tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-304525392024-03-07T00:33:54.328-08:00When the Healing Began<em>You do not need to attend every argument you are invited to.</em>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.comBlogger627125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-21168935650144655902021-10-10T17:45:00.003-07:002021-10-10T17:45:51.592-07:00The Year of DeathIt's been almost a year since my last post. Things have been a little dark around here. We survived, by God's grace, Lost Girls suicide attempt. Our relationship, however, did not. Remember, the broken are BROKEN and cannot be fixed without a driving inner force to do so. It's been nearly a year since I've laid eyes on her. She spent several days this spring in a mental health ward. I heard she may have a job. We leave her alone because her rejection is so harsh, so brutal, that we have no desire to stick our hand back into the mouth of that lion. <div><br /></div><div> My therapist tells me that kids like Lost Girl and KK, often circle back around in their mid twenties, early thirties. This appears to be true for KK.
Second daughter has dealt with her own emotional and physcial issues this year. She allowed us into her life again and we carefully walk on the glass and eggshells that surround her. </div><div><br /></div><div> It would be enough for me to say that I've given up and that the years of 2020 and 2021 has left my scarred and bruised. True. It might also be more than enough for me to say that I'm tired of people's opinions, fragile emotions and cheap shots. Also true. I titled this post, The Year of Death, but maybe it's the year of hardening. The year of growing. The year of letting it go. </div><div><br /></div><div>My brother died.
Writing these words... hard. He died in June and I'll probably write about him later. His death is a little too fresh, too hard. His death brought me full force back into the family circle, such as it is. THAT has been both glorious and satisfying in a very unhealthy way. </div><div><br /></div><div>My mother yet lives... </div><div><br /></div><div> My friend, Mel, also died. She passed very unexpectedly in August, the week before her 55th birthday. I can't believe she's gone. </div><div><br /></div><div> I suppose the best way to sum up how I feel about all the above would be: I fucking hate it.</div><div><br /></div><div> I hate that my girls went from trauma childhood to tragic adulthood with death around every.damn.corner.</div><div><br /></div><div> I hate that my brother died and no one could stop it. No one could stop the demons that haunted him. I hate all the things I have learned about him since his passing. Word to the wise, no one wants to hear all the crappy things their loved one did when they were alive. Seriously. </div><div><br /></div><div> I hate that my friend died and that her service was weird and completely lacking in the one thing that made her who she was: Her FAITH. </div><div><br /></div><div> I do not hate my mother. If you've been around, you know all about my Mommy Dearest. I'm no longer hurt by her, no longer manipulated and no longer willing to stand by and take her little jabs.</div><div><br /></div><div> I AM in therapy.
I am strong and secure and healthy. </div><div><br /></div><div> The Year of Death is about more than the physical death of those that I have loved. It's also about the death pleasing others (so they'll like me). Death to tamping down opinions. Death to being quiet in order to keep the peace.</div><div><br /></div><div> (I still really, really love peace though). </div><div><br /></div><div> So, this is me, laying it down, pouring lighter fluid on it and BURNING it down.
