse, named Apple Dumpling. The whole thing is just weird and confusing to the kids. Anyone want a horse? </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And the pigs. Lottie is shockingly still alive. Covered in mud sores, she still manages to get up once a day and eat. It's not clear if Lottie has eyes. Wilbur is still with us. He's much more active and has apparent eyes. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And now I'd like to end this post on a humble note. While feeling pretty good about myself as I mowed four pastures in a row, I also managed to mow the garden hose. Sure did. Who knew that one must turn the mower implement off when finished mowing? Better a hose than an actual water line. We've had a our share of water line catastrophes. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's good to be back and active on the farm. But I feel some respite coming on. Life on the farm is no vacation. It's always something. Always, always. You can count on it. After all, it's green acres covered in horse and cow manure. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wait. Hold it right there. Before I can post this I must bring you up to speed on the cows that left our farm for greener pastures. My heart tugged, just a little, and I agreed to help Big Dog round 'em up and bring 'em home. Bahahahahahahahah! </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since we aren't actual cowboys, we round our herd, I mean Big Dog's herd, on ATVs. And you know what happens when you chase cows on an ATV? You basically get flipped off and loose manure in your face. Never get too close to the rear of an anxious cow on an ATV. Especially when the wind is blowing. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I learned this pretty quickly and decided I'd had enough of flying manure and decided to keep my distance. Long story short, we were unsuccessful at getting them back over and called it a night. Two days after our ATV escapade, the dumb things figured out how to get back over on their own. Just like that. There they were standing in their proper pasture staring at me. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh and apparently we have witches on our land. I haven't slept sound since. The proof is in the cauldron. Witches. Why else would there be a cauldron randomly sitting at the back of the land? Great. As if I need a 187th reason for one of our kids to crawl in bed with us at night. Thanks, witches. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that's all I got. For now. </span></div>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-42566797871943373722016-09-29T17:41:00.005-07:002018-01-29T18:05:30.377-08:00The Fair Must Go On<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*This post is dedicated to the hard work and support of family, friends, volunteers, neighbors, strangers, and those who attended Farm Girl Fair 2016! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you, thank you, thank you.*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Farm Girl Fair, year two. Dream, round two. Come true, round two. BUT... not without it's challenges, road blocks, broken bones, spiritual warfare and potential monsoon weather. By golly, Farm Girl Fair had to go on. No matter what!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkAT1gJwwjTNWMcKcHfF6etIGLrcDILQ-4qQ12dbImQoSMn1z2PtxOAn2xAlLHoFTy5JEqZwvj5QUcocEqKb8ArgAUwcBg6ITVEGMP1IrHciU9saOK9H2c-uresVAizE43QziICfQrgtH/s1600/IMG_8108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkAT1gJwwjTNWMcKcHfF6etIGLrcDILQ-4qQ12dbImQoSMn1z2PtxOAn2xAlLHoFTy5JEqZwvj5QUcocEqKb8ArgAUwcBg6ITVEGMP1IrHciU9saOK9H2c-uresVAizE43QziICfQrgtH/s400/IMG_8108.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We three Farm Girls</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1j5DWvaW0gPLpfmEdZLscoqYUEvCaSwliHalR8ZRmvbMen3_NGP5OV9kNx6qLo7ADIFEs71l0x-3vXe4-yVwPfacnA5TZtWEfrJYuoYQzGxeiizkPTH_j4xvSo3Zds7oRzYOiW18zYdaL/s1600/FGF2-edited-0056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1j5DWvaW0gPLpfmEdZLscoqYUEvCaSwliHalR8ZRmvbMen3_NGP5OV9kNx6qLo7ADIFEs71l0x-3vXe4-yVwPfacnA5TZtWEfrJYuoYQzGxeiizkPTH_j4xvSo3Zds7oRzYOiW18zYdaL/s320/FGF2-edited-0056.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farm Girl Fair Flair<br />
photo credit:<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/"> Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Planning for Farm Girl Fair is much like planning a wedding. Every detail, every hope, wish, and expectation is on the line. Farm Girl Kim likened Farm Girl Fair to a twelve month gestation of labor pains met with great anticipation and excitement. We Never. Stop. Planning. Either way, it was an idea that came to life with heart and soul (blood, sweat and tears no doubt) powering its fruition. Not to mention the seven miles logged on Farm Girl Lindsi's fit bit. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUg1nQzvZBVPAd_F8ywXUGVJjlTCIlmgvaVO7grZf2CzWTSXxNC_wEyccfvrYgIvP1IrZTSsJKTsmGdiO-2goawFDd66Pe7049ViCRGYoHf0cFS7pkrQ1S6HXvUg_0g06VkqQen2sf43qZ/s1600/FGF2-edited-0074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUg1nQzvZBVPAd_F8ywXUGVJjlTCIlmgvaVO7grZf2CzWTSXxNC_wEyccfvrYgIvP1IrZTSsJKTsmGdiO-2goawFDd66Pe7049ViCRGYoHf0cFS7pkrQ1S6HXvUg_0g06VkqQen2sf43qZ/s400/FGF2-edited-0074.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: <a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">Jenna Gordon Photography</a><br />
For a complete list of vendors and links visit <a href="http://www.farmgirlfair.com/">Farm Girl Fair</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">Farm Girl Fair vendor, The Artifactory. <br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGDZBuaT-N40cJsPq0pkWp736dF1l1ogUwoPv6f6E0R1UszREqJkSIrjsegv8SYOKd3Pb9-vWLfLJaUG0RTuUgA_FPO97CnC_4VTWPJZZ02-JMtVixXgQFxzdmD7JqU-3YfgrbXkBGm56/s1600/Farm+Girl+Fair+3-edited-0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGDZBuaT-N40cJsPq0pkWp736dF1l1ogUwoPv6f6E0R1UszREqJkSIrjsegv8SYOKd3Pb9-vWLfLJaUG0RTuUgA_FPO97CnC_4VTWPJZZ02-JMtVixXgQFxzdmD7JqU-3YfgrbXkBGm56/s400/Farm+Girl+Fair+3-edited-0018.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farm Girl Fair vendor, <a href="http://www.siemprevivaclothing.com/">Siempre Viva</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year was different. Mainly because, for me, ignorance is bliss. Last year we had no idea what to expect and our expectations were met beyond comprehension. It was magical, whimsical and surreal as if it came from the pages of a fictional story. This year, we knew what to expect and what we wanted to accomplish. This year consisted of tweaking, turning, perfecting and pushing the limits. This year was met with circumstances beyond our control. These circumstances put spokes in our wheel, no doubt. A loved one passed and a frightening injury nearly stopped us in our tracks. But, the fair must go on. And it did. Beautifully. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0CKMJXa4_dHz4rpARjBJcVLAr9C84HiHdO4LxL3vjp0VberPsz_8uOCYHWc7HtrTPqLYe1BXKBYuOuphsKX4x8-gjRLEnVPFafM_WAXaR800V44Ahyphenhyphen0zlKN67pgfVe6N8Dt9LhMJ0YhA/s1600/FGF2-edited-0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0CKMJXa4_dHz4rpARjBJcVLAr9C84HiHdO4LxL3vjp0VberPsz_8uOCYHWc7HtrTPqLYe1BXKBYuOuphsKX4x8-gjRLEnVPFafM_WAXaR800V44Ahyphenhyphen0zlKN67pgfVe6N8Dt9LhMJ0YhA/s400/FGF2-edited-0006.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farm Girl Fair vendor, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/paintedfarm">Painted Farm</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4r7dsCs-znQP34yexK2zUP7KqJAhNLMK17c8yonrx0_ArPHmZ5ce0iOWzdhUb6Clb9t3neJBqXtSbr8ikPVczhb2dIIKT84Z3ZhI0GxdzUme_QKbjXQCVRhwxI52sL1aC0cvt8pKlP0RW/s1600/FGF2-edited-0049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4r7dsCs-znQP34yexK2zUP7KqJAhNLMK17c8yonrx0_ArPHmZ5ce0iOWzdhUb6Clb9t3neJBqXtSbr8ikPVczhb2dIIKT84Z3ZhI0GxdzUme_QKbjXQCVRhwxI52sL1aC0cvt8pKlP0RW/s400/FGF2-edited-0049.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thousands came and enjoyed a perfect day on the farm<br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBzqtwfiqPr9RNsjlaYmnVE5BiKa8n2_qHjDsJtU7wDL_74Vcy1NqNLRvVsKIr9MWaZ1B1mVwtQJweB6oRrb_BbX4uH0gOwq9Rr5h5oYXVUaUM2Uj6dK3hBuSHtzXsHXRY7Qt2pxPUf6Y/s1600/Farm+Girl+Fair+1-edited-0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBzqtwfiqPr9RNsjlaYmnVE5BiKa8n2_qHjDsJtU7wDL_74Vcy1NqNLRvVsKIr9MWaZ1B1mVwtQJweB6oRrb_BbX4uH0gOwq9Rr5h5oYXVUaUM2Uj6dK3hBuSHtzXsHXRY7Qt2pxPUf6Y/s400/Farm+Girl+Fair+1-edited-0057.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.quinceetalyor.blogspot.com/">Quincee Taylor Designs</a> set up and ready to go!<br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When you believe in something, when your heart beats for something, nothing can stop you. Obstacles are meant to be jumped and conquered. Our dream of Farm Girl Fair is one that comes armed with creative determination and possibility. We seek to give and in return gain a satisfaction that can't be bought, but shared. Of course, it's only a fair. It's only one day. It's only a moment in time. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKeJ6ckUzRP3Yjoy-Eb7Xl51CSNx04DIr8OU6-H8OcfCHidxL-PBr7keDJBqXLeunoptZRbzQNW5zZ2rxXtZQAo7T25Z6mssrVP0vyNfarAjqzr7GkobfcVZJsstfiRqblv6whtVMb0QvF/s1600/PicTapGo-Image-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKeJ6ckUzRP3Yjoy-Eb7Xl51CSNx04DIr8OU6-H8OcfCHidxL-PBr7keDJBqXLeunoptZRbzQNW5zZ2rxXtZQAo7T25Z6mssrVP0vyNfarAjqzr7GkobfcVZJsstfiRqblv6whtVMb0QvF/s400/PicTapGo-Image-40.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Serious #dollcrush at the Royal Street Dolls booth</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaSgLiEldqM6s_DJfbzn15yJhYwL3zVdMWRLRYiUc6MH7uslZj1GvTPuYR9uYMlamkmtfIRcRLO37ZIYtFi9JAID9qNSFxtmkIoAYq57DuRoMMhIGolOtQRD-hrTTtLy5JYzgnta-AxgB/s1600/Farm+Girl+Fair+1-edited-0095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvaSgLiEldqM6s_DJfbzn15yJhYwL3zVdMWRLRYiUc6MH7uslZj1GvTPuYR9uYMlamkmtfIRcRLO37ZIYtFi9JAID9qNSFxtmkIoAYq57DuRoMMhIGolOtQRD-hrTTtLy5JYzgnta-AxgB/s400/Farm+Girl+Fair+1-edited-0095.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farm Girl Fair vendor, <a href="http://www.steelefamilyfarm.com/">Steele Family Farm</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX979fufIXfu-gsN0_mXpVKNiaoODsYUFTGsE5-U9G_3Cd_AUZ-EJC0QSANXKSKP5wGb6Zrz_27G-XSqA7w9VnBsi0yf4tqXg_Qfl6-gmB712pVBCBS03Sxvrl6UBPt5ITQ1YXbRinmJKd/s1600/Farm+Girl+Fair+3-edited-0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX979fufIXfu-gsN0_mXpVKNiaoODsYUFTGsE5-U9G_3Cd_AUZ-EJC0QSANXKSKP5wGb6Zrz_27G-XSqA7w9VnBsi0yf4tqXg_Qfl6-gmB712pVBCBS03Sxvrl6UBPt5ITQ1YXbRinmJKd/s400/Farm+Girl+Fair+3-edited-0028.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admission proceeds benefited the <a href="http://www.ccfinorman.org/">Center for Children and Families</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jennagordonphotography.com/">photo credit: Jenna Gordon Photography</a></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Farm Girl Fair can be justly summed up in the words taken from a television series, Call the Midwife. A friend shared this with me at the exact moment I needed to hear it. </span></div>
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"A sense of community is the holy grail of modern living. When we can't find it in the present day we reach back through the years and say, 'That is when we knew each other...that is when we held all things in common.' It is the thought so tender and consoling that it scarcely matters if it is not true. Past perfection is a wondrous thing."</div>
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-Call the Midwife </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq4LQlo1enESbkhgyB2t-BsM1bCgJjF6VPeCrs9GQtDc0IAQifh8jwSpP6xDvh5XifN9flrXpqhIH2FK6WAQaSRWDuRI_uX8dNAiNASbK8Z4FWes4kZE_0fhebPWJgNtEHBot_ig8C1Qr/s1600/67925007-untitled-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlq4LQlo1enESbkhgyB2t-BsM1bCgJjF6VPeCrs9GQtDc0IAQifh8jwSpP6xDvh5XifN9flrXpqhIH2FK6WAQaSRWDuRI_uX8dNAiNASbK8Z4FWes4kZE_0fhebPWJgNtEHBot_ig8C1Qr/s400/67925007-untitled-29.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little girls dance to the live music<br />
