tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43322354541734357012024-03-13T22:28:00.539-07:005 Hearts, One FamilyAn imperfect blog written by a flawed person about an unfinished family.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-3806175504638948892014-11-21T12:11:00.001-08:002014-11-21T12:11:27.504-08:00Notice the FearI'm working hard at not stressing out about getting all my bloggy stuff in perfect order. Right now it feels more messy than anything but I still think it's a good choice in the long run. However I can't seem to figure out the WordPress reader! My wonderful husband actually called tech support for me and apparently it's a problem on their end...this isn't a great start! But oh well, shit happens. <br />
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Here's a peak at today's 5mf post:<br />
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<em style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.125px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I have noticed that I don’t write much about Marie these days. I write about general things. But I have shied away from my thoughts and feelings about being her parent. I think that’s a disservice to me and to those who read my blog. My dealings with her are a large part of my daily life. For me not to talk about those struggles is as if to omit them. And for what purpose? </em><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.125px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Want the rest? Visit my work-in-progress: <a href="https://jessicasgrace.wordpress.com/2014/11/21/notice-the-fear/" target="_blank">Jessica's Grace</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-25923173081882535422014-11-19T11:59:00.000-08:002014-11-19T11:59:42.194-08:00A Letter to the OthersIt appears that I am indeed transitioning to <a href="http://jessicasgrace.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">my new site.</a> It will continue to change as Mr. Sexy finds time to help me with it. He and I laugh together as I have ideas for new projects but find the start up to be completely overwhelming. For instance:<br />
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Me: I'm definitely going to garden next year.<br />
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He looks over at me.<br />
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Me: Ugh, who am I kidding? It'll never happen.<br />
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Him: That's so funny because there is a perfect spot for a garden on the side of the house although I know you've never really ventured over there.<br />
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Me: Oh! Well, maybe if you get it all started for me then I could do it!<br />
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Him: So you want me to do the garden for you?<br />
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Me: That would be wonderful! Thanks honey!<br />
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Laughter ensues. (And he is already making plans.)<br />
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Anyways, I will continue to post here with a link to my new space. If you would be so kind as to venture over there and give me a follow at some point that would be ever so wonderful. As for today's post, here you go:<br />
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<em style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The following letter will not reach it’s recipients unless they happen upon this blog and this blog post. If that were to happen, that would be an okay thing. If not, well, it’s how I’m processing my frustration and if that’s the only purpose here then that’s just fine with me.</em></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Dear Other Parents,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I’m sorry if I have offended you. Offense is not my intention. While I’m not exactly sure how I have been so incredibly offensive, I would like to ask for your forgiveness anyways. Know that as I am being humbled in these moments with these words, it is a struggle to do so.</span></div>
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The rest of the letter is over <a href="http://jessicasgrace.wordpress.com/2014/11/19/427/" target="_blank">here.</a> </div>
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Happy following!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-30059087047505930592014-11-17T10:43:00.000-08:002014-11-17T10:58:17.833-08:00Game Night<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">
Monopoly was a family favorite growing up. It was our go-to game perhaps because it was one of the few games we had where we could all play together. Still to this day, when we are together, competition is fierce. Even when we were all little kids game nights were intense. So I suppose one might say I grew up in a competitive family. In fact, my mom used to reminisce and tell me how she and my dad would race when making their bed together. Whoever got their side done first was the winner. Or something like that.<br />
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It turns out that in many ways I married a man who is on the opposite end of the spectrum than me. When he was first introduced to my family game nights he would laugh and shake his head at the high level of intensity. Everybody would be up in arms about who was doing this right and who was gloating too much and who was being the most annoying. I'm not sure if he ever got the privilege of seeing anybody cry during one of these events though.<br />
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<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="-webkit-user-drag: none;"><a data-mce-href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night.jpg" href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night.jpg" style="-webkit-user-drag: none;"><img alt="Catan, a family favorite." class=" wp-image-415" data-mce-src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night.jpg?w=300" height="234" src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night.jpg?w=300" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="234" /></a></dt>
<dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 4px 5px;">Catan, a current family favorite.</dd><dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 4px 5px;"><br /></dd></dl>
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You can probably gather that family game nights, at least for me, created more stress and strife than anything. As Mr. Sexy and I began growing our family and creating our own traditions, game night was something I wanted for my kids - but not with me up in arms over who was winning or losing at Candy Land. Yes, Candy Land. It happens. I became particularly concerned about my competitive nature when I saw the same qualities blooming in Michael. Again, it was Candy Land. Candy Land is where all game nights begin, I imagine. So Mr. Sexy and I began to coach Michael on breathing techniques and lecturing him that win or lose, the purpose is to have fun and enjoy each other's company. I quickly realized I was learning right alongside Michael.<br />
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I began taking a few pages from my husband's book. It started with an adult beverage during game night. (We all gotta start somewhere!) I practiced saying as little as possible. This would cause my heart to race and my body would become rigid from the desire to whine, gloat or say something snarky. That's when Michael's breathing techniques came in to play. It's still a little amazing how a few deep breaths can calm my racing heart.</div>
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It has been a few years but I think Mr. Sexy would agree: Game nights have improved.<br />
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<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="-webkit-user-drag: none;"><a data-mce-href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night-2.jpg" href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night-2.jpg" style="-webkit-user-drag: none;"><img alt="Even a puzzle can be competitive." class=" wp-image-414" data-mce-src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night-2.jpg?w=300" height="232" src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/game-night-2.jpg?w=300" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="232" /></a></dt>
<dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 4px 5px;">Even a puzzle can be competitive.</dd><dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 4px 5px;"><br /></dd></dl>
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Now, game nights when all my brothers and parents get together is still another story. I have decided to be very picky about when I choose to join in - for my own sanity, of course. And even though I get chided for this, I know that it's in my best interest. I also have a rule that ANY game with these crazy family members of mine should be accompanied by an adult beverage of some sort. What can I say? I'm an imperfect person and I really like being an adult.<br />
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All this to say, I'm incredibly thankful every day for the husband I have. He continues to challenge me simply by how he lives his life in front of me. My kids are so blessed to have him around - if for no other reason than to keep their crazy mom in check!<br />
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<a data-mce-href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/us-2.jpg" href="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/us-2.jpg" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="He also has a crazy side." class="size-medium wp-image-418" data-mce-src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/us-2.jpg?w=300" height="225" src="https://jessicasgrace.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/us-2.jpg?w=300" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; border: 0px none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="300" /></a></div>
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<dd class="wp-caption-dd" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 4px 5px;">He also has a crazy side.</dd></dl>
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<em><br /></em>
<em>Today is my first time joining <a data-mce-href="http://retired-not-tired.blogspot.com/" href="http://retired-not-tired.blogspot.com/" target="_blank" title="Retired not Tired">Retired not Tired</a> for <a data-mce-href="http://www.retired-not-tired.blogspot.com/2014/11/memory-monday_16.html" href="http://www.retired-not-tired.blogspot.com/2014/11/memory-monday_16.html" target="_blank" title="Memory Monday">Memory Monday!</a></em></div>
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<em>Click the link below to join.</em><br />
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<a data-mce-href="http://www.retired-not-tired.blogspot.com" href="http://www.retired-not-tired.blogspot.com/" target="_blank" title="Retired Not Tired Memory Monday"><img alt="Retired Not Tired Memory Monday" class="" data-mce-src="http://i93.photobucket.com/albums/l60/momfromcanada/buttonw1.jpg" data-mce-style="border: none;" src="http://i93.photobucket.com/albums/l60/momfromcanada/buttonw1.jpg" height="144" style="border: none;" width="156" /></a></div>
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<b>P.S. I am in the process of creating a new blog space over <a href="https://jessicasgrace.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. Actually, what am I saying? Mr. Sexy has done all the work so far because he's amazing like that. Anyways, I'm not sure when but there will be a transition. </b><br />
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<!-- start LinkyTools script --><script src="http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=243588" type="text/javascript"></script><!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-88763644220693308312014-11-14T10:20:00.000-08:002014-11-14T10:20:55.843-08:00"Co"-ParentingIt's messy. It's not edited. It's raw. But it's honest.<br />
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<i>The non communication between Michael's parents and Mr. Sexy and I drives me up the wall. I'm sure it would most people. From what I hear, co-parenting is never easy. I get that. Except for one thing. Co-parenting has the term, "co," in it. As in together. Working as team. Talking to each other. Discussing issues at home or at school.</i><br />
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<i>There is no "co" in our co-parenting system. At least that's how it feels most of the time. For instance:</i><br />
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<i>Two days ago was the cookie dough pick up day. I was really proud of Michael for partcipating in the fundraiser this year and he had goals of how much he wanted to sell in order to receive prizes. I picked up his two boxes and headed home proudly. Soon after I got a call from his dad. Apparantley we picked up his cookie dough as well. I was confused because I didn't see any names from that set of parents on the order form. </i><br />
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<i>Upon opening the box I found an order form - however it wasn't one I had seen. It from Michael's dad's family and friends. I realized I picked up their cookie dough instead of ours. </i><br />
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<i>Frustrating.</i><br />
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<i>Because Michael had two order forms, there was no accumulation of prizes. He missed out. Michael missed out on something good because his dad wasn't able to share information with me.</i><br />
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<i>I'm still upset about it. I feel like Michael was wronged. I feel like he was let down. I feel like letting go of the "co" in parenting as Michael's other parents seem to do so often.</i><br />
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<i>But I won't. I'm better than that. Mr. Sexy is better than that.</i><br />
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<i>Today, I'm <b>still</b> fighting for the "co" in parenting.</i><br />