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</div>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-45561734616516782772020-12-17T19:40:00.000-08:002020-12-17T19:40:06.354-08:00A Life is a Precious Thing to Waste<p> Yesterday was my youngest daughter's 18th birthday. This was a day we all looked forward to. She looked to it as the day she could finally walk away, do her own thing without anyone telling her no. For me personally, I was looking forward to not being legally responsible for her actions. The road to this day was paved with anger and sadness. </p><p>If you've been reading this blog for the past few years, you know our little family of four became a family of six nine years ago. We adopted KK and Lost Girl, not fully understanding what we were getting into. </p><p>Mistakes were made. Our lack of knowledge and frankly our ridged parenting skills, paired with two emotionally damaged kids, equalled heartbreak for all.</p><p>Yet, we also grew in our understanding of mental illness, trauma and how to love the unlovable. We learned how to stand our ground, how to protect and how to let go. </p><p>It's the letting go that is the hardest for me. I want to fix. I want to make people listen and change. I think I'm right even if I'm not. I want to pour all the love and goodness I can into little broken souls.</p><p>Life had other plans.</p><p>On Friday, December 12, Lost Girl tried to take her own life. She nearly succeeded. </p><p>Today is day is day five of our hospital stay. With each passing day she grows stronger. Her mind is fixated on home and her friends, but not on her healing. She cannot understand why everyone believes she's a danger to herself. She's scared and hurting. </p><p>And I cannot fix it.</p><p>From my helpless post, I encourage, I rub her back, I try to feed her body and soul. I hold her hand and love her the best I can. I plead with God to heal her, just like I begged him to spare her life, five days ago.</p><p>Lost Girl is facing demons that she has tried to outrun. She's blamed others for her troubles and lied and cheated her way through life. She's carried burdens her small form should have never lifted and now she's reached the crossroads.</p><p>To the left is inpatient treatment and to the right is the road back to where she came from. The left holds the possibility of recovery and wellness. The right is another suicide attempt, with greater possibility of success.</p><p>And all I can do is sit back and let the doctors try to help her. </p><p>In the next few days she will be medically stable enough to move to a treatment center. It's a walk she will physically makes alone. She's scared. She's angry. </p><p>I'm hopeful.</p><p>I'm letting go. Not because I want to, but because I have to. I'll still be here, encouraging, cheering her on, but I guess I understand now that healing will com from within her with the help of professionals.</p><p>I'm letting go because I have to. I'm letting go because I love her.</p><p><br /></p>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-31351666369230295812020-03-22T16:54:00.003-07:002020-03-22T16:54:31.080-07:00Gin and Quarantine Like so many other people in the world, I begin working from home tomorrow. Covid-19 is racing across the globe, shutting down entire countries as mankind attempts to slow down the spread. The quarantine has had an interesting affect on my community.<br />
<br />
I walked to the store today, instead of driving. The sunny weather and 60 degree temperature wooed me onto the street. I passed families riding their bikes, dad's walking with their toddlers and runners keeping a swift pace. There were smiles and nods. Even the usually sullen teenager skateboarders seemed less moody.<br />
<br />
Could it be that the forced close habituation of families has started to rebuild the decaying of relationships between generations? Is it boredom that drives them from their homes on this sunny day or is there something more?<br />
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I don't know the answer and it will be interesting to see how this plays out. Will mankind continue to be kind to each other or will we turn on our fellow man has times grow darker?<br />
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Time will tell.<br />
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For now, I'm thankful for the sense of community I see and the kindness of strangers to each other. I'm thankful that I do not fear the future, because I know God holds it in His hands. I'm thankful for sunny days, blooming flowers and good friends. I'm thankful for gin mixed with lime on peaceful spring evening.<br />
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What are you thankful for?Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-56488516777691175782019-06-11T22:09:00.000-07:002019-06-12T16:30:48.789-07:00Will You Remember Me?Spoken words, whispered, yelled or thought, fell into the dark clay that is the fabric of time in my life. Some of words blossomed while others lay in their dark graves, festering and broiling. The thorny words sprung up here and there, while the blossoms smiled towards the sun almost oblivious that weeds of bitterness and anger existed.<br />
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For nearly ten years, I've lived without contact from my parents. I raised my children, adopted two more, started a career. I lived a life void of family drama (on my side at least). After the many years of trying and failing, I came to the conclusion that a relationship with my mother was simply not to be. It took time, but eventually my father fell into line with my mother's wishes and that relationship was fracture as well. </div>
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Ten years is a long time to be silent.<br />