photo credit: <a href="http://www.sanyacoutsphotography.smugmug.com/">Sanya Couts Photography</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To be continued in 2017...</span></div>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-91131085437785977172016-08-18T08:04:00.001-07:002018-01-29T18:05:45.028-08:00Suckmmer<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">suk-mur</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Noun</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of four seasons, traditionally the second, marked by whining children, hot flashes, and severe insanity. Typically a season truly despised by really honest moms. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The only cure for suckmmer is Back to School. Adios suckmmer! </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to school for them, to the pool for me for the win!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My Suckmmer Bucket List </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Make the barn look like a scene straight out of Southern Living Magazine</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Hatch baby chicks</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Teach the kids to speak Spanish</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Lose 15 pounds (You know, the 15 I gained while homeschooling last year)</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">+Gain an appreciation and taste for whiskey</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Start writing a children’s book</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Grow acres and acres of wild flowers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-Get into American Ninja Warrior shape</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">+Eat lots and lots of tacos and nachos and pizza</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know. How very sophisticated of me. First, I successfully accomplished appreciating the taste of whiskey. Imagine that. #momgoals Second, even though it wasn’t originally on my bucket list, I did succeed at taking Taco/Nacho/Pizza Tuesday 24/7 to a champion level so I thought I’d add it as a win. GOLD!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not only did I not accomplish any redeeming goals, this happened...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whilst swimming in our very rarely sparkling blue pool with my dear children, I became known as the “Dot-to-Dot Mom”. Such an honor. My sweet, big brown eyed Henry so kindly pointed out the “disgusting brown bumps on my skin”. AKA: Moles. He managed to point out every single mole on my body not covered by my skirted senior citizen bathing suit I bought on clearance. *Please note that the last time I wore a modest two piece Henry advised me that I needed to cover myself more because I was a mom with tummy marks (scars) and nobody wanted to see that. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWgNbpDey_5-yEVkHZ1elIc_0B2elMB5g54s5NRotM-XYtGYmheZ9sxQAuxt9CFkhJcs-COStpiLJFVgjrQhMtRA2KolJxs8UsA1LUNtrv9CbgiOYWAuM9bn3M-thTXw6IAIoZgnKuc2I/s1600/IMG_6088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWgNbpDey_5-yEVkHZ1elIc_0B2elMB5g54s5NRotM-XYtGYmheZ9sxQAuxt9CFkhJcs-COStpiLJFVgjrQhMtRA2KolJxs8UsA1LUNtrv9CbgiOYWAuM9bn3M-thTXw6IAIoZgnKuc2I/s400/IMG_6088.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R.I.P sweet moments by the pool with this guy!</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Gee, thanks Henry.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I feel so good about myself, my moles and my senior citizen bathing suit.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Know this, any confidence I had after accepting the uninsurable hail damage on the back of my legs went straight into the pool skimmer along with the june bugs, frogs, moles (the rodent kind) and rats.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am no longer convinced honesty is a virtue.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Honesty is really rude.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Honestly.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dear friend bought me this tee. You can get one too at <a href="http://www.calamityjanesapparel.com/">Calamity Jane's</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And just so you know, although I may </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">appear</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> chubby due to the excessive “water retention”, I assure you, I am as sucked dry as the bottom of my diet Dr. Pepper Sonic drink. There is nothing left. Nothing. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlr057y0M-GrzNm9BVTtJJiB9CFOABIm6Tl8GYBj0yJHUa_uPeXehI-BmP4KuDcmubuaFjnGEvUnXYPP5VhRf8EZib3G-CYl_7v2dzlkqO1a8WJVIVYE12h5PZ2DO8AP0THdfMMiyHxDtX/s1600/IMG_7330.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlr057y0M-GrzNm9BVTtJJiB9CFOABIm6Tl8GYBj0yJHUa_uPeXehI-BmP4KuDcmubuaFjnGEvUnXYPP5VhRf8EZib3G-CYl_7v2dzlkqO1a8WJVIVYE12h5PZ2DO8AP0THdfMMiyHxDtX/s400/IMG_7330.JPG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not mentioned on my bucket list is getting acquainted with snapchat. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I’ll miss you summer” - Said no mother. Ever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And if they did they are lying! Peace out. </span></div>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-91648892108675734412016-07-31T19:37:00.002-07:002018-01-29T18:05:56.706-08:00Mitten, The Three Legged Kitten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was recently thinking that maybe I shouldn't be The Unlikely Farm Girl anymore because I haven't really been doing much farming. I've sort of shut down, given up and turned my back. It's been a season of one epic fail after another around here and I'll be honest, I'm beat! But there's no rest for the weary around here. Before I could truly settle in complete denial of life around here, the unexpected happened.</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain makes corn, corn makes whiskey. Whiskey makes my baby feel a little frisky. Or whatever. I can't even grow corn. I was looking forward to having a corn roast but not with the five ears that rotted before I could pick them!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggw8E1OJjqx1SBH3PpDy0fqIA_2pMQwTtVTujSsOsC_yNfCwJj7IrSnNXt2dRaw8hdtg0G8D_0FKM2O5H3zX2OzK1y7xnhn7sjBGb_yccx9Kzm_iTC6IQGvzQpk0f-03pNBtbAqFB2CgxA/s1600/IMG_6820.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggw8E1OJjqx1SBH3PpDy0fqIA_2pMQwTtVTujSsOsC_yNfCwJj7IrSnNXt2dRaw8hdtg0G8D_0FKM2O5H3zX2OzK1y7xnhn7sjBGb_yccx9Kzm_iTC6IQGvzQpk0f-03pNBtbAqFB2CgxA/s400/IMG_6820.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then there is this glamorous daily chore. Yep, go fish out the drowned birds from the water trough, dump, sanitize and refill. Repeat daily, sometimes twice daily. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see since we live on a farm, we have a barn. And with a barn comes cats. Barn cats. People, I hated cats. Why? Because once I saved a grocery store parking lot abandoned cat and nurtured it back to health. We had a purrfect relationship until...until one day it peed on my chest! That was it! I was done! And that cat was gone. But we needed barn cats so I caved and allowed it. A few barn cats later, a "male" cat had a liter of kittens (I was assured the cat was a male cat. I was too smart to take my chances with a female cat because female cats have more cats and I hated cats). Long story short that feMALE cat and two of her precious kittens fell prey to a coyote leaving the last two kittens to me. Me, the cat hater. What was I going to do? Let them starve to death and take that to my grave?No! I put my hatred aside and bottle fed the two little orphans. As cute as their little suckling was it was like having twins all over again. Middle of the night feedings, baths, being pooped on, peed on and endless laundry became my new normal. But my heart started to soften and I began to fall in love with the little fur balls. Before I knew it, I was taking more pictures of them than I was of my own kids!</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That Face! Those ears! That nose! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't even know what to caption this. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously. I can't stop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like, I have a problem.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKbsGCj9tcCJ874VosN-fANHF9XbWql9lXwqaNG_u77zEYQYqJ3BwbsMO09_owXlNWb0xTmyj0-WnoE5FRFDj-uNDtLsBPGkRG4D3A92OK0gOtlK0RIfdnPQ4gHibq0SPH6UIpn0thyphenhyphenJ-/s1600/bauman-109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKbsGCj9tcCJ874VosN-fANHF9XbWql9lXwqaNG_u77zEYQYqJ3BwbsMO09_owXlNWb0xTmyj0-WnoE5FRFDj-uNDtLsBPGkRG4D3A92OK0gOtlK0RIfdnPQ4gHibq0SPH6UIpn0thyphenhyphenJ-/s400/bauman-109.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
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I couldn't do a family photoshoot without including the kitties! Photo Credit: <a href="http://brittanystoverphotography.com/">Brittany Stover Photography</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwMAyXVw4YogEPZ7qMxgGNH7qDC2HOZYzRtQLIGliK655jTj-6jtYl1yqCa6zupRJe6dKnXai70AUPUkQd5TAU7MseHHu8kC4hPXLKCaoNaOhFwoO4I81D-_ZJE8YQjhhGfvfGBz5GxoB/s1600/bauman-117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwMAyXVw4YogEPZ7qMxgGNH7qDC2HOZYzRtQLIGliK655jTj-6jtYl1yqCa6zupRJe6dKnXai70AUPUkQd5TAU7MseHHu8kC4hPXLKCaoNaOhFwoO4I81D-_ZJE8YQjhhGfvfGBz5GxoB/s400/bauman-117.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And you're welcome for this one. Big Dog has earned another nickname, "Cat Man".</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the kittytale story wouldn't last long. I'll cut to the chase here. While we were out of town (If you live on a farm you cannot leave town and nothing bad happen. It's an unwritten rule) Mittens fell from a tree, got stuck between some lower branches, and broke his leg! Our farm guardian took Mittens to the animal ER and told us that Mittens needed to be put down or have a ridonculously expensive surgery OR have the leg amputated. I'm pretty sure it was just a few weeks prior that I swore off spending anymore money on an injured animal. My saving days were over and funds depleted. Like, our kids may not go to college because we have spent our life savings on saving injured animals. Okay, I'm kidding about the whole college thing but I'm not kidding when I say we've given up vacations to pay vet bills. BUT, this was Mittens. No matter what, I was saving Mittens. #amputationovervacation is was. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OUCH! That is all. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mittens in the slammer awaiting amputation. I was nearly escorted out by security because I refused to leave him. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, some of you might be thinking I've completely lost my mind. Well, I have. But I lost my mind a long, long, long time ago. I'm just completely insane these days. However, Mittens is doing great. Its like he never had a fourth leg to begin with. I mean, not every cat can have the nickname, "Tri-pod". And we call him "Mitten" for short. Every kid my kids bring home are rushed into the house to see the three-legged cat. My daughter even suggested we parade Mittens around at Farm Girl Fair so everyone can see "Mitten" the three-legged kitten. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aaaaand you thought your Monday was bad.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, there you have it. It's always something around here. It's exhausting. And for the time being, I think I will call myself "The Unlikely Cat Lady". I love those cats! </span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-153003950463011872016-05-17T17:50:00.000-07:002018-01-29T18:06:20.677-08:00Mom Interrupted<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The grocery store parking lot should have been a familiar place to her. She had been there countless times before but she couldn't remember leaving her house and driving there. The sun was shining hot and the AC in her car was blowing cold air but she sat there sweating. The world outside her started to spin. Tears started to fall and the confusion felt heavier than before. She grabbed her phone and texted the babysitter asking if she could tell her why she had left or where she was going. She was stuck sitting still but falling apart. It was happening again. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later that week a scheduled routine appointment gave her confidence in finding out what was wrong with her. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The thread of hope she clung to was just enough to get her through the next few days. She convinced herself "it" was hormonal and the doctor would fix it. She believed a simple procedure or new medication would end the depression she had been drowning in. The depression she had been suffocating in had taken a toll and she needed and wanted help. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unexplained sadness had held her hostage for years. Symptoms of depression masked who she truly was deep down and she hated it. The side-effects of medications had further buried her deeper and deeper into who she never wanted to be. She felt like a stranger to herself and to her family. The only thing she desired was her bed where she would hide under blankets and pillows. Days became blurry, her thoughts bullied her soul. Her spirit was crushed from the pain that shattered her heart. But she continued to fight. She had to. She was a mom.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That day she actually managed to walk confidently into the doctor's office. Her hair was washed and she wore a bright dress with sandals. Before the doctor could say anything she proclaimed her painful truth and declared it had to be hormonal and to do whatever she could to fix it. And then, just after her strong, yet desperate, announcement she broke down. She began to sweat and the tears started pouring. She was emotionally out of control, completely confused. She was once again defeated by irrational emotion. After a series of medically required questions, she found herself being escorted across a parking lot to the hospital. Willingly, but terrified, she stepped off the elevator and onto the fourth floor where she was admitted as a psychiatric patient.</span> </center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a long evaluation by the psychiatrist she was diagnosed with <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/serotonin-syndrome/basics/symptoms/con-20028946" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">serotonin syndrome</a>. The sweating, confusion, rapid heart rate and relentless crying pointed the doctor to his conclusion. He was sure of it once she couldn't answer a simple addition problem or count backwards from 100. He cross checked her medications and was quickly appalled at the doses prescribed. Too much serotonin over a long period of time had her living in an emotional nightmare. He tried to calm her by saying it would only take 24 hours to flush her system and that <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1241289342" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">tomorrow</span></span> would be better. While that gave her hope, it was the next 24 hours that truly made her want to vanish. Forever. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The floor was smaller than other hospital floors she was familiar with. The nurses station was empty yet intimidating. The walls were bare, the carpet stained. She was led to a room with a plastic mattress and pillow without a case. Her roommate was rocking and moaning on the bed next to hers. The nurse instructed her take off her dress, shoes, and jewelry. Before she could protest the nurse assured her it was for her safety and that it was the rules. Her body shook as she undressed. The tears pressed on. Her eyes were swollen and her head pounded. The nurse became impatient and scolded her to stop crying. But she couldn't. Two more nurses walked in and held her down. She felt a sharp sting on her backside and she felt the room turn upside down. Within seconds she was paralyzed. She could only feel the hot tears roll down her face. Her vision blurred. Her legs felt like concrete columns stuck in quick sand. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A patient outside the door was strapped to her wheelchair to keep her from throwing herself out of a car that she had imagined she was in. Another patient, thin and frail, was scratching the wall attempting to make a hole out of her hell. The nurses station became a bar to another patient who insisted she wasn't drunk but wanted one more beer. She focused her attention back to herself as if she was on the outside looking in. There she sat. The mom who's life had been horribly interrupted. She wasn't crazy. She hadn't done anything wrong. She was just sad and confused and didn't know why. She was suffering from a syndrome she had no knowledge of. She was physically helpless and in severe emotional despair. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Her purse was taken from her. She had nothing but the gown they dressed her in. She willed her body up and out of the room. A male patient stood there softly smiling at her. He encouraged her to play cards or bingo with the others and "act normal". She managed to communicate that she wanted a phone. She wanted to call her husband. He smiled at her and lead her to the phone. It was barely hanging on the wall and the cord was long but tangled so tight she could hardly put it to her ear. She pushed the buttons and waited for her husband to pick up. She fought for the words that were bleeding from her heart. Her desperation cut right through the phone. She wanted out. A place that was to keep her safe and help her get better was just the place that would break her to irreparable damage. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Her husband was frantic but promised he'd do everything he could. She hung up the phone and collapsed in the chair next to her. Her muscles were weaker than ever. The kind patient stood there, towering of her. His gentle smile hadn't faded. He encouraged her to stop crying and eat. He hinted that eating in front of the nurses would help prove she was sane and willing to cooperate thus getting out quicker. But she couldn't. The tears would not stop for anything. And one bite of food would make her sick. Her bladder was full but she held it knowing she was striped of her privacy. Once she stepped onto the fourth floor her rights were taken away. She was nothing but a weak patient. Her will had no power. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After several hours of crying she was exhausted. The shot she had received earlier continued to make her feel heavy. Her roommate was moved to a different room. She found herself alone on the bed. She stared out the window only to see the roof of the hospital. It was dirty and desolate. Aside from her pulse, she was dead inside. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next morning came and blinded the room with sunlight. It was so bright it hurt to open her eyes. A sense of panic immediately rushed in and stirred her emotions again. The medicine had worn off so she was able to move quickly. She found the phone down the hall and dialed the numbers to reach her husband. There was nothing that could offer hope but her husbands voice that promised he was trying.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She walked back to her room where a nurse was waiting for her. She was given a tooth brush and toothpaste. Her task was to brush her teeth and get herself together before seeing the doctor. Once again she had an appointment with mercy. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His hair was so gray it was white. He was dressed in black from head to toe. She remembered bits and pieces of seeing him the day before. She remembered not being able to count. She remembered being confused as he asked her a series of endless questions. But today was different. She could answer questions. Without looking at her he asked if she had night sweats. For the first time in years, she realized she hadn't. He said the symptoms caused by the overdose of medication would continue to fade. Without a shred of compassion in his voice, he continued on with what the next few days or weeks would be like. Fighting back more tears, she told him over and over that she didn't belong there. She needed to be home. She was mom, a wife, a daughter. She wanted to live. </span> </center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What would people think and say?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She felt so ashamed that she ended up there. This would be just another secret to tuck away. She had to get out before anyone knew anything had happened. She craved a hot shower and the mundane routine that had sustained her before. It was her instinct to get back to doing life no matter how emotionally miserable she was. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just minutes before joining the others to act "normal" in a desperate effort to prove herself sane, she called her husband to see if he had found a way to get her out. Relief surged through her body and filled her soul as he told her he would be there <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1241289343" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">in two hours</span></span>. Two hours! It was enough to stop her body from trembling. Having nothing to gather or pack she sat against the wall across from the elevator and waited. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What seemed like an eternity later, her husband finally arrived as promised. Still feeling weak, she managed to pull her body up from the floor and tightly secure her arms around him. She held on until her muscles gave out. Her terror and anxiety immediately fled. She was safe. He was there for her. It was over. </span></center>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">For a long time she was ashamed at what she experienced. Her struggle with depression was humiliating enough and then there was the "episode". She had cried out before but felt few truly heard her. The social stigma of depression proved itself. No one wanted to talk about it. She often wished she had a different, but "acceptable", illness. Her truth was depression. Her disease was depression. Her weakness was depression. With the grace of God she continued on to fight. A dear friend reached out. Her husband's patience and kindness never faltered. Her strength started to grow again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Depression attacks an organ just like many other diseases. The only difference being there is a great lack of compassion and understanding for those who suffer from it." - Unknown</span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-14671546968043828552016-04-20T06:02:00.003-07:002016-04-20T06:03:36.939-07:00Yes, I'm That Mom<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So you know, I was going on about my usual day of swimming through waves of chaos, schedule changes, surprise practices, and chicken pasty butt removal (sickest thing EVER). I didn't know it at the time but at <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_544092156" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">6:30</span></span> that morning I had set myself up for a "Mega Mommy Moment". I was fresh out of packed lunch must haves so I told the littles I would bring them lunch (something I NEVER try to do because you get sucked into this trap of guilt trips that I just don't need in my life). Anyway long story short, Big Dog was leaving for a trip that day so we decided to take the littles out for lunch together! How fun, right? Hooray for me. I was going to be a cool mom and check her kids out of school for lunch with mom AND dad. Score!</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Big Dog pulled up to the school and I hopped out and mall-walked myself right into the building and proudly proclaimed I was there to check the kids out for lunch. I slid into the cafeteria and set my eyes upon the sea of children searching for Thing One and Thing Two. I couldn't spot them right away so I kept looking... and looking... and looking. My heart may have started to race a bit. I squinted my eyes thinking I could get a better look at where they might be sitting. The excited anticipation of me surprising them with the news started to decline. Where were Thing One and Thing Two? Just as I was about to squint a little harder and scan the room again, a mom touched my arm. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mom: "Hey Carol. Who are you looking for?"</span></span></span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "Oh, hey. Oh, I'm here to get the twins and take them OUT to lunch." </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mom: "The twins?"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "Yes, the twins. I'm here to take them to lunch but I don't see them."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mom: "Um, well, the twins are in first grade. This is kindergarten."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just nano seconds before, I was a casually cool mom. I even had lipstick and real shoes on. I looked like I could run for PTA President or at the very least chair a committee. But now I was white, weak, and suddenly stupid. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "First grade? Right. First grade." It was like I'd never uttered the words "first grade".</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mom: "Yeah. First grade."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was too embarrassed to even laugh at myself or try to play it off. I had fallen hard in the pit of mommy despair. I walked back into the office and the polite ladies sat there with a gentle smile on their face knowing what I had just done. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In trying to capture my humility, I instead realize that my hand is HUGE against my face.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I later texted the mom apologizing for my idiotic behavior. I felt like the dumbest mom ever. I mean, who doesn't know what grade their kids are in? It's one thing to call them every name but their own, even the dogs name. But to not know their grade? Not to mention that it's the end of the school year! I've had almost a full year of first graders. Thankfully, her response fished me out of my sea of despair. She told me I wasn't alone. That my "incident" made her feel better about her "incidents". Moms unite! We are not alone. We are all "That Mom". </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">PS: This wasn't the first time I forgot they were in first grade. I sat outside the kindergarten room waiting for my turn at parent/teacher conferences. Twenty minutes went by before I realized I was at the wrong grade, at the wrong time, on the wrong day for Pete's sake! Cheers!</span> </center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-78657071993269265142016-03-22T12:32:00.003-07:002016-03-23T05:08:21.657-07:00Hamsters: It's Complicated<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every story has a back story. Every effect has a cause. Even when it comes to me agreeing to having hamsters. Yes, me. I swore that not one more living, pulsating creature would ever enter this house. But then the mother of all motherhood cons slapped me in the face. Guilt.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It all started on the night before Valentine's Day. I'll keep this part short. Let's just say Big Dog was super generous in keeping my beverage cup full at a dinner party on the eve of V-day. And, let's just say that I may have had a liiiiiiiitle too much to drink. Oops! It happens. But let me tell you this, ...had I known that my generous intake of a tasty beverage would have led to hamsters I would have stuck with the Smart Water. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fast forward to the next morning, Valentine's Day. There I was laying practically dead in my bed. Before I could peel an eye open, my daughter came flying in like Cupid to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day, and immediately demanded heart shaped pancakes, candy, and a day much like Christmas morning. What? Since when did we celebrate Valentine's Day as a family? Sorry, Hallmark. It's harsh, I know. You see, for me, Valentine's Day is celebrated at school with conversation hearts exchanged between classmates during an over indulgent class party with white table cloths and extravagant centerpieces. Besides, since Big Dog an I tied the knot, Valentine's Day has been a thing of the courtship past. Hence, why I don't break out the Valentine tree and garland. But that's just me. Don't judge. And don't get me started on Easter. It's complicated.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back to little the Cupid hovering over my bed. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cupid: "Moooooooom! Get up! It's Valentine's Day! What did you get me?" </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Corpse: (words coming from my Sahara Desert mouth) "Get you? What do you mean? Was I supposed to get you something? Your dad will get you donuts."