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Thanks for reading my unedited, unashamed 5 minutes of writing on the word: <i>Still</i></div>
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Click the link below to join in every Friday.</div>
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(At least I'm pretty sure it's a link.)</div>
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<a href="http://katemotaung.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-91572146157673077552014-11-12T16:37:00.000-08:002014-11-12T16:37:22.343-08:00Consequences in Action<div style="text-align: center;">
I love this kid. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1oweVZyLJgcA6HfJvXcwQwwdBU-J8sv9qm8gTEsur6oDlt9d9Aph7W-J6MPitnEQ14ByfQbmPiOvCIxOMkK6HenF34gf5Ek6tZiZRX2WLzcxN8P9EXtvVt4nDaWdYbXmR9Yp4cUJymXE/s1600/Michael.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1oweVZyLJgcA6HfJvXcwQwwdBU-J8sv9qm8gTEsur6oDlt9d9Aph7W-J6MPitnEQ14ByfQbmPiOvCIxOMkK6HenF34gf5Ek6tZiZRX2WLzcxN8P9EXtvVt4nDaWdYbXmR9Yp4cUJymXE/s320/Michael.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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He's funny, energetic and is the highlight of the room. </div>
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But he has another side. </div>
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First grade has been full of learning curves for Michael and for Mr. Sexy and I as his parents. The parent-teacher conference we recently had brought a few things to light. What Mr. Sexy and I thought were minor issues at home were actually larger issues at school. The past six months or so have been crazy for us. But what's new? However, I realize I have let Michael's behaviors fall to the way side more than I think I ever have. Now we are seeing some of the effects. </div>
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Michael is having a difficult time staying on task at school. When he is on task he does his work slowly, meticulously. If it's not perfect according to his standards, he is unhappy and will do it over if possible. This behavior has caused him to not finish his work on a regular basis. When asked to move on, I was told he cries about it. Just about every day he cries. (Yeah, my kid is THAT kid these days.) Up until very recently he was told to stay in during recess to finish his unfinished work. Since he has told me how much he enjoys staying in, I have asked his teacher to send unfinished work home as homework and to force him outside to play. I'm told even getting him out the door has been a struggle. </div>
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Michael does have difficulty staying on task, even at home. When doing something as simple as cleaning his dinner bowl, it can take him anywhere from 5-30 minutes. This is with just about every task he is asked to complete. </div>
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Now we set a timer for every task. He can see it. He can hear when it goes off. Sometimes he gets his stuff done. Other times, not even close. </div>
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And that brings us to this morning. </div>
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Michael has a timer for every step in his morning: Making his bed, getting dressed, making his lunch, eating breakfast, getting himself ready to go out the door. Every day seems to bring a challenge but this morning was especially challenging. </div>
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He couldn't find anything to wear. </div>
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That's not an abnormal problem for anybody. I understand this problem! But, when push comes to shove, I always find pants and a t-shirt - even if I have to dig through the dirty laundry. Lucky for Michael, I found him two pairs of pants and two long sleeve shirts last night and I told him so. Yet this morning he came down stairs wearing Marie's jeans over his pajamas with a sad face saying, "Look! These won't fit!" That was our first clue the morning would be rough. </div>
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Mr. Sexy and I have been working hard on making Michael think through problems for himself. For some reason this has been a monstrous struggle for him. (Well, I have my theories...there are two sets of parents in his life - but I won't go there...yet.) So of course, this morning Michael had an opportunity to look for pants and a shirt. </div>
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Apparently there were none to be found. His timer went off and his opportunity to get dressed passed. On to breakfast. Well that timer ended and he hadn't quite finished eating either (Denai took care of that later). At that point he had 12 minutes to get himself ready to go out the door. Most of that time was spent wandering aimlessly around looking as though the entire world was against him. As Mr. Sexy and I were up and about we noticed several pants and shirts scattered on his bedroom floor. Yet Michael remained in his pajamas, every once in a while whining about not having any clothes to wear. </div>
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That 12 minutes was stressful. Do we send him to school in pj's? How is that appropriate? Do we give him clothes with a lecture? That obviously hasn't worked in the past... Should we physically dress him like we do Denai? As Mr. Sexy and I quietly discussed what to do we kept coming to the main point: <i>He has clothes. For some reason he is choosing not to see them</i>. </div>
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He needed to be pulled up short and sudden, as Marilla Cuthbert would say. </div>
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Our conclusion was painful for me. But it was the right one. Twelve minutes passed and we told Michael it was time for his shoes. He would be attending school in his pajamas.<br />
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A conniption fit ensued. He was almost carried to the truck this morning. Almost. </div>
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After they left I called his teacher and explained our morning. Let's just say I LOVE HER. She understands the concept of Love and Logic and supports it fully. It was good I called so she would know and understand why Michael was in his pajamas and why he might be particularly upset. His teacher also encouraged me in my efforts and even said, "You will win this. Just stay firm a consistent. You will win." </div>
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So, Michael is in his pajamas at school. I'm not sure what kind of attitude will enter the van when I pick him up. But today's consequence was needed, as painful as it was for all of us. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-7144368477489738672014-11-04T09:25:00.001-08:002014-11-04T09:28:34.318-08:00Catching Up TuesdayToday is going to be one of my rare catching up posts. Perhaps only a few have noticed, but I have been MIA from this part of my life for a little over a week now. Nothing traumatic was going on, I have just been incredibly busy and thus too exhausted to spend any time formulating coherent thoughts worthy of anybody reading. I can barely get words on a page even right now.<br />
<br />
So now, it's time to catch up.<br />
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First off, remember that I have a bunch of animals? 8 chickens, 1 rooster, 3 dogs, 1 cat and 1 turtle. It's been fun to have so many animals running around outside. Doing the dishes <b>was</b> always entertaining because the coop and run were right there under the kitchen window. <br />
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I say <b>was </b>because chickens and rooster are no more.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8Py9BpIY9a80RkA6n0yUHUeRbqWempBMcWX7lmkBsm5D6wo8F3zKZ5hLMGMn2KIvNUSn6uZwOQzkwbT9hDY5ChR9nXphFGKwSGfu5WRutHXp7GXUQI8_hEoRrtPh4AKGVin2u28yowOz/s1600/Chicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8Py9BpIY9a80RkA6n0yUHUeRbqWempBMcWX7lmkBsm5D6wo8F3zKZ5hLMGMn2KIvNUSn6uZwOQzkwbT9hDY5ChR9nXphFGKwSGfu5WRutHXp7GXUQI8_hEoRrtPh4AKGVin2u28yowOz/s1600/Chicks.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The original 6 as chicks.</td></tr>
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Long story short, Mr. Sexy and I have a history of making quick decisions and do our best to ignore potential red flags. Rue and Atlas were one of those decisions. And now, Rue has officially killed off every single chicken we have owned. Those two dogs are gone now. And we are buying more chickens soon. We are determined to get our own eggs regularly! At least now we can say: lesson learned.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUlMU6ILOgCrYVm8t5mt3Nd2slapOAKr2DysHKQCQvyy-SkUcMc1OKvAEAvbXxci3rBQauBheP6OLVUM_tc26ss4ySiiHBUK5twIcRsAf1fz4OgbcRz04jIjqkOzFkV38Tih5znNLUoYt/s1600/Atlas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUlMU6ILOgCrYVm8t5mt3Nd2slapOAKr2DysHKQCQvyy-SkUcMc1OKvAEAvbXxci3rBQauBheP6OLVUM_tc26ss4ySiiHBUK5twIcRsAf1fz4OgbcRz04jIjqkOzFkV38Tih5znNLUoYt/s1600/Atlas.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atlas, the brother who watches.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLkcQCXK7ImJKy9mjfT1376xVRBI1JRfYPax_EUVKxiNyLi2XayBfiLPglrUb4oP8dO0lSUC9wS6nr3ijmPdJzOE3vjdot4WGGfkHekphLxuSQOUxyQkqMtNXqkxuZ5bcS8FOL-icB6xZ/s1600/Rue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLkcQCXK7ImJKy9mjfT1376xVRBI1JRfYPax_EUVKxiNyLi2XayBfiLPglrUb4oP8dO0lSUC9wS6nr3ijmPdJzOE3vjdot4WGGfkHekphLxuSQOUxyQkqMtNXqkxuZ5bcS8FOL-icB6xZ/s1600/Rue.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rue, the hunter.</td></tr>
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Now we have our one beloved dog, Winnie, and our 1 cat (though I haven't seen Whiskers for a few days) and our turtle, Shelly Sheldon Sexy. I miss having a bunch of animals running around outside.<br />
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What has kept me most preoccupied this week is Marilla Cuthbert. We opened Anne of Green <br />
Gables this weekend so last week was excruciating. I saw Mr. Sexy rarely and had 4 hour rehearsals every night. I would come home full of energy so it took time to calm down and get to sleep. Then I was tired the next morning and had no energy for things like laundry, dishes, sweeping or getting dressed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5t0h0ooXmlQbk8KNp4_V87KEXSvsyD0zVsEpyhz-Nt_FftJr8dE4VMrjhP2zlSE2ZNoyLEQH6iHBigdSr101iMSpeOwlIdwsQqFyqNHV-_Zs5Ws2MWsOzGBKGAUVU-JmBirS9bC9FagI/s1600/Marilla+Cuthbert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5t0h0ooXmlQbk8KNp4_V87KEXSvsyD0zVsEpyhz-Nt_FftJr8dE4VMrjhP2zlSE2ZNoyLEQH6iHBigdSr101iMSpeOwlIdwsQqFyqNHV-_Zs5Ws2MWsOzGBKGAUVU-JmBirS9bC9FagI/s1600/Marilla+Cuthbert.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nervously yet happily waiting to go on stage.</td></tr>
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In one word: exhausting. <br />
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I knew I was becoming drained during a conversation with Mr. Sexy about some things that had been going on with Marie. I said something but he reacted to what he heard which in turn hurt my feelings so I shut him out. It wasn't long before we were able to talk it through and I realized the emotional toll the play was having on me. Thankfully, crazy late nights are over - for now.<br />
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We did two shows this past weekend and we have 4 more next weekend and then we are done. I tend to get really nervous about stupid things like birthday parties where I know people. It's ridiculous. So imagine my nerves on opening night... I was shaking when I went on stage and the nerves didn't calm until halfway through the first act. <br />
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What I found is that as I accomplished each entrance, every line and every scene, my confidence boosted. The second show wasn't quite so nerve-racking for me, either. It was actually a lot of fun.<br />
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Well now, that's all I feel like talking about right now. I have to get back in the swing of things.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-68709753320145621072014-10-24T11:38:00.001-07:002014-10-24T11:38:46.768-07:00Truth or...<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>The last time I played Truth or Dare was with my kids. It was during one of my our many summer camping nights. The idea of the game sprung from our adult version with our friends weeks before - on another camping trip, of course. That's what our summer was all about after all. Camping. Memories. Friends. </i><br />
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<i>It took a bit for the kids to get into the game. For instance, Michael used the same dare every time. Finally we told him he should try something new because it was getting boring. Marie seemed to be completely embarrassed by the game and copied what everyone else was doing. Denai was in our tent talking to Siri until we confiscated that relationship. Later we found her half off our blow up mattress snoring soundly.</i><br />
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<i>Playing Truth or Dare with our kids was a different experience from playing with our adult friends. Something as simple as a kiss on the cheek was an embarrassing dare for Marie. For Michael, I dared him to do silly things like lick dad's shoe or climb to the top of pile of branches that were near to us. When it came to licking things, Michael was freaked out. But game rules prevailed. And he had a blast.</i><br />
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And that's my five minutes on the word<b> dare</b>.<br />
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Click the link below to join!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-25817929950784464112014-10-22T11:09:00.001-07:002014-10-22T11:09:35.353-07:00Guilt or Conviction?Ugh. I'm pretty sure God is trying to "help" me grow and become a "better person."<br />
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I say this sarcastically because I'm not liking it.<br />