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My father has Alzheimer. The VA moved him into memory care after he became violent during an emergency room visit. I was relieved to learn he was no longer living at home, being cared for by my 72-year-old mother, who has a heart condition, and my alcoholic, younger brother. The logical adult in me knew that he was no longer safe at home, nor were my mother and brother.<br />
<br />
I wanted to see my dad, but also dreaded the thought. What if he didn't want to see me? What if he was violent? What if my mother was at the facility when I arrived and wouldn't let me see him. So many what ifs.<br />
<br />
It took two weeks to build up the courage. I had plenty of time to chase down scenarios in my head during the 35 minute drive. My stomach quivered in nervousness, blood pressure higher, anxiety seizing my every thought. No one can race down a path of made up drama faster than I can.<br />
<br />
I arrived to find the parking lot deserted. A cool breeze followed my steps to the front door. I willed myself to be calm. What will be, will be. Stepping inside I found the reception area dark and empty. I waited, hearing voices in a back room.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" I called out.<br />
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An employee, wearing a blue collard polo shirt, greeted me and asked who I was there to see. I gulped and told her my father's name. I had suspected that my mother had neglected to put me on the visitation list or, more true to form, had informed the staff that I was not allowed to visit at all.<br />
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"He might be in his room, " she smiled and punched in the door code.<br />
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There was no list, no ID check, nothing. The heavy door opened and I explained that I hadn't been to the facility to visit before and I didn't know where my father's room was. I felt small, like a little girl whose been allowed into the teacher's break room and doesn't know what to do next. The employee smiled and led me into the residents dorm area.<br />
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We walked to my father's room. His picture stared at me from the wall. Sad. Lonely. Unsure. I quickly skimmed the paragraph about him, where he was born - they had mistakenly listed his state of birth as California, but he was born in Colorado. His military service: US Air Force. It informed everyone that he liked to keep to himself...surely not! Not my father! My, "life of the party" father? The man who always had an exaggerated story to share? The description went on to say that he would talk to anyone if they talked to him first.<br />
<br />
His room was empty.<br />
<br />
We continued down the hall, rounding a corner where a group of residents watched television. No one looked up as we passed. As we headed towards the dining area, I saw him. I knew him from the way he sat and the funny hat on his head. My father loved hats! His back was to us but I could see he was carefully holding a mug of cocoa. My guide announced our arrival in a voice that was too loud, too lively, too bright.<br />
<br />
"Jerry, I've brought you some company."<br />
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I looked into the eyes of my father. Eyes that I had not seen in ten years. I looked longingly for recognition. He looked back at me without emotion. My face triggered no response.<br />
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"Do you know me?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.<br />
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He shook his head, eyes blank, weary.<br />
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"My name is Ann." I waited, but there was no memory of me left in his mind. I took his hand and leaned down closer to his face.<br />
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"I'm your daughter...."<br />
<br />
Instantly, his eyes widened and he said, "Really?" and he began to cry. I cried for the ten years that I lost. I cried because he didn't know me. I cried because he was not the man I remembered. I cried because I knew when I left that he wouldn't remember that I had been there.<br />
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He has lost most of his verbal skills and barely spoke above a whisper. I showed him a photo that I had brought for him of my children, his grandchildren. He appeared surprised to have four grandchildren. I pointed at each one, "This is John. This is Crystal. This is Kayleen and here is Allison." He asked how old they were, he asked what job they had. He laughed when I said that Allison is a pain in the ass because she's 16. He cried when he learned John is Pastor.<br />
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He tried to tell me things, but the words wouldn't form in his brain. My father became frustrated and rolled his eyes. I couldn't help but smile because I had seen that expression on his face before. It felt good to glimpse the man he had been, if only for a moment. I hold that expression close in my heart, because now I know where I get my eye rolling tendencies.<br />
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We cried and wiped our tears. He held my hand, rubbed my back. My poor father, so lost, tried to put me into a place that was familiar, but couldn't find one. He told me he was married and I smiled and showed him a picture of my mother and him from my wedding,<br />
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"Isn't mom pretty?" I said.<br />
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He shook his head, tears falling again.<br />