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cupid: "Ugh! Seriously!?!? This is the worst Valentine's Day EVER!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That is just a small summation of the painful conversation I had with Cupid. She eventually flew off and as the Motrin kicked in my guilt nearly suffocated me. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank goodness for grandparents who believe Valentine's Day is more than class parties. I rallied and hydrated and proclaimed that TODAY was the DAY we would take the Valentine cash from Grams and Gramps and buy a pet. SURPRISE!!!!</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We bounced off to the pet store in search of...wait for it...Glow Fish! But before we could pick out Cupid's favorite three out of a billion candidates, the disgruntled pet store employee threw down a roadblock and dropped some unsolicited knowledge on me. In seconds, I was schooled on Glow Fish. Their mortality rate is high, and the meticulous efforts necessary in order for three to survive. He then went on this rant about corporate America and the lies they tell consumers just to make a buck. He even started to wring his fists and turn red in the face. Long story short, according Mr. Know It All, I would be crazy and cruel to buy into the conspiracy regarding Glow Fish and the two gallon tank they sold with them (because according to sergeant kick-@$s, a FORTY gallon tank is necessary for THREE tiny fish to survive). It's complicated. Obviously.</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF65h07X0eN7IAnVlzs5-fcm5iSHJ9ZRSOsqwqy1c76pizQNqwDK7ZHI6EFqIm0H-iuKWPAjJ_-otxFA2RDn63SJRCB-NTLBOIbAxu_YQevOdjyD0_2dLcsxrH2m8xrMWcQSLmgtE8ZY6v/s1600/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF65h07X0eN7IAnVlzs5-fcm5iSHJ9ZRSOsqwqy1c76pizQNqwDK7ZHI6EFqIm0H-iuKWPAjJ_-otxFA2RDn63SJRCB-NTLBOIbAxu_YQevOdjyD0_2dLcsxrH2m8xrMWcQSLmgtE8ZY6v/s400/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wait. Do you you mean they don't come in purple? It was a brief and tragic realization.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With tears rushing down my childrens' faces I straightened my posture and made a beeline towards the little fury creatures because having a hamster(s) is way cooler than having Glow Fish any day. My littles agreed. Before the bitter employee could talk us out of hamster ownership, and educate us on how corporate America preys on little children and their parents, using small animals, I had three cages, three hamsters, and $100 worth of hamster accessories plopped down on the counter and paid for. And that my friends is how you handle Mommy Valentine Guilt. You buy hamsters. When Big Dog looked at me as if I had three heads with ten horns each for doing what I did, I looked at him and said, "It's complicated". Oh, and then I proceeded to make it all his fault for keeping my beverage cup full the night before. So there! Nothing is ever my fault. Nothing!</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Henry proudly named his Teddy Bear hamster "Teddy". You are shocked I'm sure. Pure originality (like that one time Susie Grace named one of our goats, "Horney" because it had horns). If you just peed your pants, I'm sorry. Aaaaaanywaaaaays, Teddy lasted about, hmmmm, two days. I found Teddy as stiff and round as a golf ball. Could it have been because I gave him a bath the day before hoping to cure him of his pasty butt? I'll let you look up pasty butt on your own. Apparently it's a real thing. I mean, it is with chickens. I won't deny that I gave a chicken a sitz bath to cure its pasty butt. I sure did. And it lived. Yeah. So whatever. Teddy's cause of death must have been delayed drowning. It's complicated. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLe9atrcH7qgcHvp9ec71m9DPTVnYs6M3Mq8cVhj-yud080gpqP1xNy5hj2MwmtyEdlFHuA7SjpPyT9DLhpiT-uIwtvW36k-50TxLHPpnKChK6wTPgkGZZrDQqSEjUgQv4chNLNC2T9EV/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLe9atrcH7qgcHvp9ec71m9DPTVnYs6M3Mq8cVhj-yud080gpqP1xNy5hj2MwmtyEdlFHuA7SjpPyT9DLhpiT-uIwtvW36k-50TxLHPpnKChK6wTPgkGZZrDQqSEjUgQv4chNLNC2T9EV/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have to admit, the blow out looked amazing.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I quickly dashed out to the pet store to get a Teddy replacement before Henry came home from school. Don't all Teddy Bear Hamsters look the same? You know, like goldfish? My friend tried to warn me. She was right. The only one they had was a short haired Teddy Bear Hamster. The plus to that is pasty butt is less common in the short haired breed. Duh. I mean, the knowledge is endless. I told Henry of Teddy's death, he cried and cried and then asked to see the burial sight. Scuse me? Right. Of course. I buried Teddy at the back of the land under a tree by the pond. NOT! Bad mommy. Bad lying mommy! But it worked. Wink, wink.</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-sLY4zlT38glZc27bA_L67-Cg5kWZwJOakE1bLBlwG15ecT4tAt6IwYO-sC8Feda8L5wH_KnaJHwt1layhSQbMhbBinnQ3p-QcYtm_9pcuYx8n5Lww_i5yC7IeBXc1qNxDNW5maOc8sA/s1600/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc-sLY4zlT38glZc27bA_L67-Cg5kWZwJOakE1bLBlwG15ecT4tAt6IwYO-sC8Feda8L5wH_KnaJHwt1layhSQbMhbBinnQ3p-QcYtm_9pcuYx8n5Lww_i5yC7IeBXc1qNxDNW5maOc8sA/s400/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teddy II before rigamortis set it. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Teddy II settled in and was dead in two days. Cause of death: dehydration. The waterer that came with the cage was faulty. The poor little fella couldn't get a drink. No problem. I replaced the hamster and the waterer and brought home Teddy III. In no time Teddy III was a stiff golf ball like the others. Cause of death: constipation. I'm not lying, I promise, when I tell you that the pet store manager carefully combed his cage in search of poop and discovered that there wasn't any. That was that. Constipation evidently plagues fragile little fur balls. It's complicated. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1ZO1sQZ-rh7Z-LsUBcMWZeJgeT5quaZdsfRTLkeDEwpa8G7RR0XGuocuOan_J-kZMZvm3c9KqPlvh31JymOuHX0YrrWZjFXFT9JMhKLP4fQyLct2m_CeI79fXaDbYLDpw9S6HbexylLg/s1600/IMG_5190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1ZO1sQZ-rh7Z-LsUBcMWZeJgeT5quaZdsfRTLkeDEwpa8G7RR0XGuocuOan_J-kZMZvm3c9KqPlvh31JymOuHX0YrrWZjFXFT9JMhKLP4fQyLct2m_CeI79fXaDbYLDpw9S6HbexylLg/s400/IMG_5190.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is as sad as it is funny. But mostly funny.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Teddy IV came home in a sanitized cage, with vitamins in his water, and a seal of health approval from the hamster expert. Teddy IV was the real deal. Just kidding. He died three days later. By this time I was a cause of death expert when it came to hamsters. I inspected his cage and saw loose hamster stool, AKA: diarrhea. Yup. We basically covered all possible causes of rodent death in four hamster fails and called it quits. Well, we called it quits on Teddy Bear Hamsters. Susie Grace and Mason's dwarf hamsters are killin' it on their hamster wheels (did you know hamsters are nocturnal and hamsters wheels are super loud at 3am?) and have stellar gastrointestinal systems. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEElhQzI6RbyEuv1E2iaZKnDj_A2upOAA2zHY4MJTV_Vqfw1_zmwIcD5rLr-o0baSjL2lc7Fcs_PSkSMKC_SKJrkLlHmzqjO3VVF-iKMCMtYYTAWaiE6CaSWZwSBzrR8ZgfyFibalwze6D/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEElhQzI6RbyEuv1E2iaZKnDj_A2upOAA2zHY4MJTV_Vqfw1_zmwIcD5rLr-o0baSjL2lc7Fcs_PSkSMKC_SKJrkLlHmzqjO3VVF-iKMCMtYYTAWaiE6CaSWZwSBzrR8ZgfyFibalwze6D/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know. Stop it. So cute. But so ridonkulously annoying in the middle of the night. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There you have it. And I'm back to my uncompromising rule of ABSOLUTELY no more living, breathing, pulsating creature in this house. I mean what I say. Or something like that. It's complicated. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zO0YmbYBuy-q8advALhQQo30hhYSi-HgjbEVZxnf1pMs323Ca15McOA0x8e5Lg4pI867UwJuNfmMwyNJ0Acj8VEMdVsRa4sUD-p4we1rO_GoBBZgHmxI99y_ZMWNZ4UbUvrLDbCRqDt7/s1600/IMG_5191.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zO0YmbYBuy-q8advALhQQo30hhYSi-HgjbEVZxnf1pMs323Ca15McOA0x8e5Lg4pI867UwJuNfmMwyNJ0Acj8VEMdVsRa4sUD-p4we1rO_GoBBZgHmxI99y_ZMWNZ4UbUvrLDbCRqDt7/s400/IMG_5191.PNG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How Mason hasn't squeezed the guts out of Rascal is forever beyond me. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Resources on how to properly care for your hamster and ensure optimal health click <a href="http://pethamstercare.com/health-illness/">here</a></span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Or better yet, don't buy hamsters. Stick with the Glow Fish. </span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-64267411286680022522016-02-11T06:45:00.001-08:002016-02-11T12:09:45.764-08:00Farm Girl Fair of Dreams<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">September 2015</span></center>
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<strike><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Field</span></strike><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Farm Girl Fair of Dreams. </span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me take a moment to stare at my cursor, rub my temples, and reflect. Reflect. Reflecting is sometimes hard to do after waking from a dream. It's hard to put words together to make sense of it. Some of the dream is still fuzzy. Did it really happen? Did people really come? Was it all true or just a dream? Farm Girl Fair was a dream that came to life because people believed, trusted and gave their ALL to make it happen. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the words of Emily Schuermann with <a href="http://foodforayear.com/2015/09/farm-girl-fair-fun-blessing-an-appointment-the-best-taco-dip-ever/">Food for a Year </a>, Farm Girl Fair was </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.901961); font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">was, <i>"inspired (by) ladies (who) wanted to create a moment. Not a thing or a place but a space of time that could take people back to what we all imagine ((or hope)) life must have been like, somewhere in life’s seemingly distant past." </i>Nailed it<i>. </i>She took the words right out of my heart. <i> </i></span></span></center>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.901961); line-height: 25px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">FIVE months later...February 2016</span></span></center>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0.901961); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 25px;">I had so much more to say when I wrote the above back in September. But I couldn't seem to put anything more into words since the whole thing is still trapped and treasured in my heart. Time has flown by and although it seems like just yesterday it's been months and in just a few (okay, maybe more like seven) more months it will be time for </span><a href="http://www.farmgirlfair.com/" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.901961); font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 25px;">FARM GIRL FAIR 2016! </a><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0.901961); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 25px;"> </span></center>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0.901961); font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 25px;">The planning is underway as if the three of us Farm Girls are getting married. Details, details, details! Vendors are signing up and thoughtful thinking is underway. There is so much to plan, so much to do but this I can tell you: we will have more food! We are adding <a href="http://farmgirlfair.com/participate/farm-kid-fair/">Farm Kid Fair</a> too. <end here="" kick="" rhyming=""></end></span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.901961); line-height: 25px;">So that's the latest. We are beyond excited for the second annual Farm Girl Fair. I won't tell you it will be better than ever because last year was a kind of magic you don't mess with. Wink!</span></span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder if Charlotte will show up for round 2!?!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.901961); line-height: 25px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">See you on the farm September 24, 2016</span></span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-89145141475681338712016-01-17T10:28:00.002-08:002016-01-17T19:06:49.049-08:00Totes Ma Goats<center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Totes Ma Goats. It is this phrase that has made me feel older than the "old granny skin" I have on my hands and face (a thoughtful observation from my seven year old). I'm not exactly sure I quite catch the slang phrase, "Totes Ma Goats". My Google research tells me it's something to do with the word, "totally". My friend gave me a tote with this on it and I've been way too embarrassed to admit to her that I don't know what it means. But never mind that. It's a cute tote and I am apparently cool "toting" it around. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Speaking of goats. We finally had baby goats! The miniature donkey look a-likes arrived...like 3 months past my expert guess due date. There are four girls and one boy and they are Totes Ma Goats the cutest ever. We missed the actual birth by only minutes. But I'm proud to say I can add another nod to placenta and after birth experience to my farm resume. I got there just in time to watch the after birth action and then for the first time in my farm life, I watched the momma eat, yes, I said eat, the placenta. Bon Appetit! </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She can totes fly with those set of ears!