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It stinks. It's difficult. And frustrating. Plus annoying. This growing stuff plain stinks and won't go away.<br />
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Almost daily I'm contemplating just walking away. I self-righteously feel like it would be a ballsy move that I would almost be justified in making... Except for the fact that when I think about it I feel a pang in my heart. <b>Conviction. </b><br />
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Ah, conviction. How sweet and unassuming you begin. <br />
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First, it's knowing in my head; but I can easily ignore that. Feelings are much more fun to deal with. "Fun." HA!<br />
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Second, that head knowledge starts to infiltrate my mind even AFTER I decided to ignore it. (And that's just plain rude.)<br />
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Then, I let the head knowledge simmer just a bit. Just enough to acknowledge that I know what I SHOULD do and should NOT do. <br />
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Sometimes I make good choices. Sometimes not so good ones. This is when guilt tries to come into play; but I do know that guilt is <u>not</u> how God works. <b>God works in the love and grace department </b>while satan's ambitions are to make us feel all the more worse - and this usually results in more bad choices.<br />
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So by grace the guilt is removed and replaced by Godly conviction.<br />
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Godly conviction is the urging to do what I don't want to do even though I know it's the right thing to do.<b> Godly conviction doesn't condemn. Instead it reminds me of the goodness of God and that it's something to be shared. </b><br />
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So here I am. Conviction is painted all over the place. I'm going to do my best to make the right choice today. And hopefully I will choose to make the right choice again tomorrow. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-68774947273672983352014-10-21T11:18:00.001-07:002014-10-21T11:18:50.161-07:00I Am...<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mrs. Sexy.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And we are the Sexy family. </b></span></div>
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I'm sure this name makes some people uncomfortable. Some don't care and may even see a bit of comedy behind it. Then there are pervs. There are always pervs. It just comes with having such a <br />
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sexy name, I guess.<br />
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Obviously, I use pseudo names. When I first started this blog I knew immediately what names to use for my kids. Then it was time to start talking about my husband. Since he is obviously the Most Sexy Man Alive (he is still waiting for national recognition), Mr. Sexy was born. After some more writing I decided, why not? Mrs. Sexy makes total sense. And then, the Sexy family became our family name.<br />
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I use pseudo names in order to protect my family from "trolls" or other unwanted "guests." Now, I do realize that with the name, "sexy," pervs gravitate towards that word. When it comes to isntagram I have had to do some deleting and blocking. But other than that, it hasn't been a big issue (knock on wood - or something like that).<br />
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I had another blog a few years ago that got a little crazy.<br />
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I learned what an internet troll is: a person who happens by your blog once, makes a judgement, and says mean things - at least, that's what I have read as the definition<br />
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However this troll took her thoughts too far. She wrote a blog post dedicated to me for her thousands of followers to read. She shared my blog address and any other personal information she could find. This lead to more emails than I care to remember from strangers across the country telling me horrible, terrible, disgusting things. The one that still stands out the most - mostly because of how ridiculous it is, is this: "You should give your daughter up for adoption." I mean, seriously. It made me laugh then and it makes me laugh now. Because that's the answer to our problems. We should give them away. Pretend they don't exist. Treat them like garbage. Thanks for the heart felt advice lady! You are going to miss out on a lot of good things in life with that attitude.<br />
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Ahem. Okay. I'm calming down now.<br />
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Anyways things escalated to the local police being notified as well as Child Protective Services. Our family and friends were getting nasty emails as well. That was pretty horrifying. In fact, because of the emails, one of my "good" friends quit talking to me. Deleted me on facebook. Not one word. Although, she de-friend-ed me after sharing my struggles with her friend. This friend whom I did not know yet lived in my town, emailed me randomly with a long LOOONG story about her own plight with a child with disabilities. It ended with her kid dying due to a seizure and she felt guilty because she was having a hard time with her kid... Moral: Always give advice to perfect strangers via facebook message because that is the best way to offer a helping hand. Do you hear any sarcasm dripping from those words?<br />
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Wow. I need to calm down! <br />
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So, there you have it. I use pseudo names and am very protective of where we live. So far, there have been no trolls on this blog. But if they do happen by, we will be somewhat more protected.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-62286721194442349222014-10-17T09:58:00.002-07:002014-10-17T09:58:51.544-07:00Long Wasn't So Long<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhGfrx4ivqcj9n2EBf1MFkpGqwzzWLYrewGdutQctd5yk01beVg_FaVJmNL3qAqnMcWDdRk4RPAZUDDqcmTBg-ZdGcvB1cWivpLc-NRTktZthIDC918Wg2Eq5XVKU1qPbqU9fF73r-TUb/s1600/Long.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhGfrx4ivqcj9n2EBf1MFkpGqwzzWLYrewGdutQctd5yk01beVg_FaVJmNL3qAqnMcWDdRk4RPAZUDDqcmTBg-ZdGcvB1cWivpLc-NRTktZthIDC918Wg2Eq5XVKU1qPbqU9fF73r-TUb/s1600/Long.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>It's not edited. <br />
It's imperfect.<br />
In fact, I think I accidentally wrote too long by about two minutes. So sorry. I just had to finish the story.<br />
<br />
<i>We went into the Sprint store two weeks ago in high spirits. They had one iphone 6 plus in and it was going to ours! Or, mine, to be accurate. We decided to spend the big bucks and do the big upgrade for me now and do his later when it was time for his upgrade. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So we get there and yes! They still have one phone left. Just. For. Me. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then we found out Mr. Sexy could get his upgrade at any time. Cool... But couldn't afford that. It worked well to space it out by four months. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then Sprinters worked their magic and - poof - I had the new phone and we ordered Mr. Sexy's. For one third of what we were expecting to pay for just one phone. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Magic, I tell you. It's magic. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Mr. Sexy was prepared to wait at least four long weeks for his new toy while I enjoyed every minute of mine. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdLiy_YBqrkRIlTVQkws5EoRmhqVaJ_uga7NxEX5NrCqu_9wDNRaiDQYosi1K07okmSHd-HOiwe-6PZwOP5TuLM0KbEpeL6Yw2mbQUfVJZJowN2qqtuICZ2LDIAt8FxnGJ7ep1qKuLSL5/s1600/iPhone+6+Plus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdLiy_YBqrkRIlTVQkws5EoRmhqVaJ_uga7NxEX5NrCqu_9wDNRaiDQYosi1K07okmSHd-HOiwe-6PZwOP5TuLM0KbEpeL6Yw2mbQUfVJZJowN2qqtuICZ2LDIAt8FxnGJ7ep1qKuLSL5/s1600/iPhone+6+Plus.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><i><br /></i>
<i>A week and half after visiting Sprint, he got THE phone call. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>His long wait was over. It wasn't even that long! In fact, his phone came in faster than others who ordered before him. The Sprinters said they didn't understand. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>For us, it was magic. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We had spent a long time thinking about the upgrade. Would the plus be too big? OMG IT BENDS!!!! But really? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Every singe person who has held my phone made a comment about how it was a good choice because the 6 plus is just too big. Then I tell them they are holding a plus. Isn't that funny? It's really not as big as people think. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also, it does bend. With enough pressure in the right spaces, anything can bend. Even the iphone 5 had comments about bending. But hey, I'm not going to be bending my phone! I won't be running it over with my car either. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There is something so silly about technology. We all have opinions that are near and dear and there is no other right one.</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-69093173695647030052014-10-16T12:47:00.000-07:002014-10-16T12:47:19.818-07:00The Karev IssueFeeling rejected is the worst. Especially when it's from someone close.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
For me, it was my husband.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVfB7FC2lFTmWs0NHfG5QyBcHW9rfkYkU3CzgjSQlR9koeE4BPCrjWNMNSuqXXL35WhDCJSXNkH6NpjL_XCOIKofZGrSOPC4HWu8YFdaVcJNuKc9GFKQuxQD8ODn4c6Gm5tFMS0Jqv6_I/s1600/Us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVfB7FC2lFTmWs0NHfG5QyBcHW9rfkYkU3CzgjSQlR9koeE4BPCrjWNMNSuqXXL35WhDCJSXNkH6NpjL_XCOIKofZGrSOPC4HWu8YFdaVcJNuKc9GFKQuxQD8ODn4c6Gm5tFMS0Jqv6_I/s1600/Us.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a><br />
I didn't know that's what I was feeling in the moments, though. I did feel angry and my body language said that much. But it was late and Mr. Sexy was tired so he gave up and went to sleep. <br />
<br />
I stewed for a bit. Then decided to ask myself, <i>why?</i> <i>What has happened to make me feel angry? </i><br />
<br />
Hurt was the next emotion that came to mind. I was feeling hurt. He went to sleep, after all. He went to sleep when I wanted to snuggle and kiss on him.<br />
<br />
<b>He rejected me. </b><br />
<br />
Now it's time for some background:<br />
<br />
Over and over again I have to learn that sometimes my body language alone does not get my point across to him. Sometimes I have to be a little bit more aggressive. Sometimes I have to actually say what I want - out loud. Weird, right? Yet, this is my struggle.<br />
<br />
<i>What if I tell him I would enjoy some intimate kissy-face and he declined? </i><br />
<i>What if I was more aggressive and he shrugged me off? </i><br />
<i>What if...?</i><br />
<br />
<b>These insecurities were not bred from my relationship with my husband. They were bred from the relationships preceding my husband. </b><br />
<br />
As Mr. Sexy fell asleep and I struggled with feeling hurt, I dug a little deeper into myself.<br />
<br />
<i>When has hurt me in this way? </i><br />
<br />
Answer: He hasn't.<br />
<br />
So why the struggle? The same struggle for three years?<br />
<br />
Fact is, this hasn't been a struggle for only three years. It goes deeper and wider than that.<br />
<br />
As I was deeply thinking all this through, I had Grey's Anatomy re-runs on. I love that show. I love almost everything about it. Because I love it so much, I have gotten really into the characters. This particular episode revolved around Alex Karev. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wbf_wdAXjIo5fkwPib_WzyhNSfwPVPBHnxbplqmzJItAuAAYpGjpux8hVKszIL5QbA-XUK5KYsWryAIFlV55TMsJej4lARzXDkifj_VHakJhm8ZMIaStLkMhiFoR_NHpPs_o_Z2mqb-c/s1600/Karev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wbf_wdAXjIo5fkwPib_WzyhNSfwPVPBHnxbplqmzJItAuAAYpGjpux8hVKszIL5QbA-XUK5KYsWryAIFlV55TMsJej4lARzXDkifj_VHakJhm8ZMIaStLkMhiFoR_NHpPs_o_Z2mqb-c/s1600/Karev.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
Alex Karev has a history of putting up walls that make him appear as something he is not. When he finally lets someone get through, what they find is a very sensitive person who feels deeply and loves passionately.<br />
<br />
I decided that I am a bit like the character Alex Karev. For many - even for members of the family I grew up with - what is seen are the walls I build around myself. I am labeled as defensive, hard to talk to, unteachable, rude, and I'm sure there are more. So when that's what others see and they tell me so, that's what I start to see as well.<br />
<br />
<b>Thank God I have a husband who is able to penetrate those walls and see somebody different. </b>Somebody he really, really loves. Somebody he sees as beautiful, loving and caring. I do put walls back up for him from time to time. But he knows. He always knows. While it isn't easy for us to get past those walls, we are able to do it. Together. <b> He sees the me God created me to be. </b><br />
<br />
God is working on these walls. He is teaching me that in Him, there doesn't need to be fear. While there will be pain, there will also be joy. But until I'm willing to stop building, it doesn't look like I will get to experience the joy that only comes from God. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and make me willing to obey you. </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>Psalms 51:12</b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-78941953807918119702014-10-14T10:08:00.000-07:002014-10-14T10:08:12.852-07:00Scared NakedBOOM BOOM BOOM<br />
<br />
It sounded far away through the orange plugs in my ears.<br />
<br />