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The next 45 minutes followed the same pattern. We rediscovered the photo I'd brought three or four times. Each time he chuckled at my joke about my smart-ass 16-year-old, then he cried to learn his grandson was a Pastor. He tried to tell me a story about the police who had come to his house last night and how he'd told someone to "get the hell out". We cried. We sat together, side by side, clinging to a memory that was already lost.<br />
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I told him I loved him and he cried as I choked back the hysteria that was threatening to escape. I kissed his face and repeated the words over and over. A small, frail attempt to erase the years of silence.<br />
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I held him, his bony shoulders poking through heavy, grey sweatshirt. I whispered that I loved him again and again. I kissed his cheek and wiped his tears. My father held me with the little strength that he had and told me he loved me too.<br />
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I promised I'd visit again soon and he shook his head. The visit had been hard for him. He was tired. With one last squeeze of his hand, I turned and walked blindly away. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten into the dining room and I seemed unable to locate an exit. None were clearly marked for good reason. At last I stumbled upon an employee in a blue polo and asked directions. She was kind and led me to the door, explaining the lock code, which I forgot instantly, and asked if I was okay.<br />
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Without breathing, I shook my head yes and walked into the reception area. It was dark and empty. I bolted for the front door. I didn't make it to my car before I started sobbing, gasping for breath, heart pounding, hopeless and sorrowful.<br />
<br />
<br />
I remember as a little girl, standing on my father's feet as we danced around the living room. I remember the Christmas I received a shiny, blue track suite (they were all the rage in the 70's) and my father received a black dress suit, with a matching fedora. I still have the picture of us, standing side by side in front of the Christmas tree. I remember the years my father drove truck and the trips I got to take with him, sleeping in the sleeper cab that 18-wheeler's have. I recall trips to Montana and Wyoming to see family, his gigantic vegetable gardens and how he always smelled like spearmint gum, aftershave and beer.<br />
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I recall a time when the neighborhood bully was picking on one of my younger brothers. He'd pelted him with pine cones until he cried. I punched the bully square in the nose, bloodying it. My mother was horrified. My father was proud. So very proud of his little girl. He also made me apologize to the bully and his grandmother.<br />
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My father wasn't a good husband, he cheated, he lied, but he was a good father. I was his princess in a family of boys.<br />
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The man I knew as my father is gone. Alzheimer's has taken his memories, his speech and his understanding of the world. Eventually, it will take his life.<br />
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I regret that I let ten years go by without a word. I regret that I wasn't a bigger person and I didn't fight harder for my relationship with my father. In the end, no one wins.<br />
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It would be so easy to sink down into the sorrow of what is lost. I can feel the cold, angry, thorny thoughts try to push into my mind. It would be so simple to let the weeds of accusation and misplaced pride take over my life. So easy.<br />
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I've learned that bitterness can have no place in my life. I cannot let it swallow me. I have to give this and all my regrets over to God. It's how I find peace and how I will find the strength to see my dad again.<br />
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I love you dad.<br />
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Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-48522006894281354782019-03-23T19:56:00.001-07:002019-03-23T19:57:47.332-07:00Hello...It's Been Awhile I am the oldest and only daughter of my parents. I have three brothers, ranging in age from 57 to 45. The eldest is a half-brother and we have never been close. The middle brother is nearest to me in age, was at one time my close companion and he has always been my parents favorite child. The youngest has become a friend, despite the opinions of others.<br />
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I have not spoken to my mother in over ten years.<br />
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Let me rephrase that, I had not spoken to her in over ten years....before last Sunday at 3:30 pm in the afternoon.<br />
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It is said that, <i>time heals all wounds</i>. For me, I would say this is true. I no longer harbor any ill will towards a mother who could not and does not, love me. I have come to understand that her lack of affection for me has less to do with <i>me</i> and so much more to do with <i>her</i>.<br />
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Over the years I have wondered if she ever thinks of me. If she ever wanted to see me or speak to me. I gave up the fantasy that we would one day lay our differences down and accept the other for who they are. Still, I have never been able to push her too far from my mind. Even after ten years of silence.<br />
<br />
My youngest brother told me that she and my middle brother wanted to talk. I found this odd, considering the last words spoken, so many years ago, made it tragically clear how they felt about me.<br />