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't long before we noticed the littlest goat/donkey being head butted to the side by her momma. Rejection and I wasn't having it. Not on my watch, not on this farm. I called out to the general public and before I could click POST my friend came to the rescue with a brand spankin' new pack-n-play along with all the excitement to care for the runt. Big Dog loaded up the kids and headed to the feed and seed to purchase the necessary items to bottle feed. My friend whipped up the formula and was ready to go, ready to bond, ready to be surrogate when meanie momma decided she'd go ahead and let her baby nurse. So now I have a brand new pack-n-play and no need to bottle feed. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Dog. He's a goat magnet. They totes love him.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What to do with that pack-n-play? Hmmm. Well since not a lot of time goes by around here without major happenings it wasn't long before the sweetest use for the pack-n-play came to be because....</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totes the most precious twin girls I ever did see!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B had her babies! Tatum Margaret and Collins Kay were born minutes before New Year's Eve. Our hearts instantly grew bigger and prayers soared to heaven for their fragile health. Born at just 32 weeks, the girls proved themselves to be mighty champions right away. Momma and babies are doing well and the daddy....let's just say he's smitten! The world is certainly a better place now. They are so delicately beautiful and their mom radiates with the only kind of glow a momma can shine. I feel like our own family has grown by two more.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aside from all of the bundles of joy excitement on the farm still persists.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The girls continue to pace the fence line. Strange thing. They fly right over but haven't figured out how to fly back in until the sun sets. And then they are suddenly smart and figure it. Kills me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rosie is still "in" with the pigs. They love her and she loves them. I think she is learning to root like they do. And yes. The pigs are fat. Like ginormous. How they walk and carry their weight is painful to witness. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This little lady here better watch it. "Last Chick Standing" will learn a nasty lesson when the other chickens behead her. Sadly, that's what happened to the other chicks. Massacre Ranch out here I tell ya. I watched her do this for about 5 minutes. Like if she just keeps trying she will get through. No. And if she does, she's brunch! </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shelly is still all up in my business. I tried 50 times to get a calendar worthy photo but I got nothin' but Nosey Posey and Shy Sly. Yes, I need to paint the fences...again.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Winter on the ranch <strike>sucks</strike> is not very fun. Here's to looking to Spring! I'm ready for green to replace the brown, flowers to bloom and if I'm lucky, catch a pig taking a swim in the pool! In the meantime, I hope to spend any and all free time I have gushing over those tiny miracles from heaven.</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Made you yawn! </td></tr>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-42246741204268271892016-01-13T14:50:00.000-08:002016-01-27T10:21:43.335-08:00Joy Joy Joy<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If it doesn't bring you joy, toss it.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For those of you who have a hard time letting go...this is for you. A friend of mine was telling me about a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Spark-Joy-Illustrated-Organizing-Tidying/dp/1607749726/ref=pd_bxgy_14_img_2?ie=UTF8&refRID=0H44K7EX7VV52S55R179"><span style="color: #45818e;">book </span></a>she read. Basically, if you have something in your closet that doesn't bring you joy, toss it. For the next several weeks I found myself tossing articles of clothing and shoes left and right. Asking myself, "Does this sweater bring me joy?" took all the guess work out of whether or not I should keep it. Forget the, "when I lose 10 pounds I'll wear it" reasoning. That ain't happenin' since I just successfully polished off a cherry cobbler. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The beauty of this concept is that it can apply to more than a pair of pants from 1995 or heels that are killing your feet. Eventually, I started to consider the abstract things in my life that do not bring me joy, crush my spirit and break my heart. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">If it's not good for the soul it's not good for you. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Is it a relationship, a lie I keep telling myself, a habit, bits of social media or activities? Now, I am well aware that doing laundry does not bring me joy but someone has to do it. Waking up to cranky kids does not bring me joy but you gotta do what you gotta do to get those little sweet cheeks off to school. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What are you doing, tolerating, wearing, keeping, or hoarding in your life that does not bring you JOY (insert meditation and ponder here)? Start with the dusty pants in your closet. If lacey push up bras do not bring you comfort they can't be bringing you joy. Then muster up the courage to take a look at the things that steal your joy. If you are a list maker then get to listing. You will be in "check that off" heaven. For the over achievers out there, take</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> this wisdom and run with it. I took it to the kitchen cabinets, pantry, home decor and more. Let's just say the Good Will now knows me by name and they have a receipt ready before I put the car in park and open up the hatch. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No wire hangers here. I saw Mommy Dearest at a young age and clearly have issues.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There. That's it. That's all. All you have to do is ask yourself, "Does this bring me joy?" and you will begin a healthy purge of bondage to the things that do not bring you joy. It sounds silly but I have a much better chance at getting somewhere with this than any cliche New Years Resolution. Just try it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> It's the gift that keeps on getting rid of. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Want to get serious about this whole Joy Project? Check this out:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.jolynneshane.com/join-my-30-day-shop-your-closetcapsule-wardrobe-challenge.html">http://www.jolynneshane.com/join-my-30-day-shop-your-closetcapsule-wardrobe-challenge.html</a></span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-90473717498256861462015-12-22T05:38:00.001-08:002015-12-22T14:17:57.966-08:00Merry Christmas From the Farm<center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ahhh, Christmas. My not so favorite time of year. The stress level around here is off the charts. Everything is off the charts. The kids are greedier than ever. They are constantly fighting and the expectations are ever so unreasonable. Like you, I have a flurry of things to do and not the time or energy to do it. The demands our culture has put on Christmas has left me defeated yet again. Coffee:30 anyone? No? Vodka:30? Okay.</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aren't they cute? Just the perfect picture of Christmas right here! Mason prefers "Boxers Only" attire these days.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you really want to get me worked up just ask me my views on Elf on the Shelf. I highly recommend we don't go there. My heart tends to shrink just thinking about it. Here is a little ditty that goes down in my car upon after school pick up Every. Single. Day. From December 1st until the last day of school before the long awaited Christmas break begins I get punched with this:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Ricky Bobby's elf left him pajamas!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Ruby Lou's elf takes baths in marshmallows!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Bessie's elf zip lines from chandelier to chandelier!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Dicky's elf plays house with Barbie!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Sally Sue's elf baked cinnamon rolls and iced them too!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Jessie Mae's elf toilet papered her bedroom!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, Big John's elf poops chocolate chips in his potty!"</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">We have the lamest elf ever. Look at him. Nothin' to see here. He's not even the true Elf on the Shelf. He's stuffed! How lame is that? He's just chillin on the ladder where he's been for the last three days because Big Dog has forgotten to move him. No Mission Impossible positions here. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Really!?!? How do I explain that our elf is totally lazy and boring? I mean, who has time for the Pinterest inspired creative, over the top, you are amaze-balls mom of the year shenanigans anyway? Never mind that at least one of our five kids is up at any given golden moment throughout the night. They either catch us moving the despicable elf or notice that he's already moved before they fall asleep. I feel like a total liar all Christmas. "Oops! Elfie fell and since I'm a parent it's okay if I touch him to help him up." or "Gee, honey. I don't know why Efie didn't move last night. Maybe the flight pattern was a little too crowded and it wasn't safe to fly." X three nights in a row! I think I'm having a hot flash. It's really hot in here. </span></center>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">****PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT****</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you suffer from Elf-itis? Is the Elf on the Shelf causing you to lose your ever loving Christmas mind? Has Elf-itis created tension between you and your partner? </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are not alone.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some common symptoms of Elf-itis are:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">unintentional aggression towards the innocent elf</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">chronic Pinterest browsing</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">elevated instagram and facebook envy</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">nightmares involving you and the elf in a shoot-out outside Santa's workshop</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">loss if interest in where the little $%*&@# lands each night</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">elevated heart rate just thinking of your next plot</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sweaty palms when restraining yourself from strangling the little *&%$%#</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If this is you there is help. No judgement, just help. Please call</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1-800-send-thelf-packing</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there's the crack. The Christmas crack that comes wrapped in gold boxes, shiny tins and cute containers. Christmas crack gets me every year. You know, the chocolate covered peanuts crack, peppermint infused cookies crack, the salty mixture crack, peanut butter ball crack. Crack, crack, crack. And the 10 pounds it leaves you with. Dear Mom, if you're reading this, I'm still waiting on the Rum Balls crack. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking of crack...these are the crumbs I left behind to "share" with my tribe. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Now to the farm part. Knock on wood....we have yet to experience the joy a busted pipe leaves us with this winter. Would you mind knocking on wood for me? Thanks. I need all the superstition I can get. Our four goats that are expected to birth any day now....since October, are STILL pregnant. There's nothing quite like watching and waiting for a milk sack to drop. It may take a Christmas miracle. My friends are pretty sure I've made the whole thing up. And then there's the pasture gates situation. One more gate goes down and we will have ourselves a livestock-nado. A chicken lost an entire wing before going missing. And our well. Well, let's just say we don't have water more than we do. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The scattered and random sink holes have me convinced we live on a sacred cemetery. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">But the pigs are fat and happy and I have 25 baby chicks in the barn that promise to increase the egg production near the end of spring. Life on the farm is better than ever. Not really. Ok, so I may have asked Santa for a house in a neighborhood with a no animal law and only ten square feet of yard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">To sum things up, here is a sample of our Grand Year in Review:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Henry (7) loves football, soccer, and basketball but refuses to eat anything but Ramon. (Henry is also lucky to still be living with us after he affectionately described me as "squishy" <a href="http://theunlikelyfarmgirl.blogspot.com/2015/12/squishy.html">read about that here</a>)</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Susie Grace (7) has a serious addiction to television and refuses to eat anything but candy.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mason (11) continues to amaze us with his intense ability to play video games 23.78 hours a day. He eats everything, non-stop.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parker (13) is extremely helpful on the farm and is involved in competitive robotics (competitive robotics is serious business). He eats his weight in Ravioli daily.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lauren (18) joined the Army and will graduate high school this year. She eats three square meals a day.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Carol (39 forever and always) is homeschooling and has no idea what or when she eats.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Big Dog (40 and furry) is sporting a beard past November, duck hunts and prefers to eat beer. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite the crowds, Christmas crack, and cranky kids, I try my best to stay focused on what Christmas is truly all about. Beyond all of the half lit/pre-lit trees, broken ornaments, glitter (I hate glitter), Elf-itis, sticky candy cane hands, Christmas card paper cuts, and financial hemorrhaging, there is a Savior that stands for us, reigns over us and His grace is more than enough for us. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He came as a babe, as a precious lamb. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He came to redeem us. To draw near to us. To call us his very own. He is the one true gift wrapped in the light of unwavering love and grace. May you receive the gift that is the one true meaning of Christmas! Amen!</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hallelujah, Merry Christmas everyone! </span></center>