I reached my hand out to touch Mr. Sexy as I often do through a sleepy haze in the middle of the night. There is something so comforting in touch whether it's a foot wrapped around his leg or my hand lying on his chest.<br />
<br />
Instead my hand fell straight to the mattress.<br />
<br />
<i>Wow, it's already time for him to get up for work?</i><br />
<br />
<i>But wait, no...that can't be right...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm pretty sure today is Saturday. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yes! Today is Saturday.</i> He should be sleeping next to me and we should remain so until the sun is well in view and the kids are taking turns jumping from the new bunk bed.<br />
<br />
Then I realized I heard voices. But the TV wasn't on. <br />
<br />
<i>I'm so confused.</i><br />
<br />
I took out my ear plugs and could hear loud male voices. One was Mr. Sexy and he sounded...different. Nervous, maybe even a little scared.<br />
<br />
Who was the other voice? <br />
<br />
<i>It must be our roommate. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Our roommate! Something terrible and awful must have happened for him to come back like this! </i> (He stays with us Monday nights through Thursday nights.)<br />
<br />
WHAT IS GOING ON!!!<br />
<br />
Then I began to understand some of the words.<br />
<br />
"Where is your wife! We need to see your wife right NOW!" <br />
<br />
Now it sounded like a cop.<br />
<br />
CRAP.<br />
<br />
<i>They're coming to get me! Who would have called them out here in the middle of the night?!?! I haven't done anything wrong! At least...I don't think so...</i><br />
<br />
"My wife is sleeping."<br />
<br />
"We need to see that she is okay, sir!"<br />
<br />
<i>Wait, what? </i><br />
<br />
At this point I ventured out of the bedroom. (Mr. Sexy later told me NEVER to do that again. If it had been different, like a murderous hobo, I just put myself in harm's way.)<br />
<br />
What I found was: (Don't laugh...ok, laugh a little. We do.)<br />
<br />
Mr. Sexy and his wild sleepy-time hair wearing nothing but boxer shorts and squinting his eyes at the cops.<br />
<br />
Cops. As in plural.<br />
<br />
Three cops stood in our doorway, with flashlights out and hands ready to grab their weapons if needed.<br />
<br />
<i>What. The. @#$%. </i>(Pardon my french but seriously. What. The. You know what's next.)<br />
<br />
According to Mr. Sexy, seeing me seemed to confuse the cops and calm them down all at the same time. <br />
<br />
I was squinting, too, because somebody thought all the lights needed to be on. But at least I was wearing clothes.<br />
<br />
They asked urgent questions such as:<br />
<br />
"What is your name?!"<br />
<br />
"What is your phone number?!"<br />
<br />
"Is this 456 Parrot Road?!" (I totally made that address up for the sake of crazy internet people.)<br />
<br />
They finally relaxed and decided the domestic phone call that had been cut off did not come from our house. I'm not gonna lie, I was wondering who called 911 in duress from our house. I sort of thought it could have been Michael...but honestly, that makes no sense now, in the daylight of things.<br />
<br />
The cops took off to try the next house on our road - there are only three.<br />
<br />
They didn't even apologize.<br />
<br />
All we could do for a few minutes was sit on the couch and stare at each other. I was shaking a bit. Waking up to cops on the verge of breaking down the door is not normal for us. But, we are the Sexy family. Strange things do tend to happen to us.<br />
<br />
We don't know what happened after that with the search for the domestic situation. We hope everything is ok. Mr. Sexy said he actually appreciated their hostility because had we been that phone call, hostility from the cops would be warranted. Mr. Sexy was almost surprised he wasn't jumped right away. <br />
<br />
I bet they were surprised to see such a sexy naked man.<br />
<br />
Does anybody else have similar stories? I would love to hear them. <br />
<br />
Now Mr. Sexy and I chuckle when we think about it. It's crazy. Absolutely insane. And now I know: Don't come out without my husband telling me it's okay because what if next time it's a crazy burglar hobo with nothing to lose?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-34829196451769364882014-10-10T10:32:00.001-07:002014-10-10T10:32:56.678-07:00Caring is to...Here is 5 minutes of unedited writing on the topic:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNq1jcLIl8DT6HBb8olRuKSh6OAjEPkLIYRuT3_pBpk1nZ-Prl7WTOjUPtWpn2NxACrOWpYV6W8OaLnCG4Fz5fjaynB16lOM2uBmp4QRcatswnBRgXXCwkcxgcux8rD3A3o0-0u1RNaXOt/s1600/Care.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNq1jcLIl8DT6HBb8olRuKSh6OAjEPkLIYRuT3_pBpk1nZ-Prl7WTOjUPtWpn2NxACrOWpYV6W8OaLnCG4Fz5fjaynB16lOM2uBmp4QRcatswnBRgXXCwkcxgcux8rD3A3o0-0u1RNaXOt/s1600/Care.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>Does anyone else struggle with caring for other people? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What about those closest to us? I don't mean the gushy closeness. I'm talking about proximity. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The one(s) we see every day - or nearly every day - and just being in the same room can be ... difficult. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>For me, there seems to be an absence of love. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I think that's the point of all this, though. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I think I'm supposed to learn what love means. How it's supposed to look. How it's supposed to feel. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Mr. Sexy has shown me a lot over our four years together. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But I think that with kids comes more, shall we say, opportunities to learn. Then with Mr. Sexy and I we already had one kid each. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We threw ourselves together. Fingers crossed. Hopes high. Gushy love swirling around us. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The gushyies don't last forever. In fact, the gushies didn't make it past our honeymoon. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So now, here we are, with another child added to the mix </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm still learning and understanding what love is supposed to look like. And feel like. And be like. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And I think, that one day, I will look back the days I'm in now and say, "Ah, she was teaching me to love."</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Caring, for me, about people, about those closest in proximity, has been one of my most difficult struggles.</i>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-16420155911685696212014-10-09T12:55:00.001-07:002014-10-09T12:55:56.024-07:00I Home SchoolI'm homeschooling.<br />
<br />
There are handfuls of people who probably think I shouldn't be homeschooling. I don't know this for a fact as no one has said this directly to me. But I have heard some things. I also sense the ideas in questions I receive when I talk about Marie.<br />
<br />
Those concerns, questions and opinions are battles for me. <br />
<br />
Simply going to church is a battle. Everywhere my family goes there are concerns, questions and opinions. When these things are brought to my attention, my defenses shoot up high and fast. This makes me difficult to talk to. I have answers for most questions and concerns that come my way because it all gets repeated. New town, same story. And that's okay because God is alive in our home.<br />
<br />
I don't think I have made it clear how much homeschooling has lessened stress for me at home.<br />
<br />
When Marie was in public school, the bus picked her up and dropped her off. I woke up early to get her showered, dressed and fed. Mornings were the worst for us. I tried many ways to encourage her to pick up the pace and get things done so she would be on time. Lists, pictures, nagging, doing it all for her. S-T-R-E-S-S<br />
<br />
But then I had the entire day to myself. Wooo!!!! Yet by the time 3:30 would roll around I could feel the stress of what was to come creep up on me. <i>What was it going to be today? Did she eat her lunch on the bus? Did she sneak some nail polish on the bus and eat that instead? Did she pull her hair out of her nice up-do again? What about her "friends?" Did she kick anybody today? Was she disruptive in the classroom again? Are the buttons ripped off her new shirt?</i> There was just about always something that would be wrong. Some of it was minor, as you can see. But other times it wasn't so small.<br />
<br />
After she got home there was a rush of things for me to deal with. Her appearance (torn clothing ect.), the report of her day, finding things in her backpack that aren't supposed to be there, looking at the homework hoping she would understand it.<br />
<br />
Between getting home from school and bedtime there was a very small window to deal with what happened in her day, to get her homework done and to eat dinner and go to bed on time. Forget playing.<br />
<br />
S-T-R-E-S-S<br />
<br />
Now we home school. It's not perfect. It's not stress free, by any means. But it's working for us.<br />
<br />
We get up leisurely now. Our schooling doesn't have a definitive start and end point. For instance, this morning she is going to be starting an hour and a half late because I have had a rough morning. There are some days where we don't get to school at all. Don't worry, that doesn't happen often.<br />
<br />
Homeschooling is helping to improve my relationship with Marie. That seems backwards, even to me. While we have our really bad days, we also have good days. This morning, with Denai sitting on my lap, I asked Marie to refill my coffee cup. That's progress. It's progress for her brain and it's progress in our relationship. When I ask her to do something that is <u>for me</u>, (it's almost a selfish thing) it's a small way that I show I'm willing to accept her and what she has to offer in my life.<br />
<br />
While the stress from her public school days are gone, there is still stress being home all day together. She finds things to eat when she feels she won't be caught. (She will actually get up and look through stuff to find something.) If I leave the room, she likes to behave inappropriately - which is really irritating. She struggles with the most basic schooling concepts and I just want her to GET IT. She takes a really long time to learn.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, that is why I home school. <i>She takes a really long time to learn.</i><br />
<br />
In math I have spent an entire math working with her on 1 + 0 = 1. I have learned that she learns well visually. So we use blocks on the carpet to visually see that a number plus nothing equals that same number in the number sentence. It's hard for her to understand which is frustrating to me because I don't see how it's a difficult concept. However, she's starting to get it. Slowly.<br />
<br />
So, I home school. It's the right decision for us right now. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-30479158207775810802014-10-06T12:14:00.000-07:002014-10-07T06:40:35.640-07:00The Day She Left Us<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Today is another post written by Mr. Sexy. He is such a hoot and I hope you enjoy reading his perspective of what happens when I leave him and the kids. Alone. For two whole nights. </i><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuLxEQKw3sHOQCvVusni5AK9ze4h7FdRcDfXX1l_Czw_BD42jxMLhyphenhyphenBu8jkYEh2A1mF7UuvHk5uW-zApsm0tiHm4d0-TiwJGBOhFfjVMLhTfdrOimlht6lpENq-_GqcHTCdiikuBxKoEt/s1600/Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuLxEQKw3sHOQCvVusni5AK9ze4h7FdRcDfXX1l_Czw_BD42jxMLhyphenhyphenBu8jkYEh2A1mF7UuvHk5uW-zApsm0tiHm4d0-TiwJGBOhFfjVMLhTfdrOimlht6lpENq-_GqcHTCdiikuBxKoEt/s1600/Wedding.jpg" height="320" width="212"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 23, 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mrs. Sexy and I haven’t spent much time apart since we've been married.<br>
<br>
About two years ago I had to spend three weeks in Hawaii for the Navy
Reserves. But besides a night here or there, we have pretty much
been at each other’s sides…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until this past weekend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me explain:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our church’s annual women’s retreat came around and for the
first time, the Sexy family budget and the Sexy family schedule worked together
so Mrs. Sexy could go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was stoked. Not because I wanted a weekend without the
wife, but I knew that without her there to distract me, I would get things done
on our house. (and of course I thought she would enjoy it)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br>
<br>
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, that meant I would be taking care of all 3 kids for the
weekend, but come on, how hard could that be?<o:p></o:p><br>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEVtgYyNhpPJ_TkXT7m8pfNxDygQu6Zq4RhhhNYJxWCelODtzi_StD3_ttW96S58V4ia8nvxQncZJnhO6vFuR7ABr7ySNRbdZwfC0b8Uo92imJ6ujNkMbmU6fJk9A7diSHldeyvk5PFPQ/s1600/Three+Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEVtgYyNhpPJ_TkXT7m8pfNxDygQu6Zq4RhhhNYJxWCelODtzi_StD3_ttW96S58V4ia8nvxQncZJnhO6vFuR7ABr7ySNRbdZwfC0b8Uo92imJ6ujNkMbmU6fJk9A7diSHldeyvk5PFPQ/s1600/Three+Kids.jpg" height="240" width="320"></a></div>
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, LET…ME…TELL…YOU…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First off, let me say that I am not the kind of man that
comes home from work and slouches down in front of the television waiting for
dinner to be served. I pride myself that I don’t spend all of my energy at work. So, when I come home, it's time to turn on the overdrive and see where I can
help out. Cooking and cleaning are not far removed from my everyday
life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weekend began with a drive to Mrs. Sexy’s meet-up point with a little excitement and
hesitation of what the weekend would bring. Even though the kids didn't say much as she departed, the