<br />
Liar<br />
Opportunist<br />
Bitch<br />
<br />
I waited a full 24 hours to phone my mother. Youngest brother urged me to call <i>her</i>, but not middle brother. Middle brother is drunk by 9:00 am and surly. "No, don't waste your time on him...call her," he urged.<br />
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So I did. From the house phone, not the cell phone.<br />
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"Hello?"<br />
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Her voice was old, so much older than I remembered. Logically, I knew she would sound different, but it was still shocking to hear her voice...the voice of an old woman.<br />
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"Hi...it's Ann..."<br />
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There was a moment of silence. I wondered if her mind immediately knew who "Ann" was. I held my breath, what would she say? I could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind.<br />
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And then her voice changed. It morphed to the familiar voice of my mother -<br />
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"Ann WHO!?" she demanded. Disdain and anger throbbed across the phone lines.<br />
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I took a deep breath, wondering what to say. Wasn't she the one who wanted to talk? Wasn't she the one who reached out? It was then that I realized I had been played.<br />
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"Youngest brother said you wanted to talk, is this true?"<br />
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"NO!" she snarled.<br />
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"Am I disturbing you?" I honestly have no idea why I said this. Of course you are disturbing her you moron! She doesn't WANT to speak with you. She never did!<br />
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"YES!" she spat.<br />
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"I'm sorry to have bothered you," I said, emotionless.<br />
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I pushed the end button and stood there. Afternoon sunshine filtered through the family room blinds. The dog chased one of the cats. Silence draped over me.<br />
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I felt ... nothing.<br />
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Certainly, as the evening hours grew, I felt a nudge of disappointment. My feelings are not worn so near the surface these days. These last few years have toughened me and taught me that my expectations of others are seldom correct. I've learned to simply let it go.<br />
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<i>I can't make you love me....if you don't</i><br />
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In the days since my brief phone call with my mother I've learned a thing or two about myself. The purest and best is that I AM NOT MY MOTHER. I am not bitter and angry. I have forgiven and will continue to forgive. I've laid the pain of her rejection in the grave and buried it deep in the love of my children, husband and friends.<br />
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I feel sad for her. Sad for the choices she has made and continues to make.<br />
<br />
My mother is 72 years old and not in good health. There may come a day, although I doubt it strongly, that she'll want to talk. If she does. I know what to say.<br />
<br />
"Hi....it's Ann"Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-21025333122856246782018-11-11T23:19:00.001-08:002018-11-11T23:19:21.958-08:00Public Service AnnouncementLittle girl ran away the night of All Hallows Eve. She was distraught over having her phone taken away for failing a class at school. It wasn't something she was surprised at. The rule had been in place since September. Gentle reminders did not help. Printed class grades did not spur her into action.<br />
<br />
She skipped class to meet up with her boyfriend. She stopped taking her meds. Little girl lied.<br />
<br />
When confronted with these simple truths, and again, off her meds, she ran. Little girl strung together tales of woe, of abuse, and hysterics. Her friend's mother bought every tear. Friend's mom was moved to action. She accused and refused to send our girl home. She told me, "your house isn't the best place for Little Girl."<br />
<br />
The problem, of course, was there has never been any abuse, not now or in the past. The therapist, the social worker, the police knew the truth.<br />
<br />
Little Girl is home. The police handcuffed her and took her to the station. We picked her up and it was heartbreaking. Once the cuffs were unlocked she ran straight into my arms, crying and saying she was sorry.<br />
<br />
Our journey to help little girl heal, continues.<br />
<br />
As we once again shake off the despair that has become our life, I'd like to address all of the bleeding heart parents out there.<br />
<br />
If a child shows up at your door, hysterical with a tale of abuse, call the police. If there is abuse, let the professionals do their job. For you see, your uneducated assumptions only make a bad situation worse.<br />
<br />
Friend's Mom doesn't know us. She doesn't know my daughter's past, or the meds she takes. This woman took our lives into her own hands and tried to undo years of work.<br />
<br />
In short, if you want to help, then make a call and keep your nose out of other people's business.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-13258284446290844392018-10-14T20:37:00.000-07:002018-11-11T22:50:36.140-08:00When You Finally LearnIf you've been a long time reader of this blog, you know that we adopted two girls just over five years ago. You may also have noticed that I took down many of those blog posts when things got bad. Really bad.<br />