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<a href="http://www.barkvines.com/hallelujah-violin-cover/">http://www.barkvines.com/hallelujah-violin-cover/</a></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PS: My lashing out on the elf is of personal struggle and strife. I admire all you elf enthusiasts out there! You are creating memories for your family and adding to the magic of Christmas. You go Elf advocate! May the red and white force be with you. </span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-76183330520026986682015-12-09T05:58:00.001-08:002015-12-09T05:58:23.899-08:00Squishy<center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Definition:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Synonyms:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">flabby, mushy, pulpy, spongy, squashy, soft, squooshy</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I had been away from my children for 24 glorious hours. I came home and was rejuvenated. Distance made my heart grow ever fonder. My seven year old grabbed my hand as soon as I had stepped through the front door and declared snuggle time. Perfect! I love snuggle time. It involves my bed (one of my top three favorite things) and quiet moments with my children. Snuggle time? Game on!</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Henry hardly gave me a chance to put my bags down. Before I knew it, I was nestled in my bed with my youngest. Snuggle, snuggle. We talked about real Christmas trees vs. fake Christmas trees. We were solving the problems of the world. Here were were, sinking in real quality time sprinkled with sweet intellectual conversation. And then he said it. He said, "Squishy." </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Squishy. The word squishy makes me cringe a little. A friend of mine can't stand the word "moist". Well I can't stand the word "squishy". Ew. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Mom, I just love you! You are just so SQUISHY! I wish I could have a stuffed animal like you. I'd name it 'Squishy' and snuggle it all the time". Um...a stuffed animal of me? Now, there's a vision.</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly I haven't taught my boy that the word "squishy" is not a flattering word to describe a female. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Squishy.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, this fond adjective did come minutes after eating what might be considered my last meal at a Mexican restaurant on top of 24 hours spent eating pasta and cheesecake. Squishy. How endearing. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What goes around comes around. I remember crawling in my mom's lap and telling her with great affection just how "comfortable" she was. Squishy stings a bit more. </span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-87986613622518814562015-11-24T05:49:00.002-08:002015-11-24T06:12:44.793-08:00Colonial Day or Bust<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Colonial Day. An opportunity to let my "I've got it together, mom of the year" side shine came bursting out of my child's Thursday Folder. Details, details, details. I love details. But there was one particular detail that etched itself in my mushy brain. Tuesday. Tuesday was the day my child needed to go to school dressed in colonial attire. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tuesday. Check. I got it. The costume search began...in my head. Somewhere deep down in my mushy brain memory I remembered seeing a social media post. My friend snapped a picture of her son wearing the perfect colonial shirt and I was going to track her down and get THAT shirt. I "text stalked" her and declared I needed that shirt for TUESDAY. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Colonial Day on my brain I got the shirt from my friend, starched and ironed it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sign Up Genius haunted my email asking for items to help make the Colonial Day Fair as realistic as ever. I confidently checked the boxes asking for wash bins and firewood and delegated the task to Big Dog</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Problem: it had been raining and our stock of firewood was wet. Solution: go to the grocery store and buy dry firewood (because who sends their kid to school with wet firewood?) and get it to school ASAP. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tuesday arrived and it was time to dress my ever NOT willing eleven year old in his colonial attire.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mason: "Mom, it's not this Tuesday. It's next Tuesday. I'm NOT wearing this!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "You WILL wear this and tall white soccer socks with your black gym pants stuffed in them cutting off your circulation around the knee and like it!" </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mason: "But mooooooom! It's not today. You don't know what you're doing."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "I am your mother. I do know what I'm doing. Today is Tuesday, AKA: Colonial Day at school. You look great! Now, off to school with you."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mason: "MoooooooooM!" </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "Go!!! Bu-bye!"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Twenty minutes later....phone rings...</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mason: "Mom. Today IS NOT Colonial Day. It's next Tuesday. Why did you force me to wear this? I'm so embarrassed. Why did you do this to me?" </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: .....crickets.... "But it's Tuesday. The paper said Tuesday. Today is Tuesday." </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I do a quick search and rescue for the Colonial Day flyer to prove that I am completely sane and know exactly what I am talking about because I am the mom and I am always right. Wrong. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "Oh Mason. You're right. It is next Tuesday. I was sure it was this Tuesday."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My tail tucked, my head fell, and shame and guilt punched me in the stomach. My child just walked into a sea of school children dressed in colonial attire that I had "forced" him to wear. I could feel his humiliation through the phone. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Forgiveness. Oh, would he EVER forgive me? Of all five kids for this to happen to! This child deals with teasing and feelings of inferiority enough as it is and I just magnified it. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: "Mason, I am so sorry. I messed up. I hope you can forgive me."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mason: "It's okay, mom. Bye." </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, there you have it. My "Mom of the Year" resume just grew a little longer. Oh, and I had to make the frantic "abort mission" call to Big Dog who was kindly obeying orders to get firewood. I muttered the words, "It's next Tuesday. You don't need to get the firewood today." and hoped he too would forgive me for my hasty, know it all, orders. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">**I'd like to give a shout out to Mason's teacher. She was quick to react with sheer genius consolation. She convinced Mason that everyone was so glad he came to school a week early dressed in his colonial costume because now all the children knew what to wear. She totally helped him play it off as though he was doing everyone a favor by modeling the perfect and idealistic colonial attire. Teachers like her make the overly tired and stressed mommas' world go round.**</span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-61364259777045762612015-10-29T05:47:00.001-07:002015-11-05T11:36:04.539-08:00Ode to Blue Apron<center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh how I miss my mindless Target shopping, buying fringy booties, scarfs and fall scented candles. Unexpected bills came in and stopped me in my frivolous spending tracks and let me tell you...it's been GREAT! It really has. A harsh reality check has actually been quite humbling and liberating. In fact, it's just what this family needed. However, I am ashamed to admit that when the kids asked for money to buy books (aka: crap that is also available for purchase) at the book fair, I may have been a leeeeettle dramatic when I acted out Renee Zellweger's part in Jerry Maguire. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not even Big Dog found my rendition humorous. I apologized to my children for my sensational Oscar losing performance. Now, let me share with you the best part about being grounded from spending. I took the advice from a friend and signed up for <a href="http://www.blueapron.com/">Blue Apron</a> with positive intentions of getting my kids to try new foods and get me out of the processed food cooking rut I'd been stuck in. I love that Ramen is cheap, don't get me wrong, but seriously my kids are young and eating like college students. It had to stop. So on to Blue Apron. Ever heard of Stitch Fix or Wine of the Month? Well, this dinner(s) of the week club is delivered to your door in a refrigerated box. Why is the box of tasty nutrition so great? Because unfortunately for Target, I'm not spending a ridiculous amount of money on things we don't need or even really want. If you can go to the grocery store and walk out with ONLY the things on your list then you are a super-human with tunnel vision or you are a man. You are amazing and disciplined. But as for me, "Hello. My name is Carol and I am a Target-oholic." I've found that wondering Target and putting things in the cart has proven to be more effective than psychological therapy. That is until Big Dog floods my phone with, "Where are you? Are you ever coming back?" NOOOOOOOO! NEVER!!!!!!</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Apron provides me with a Home Economics "class" for my homeschooler</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Blue Apron has also tempted my children to pass on the Ramen and Chef Boyardee for CAULIFLOWER. People, I've never even eaten cauliflower. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The ingredients can look a bit intimidating but the directions are super friendly and the meals are crowd pleaser. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who in the world has EVER heard of celeriac? I hope it is tasty and doesn't taste like...brain???</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Scraping by has been challenging but it's taught us a lot. Home cooked meals from fresh ingredients is a bonus. As long as Blue Apron keeps me from making over indulgent trips to the store it's a win/win! I wonder how much money I've saved from NOT going to Target 3-5 times a week to get "stuff for dinner". Wouldn't Dave Ramsey like to know. Without being hired by Blue Apron (although wouldn't that be cool) to profess my love and adoration for them, I encourage you to check it out. That's right. Go on a Target detox, eat healthy food, AND save! It's not as painful as you think. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was told that you can't cook dinner from Blue Apron without wearing an apron. Duh!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">PS: I miss you Target. That is all. </span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-22951502023374260672015-09-30T06:04:00.000-07:002015-09-30T06:04:03.061-07:00The Gathering Place<center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you have reached this recording, I am either away from my computer or dealing with another matter that leaves no time for blogging. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been away and dealing. Dealing with a pool house that is FINALLY FINISHED! Oh, and then there is this little, tiny, well sort of a big deal, <a href="http://www.farmgirlfair.com/">Farm Girl Fair</a> that has had my undivided attention. Not to mention settling in four new nanny goats that will soon deliver more goats, acclimating to homeschooling one of my five, shuttling kids all over town, fighting with our pool that is all but swim-able and somehow burning dinner in a crock pot. Who does that? I digress. Back to the pool house. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcZgmel2UQsHeCEf3ZNSsk_qwrXhzqwucaYXzh_l9ztWI3XQdJFLfRBDYDnDzyuDBB2MwPTM5EOY7oGDbAEBMaB9jw74m4rvcmk2MeRjEZ58NgIYAPhoTtYv-sK008D1LDikTgwSccBz5/s1600/FullSizeRender-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcZgmel2UQsHeCEf3ZNSsk_qwrXhzqwucaYXzh_l9ztWI3XQdJFLfRBDYDnDzyuDBB2MwPTM5EOY7oGDbAEBMaB9jw74m4rvcmk2MeRjEZ58NgIYAPhoTtYv-sK008D1LDikTgwSccBz5/s400/FullSizeRender-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did you know that the gestation of a goat is 150 days? Now you do!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we remodeled our ranch style fixer upper we lost or garage to our master bedroom. The plan was to build a detached garage in the future. The detached garage idea grew and grew into a guest/pool house with an attached garage. Big Dog now regrets giving me the green light on my building project. However, with a dedicated builder, skilled architect and patience I never knew I had, we are </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">nearly</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> finished! Nearly. Thou shan't speak too soon.</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLeLTLUdJgpW088LHn-ETwS6XTuTZVRXnHEJA9QVnFNvJJfwOCeYVQVCFpnLJEREEPyHQnTAIArbjJpslYAqgYqDX2GEzK_2uMg3_SGUdUh86stOfgQKJiAaoB6B7hnuiz_97_qA5Hstx/s1600/IMG_8047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLeLTLUdJgpW088LHn-ETwS6XTuTZVRXnHEJA9QVnFNvJJfwOCeYVQVCFpnLJEREEPyHQnTAIArbjJpslYAqgYqDX2GEzK_2uMg3_SGUdUh86stOfgQKJiAaoB6B7hnuiz_97_qA5Hstx/s640/IMG_8047.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How about this blank canvas of a "before"!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This project has been just what I needed to take me to the next level of "crazy". And people, I am there. I have arrived exhausted and grayer with a few years shaved off my life expectancy. Worth it? Obviously! Because I adore the little house that "crazy" built. Because I now have a place to take refuge, catch my breath, and dream. Oh, and entertain guests and store pool toys (which won't be necessary if I end up filling in the pool with dirt first). Yes, I live in a fantasy world. I am aware, deep down, that I won't actually EVER take refuge, catch my breath or dream in that cute 'lil house. But the idea was fun.</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifsPRUVjcGXRbp2RZATw8pwaM07aIBolQOwySJmZ1EAdsguFGe9tiHyr7-ms1T0DPl-RBBaE2lCDOQYDeuJ4QfDuu-pFhPDT2zZdpFM7TBe_MGNN1U06tYHskKppJJzwMHTJsuCqpvhHZH/s1600/IMG_2569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifsPRUVjcGXRbp2RZATw8pwaM07aIBolQOwySJmZ1EAdsguFGe9tiHyr7-ms1T0DPl-RBBaE2lCDOQYDeuJ4QfDuu-pFhPDT2zZdpFM7TBe_MGNN1U06tYHskKppJJzwMHTJsuCqpvhHZH/s640/IMG_2569.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These stairs will take you up to the "dreaming bed"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitslrD68oen9qIAUphEqD7Qv91i4EbxCQci2a7HyxjBTVNr4nmRlNXYYcY0g3Jk8QQXK3XN9uS068c70a5k17cOHmBfRgVSEXw0DiZqCMzL97BdzQffjPXg6E3WfZ54J-h8lV5UTSs5q-_/s1600/IMG_2731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitslrD68oen9qIAUphEqD7Qv91i4EbxCQci2a7HyxjBTVNr4nmRlNXYYcY0g3Jk8QQXK3XN9uS068c70a5k17cOHmBfRgVSEXw0DiZqCMzL97BdzQffjPXg6E3WfZ54J-h8lV5UTSs5q-_/s640/IMG_2731.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've yet to even sit on the "dreaming bed". My momma made that darling quilt. And those red lights...love at first sight.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4UDjWlNudL5VVyDOAC7S9H7_8V74d5mkd-Q9k0EAiqdIguDnT2JMtbB1sux2h62bXcrSXCI_-n279YjxMBA1tcLbx8GU549E5GJok_A6YMIzP1lC7DPKHX55b02H1GkwSRo3BhkLb1ixs/s1600/IMG_2730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4UDjWlNudL5VVyDOAC7S9H7_8V74d5mkd-Q9k0EAiqdIguDnT2JMtbB1sux2h62bXcrSXCI_-n279YjxMBA1tcLbx8GU549E5GJok_A6YMIzP1lC7DPKHX55b02H1GkwSRo3BhkLb1ixs/s640/IMG_2730.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinterest got the best of me with this built-in, chalkboard, and scissor swing sconces. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G9TXHPhkrHQ9plcn_23Zuz2yWvXU5US-_79qFCsxeiUSZIjSK7bsHVHJQ5LPuuzTibndByxgRYSbBXt8wZ1QGibuf06ZpznDMmxr-jvv9DsS5DixcDaBaw39_vLhijy-CAYyGaSu2RCL/s1600/IMG_2729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G9TXHPhkrHQ9plcn_23Zuz2yWvXU5US-_79qFCsxeiUSZIjSK7bsHVHJQ5LPuuzTibndByxgRYSbBXt8wZ1QGibuf06ZpznDMmxr-jvv9DsS5DixcDaBaw39_vLhijy-CAYyGaSu2RCL/s640/IMG_2729.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clara Belle the Cow added just the right touch to the 'lil kitchen. *retro refrigerator coming soon*</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimSUnk2jDPmiLnx00ExoMprqU3WdIJqfFvdXGy0iy7WJBzA9FRa4YKbsP-3H6jxPX35fI6z5nBiDOoc7-W0nxkzNkN2RHRo1g5R6kM08oLCSXIlgguU4PzTwVnb1ee6biUeWPpclCjwaJ2/s1600/IMG_2728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimSUnk2jDPmiLnx00ExoMprqU3WdIJqfFvdXGy0iy7WJBzA9FRa4YKbsP-3H6jxPX35fI6z5nBiDOoc7-W0nxkzNkN2RHRo1g5R6kM08oLCSXIlgguU4PzTwVnb1ee6biUeWPpclCjwaJ2/s640/IMG_2728.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This galvanized tub was a vintage find destined to be a sink. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74HrR9CWWORyGl18GWkPYMpJ9FkNKYY875hqT8THjJ8KvdNUUsCywF48_-_YnpIZwxqO9kGA38WFoDOoX_cSYv2PDgL_KzyQQlmixp6bvh9pCLRJLK-gaovBJNo9oGzolv1Hgm0b_t5zv/s1600/IMG_2727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74HrR9CWWORyGl18GWkPYMpJ9FkNKYY875hqT8THjJ8KvdNUUsCywF48_-_YnpIZwxqO9kGA38WFoDOoX_cSYv2PDgL_KzyQQlmixp6bvh9pCLRJLK-gaovBJNo9oGzolv1Hgm0b_t5zv/s640/IMG_2727.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this shower...I may put a red velvet rope to close it off.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktN9TGkyD0tZzc2HpWt2kk2pJ0OyXDGazSR9pwPOzdKzJSABgRvZMU7rDSPrKW49DK739tGq4mujlxb34X6T061QiJkdOdRN1etb3yyZtcNhb4_IwUm075sfM-isHir1E6XpjlCvk7gLJ/s1600/IMG_2724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktN9TGkyD0tZzc2HpWt2kk2pJ0OyXDGazSR9pwPOzdKzJSABgRvZMU7rDSPrKW49DK739tGq4mujlxb34X6T061QiJkdOdRN1etb3yyZtcNhb4_IwUm075sfM-isHir1E6XpjlCvk7gLJ/s640/IMG_2724.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little details make cabinets pop. Or moo and oink. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, now that "project detached garage with an attached pool/guest house" turn "pool/guest house with an attached garage" is finished Big Dog says it's time to take a break. No more projects for a while. I give him a week. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80QlUuNZc4kA62rPiScHW8Qqy78t8nLJ8O_5LLrJ3LuZdcl4VHsaS7J-Bmv0bngpcSKWtnN5IbqpLq6IzLlVJv8tktpcxaPrAGGVRk6lr-3R_lntliXMgyzodoSA-H1I6_cEm6SyG9NGi/s1600/IMG_2568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80QlUuNZc4kA62rPiScHW8Qqy78t8nLJ8O_5LLrJ3LuZdcl4VHsaS7J-Bmv0bngpcSKWtnN5IbqpLq6IzLlVJv8tktpcxaPrAGGVRk6lr-3R_lntliXMgyzodoSA-H1I6_cEm6SyG9NGi/s640/IMG_2568.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pillows from Etsy Shop, <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/SunnyLemons">Sunny Lemons</a>, top it off with the perfect "Farm Charm".</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIx3nuZSHdeA5AJyLwecLcUaP-omOnovDxDEHm2Y2JdvdpvwBi0fTdwpsgmWS0qKpIGW2ha92KtvlmH1EzkjICFUcAidSaoX-wtDsZkykohqZ2fJxJ7vpkZIJFW97ViTrkVVNpnqg1Bf2/s1600/IMG_2723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIx3nuZSHdeA5AJyLwecLcUaP-omOnovDxDEHm2Y2JdvdpvwBi0fTdwpsgmWS0qKpIGW2ha92KtvlmH1EzkjICFUcAidSaoX-wtDsZkykohqZ2fJxJ7vpkZIJFW97ViTrkVVNpnqg1Bf2/s640/IMG_2723.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The after canvas</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well there she is. I can't wait to entertain and host guests at...</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYokGh7k9l-aGLEn7BMK0bx6z1NixRZHKzUk3HfWnGPhnW9fgtr7mpxplUw2ed8UpE91Pu6bmTmk0h9JQWULnIgTrkcfGV3ITz-Py2UpvQPyWZ9hSHtwNCmQd5JveaehEMu5xTkYX2pLKO/s1600/FullSizeRender-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYokGh7k9l-aGLEn7BMK0bx6z1NixRZHKzUk3HfWnGPhnW9fgtr7mpxplUw2ed8UpE91Pu6bmTmk0h9JQWULnIgTrkcfGV3ITz-Py2UpvQPyWZ9hSHtwNCmQd5JveaehEMu5xTkYX2pLKO/s640/FullSizeRender-17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sign was designed by my good friend, <a href="https://instagram.com/pieces_by_lindsi/">Lindsi</a>, who quickly put it together because she knew I was super anxious to put on the final touch.</td></tr>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-43279181802597782752015-08-27T10:02:00.001-07:002015-08-27T10:02:36.894-07:00Just Another Manic Farmday<center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tuesday. It was a manic Monday a day late. I actually wished for it to be Monday. Tuesday was suffering a bad case of the "Mondays" and the farm was yet again the victim. There is aways a lot going on out here. Aside from the normal, we have a garage/pool house under construction and our pool was Witch Brew Green. I had a morning full of appointments for my 12 year old and I was actually looking forward to leaving the farm life behind for a few hours. I mean, what could go wrong while sitting in doctor's offices? </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There I sat, in the cozy waiting room of our dentist office while Parker was getting his teeth rearranged. Flipping through Better Homes and Gardens magazine, I was lost in the latest paint colors, decorating trends and recipes that I could smell and taste right from the pages. And then my phone vibrated me back to reality with this... </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not exactly the text you want to receive from your pool guy.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My pool guy was trying to cast a spell on our pool to take it from green to clear but he was interrupted by a bloody scene straight out of National Geographic. Sheep vs. House Dog. You know it's bad when someone asks for a rifle. There was a rifle but the bullets were nowhere to be seen (That's standard gun safety. Gun and bullets in separate places). I insisted on going back to where Parker was so I could quiz him as to where the bullets were. I found him with his mouth gaping wide open, unable to speak. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: " Parker, raise your hand if the answer is yes. Are the bullets in the barn?"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parker: "Uh huh" and raises his hand</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "In the cabinet?"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parker: "Uh Uh."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "In the drawers of the workbench?"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parker: "Uh."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "In the gun safe?"</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Parker: "Uh..."</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, enough of that. I wasn't getting anywhere and the looks I was getting from the dental assistant were beginning to make me feel like a criminal. Meanwhile my pool guy, turned animal euthanizer, had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. And I'm all like, "Excuse me nice dentist lady, can we hurry up, tighten these brackets, slap the rubber bands on and go? I have a farm emergency and my pool guy is having to deal!"</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How did I go from reading Better Homes and Gardens to this?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While the dental assistant was very sorry about the situation, getting blue and orange bands on the teeth seemed to take precedence over a sheep bleeding out. I get it. Rotating the requested color pattern was more important. Obviously. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggots. Did he have to include that part?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes. One sheep because my other sheep had fallen prey just the week before. I was sick to my stomach and mad. Mad at my darn dog. BUT ever so thankful that my pool guy stepped outside his job description and handled a vicious situation. Above and beyond. I'm thankful for people that fall under that category. Above and beyond are people that every farm needs. Thank you pool guy. Thank you for taking care of it and then getting right back to your day job of getting our pool back to "normal". Normal. There is nothing normal out here. We live on a farm after all. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PS: While typing this post I had to stop and break up house dog vs. chicken. I declared "Done with Dog" and took him to my mother in laws. I've had enough predator vs. prey for a few days. </span></center>
Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1646967215811287153.post-29545110181721505542015-08-18T06:21:00.001-07:002015-08-18T07:12:31.710-07:00Grief and Fulfillment: PART B<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once upon a time there was a little girl who dreamed of getting married and starting a family. She smiled and blushed at the thought of meeting her Knight and Shining Armor and kept a record of all the names she wanted to give her babies. It was a wonderful dream. And one day it came true! But soon the mother of five became exhausted, couldn't think straight, couldn't sleep, and suddenly forgot her very own name. There was no time to be a wife and go on dates with her husband. She could barely keep her eyes open to watch her darling children play. Her hair started to turn gray and was messy and sticky. Dark circles caved her eyes. The poor woman was lost and desperate. </span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The destined bride at the age of 5 on Halloween</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just four weeks after the twins were born the lady became delusional. She forgot where she was going upon setting out to run errands. She would go to the grocery store not remembering why she came. The world seemed to be spinning out of control but she was standing still, unable to move. She couldn't make sense of the simplest of thoughts, actions, demands, requests, instructions, or tasks. Motherhood. It had completely eaten her alive like a ravaged boar. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like a hand coming out of the grave to scare a movie audience, the lady reached out. She needed help. She needed support, encouragement and assurance. The weary mother put the word out as if a beloved dog went missing. Not before long, while she was sifting through a rack of clothes at a consignment shop (she refused to pay full price for new clothing until she was back at her pre-pregnancy weight....which never happened), her phone rang. On the other end of the telly was a young and vibrant college girl offering her life, I mean help. The young, naive, but brave girl accepted the mission. In just a few days all seemed right with the world. There was hope. The woman crawled out of her hole and navigated the map of motherhood. She spread her wings and flew with her co-pilot by her side. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The End. </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(insert sunset here)</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bethanie. Her name is Bethanie. Or "Befamie". Or "B", as we like to call her. She showed up wearing an invisible cape with an invisible wand. She came armored with patience, peace, and kindness. Picture Nanny McPhee but beautiful. She showed up and I ran. I ran out the door with my husband and Mason. We were dashing off to the zoo for a "Special Day With Mom and Dad" (AKA: we feel guilty that our kids don't get us one on one so we spoil the ever livin' daylights out of them with us, time and candy). Off to the zoo. It was freedom with the exception that we had one kid in tow. It was magical. It was glorious. It was like nothing I had ever experienced as a mother. All fears aside, everyone was alive when we returned, the house hadn't burned down and the BEST thing of all is that she agreed to come back! She came back for more!</span></center>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More moments. B fit right in with our river rat family</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More trouble. We even managed to sink our jeep together</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBQUVmyhBMb73iHqxVQfW4_yhBJ9uPaLZfBn29LGx2kUdKaaNzOmwAVRTiJ0ZSW2g1M8UM4_TuKxa32wZ5_Pu-2Wi3J34wZDUtifQ5_ykjebnebUrV7_3nxeggSSkQPuQe1gYJtqFnRvr/s1600/P1020046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBQUVmyhBMb73iHqxVQfW4_yhBJ9uPaLZfBn29LGx2kUdKaaNzOmwAVRTiJ0ZSW2g1M8UM4_TuKxa32wZ5_Pu-2Wi3J34wZDUtifQ5_ykjebnebUrV7_3nxeggSSkQPuQe1gYJtqFnRvr/s400/P1020046.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More laughter. She loves them they love her</td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It seemed that B became part of our family over night. After all, she had seen it all. Exploding diapers, projectile spit-up, tantrums spewing from a three and five year old, a spousal spat, family drama, and me naked in the shower as she handed me my baby covered in diarrhea. Yeah, she saw it all. By this time I had lost all sense of modesty and worried more that she was covered in a bio-hazard substance over seeing me in my birthday suit. She became part of our family and we became part of hers. If not by blood than by affection, nicknames, sleepovers and celebrations, we were family. </span></center>
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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/AVvXsEhlUGa_KpzGHWQmK-OxVpv5sQhs7qs3tfRHtkXO3mYvXc4enXwjmAmOJbiCKlTGzowCNMRkRw-uxxmcjDLJC75bG0OxOqMYUvUxmOltJIeWMITO7ZbOfZSDpA5amOd91Gp0DV4qZoEgx7VM/s1600/DSC_0554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUGa_KpzGHWQmK-OxVpv5sQhs7qs3tfRHtkXO3mYvXc4enXwjmAmOJbiCKlTGzowCNMRkRw-uxxmcjDLJC75bG0OxOqMYUvUxmOltJIeWMITO7ZbOfZSDpA5amOd91Gp0DV4qZoEgx7VM/s400/DSC_0554.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">B traveled all the way to Bolivia with me so I could be there for my God Son's baptism. This is a whole other story for another time and a few good cervezas. Lets just say we were both lucky to make it back. Alive. </td></tr>
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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/AVvXsEiZH7d_njPX6Y0yuGQStDEGy3pf54GrUW9uOMSmsQuIaNXbt6BzNKLGErUxsWZzfKLVM-gZaiok9sEBKVSjf7L979oQvy8q-KsdJy44_MAeXVLqHesnhbyNcfoiQP2v4KkTLfb5vNwKsbkD/s1600/IMG_2909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZH7d_njPX6Y0yuGQStDEGy3pf54GrUW9uOMSmsQuIaNXbt6BzNKLGErUxsWZzfKLVM-gZaiok9sEBKVSjf7L979oQvy8q-KsdJy44_MAeXVLqHesnhbyNcfoiQP2v4KkTLfb5vNwKsbkD/s400/IMG_2909.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's one heck of a gal. B took Henry to a Monster Truck show!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDFp-IkuV-fhSc25Y3ArtjKxmTYe2BTmi1hC3WXc_cEIwUmatbYPRbp-EztV0cHBhmnJFpSACfQRL0wVMw8tak6yrIT6ZtggePkjWRYZZpi43Ix3FGtwIgfyBSO26aY5iLeM33erbIEAoT/s1600/IMG_1157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDFp-IkuV-fhSc25Y3ArtjKxmTYe2BTmi1hC3WXc_cEIwUmatbYPRbp-EztV0cHBhmnJFpSACfQRL0wVMw8tak6yrIT6ZtggePkjWRYZZpi43Ix3FGtwIgfyBSO26aY5iLeM33erbIEAoT/s400/IMG_1157.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">B provided me with mental support during Susie Grace's one and only year of dance. </td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qHGqLuF4edPJyqVVxyq0jSJwl6KA8fLkZeBPuDJVUvTE8b3xO2ifsRV_TfUOZJ9z9aU7_hdkN5Wd9ei5U92RgFZT7GxPK6dNutkUL_R3rnxNOuqF8rw5be0s0LVBoR5nizqlKc_BAOri/s1600/DSC_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2qHGqLuF4edPJyqVVxyq0jSJwl6KA8fLkZeBPuDJVUvTE8b3xO2ifsRV_TfUOZJ9z9aU7_hdkN5Wd9ei5U92RgFZT7GxPK6dNutkUL_R3rnxNOuqF8rw5be0s0LVBoR5nizqlKc_BAOri/s400/DSC_0058.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Halloween to birthday parties, shots at the pediatrician's office to Family Vacation Travel Officer of Support, serving as Family Christmas Card Picture Children Briber/Mother of Family Christmas Card Picture Children Voice of Reason to the Queen of Nanny 911, B was there and not a moment went by that I wasn't thankful. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B. She was there. Like really there. There in a way that was more than showing up to referee my tribe, take some cash and leave. B fell in love with our family and we fell in love with her. She would come over for dinner, never miss a birthday party or celebration, and went above and beyond even after she clocked out. Talk about a serious relationship in the fast lane. We were hooked and knew it was meant to B. Get it? Ha ha! </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI3E1BZMaeoYhmzlPVii7jm8VECsit_nX5WE4PY4JEfB24Z-flfBTcE8ISGAlgABdedtUDRXGbS1XoAgOq9A0fiO8DDts8vWskjZf_vdLkqDxT3hKyoyyq1H5jo2KqJRsJNrejVlpZ9eq/s1600/P8180039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI3E1BZMaeoYhmzlPVii7jm8VECsit_nX5WE4PY4JEfB24Z-flfBTcE8ISGAlgABdedtUDRXGbS1XoAgOq9A0fiO8DDts8vWskjZf_vdLkqDxT3hKyoyyq1H5jo2KqJRsJNrejVlpZ9eq/s400/P8180039.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After taking my children to the zoo by myself and having one too many potential "caught on camera" incidents, I vowed never to leave my house with ALL my children without B. </td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meant to be. So many things that we have experienced are #meanttobe. Like the time B and her boyfriend broke up and I schemed a plan to get them back together because I believed it was destiny. Okay, so maybe I invited her to her favorite concert under one condition...that she bring the ex. She fell for it and cupid checked one off his list in a matter of days. Mitch and B. Eventually, he got on one knee and popped the question! She said yes. Obviously. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8JQ4adNm5BcjLmG1IwTkjCytiLK_6zQtWNlePqEO2QaJkoJDRXJisXcpxrL1vZqdK35PekWChfXjiGRh8Bd6bu9a8bSWNb1kbY0ALszs0U4LrmHyerQZgxDpIfyuQUcubE0kdPWEhV5g/s1600/IMG_0257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8JQ4adNm5BcjLmG1IwTkjCytiLK_6zQtWNlePqEO2QaJkoJDRXJisXcpxrL1vZqdK35PekWChfXjiGRh8Bd6bu9a8bSWNb1kbY0ALszs0U4LrmHyerQZgxDpIfyuQUcubE0kdPWEhV5g/s400/IMG_0257.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First comes love</td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took to the wedding planning as if my best friend AND sister were getting married. And you know what? Apparently, you can never be too old and haggard to be a bridesmaid. I slathered on the wrinkle cream, bought a girdle, dyed my grays, logged a jog on the treadmill and was honored to walk down the aisle to the beat of the sweetest ceremony I've ever witnessed. Our whole family played a role. It was magical.</span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQNkWTuqS9UcqachdMnpWSXPsdtRmHhmtaYfqEub9uAstF3KWfMa3ZZEEclccDfZcNoGi0Ifqh90J4cPEhcuNmFlTW1yr9p85zmNgyLr1_iPzDEkR8vMmsHwql7UGZsBLkGYSAUn51GVO/s1600/IMG_3815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQNkWTuqS9UcqachdMnpWSXPsdtRmHhmtaYfqEub9uAstF3KWfMa3ZZEEclccDfZcNoGi0Ifqh90J4cPEhcuNmFlTW1yr9p85zmNgyLr1_iPzDEkR8vMmsHwql7UGZsBLkGYSAUn51GVO/s400/IMG_3815.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then comes marriage</td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, B still has our family wrapped around her finger. We hardly do anything without her. Well, sort of. Along with getting married she got a real job and moved to <strike>Egypt</strike> a house too far away for daily visits. But distance is the only thing that has changed. Our kids adore her and we adore her and her man. They are our "Framily". I look back on the last seven years and there is hardly a memory that she isn't a part of. We have a treasure chest of "rememberies". </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoKtlP5OJbMYbD1kOa_YDRMGCOuhYwCsj3LHrFlJ-Sn-ouRza6ujyHLorrybU3uzIrybFl-1I5cevhJSSq0U5D9bvgsbVOeRPFkaFXvuVU1xVbEF4kAV-cHO8MHVeROOR00SfvcrZCuJr/s1600/IMG_9493.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoKtlP5OJbMYbD1kOa_YDRMGCOuhYwCsj3LHrFlJ-Sn-ouRza6ujyHLorrybU3uzIrybFl-1I5cevhJSSq0U5D9bvgsbVOeRPFkaFXvuVU1xVbEF4kAV-cHO8MHVeROOR00SfvcrZCuJr/s400/IMG_9493.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Dog and I like to go to concerts with B and her man. It's like we are 20 something but we aren't. Oh well. They keep us young and we try to keep them wise and we have fun doing it. </td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's hard to know how or where to end this. I guess it's because there isn't any ending. Our families have grown and experienced life and there is so much more. Like a lot more. Like double the trouble more. As in dos mas. You see, I believe in the divine plan, destiny, things written in the stars, the impossible possible, and endless #meanttobe moments. For example, that one time B called to tell me she was having....</span></center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqhUc-l4dznloCe_GnlPRkOBVQ3tw8VcxS0yclnos_yO-LpDhL0lxlqkobtZq6tgxpLRC-CbxhomsveAQ0CvlL_ZjxXDTnDFbTBEDHJe3DIAANJB5mGSGdjreOVWDAj3AsTq02vvcRljtg/s1600/twin_hammock-baby_shower_invitations-petite_alma-autumn_orange-orange.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqhUc-l4dznloCe_GnlPRkOBVQ3tw8VcxS0yclnos_yO-LpDhL0lxlqkobtZq6tgxpLRC-CbxhomsveAQ0CvlL_ZjxXDTnDFbTBEDHJe3DIAANJB5mGSGdjreOVWDAj3AsTq02vvcRljtg/s400/twin_hammock-baby_shower_invitations-petite_alma-autumn_orange-orange.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then comes babies in the double stroller/car seats/bouncers/high chairs/cribs.</td></tr>
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<center style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">I know!!!!</span> The possibility of this happening is cray! She had been prepared in the most realistic way possible. I've seen the way this couple loves on others. It's unconditional without limits. I mean if she could handle ME and my tribe she's got this double trouble thing down. And come on, her man signed up knowing that B comes with a package containing a family of seven that holds her high. Her man. He loves my kids almost as much as she does. </span></center>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGBphCU6jA0QzC58mSn_4rUEGFy6kjozKS0NfOEEnbDKkWYIRyU9F3tnlZgQBRc1u_byIyiZ7B0dY53fqLVHgD7QFn5URViVPII7lNqCfF20fHOGJ1PDArusjhx6TX5kk-zIwo0HvBmnS/s1600/IMG_1315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGBphCU6jA0QzC58mSn_4rUEGFy6kjozKS0NfOEEnbDKkWYIRyU9F3tnlZgQBRc1u_byIyiZ7B0dY53fqLVHgD7QFn5URViVPII7lNqCfF20fHOGJ1PDArusjhx6TX5kk-zIwo0HvBmnS/s400/IMG_1315.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The proof is in the picture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYhZaNt15MJH7aQiZgyCNYHsYHi0HE1wDeOaa2knf-wI2jyM3UKUPTH7MJ-0X4u3M_Csbnd93p_3_WXYXa6_Q27UgiqoDyz2AgotqXcqgNIMeXPP2dAZ-oGl9QCbJYiSLnElGhlhKcg0x/s1600/IMG_4431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYhZaNt15MJH7aQiZgyCNYHsYHi0HE1wDeOaa2knf-wI2jyM3UKUPTH7MJ-0X4u3M_Csbnd93p_3_WXYXa6_Q27UgiqoDyz2AgotqXcqgNIMeXPP2dAZ-oGl9QCbJYiSLnElGhlhKcg0x/s400/IMG_4431.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah. They will do just fine with two at a time.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So there you have it. The Story of B. She's pretty legendary. Just ask my kids!</span></center>
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Carolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591207496089851995noreply@blogger.com0