20 minute drive home was a somber one. The usual loud music and ‘singing’ at
the top of our lungs was not on anyone’s mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we pulled up to the house, spirits changed a bit with the
promise of Mac-n-Cheese and corn dogs for dinner. (Only healthy eating when dad
is in charge!) While I cooked, Michael and Marie made themselves busy
outside while Denai patiently waited for dinner and made it known every five seconds through her lovely wailing how hungry she was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner went off
without a hitch and only half the kitchen was covered in Denai’s dinner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Off to bed they all went.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent my night restless with all the things I planned to
do the next day. I knew Mrs. Sexy would be shocked about how much I got done
and would love the progress made on our house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not much sleep that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because it was Saturday the lovely little ones decided to
sleep in until 6am. I was determined to start the morning right and promptly got the kids
up and dressed for the day. I broke the news that our normal Saturday routine of free
pancakes at a local restaurant would not be happening so Michael decided it
was a good time for a breakdown. I didn't handle that well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3uNwQsM1b_6Pup52elbR1xHt7EFhn_RTpuJmXVQaIg_rJMQg7-VgCxoFUOj5FwJTDGpEXJqcCEFkwdNqnyWE8E2CJP0_OgyLtjjkxZjUJXxAfSkrrzTaMbnGaHvh5LAzXzk69ViStXZm/s1600/Pancakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3uNwQsM1b_6Pup52elbR1xHt7EFhn_RTpuJmXVQaIg_rJMQg7-VgCxoFUOj5FwJTDGpEXJqcCEFkwdNqnyWE8E2CJP0_OgyLtjjkxZjUJXxAfSkrrzTaMbnGaHvh5LAzXzk69ViStXZm/s1600/Pancakes.jpg" height="320" width="240"></a>I should have started with coffee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By 8am the kids were enjoying my version of free pancakes
and eggs. The miniature critics approved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, it was time to get started with the projects.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br>
<b>My goals:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> <i> </i></span><!--[endif]--><i>Detail clean the Kitchen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Setup up Living and Dining areas and remove all
boxes<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Setup kid’s room with bunk beds, crib, dressers
and move in all kid stuff from garage<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Clean up outside of miscellaneous stuff that
accumulated during the move<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Organize garage so we can park in it<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Make butter<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>-<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Find other small projects with my free tim</i>e…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sent Marie and Michael out to explore after breakfast and put Denai down
for a nap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was going great.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started organizing the kitchen for cleaning and put the
cream in the Kitchen Aid to get the butter going. I randomly heard cries from Denai’s room protesting her
nap. With the butter going and the kitchen organized I set out to
get the living and dining room cleaned out and setup.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After about 2 hours of wailing and no napping, I decided
that it was ok for her to miss one nap and brought her down to ‘help’ me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a 17 month old running around, the heavy lifting had to
stop, so I tried to entertain her and clean up at the same time. You should
know, at work I am the multi-tasking king, but I guess at home that is limited to 2
things at a time…ok, maybe one.<br>
<br>
Cleaning and entertaining her didn't go well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was finally lunch time and I got the kids setup for
lunch. Instead of eating with them I figured I would take this time to move in
the dressers and get the heavy lifting done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile the butter was still churning. Halfway through my
Saturday and 0 tasks completed. But it was ok. After lunch the older ones would continue to
play and Denai would take a nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It amazes me how we can lie to ourselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After lunch I tried again with the nap and Michael and Marie
went back outside. I knew this was my only chance to eat so I threw a sandwich
together and ate it in less than 5 minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Denai wasn't having it. The afternoon nap was a failure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told myself that it was fine and this would just make
bedtime easier and I could get the kids room setup. So I got Denai up and invited Michael and Marie to help with
their room and bunk beds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spirits were high, but I was starting to get exhausted. Every few minutes Denai was angry about something, so I put
Marie on Denai duty and had Michael help me carry drawers upstairs. This worked well for the time being. We got the dressers upstairs and started to put the bed
together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael wanted to help, but his way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Denai was no longer happy with Marie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marie was done with helping Denai.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was about done with the whole day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, Denai fell and Marie watched. We have seen this before and have tried to work on this with
Marie, but this day I felt losing my temper was a better idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, Dad was upset, Denai was upset, Marie’s feelings were hurt and
Michael just wanted his bunk bed put together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, with the bunk bed put together I moved to Denai’s
crib. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MISSING PIECES!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was done. The kid’s room could wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The smell of sour milk and no butter after 8 hours helped me
decide it was time to give up on that dream, so I just stopped the mixer and
decided to clean it up later. As dinner was rapidly approaching I realized I hadn't even thought
about what to do. So I checked the bank account, whew! We had just enough for
pizza.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a quick run to Papa Murphy’s dinner was taken care of. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We painfully chose a movie to watch and enjoyed dinner. I fell asleep 5 minutes after finishing my pizza although Denai made sure I didn't miss a single movie moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dinner, bathing and bed time commenced with no real
incident although Michael couldn't understand why he couldn't sleep in his
bunk bed with no mattress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 8:01 PM.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the Friday Mrs. Sexy left, I figured my evenings would consist of working
hard and getting wrapped up with the day’s projects. However all I could think about was
how nice the bed sounded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday morning came too soon. I wanted to get the kids ready
for Sunday school, but with the progression of the morning, I knew I would be
lucky to get to the main service on time. I frantically put the house in the best order I could and
got the kids ready to go.<br>
<br>
Marie was wearing her normal everyday clothes with her hair
in a quick pony tail.<br>
<br>
Denai was wearing the same Sunday dress she wore last week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael was wearing the shorts he wore on Saturday and was
covered in dirt. (This I discovered as we entered the church)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t even know what I wore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During service I got a text from Mrs. Sexy saying they were
headed back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 thoughts…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>YAY SHE IS COMING HOME!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I didn’t even come close to completing my project list.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Who cares?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>YAY SHE IS COMING HOME.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before we picked her up we had a few more temper tantrums by
all, but when we saw her again it was a big sigh of relief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefaced this blog to say that I am not the typical lazy
man and I do quite a bit of work around the house. This weekend I realized how much work Mrs. Sexy does every day and how important it is to be a team without your spouse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It may not be clear to all, but I can see the hard work she
does each day and the fact that she has any energy for me when I come home is a
miracle in itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Babe, let’s have another kid.<o:p></o:p><br>
<br>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBohqqUw73knO46qrjIoXQRJUbG-SVHliaPO5PrbGr1m6aBCMlksLkUfXhZgzeOeLSPNZFbaC7_FK9NowBNl-2XA9Pm0zEyPRxau8KFhExJk7DkWtmLl3RdUTJHBJxwc6nZI7QYQz0w9k/s1600/All+in+the+Van.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBohqqUw73knO46qrjIoXQRJUbG-SVHliaPO5PrbGr1m6aBCMlksLkUfXhZgzeOeLSPNZFbaC7_FK9NowBNl-2XA9Pm0zEyPRxau8KFhExJk7DkWtmLl3RdUTJHBJxwc6nZI7QYQz0w9k/s1600/All+in+the+Van.jpg" height="240" width="320"></a></div>
<br>
<br>
<i>Disclaimer: Mrs. Sexy did some line editing and is responsible for the pictures in this post. </i></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-29186087841261644382014-10-06T11:04:00.000-07:002014-10-06T11:04:30.444-07:00Fear or Obedience? I logged into blogger this morning with the intent to unpublish my recent post, <a href="http://5heartsonefamily.blogspot.com/2014/10/girls-lets-leap.html" target="_blank">Girls, Let's Leap!</a> Then I read some of the comments and I decided, <i>well, this is all part of the story</i>. So I'm writing instead.<br />
<br />
In my current state of mind, I'm embarrassed by what I shared recently. In the moments I felt led by the Holy Spirit to bring everything I have to the table. Now, I'm not so sure I heard correctly. I feel like I made a mistake.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I need to grow a thicker skin. I thought I had, but either it's still growing or it wasn't there to begin with.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Perhaps my life is better shared intimately by a therapist, rather than a group of people who don't know me or my family very well. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I say this over and over again:<i> I try to share my struggles as openly as possible to bring light to the sins, for accountability, and to make it known to others that they are not alone in the harsh dealings of a fallen world. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, I'm constantly torn between fear of the world and obedience to what it seems I'm being led to do. Today, I'm giving in to the fear just a bit. I'm an imperfect person. Tomorrow, or even later today, hopefully I will decide to lay that fear at Christ's feet.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-35828101007064193172014-10-02T14:31:00.000-07:002014-10-02T14:40:10.101-07:00Girls, Let's Leap! I'm sitting in a small group surrounded by women whom I have just met hours ago. One by one, questions are asked by our leader. The answers are slow coming and, for the most part, shallow. Then one takes her leap of faith. As her story unfolds, I feel tense and motionless. All I can see are her pained eyes and all I can see is the beauty of her heart yearning for Jesus. As her tears begin to flow I feel my own cheeks warm up and my hands get clammy. This is uncomfortable. Yet I'm still captured by her gut wrenching honesty. Then she speaks of a deep pain, an emotional burden, and I feel my own eyes fill with hot tears. Of course, I do the fast blinking thing and hope nobody is watching me and the emotions that threaten to bubble to the surface. I must look away. My heart can't take much more without a breakdown of my own...<br />
<br />
<b>Why is other's pain uncomfortable for the rest of us?</b><br />
<br />
I am inspired to explore this question from <a href="http://amothersluv.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Rory</a>'s comment on my post, <a href="http://5heartsonefamily.blogspot.com/2014/09/a-process-of-healing.html" target="_blank">A Process of Healing</a>.<br />
<br />
<i>"God sees your heart dear friend... others, mostly see what they want to see, or look right past you because they have their own hurt to hide.<b> Pain makes people uncomfortable, </b>but if we all did better at sharing out burdens: then we could see one another as He does." </i><br />
<br />
This morning I took my own leap of faith. I spilled my guts and left nothing out. Every woman listening now knows the truth about me.<br />
<br />
I blow up when things don't go right.<br />
Beer or vodka are how I nurse myself through the pain.<br />
I am generally struggling with anger that spills out into every area of my life.<br />
And, obviously, the presence of God feels far from me.<br />
<br />
Saying all these things wasn't easy. I felt warm and sweaty all over. My voice felt shaky and I wondered if this was all too much too soon. I was uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
For me, there were a few commonalities in hearing someone's struggle and sharing my own:<br />
<br />
Nervousness.<br />
Emotional connection.<br />
Freedom.<br />
<br />