<br />
For us, adoption has been a disaster. The girls loath us. Many professionals say that abused kids, such as ours, return to their adopted families in their mid to late twenties. They somehow put together that you were not the cause of all their troubles.<br />
<br />
I have no idea if this is true.<br />
<br />
What I know to be true is that the human mind is a mystery.<br />
<br />
People will treat you however they like...without repercussion.<br />
<br />
Broken people are unable to self heal.<br />
<br />
And the big one, it's not "if" they will attempt suicide or self-harm, it's "when".<br />
<br />
Along this dark and narrow road, I've learned that I'm not the awesome mom I thought I was. I really and truly use to believe that if you mixed all the right ingredients you'd end up with cake. This is not always the case and it's been a rather difficult lesson for me to learn.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I'm okay. I'm just perplexed that my life's work (and if you are a Momma Bear with every pore oozing empathy, meal plans and a schedule, you know what I mean,) has failed.<br />
<br />
Failed miserably.<br />
<br />
In full self-preservation mode, I've blocked and cut off contact with those who judge a little too harshly. Don't get me wrong...I was a card carrying member of that club for years. Hell, I RAN the club....<br />
<br />
Funny how those kinds of things come back to bite you in the butt...<br />
<br />
So now, instead of wondering, "Where is that girls' mother!!" I AM that mother. I'm the mom of the troubled girl. The girl who dresses provocatively, the one makin' out with her boyfriend at school, on the street, at a friends' house. I'm the mom of the girl who is struggling in school, who sees a therapist and a psychiatrist. Who goes to Equine therapy. Who takes meds so she can get through the day.<br />
<br />
I am that mom and in case you've wondered why THAT mom doesn't clean up her daughter's act, let me tell you:<br />
<br />
She can't.<br />
<br />
All the begging, crying, screaming, threatening, pouting treatment in the world will not fix her kid. No amount of love or humor or anger, will produce a product that is mentally well.<br />
<br />
Some things are just too big to fix.<br />
<br />
Understanding all of this is not a bad place to be, not really. Some days are harder than others. Some days I wish I were anywhere but here. Some days she talks to me and I find my little heart hoping it's a good sign, that she actually doesn't hate me, while my brain reminds me that it's just for today, not for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be silence, served with a glare that screams, "screw you!"<br />
<br />
My girls are broken. Anxiety filled, abused, battered and confused. They have a snowballs chance in hell of a "normal" life. There is little that I can do, but to redirect, to be positive and honestly, to drink a healthy amount of wine.<br />
<br />
If you are finding yourself at the edge, and I know you've been there once or twice, remember a few things:<br />
<br />
God, is enough. He can fix what needs fixing without your help.<br />
Do not be so hard on yourself, cut yourself a little slack.<br />
Take time to NOT think about the problem. It'll be there when you get back.<br />
For goodness sake, drink a glass of wine.<br />
Exercise<br />
<br />
I won't say sleep, because unless Google has figured out a way to turn off our brains at night, you most likely are not sleeping well. I've decide that a full night's sleep is a fantasy and that's okay too.<br />
<br />
I am finally learning that I cannot fix what is broken...And it's okay.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-42395626853392221222018-04-29T17:46:00.001-07:002018-04-29T17:52:49.377-07:00Do Not Believe the Lies<i>"It's been a while. I want to tell you things are great, but they are not. I'm swallowed in a sea of endless despair. There is no hope or happy ending. We are forsaken and merely crawl through each bitter day.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Friendless, clueless, alone.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We have have lost every battle. It's only a matter of time before the swell of the invading army over take us.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There is no hope.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Don't tell me that all is not lost. You don't know what we've been through. Don't tell me you understand. You don't. Don't tell me God is on our side, that this will make is stronger. Lies.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm battle weary. I just want to lay down on the ground and cry until I am no more. Until my body melts into a million years and nothing is left but the dark, damp earth."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I wrote this a few months ago. It was raw and emotional and should not have been posted when it was. I posted it in the middle of the night, then realized the next day that <i>other people</i> would read it and probably be concerned.<br />
<br />
They did and they were.<br />
<br />
Sorry about that.<br />
<br />
Living in a house with someone who hates you is hard. Living in a house where every word and deed is a manipulation, is harder.<br />
<br />
To set the record straight, I think y'all should know that I have been accused of abuse. It's been bandied about that I have "hit" her. That I have "refused to give her the medication she needs" and that, "I'm mean to her".<br />
<br />
Oh, and that she has attempted suicide twice.<br />
<br />
I've had my conversation with DHS. I've had my conversation with her doctor, her therapist, her psychiatrist and with my own therapist. I've tried to make the love of my life understand my pain and sorrow.<br />