The last one stands out to me. Freedom. There is freedom in sharing our lives with each other. The woman I talked about at the beginning gave our group the opportunity to pray for her and watch God work in her heart in those moments and possibly in the time to come.<br />
<br />
<b>Did you ever think about it being a blessing to be able to pray for someone so intimately? </b><br />
I hadn't thought of it that way, either.<br />
<br />
But it is, because that's what I was told this morning after showcasing my dirty laundry.<br />
<br />
As strange as it seems, even to me, there CAN be freedom in Christ. I haven't always experienced that freedom, though. But maybe I was doing it wrong. Or perhaps I had to be THERE to be HERE.<br />
<br />
I grew up in church.<br />
I have been loved by <strike>church</strike> people.<br />
I have been hurt by <strike>church</strike> people.<br />
Church is made up of people. One of them is me. <br />
<br />
Sharing our burdens is hard. It's hard to watch and it's hard to do.<br />
<br />
<b>But if we can each begin to take our leap of faith, even just one at a time, think about how much stronger the church can be. </b><br />
<br />
I am not alone in my fits of temper.<br />
I am not the only one who uses alcohol to numb and ignore the pain.<br />
I am not the only angry woman.<br />
I am not the only one feeling far from God.<br />
<br />
<b>But with one leap, I am one step closer to a renewed heart. </b><br />
<br />
<b>So, leap with me girls! </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-39400607715249540082014-10-01T09:02:00.001-07:002014-10-01T09:02:49.143-07:00The Single IssueMy husband was a single dad this weekend.<br />
<br />
HA. NOT.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5fml8R1Nyp9MDGeXSFdz-D_cPnpgT1DUYsoXlHT7I1RnlJQuj_Szz7IUGjqtJDbLuhmEJCx6Y9kZRmMh4nfZ2fnHCiIALHrsMKYEEbd4NqmOb4Cu1R_YcaJtNGmiSAlxq1hQRjePDnp6/s1600/Pancakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5fml8R1Nyp9MDGeXSFdz-D_cPnpgT1DUYsoXlHT7I1RnlJQuj_Szz7IUGjqtJDbLuhmEJCx6Y9kZRmMh4nfZ2fnHCiIALHrsMKYEEbd4NqmOb4Cu1R_YcaJtNGmiSAlxq1hQRjePDnp6/s1600/Pancakes.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's kind of breakfast.</td></tr>
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<br />
He was at home with the kids while I went away for a few nights, He was in no way a "single dad." <br />
Yet, I wonder how many of us refer to ourselves as single parents when the spouse is gone. Mr. Sexy used to be out of our home daily from 4 am to 7 pm. I was asked if it felt like I was a single parent. My answer is: Heck no! My husband came home every night. I texted him all day. He was working and bringing in an income so I could be home with the kids. It was always strange to be asked if I felt like a single parent.<br />
<br />
I may hit some hot buttons with this topic. While it's not a huge deal, it's still something I hear from people and I'm thinking about it today as I left Mr. Sexy with all 3 kids this weekend. <br />
<br />
Sometimes it's a weekend, sometimes it's a week, sometimes it's a few years that one spouse is out of the home. Work conference, get away weekend, and deployment are just a few examples. But none of that makes either spouse single. <br />
<br />
I understand taking care of the kid(s) alone day in and day out would feel lonely. Before I met and married Mr. Sexy I was doing the single mom thing. I consider it a huge blessing we got married when Michael was very young. Thinking about my personal education, a steady income and Michael's future was a lot to juggle on my own. Not to mention the day to day tantrums, grocery shopping, bed time stories and so on. <br />
<br />
I was a single mom. <br />
I was the source of my income.<br />
I was my housekeeper.<br />
I was Michael's disciplinarian. <br />
I was the chef.<br />
<br />
There was no other person coming home to us at the end of the day.<br />
There was no one to tell me good night as I turned off the light.<br />
There was no cash flow coming from anyone other than me (ok, well, I was on welfare so the government did their part too).<br />
There were no love letters in my email, no love notes in my mailbox.<br />
When I had a bad day, there was no significant other to text, email or call about it.<br />
<br />
Am I making my point?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04J6uTHwSkEo-hxp58Yrx0GHmME3Hsojl5jK-dtUEAixnzw5w0BWe1wJu0qw7kNVRtDVRD6tofqypluuCnnrFcAMwSmRWzVSuRgxeYgNG9c4Mq5NQm7vbJqN_SqB28fur-EwL2Ckd_IWl/s1600/Pregnancy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04J6uTHwSkEo-hxp58Yrx0GHmME3Hsojl5jK-dtUEAixnzw5w0BWe1wJu0qw7kNVRtDVRD6tofqypluuCnnrFcAMwSmRWzVSuRgxeYgNG9c4Mq5NQm7vbJqN_SqB28fur-EwL2Ckd_IWl/s1600/Pregnancy.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denai at 32 weeks.</td></tr>
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Mr. Sexy and I found out I was pregnant with Denai the morning he had to leave for three weeks. Military stuff. He wasn't allowed to cancel or postpone. Three weeks was a long time. I missed him so much it felt painful. Taking care of the two kids and growing one was exhausting work for me. I didn't get to talk to Mr. Sexy whenever I wanted. Most of the time his phone was off. But I texted him as if he were able to read each one so he would be fully updated when he had some time to talk. I wasn't working outside the home, yet there was still a cash flow in my bank account so I could do the grocery shopping. I looked forward to Mr. Sexy coming home every day - as did the kids.<br />
<br />
In no way was I a single mom during those weeks. My husband was away and working hard to provide for our family. I don't know many single parents who can say that.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-73299761182133692522014-09-23T12:08:00.001-07:002014-09-23T12:11:43.977-07:00Follow Fest 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxW13acLQ_D1ChhGRjKSOczH8ibBCKwC7cPtG3bXenX2EsZGYI8kfb7AzoQRjXbkmVmY3K4UQboxX46zgUlIGnWFRZgKfKUF8nDr1MkYoldZ8og_U9e7tX9n4d8r8bGfMZy375TC32QyiE/s1600/FollowFest+2014.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxW13acLQ_D1ChhGRjKSOczH8ibBCKwC7cPtG3bXenX2EsZGYI8kfb7AzoQRjXbkmVmY3K4UQboxX46zgUlIGnWFRZgKfKUF8nDr1MkYoldZ8og_U9e7tX9n4d8r8bGfMZy375TC32QyiE/s1600/FollowFest+2014.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I happened across this blog hop today and thought it looked like fun. From what I read, this is a hop to meet other bloggers and you post only once during the week. I'm so busy that this could really work for me! Visit <a href="http://melissamaygrove.blogspot.com/p/follow-fest.html" target="_blank">Melissa's blog</a> for more details.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>Name:</b> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mrs. Sexy (I have a real name too but I don't use it on social media - for now.)</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Fiction or nonfiction?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nonfiction. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What genres do you write?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't think of another category I would fit in other than nonfiction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I write about my life, past and present. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Writing and sharing what I write is somewhat of a coping mechanism as well as sharpening the writing skills. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Are you published?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Do you do anything in addition to writing?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I enjoy videography and went to school for it but am not doing too much with that currently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I spend a lot of time at home taking care of the kids and the house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I currently just got cast in <i>Anne of Green Gables</i> as Marilla Cuthbert. This should be interesting.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tell us a little about yourself.</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am mom of a blended family which has it's many challenges. I feel like I can always smell a dirty diaper even when I can't actually find one. I like the idea of knitting but can't seem to finish any project I start. I'm wondering if crochet will be better. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I grew up living in the suburbs but now I live in the country in an old farm house with lots of ways for field mice to get in. I'm not an animal person but at home there are 3 dogs, 1 turtle, 2 cats, 1 rooster and 8 chickens. The turtle is the only one who gets to live in the house. </span><i style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 20.7900009155273px; text-indent: 0in;"> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What are you reading right now?</span></b><br /><br /><i>Anne of Green Gables</i> - I'm looking for insights into Marilla's character.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>What Were You Expecting?</i> - It's a marriage book for Sunday School.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Which authors influenced you the most?</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Uummmm...I can think of favorite books...But really, I don't read enough. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Where can people connect with you?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://5heartsonefamily.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blog</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://twitter.com/5Hearts1Family" target="_blank">Twitter</a> @5Hearts1Family</span></div>
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<a href="http://instagram.com/5heartsonefamily" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instagram</span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1f1f1f; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 20.7900009155273px;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/5hearts1family" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://plus.google.com/u/0/109651992628613455592/posts" target="_blank">Google+</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Email: 5 Hearts One Family (at) gmail (dot) com</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you have a newsletter?</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">No. I'm really not very fancy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Is there anything else you’d like us to know?</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have never guest posted and am open to the idea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have had one guest post on my blog: Mr. Sexy. My husband. It's great. Read it: <a href="http://5heartsonefamily.blogspot.com/2014/09/broken-bondage.html" target="_blank">Broken Bondage</a> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm just a wife and mom who blogs about the ups and downs that come our way. Sometimes it's very personal. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes I cross a line that shouldn't be crossed. Other times I walk right up to it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hope to publish something somewhere someday.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-42701415906684995202014-09-22T11:46:00.000-07:002014-09-22T11:46:48.449-07:00A Process of HealingOpen wounds still hurt.<br />
<br />
I have wondered why some things still keep me up at night in a frustrated trance. Perhaps it's because the wound(s) never really healed. In fact, that makes a lot of sense.<br />
<br />
Yet, how can I heal when the wound is being hit again and again and again? Band aids get ripped off in my sleep. In other instances, my poor choices start the bleeding all over again. I'm at fault as much as anyone. In fact, perhaps I'm the most at fault - if not the only one.<br />
<br />
<b>I am in charge of me, my emotions and my actions. </b> Nothing comes from my mouth that I didn't really want to say somewhere deep down in my sinful nature.<br />
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<br />
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I still feel the twinge from lost and hurt relationships. While I know that God can heal what is broken, it feels that, in the world I live in, what is broken will stay broken. I alone can only do so much.<br />
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I believe in a church family. There have been times when that family cut me down, once again preventing a wound to heal. I lost faith in people. I doubted goodness that might come from church. I felt eyes on me everywhere. Watching. Waiting for an excuse to call me out on the mistakes I was bound to make.<br />
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<b>Do you know what that's like? To live in fear of who you thought was closest to you?</b> It's a constant battle. <i>Do I smile or appear stoic? Do I sit here or there? Should I speak or save it for the comfort of my own home? Should I break down in front of everyone or continue to shove the torment deep inside to appear put together? </i> Hopefully, if done right, the eyes will stop watching... One day...<br />
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Fear. Rejection. I know the meaning of these words all to well. They are the open wounds that continue to bleed.<br />
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Yet somehow, my faith prevails today. My faith in the goodness of people is being renewed. This wasn't my idea. I didn't try to accept the goodness of others. In fact, I was ready to deny it.<br />
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It's just that God has His Perfect Timing. Last year, when we moved into the woods, I wasn't ready to be openly vulnerable again. I don't know why God isolated me. But He new better than I or Mr. Sexy. What we needed was time and space to grow in our marriage and in our family. Our marriage still isn't everything it can be although it has deepened tremendously. Our family is still in pieces. <br />
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<b>But we're trying. We're working. We're moving forward. </b><br />
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It makes no sense that I should once again open myself up to people in church and show them the scum that I see inside myself. <b>But I am doing it. It's wonderfully painful.</b><br />
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Eyes will continue to watch - even if it's just from a distance. I will not make good choices all the time. In fact, I made some not so great ones already this morning.<br />
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But for some reason, I'm able to once again try to move forward.<br />
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I want the wounds to heal. I want my marriage to be all that it can be. I want my family to be whole.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-49830785339081533702014-09-19T11:42:00.000-07:002014-09-19T11:42:09.982-07:00I'm holding onto...5 minutes of unedited writing on the topic:<b> hold</b><br />
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Starts NOW:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I like to hold on to things. If I'm not careful, I could become quite a pack rat. However right now I'm thinking more of the internal things I hold on to. And if I were to take the time to think, I wonder how much of a pack rat I am. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I like to hold on to what I feel will give me power. Bitterness. Pride. Anger. Those are only a few of my areas. Yup, MY areas. I'm gettin' real over here. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So what happens when I hold onto these - let's just call it what it is - sins? What happens in my heart? What comes out of my mouth? How do I see the world? What are my hands doing? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Nothing postive, I'll tell you that much. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm not alone in holding onto these things. We all do it to some degree, am I right? Or am I puffing smoke? (too much caffeine this morning I think) It's frustrating to me when I give in to satan's lies of power. What do I really want with power anyways? What am I going to do with it? Nothing positive, that's for sure. </i><br />
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<i>There is a reason God has the ultimate power. It's interesting to me that the same sinful desires of Adam and Eve are still so extremely relevant today. In my own life. And probably in other people's lives as well. </i><br />
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That 5 minutes flew by fast! I feel like it's messy but oh well. Life is messy. We are messy. That's part of the fun, right?<br />
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<a href="http://katemotaung.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-81775111914006009032014-09-16T13:04:00.000-07:002014-09-16T13:04:46.532-07:00A Helping Hand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Over the weekend I had the opportunity to practice something called: Letting it go. Feel free to break out in song. <br />
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There will always be somebody who thinks they know how to better parent my kids. Heck, I have probably had that same thought about you. (Just keepin it real people.) Truth is, parenting is one of those hot topics. It often feels like there is one right way to do things and many wrong ways. Now tie in the special needs kids. There is ALWAYS better parenting techniques for them.<br />
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Michael wanted to skate at the fair and it was a much better deal than the rides. Mr. Sexy and I had no desire to skate ourselves so we rented the two kids skates and set them free. <br />
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After a few minutes this is what we were watching:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qNfOwlFHMYq50d6kIFYMYx37WvJnYfu3an4gOqua3gv-pVLE-bQqu5Y92DXZJnorXWQAPQRXDOYEoHfwMrjY4M6KZPOadXjao7Ej1Z5ng9HrXKJ2P0_DiORWLqcMVckS4PCNP3F6uP5X/s1600/Skating+Ciena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qNfOwlFHMYq50d6kIFYMYx37WvJnYfu3an4gOqua3gv-pVLE-bQqu5Y92DXZJnorXWQAPQRXDOYEoHfwMrjY4M6KZPOadXjao7Ej1Z5ng9HrXKJ2P0_DiORWLqcMVckS4PCNP3F6uP5X/s1600/Skating+Ciena.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U9hEd7L2QErmY_ZzIp1Qoehh5kqMXdSpMyfrSum7pS_OPsXbJpEEA9REXzcS0DWLjew-pMEs7yUdLTnzcS1v7zrZEbpb6qbiuBACdkAj0BwmyXAXAhsSHl4RSSWvk8DwiEDS8XCendd9/s1600/Skating+Evan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6U9hEd7L2QErmY_ZzIp1Qoehh5kqMXdSpMyfrSum7pS_OPsXbJpEEA9REXzcS0DWLjew-pMEs7yUdLTnzcS1v7zrZEbpb6qbiuBACdkAj0BwmyXAXAhsSHl4RSSWvk8DwiEDS8XCendd9/s1600/Skating+Evan.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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In these moments it appears they had given up. <i> It's over. It's too hard. I'm stuck. I can't do it. </i><br />
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But just give it time...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVJQFMB1hJfv-DCXPnDgMa0W7GJL8JgQLaYvkBFIV4jqy1Bj81pZ8wC1P_O1D5ajPsboxcL2wSPMf9UowmTxpajJjFY8p6VcwxaxoSFG8PgPNvbrB4XuWi4v7q_iTnfRAYVhm07-SwDxb/s1600/Skating+Emily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVJQFMB1hJfv-DCXPnDgMa0W7GJL8JgQLaYvkBFIV4jqy1Bj81pZ8wC1P_O1D5ajPsboxcL2wSPMf9UowmTxpajJjFY8p6VcwxaxoSFG8PgPNvbrB4XuWi4v7q_iTnfRAYVhm07-SwDxb/s1600/Skating+Emily.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Michael was right back up and across the rink. <br />
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Falling the whole way.<br />
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Marie, on the other hand, stayed in her same general position.<br />
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Now, Mr. Sexy and I had made the parental decision to give both kids free reign to skate and fall as they pleased.<br />
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This meant Michael might end up with a bruised tail bone and Marie would most likely not get much farther than the above picture. <br />
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We knew this. And we were fine with this. We were looking forward to seeing how both kids did with this small amount of freedom.<br />
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A stranger, however, seemed to have different thoughts.<br />
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Before getting skates I had stopped to admire the purses and skirts a lady had made with ties. Only ties. The kind of ties men wear to church or to work or on picture day. She seemed to price them reasonably and if I had the money I may have bought one just because they were so unique. <br />
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Well, that same lady didn't waste much time in approaching us as we stood and laughed and pointed at our dorky kids who didn't know how to roller skate.<br />
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"Would you like me to go out there and help her?" the lady asked. "Her," being Marie, obviously.<br />
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It felt like a random request that made no sense to me.<br />
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"No, she's okay," I said.<br />
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This lady seemed to feel very strongly about her request: "Well, she isn't moving." And she looked at Mr. Sexy and I with a stern, disapproving face. <br />
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Well, my pulse quickened and I felt warmth creep up my face so I replied in my syrupy-sweet-voice, "No she's fine. Thank you."<br />
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You should all be impressed I said "thank you." But keep in mind it was a firm "thank you." The kind that said the conversation was over.<br />
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The lady gave us another look, telling us we could go out there without skates and help her if we wanted. <br />
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Nod of the head. Turn away. Face burning. Tongue bitten. <br />
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Breathe.<br />
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I. Hate. That.<br />
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I know that people tend to feel sorry for Marie - especially with horrible parents who give her the opportunities to experience life on her own! She has spent most of her life being led into activities by adults to such a degree that she prefers adults to peers. <br />
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So, while my face cooled off and I laughed at Michael for crashing once again, I saw our parenting strategy flourish.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58ck8nUaLx9Tfvx9i-nuOEMhhxF1s2PH0yxN-jdJ0BG-s5zREWcAsiMexw_7qYw6zeWwQvGuzSwRlIpC6012_lCLij_PFVOqNCMpfEl0kkzQ7mW_n7g_ObLombEJMfV8bHIXnqbUXepdL/s1600/Skating+Friends+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58ck8nUaLx9Tfvx9i-nuOEMhhxF1s2PH0yxN-jdJ0BG-s5zREWcAsiMexw_7qYw6zeWwQvGuzSwRlIpC6012_lCLij_PFVOqNCMpfEl0kkzQ7mW_n7g_ObLombEJMfV8bHIXnqbUXepdL/s1600/Skating+Friends+2.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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This is the kind of interactions Marie needs. She doesn't need another adult who wants to rescue her. She needs someone her own size to invite her into the adventures of life. Then it's up to Marie to decide what to do next. This time, she took a friend's hand and ventured into the scary sea of a roller skating rink.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMhCaOVxuCSSebVVo4SP4LEJaCiOJ1NJZhgVagQSV9z-AujhpdoYYNIQOVndrLbts-Zmpj7jnI9SgTUYEYhOb-TuNNagsvxUA1qm0OI4_-KvoX8U6nHZpw7leYwTQYDoI5agLH6E6bBJi/s1600/Skating+Friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMhCaOVxuCSSebVVo4SP4LEJaCiOJ1NJZhgVagQSV9z-AujhpdoYYNIQOVndrLbts-Zmpj7jnI9SgTUYEYhOb-TuNNagsvxUA1qm0OI4_-KvoX8U6nHZpw7leYwTQYDoI5agLH6E6bBJi/s1600/Skating+Friends.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Marie left her comfort zone and hung on for dear life. Literally. </div>
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Have you ever skated with someone who doesn't know how? Especially one that's your size or close to it? Simply getting Marie from sitting on the bench to the rink took all my muscles as she simply leaned back into me with all her body weight. </div>
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I should have videoed the skating. It was like watching Bambi. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBWVhrCLIVx6Gw2DynBLNr7Iy_k73wbA4lTu4_sKGgUrReQmVSY6C0Jqh06U_sr2R1-QDiaSmCcb8KJ2-7ITzTEiYC61jFznVaItHg3K6w103rtNt-We7_jnmZkitj2n-Uv000lTKpDOh/s1600/PicMonkey+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBWVhrCLIVx6Gw2DynBLNr7Iy_k73wbA4lTu4_sKGgUrReQmVSY6C0Jqh06U_sr2R1-QDiaSmCcb8KJ2-7ITzTEiYC61jFznVaItHg3K6w103rtNt-We7_jnmZkitj2n-Uv000lTKpDOh/s1600/PicMonkey+Collage.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></div>
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This was Marie's first and only fall of the day. From what we could see on the sidelines, she refused to get back up even with the help of her new friend. Her friend retrieved the learning-to-skate-thing for Marie, helped her up into it, and skated off. </div>
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Again, a great thing for Marie to learn. </div>
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Marie had a friend who wanted to help her. Then Marie decided she didn't want to continue. So Marie lost that friend. </div>
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Marie actually did figure out how to move around on her own. It took her a bit but she ended up on the other side of the rink and then came all the way back when it was time to go. </div>
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She wouldn't have had those rich experiences without the helping hand of a peer. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-66535881375256641842014-09-12T11:18:00.000-07:002014-09-12T11:18:14.059-07:00Am I ready?I am about to write for five uninterrupted minutes on the prompt, <a href="http://katemotaung.com/" target="_blank">ready</a>. I will re-read it when I'm done and will probably fix the silly typos I always make but I will <u>not</u> edit the content - regardless of how messy it feels. I hope you like it! <br />
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<i>The plan has always been: Have two kids together then adopt one. That was the plan. It is the plan...We had the one baby together. That's Denai. She is my favorite Denai! She is way to cute and already "works it" with both of us to get what she wants. Oh dear. So, naturally, there should be another baby in the works. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But am I ready? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Honestly, I'm not sure I was ready for Denai. We got pregnant because of my scheduled plans. But it worked. I got pregnant right on schedule. So I suppose God was in that. So I should continue with my schedule ... and see if God honors that as well?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I just don't know. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>See, while I'm still in my twenties, well, let's just say Mr. Sexy isn't getting any younger (love you babe;). Not that he is too concerned about age anyways. He is awesome like that. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I just don't feel ready for another baby like I thought I felt ready for Denai. </i><br />
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<i>I have three kids. One I share custodoy, the other I don't but we have our issues, and then there's the baby who already battles me with a stubbrnness I know well. </i><br />
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<i>I want Denai to have a sibling who is closer to her age. I am reminded of that when other tiny people come around to play. </i><br />
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<i>But, another baby? Another round of diapers? My body not being my own? Hiding the glass of wine I will enjoy over my pregnant belly? The threat of not having alone-selfish-mommy time? </i><br />
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<i>Hmmmm....</i><br />
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<a href="http://katemotaung.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://katemotaung.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Five-Minute-Friday-4.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-91850408997086730992014-09-10T13:27:00.000-07:002014-09-10T13:27:17.377-07:00True or false? More specifically, is the Bible true? Or is it just a bunch of old and somewhat interesting stories? Are some stores true and the rest fabricated? <div>
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Mr. Sexy and I rented the new movie, <i>Noah</i>, over the weekend. It was different than I expected in some ways. It was better in others. I'm glad I knew to start the movie with an open mind of someone else's interpretation of the Noah's Ark story. I understand the need/desire to change details or fill in the gaps in order to make a film a blockbuster. </div>
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There are three main things I walked away with after watching. </div>
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<b>1.</b> Some of the details were obviously not in line with the original story. Other details, well, who knows? It's sometimes fun to let our imaginations put the pieces together. </div>
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<b>2</b>. Noah and his family were human. Disgustingly human, even. You will have to see the movie yourself to see why I use the term, "disgustingly human." </div>
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<b>3. </b>Hollywood's version of Bible stories will generally not be shown to my kids until they know the true story well enough to know the difference between truth and imagination. </div>
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This then begs the question, is the story of Noah true at all? If not, what about the rest of the stories? <b>Can we decided that some stories are too far fetched but the others could possibly have happened? </b></div>
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I grew up with all the famous Bible stories and characters. Eventually I got to a point when I had to decide if it was true or not. <i>Jonah being swallowed by a whale and surviving? Two of every single animal on a boat with the one "perfect" family left while everyone else was essentially murdered? A father ready to murder his own son? Incest?</i> Even now, as I make this list, I am thinking of how much the world hasn't changed. The problems, at their core, remain the same. </div>
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I have decided that the Bible is true from beginning to end with everything in the middle. I have not yet been able to justify that Noah's story would be made up and Jesus' story was not. I have to believe all of it or none of it. When I tried to pick what I wanted to believe as truth, I tried to disregard what I didn't want to hear. But in the end, I couldn't justify that kind of faith. In fact, that wasn't faith at all. </div>
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The Bible is complicated. The stories are difficult to understand. I still struggle with the "why's." Some of the stories I would rather not know because I can't imagine what it would have been like. But it's all part of history. It's God's story to us, for us and about us. </div>
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I have been enjoying Hollywood's portrayal of the stories I grew up with and I hope the trend continues. As imperfect as their portrayals might be, I enjoy seeing "perfect" Bible story characters I have heard about my whole life becoming human and therefore, more relate-able. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14621231092375521848noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332235454173435701.post-26944091756459175362014-09-01T10:59:00.000-07:002014-09-01T11:06:13.825-07:00Broken Bondage<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSiGxzYBxqGmv7c3FfasFHlyB3RmxTlol_FPyv8-jOmwFtXm3bGAdFEU6Iz2g99wU4lB5nptmRshrDAFI5_Gh3930eFxwzVVKyhBg0lqS1CwCsX7hTZyKptCxpHG1QQKeEl5nLUG0Mq-j/s1600/him.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSiGxzYBxqGmv7c3FfasFHlyB3RmxTlol_FPyv8-jOmwFtXm3bGAdFEU6Iz2g99wU4lB5nptmRshrDAFI5_Gh3930eFxwzVVKyhBg0lqS1CwCsX7hTZyKptCxpHG1QQKeEl5nLUG0Mq-j/s1600/him.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Sexy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Mr. Sexy and I got married three years ago. As time moved forward, Mr. Sexy moved slower and complained more. I could see the pain when he went to pick up our baby girl. Life struggles were being written on his face as his under eyes darkened and tension rarely left him. This tension would, at times, spin out of control. We both made choices we now regret. </i><br />
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<i>After three years of marriage, he is a changed man. </i><br />
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<i>My new term for him is, "bouncy." He smiles more and laughs easier. He now sleeps through the night - although he still tends to snore. His thinking is clear and he can smell the flowers he brings home for me as well as the weird musty smell in our mini van. He picks me up without wincing in pain and will rub my back until I fall asleep. </i><i>This is the man I married. </i><br />
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<i>His story starts now: </i><br />
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I lay there breathing heavy in a cold sweat; my mind, lost in a terror tormenting my soul. While my eyes move rapidly I hear the taunts and laughter of others berating me with insults of how pathetic and worthless I am. I awake in a panic, fighting through the fog, trying to discover if that horror is just another dream, or are my secrets now exposed to the world.<br />
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For many years this has been my nightmare.<br />
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What were my secrets?<br />
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<b>Lust, worthlessness, pride, judgement and lack of self-control.</b><br />
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<b>I will never forget the first time I discovered lust.</b> I will also never forget the iron grip it had on me since I was a teen.<br />
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<b>I am not able to recall where the feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness began</b>, but I could sit here for days recounting stories of how those controlled me.<br />
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<b>Racing thoughts threw blessings by others back into their faces as pride mastered my thoughts. </b><br />
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<i>I can do anything. </i><br />
<i>I don't need any help. </i><br />
<i>I hate you for helping me.</i><br />
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<b>If you were in my range of vision, you were judged.</b><br />
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<i>On a scale of 1 to 10, you are a 2 so I don't trust you. </i><br />
<i>If you would exercise more you wouldn't be so fat and disgusting.</i><br />
<i>If only you took care of your body then I would listen to you.</i><br />
<i>I don't care if you are a child of God, you are ugly so I don't trust you.</i><br />
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On the other hand;<br />
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<i>Wow, you are hot!</i><br />
<i>What do I have to do to get you to like me?</i><br />
<i>What do you want me to do? </i><br />
<i>I will do anything for you because my preconceived judgement based on your outward appearances told me I can trust you</i>.<br />
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<b>Good or bad, I threw away all self control and put forth all my effort into anything and everything.</b><br />
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Eat, eat, and eat.<br />
Play, play, and play.<br />
Drink, drink and drink.<br />
Work, work, and work.<br />
Spend, spend and spend.<br />
Sacrifice, sacrifice, and sacrifice.<br />
Workout, workout, and workout.<br />
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To what end? It didn't matter. No limits. No boundaries. No wisdom.<br />
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<b>Each one of these secrets</b> - let's just call them what they are - sins, gave foothold in my life. Since before I can remember satan's mercenaries began to destroy me.<br />
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For many years I allowed the whispers of his demons to persuade my decisions and actions. But that wasn't enough for him. His mission was to kill and destroy me, not simply lead me down troubled paths.<br />
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I must give credit to the influence of my family and friends. Even through my stupid life choices, they were the voice of God guiding me back on the right path. Because of this, the enemy had to get more drastic. The question was,<i> if berating me daily wasn't going to destroy me, then what would?</i><br />
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<b>My body.</b><br />
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I was in sports growing up and I remember being coached to breathe in through my nose and out my mouth. As a young man, my nose was so "clogged" I could never do this without gasping for air. Instead, I fought through the discomfort and did the best I could.<br />
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When I joined the Navy in 2002, they were determined to figure out why I couldn't breathe properly through my nose. Twelve years later the best they ever did was diagnose me with Chronic Sinusitis. I went through two surgeries and every ENT medication I could think of with no resolution.<br />
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So I decided to live with it.<br />
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It was my neck that was killing me. No, it was my back. No, my hips. My hands. My ankles. Name a joint and it hurt. There were no triggers and no explanation. I went to specialists from Texas to California to Idaho to Washington. They all had the same response: *Shrug of shoulders.* I have given so much blood in lab tests that I am convinced they are cloning me! (OK not really). The pain at times would be so bad in my hands that the simple act of picking up my cell phone felt impossible.<br />
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<b>Sleep.</b><br />
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More accurately, my lack of sleep. I was diagnosed with sleep apnea with no medical explanation behind it. On a good night, where I was absolutely exhausted, I would sleep for eight hours with only waking up five or six times. On a normal night I would sleep for six hours and wake up at least every hour - if not more. Some nights I would just give up and stare at the TV. This had been going on for 15 years. Coffee was my drug of choice.<br />
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Three years ago, my wife and I read the book <u>Spiritual Warfare</u> by Karl Payne. Everything changed. You can read about her experience in the post: <a href="http://5heartsonefamily.blogspot.com/2014/08/gear-up-we-are-in-war.html" target="_blank">Gear Up: We are in War</a>. Recently Payne held a seminar at our home church; we almost didn't go, but what I discovered was that there may be more to my physical pain than the medical world could explain.<br />
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I had consistently lost battles with satan and his mercenaries. I had given them footholds into my life, allowing them to wreak havoc in trying to destroy me.<br />
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<b>It was time to fight with my Father's authority!</b><br />
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Weeks later I sat down in my pastor's office and we began to talk. I was an open book. There was nothing to hide because there was nothing to fear.<br />
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As he began to lay down the ground rules, my heart started to race and thoughts of mockery flooded my mind. Pastor instructed me to read Bible verses, establishing God's authority over satan. I had no idea what I was reading and assumed my mouth and voice were making the right sounds. The noises in my head flooded any chance of understanding the words on the page.<br />
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Pastor and I began to work through the process. My mind quieted except when answering questions by our pastor directed to the tormentors. There was no imagination, no work on my part. I simply stated what I heard.<br />
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After cleaning house of all satan's mercenaries, I asked the Holy Spirit to fill any voids.<br />
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<b>I was overwhelmed with joy and peace.</b><br />
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I COULD BREATHE!<br />
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The joy was so pure, my eyes welled up with tears.<br />
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24 hours later I was still discovering little joys of life that I hadn't had in more years than I can remember.<br />
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Today, I can still breathe clearly.<br />
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Today, I have no joint pain.<br />
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Today, I smiled remembering the dreams I had last night.<br />
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I know the fight isn't over. I am developing tools to keep the ground I regained.<br />
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<b>As a society we have become afraid to talk or even acknowledge the topic of spiritual warfare. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only is it real, but with The Father on our side, we have nothing to fear, but only to rejoice.</b><br />
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