<br />
So.Much.Talking.<br />
<br />
A few more things you should know:<br />
<br />
There is no open child abuse case - because DHS knows she lying.<br />
<br />
She has NEVER attempted suicide in this house.<br />
<br />
I give her the medication that keeps her from rolling into a ball and sobbing hysterically, every. single. day. I watch her take it. If she's at her former foster parents home, they give it to her and watch her. When she went to camp, the counselors gave it to her.<br />
<br />
Am I mean to her? Probably. She lies to me on a daily basis. She ignores me. She argues. She tells lies to others and then they come to me about it. She manipulates. She sneaks.<br />
<br />
I take her to her therapist, her riding lessons, her volunteer job, weekly. I take her to her doctor for well child check ups and to her psychiatrist. I take her to her orthodontist and her dentist. I meet with her teachers, her IEP specialist, her school Principle and Vice Principle.<br />
<br />
I do her laundry. I buy junk food for her. I speak softly. I walk away.<br />
<br />
People don't understand that what we are dealing with here is not a rebellious teenager. WE are dealing with mental illness. WE are well aware that she "appears" normal.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I just want to scream and say, "EDUCATE YOURSELF BEFORE YOU PASS JUDGEMENT ON ME!"<br />
<br />
Fetal Alcohol Syndrom<br />
Reactive Attachment Disorder<br />
<br />
<i>Look them up</i><br />
<br />
Am I feeling better than I was when I wrote the above despairing blog? No, well, sort of, but I'm learning how to manage my anxiety and my failure.<br />
<br />
If you are reading this and wondering how the hell we got here, all I can say is we were lied to. The state lied, the attorney's lied, the girls lied.<br />
<br />
And we believed it all.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-11222869551176910422015-07-13T09:19:00.000-07:002015-07-13T09:19:34.264-07:00On Monday's We Wear Blue<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A blue, button down, collared shirt to be worn each Monday, then a different color for every day of the week. ONLY button down, collared shirts. This should have been my first clue, but I was excited
about this new possibility and all the perks that went along with the position.
I was leaving property management behind, thank God, and moving onto a
brighter, bigger, more productive future. </span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Health Care - It's where it's at!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I applied for and ultimately took the job
at the eye-clinic because I was so over, so so so over, property management. I
was finished with the grumbling and the leaking toilets and the games that
upper management played. While the position itself had been a pretty cushy one,
times were changing and so was the ownership and management team at the Senior
Community I had been employed with for the past four years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was bitter sweet leaving. No more sweet
residents (or grouchy ones), no more working with two good friends (who fought
most of the time anyway) and no more cushy job. Still, the future looked
bright. The new job offered retirement and a future. It also offered a clothing
allowance - Dude!<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>A clothing
allowance</i>! There were solid medical benefits offered and since I have
twenty years or so left to work, this position seemed like a solid choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sadly, I was unprepared for a Micro
Managing Manager.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In my early twenties, I worked for one of
these MMM's. They told you exactly, when, how and why to do things. They
scheduled EVERYTHING and they did their very best to make darn sure you were
kept busy. MMM's like to squeeze every ounce of productivity out of their
employee pool. They will get their pound of flesh, one way or the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Which I suppose is fine for some, but not
for me. Not at forty-seven years old. My twenty-something self took it, but at
this stage of life I'm more apt to tell them what they can do with their middle
management glory, than actually put up with their power trip. I’m a "tell
it like it is" kind of gal. The MMM did not know what to think of this.
She would stare at me and blink during some of our discussions. I felt a little
bad for her. I wasn't impressed by her and it was obvious. I was not
disrespectful or snarky. I simply found it impossible to play her little
game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was the voice of descent in the ranks!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The other "girls" in my hub were
young. Young women, young mothers, who needed this job! They clung to those
positions and kept their heads down, eyes averted when the MMM was on the
prowl. These girls always looked busy and I was told to slow down on a certain
project because if I finished it, it meant that the MMM would find me a new,
fun project to complete. I was assured these "projects" were never
fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I was offered the position, I was not
informed of bi-monthly 7:00 am meetings. They also failed to inform me that my
hours could be changed according to the MMM's whim. One of the reasons
that I had taken the job was due to the compatibility of the hours with my
family's schedule. I would still be able to drop the girls at school and would
return home at exactly the same time, but with a much shorter commute. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The 7:00 am meetings were going to be a
big problem for me and I admit that I was annoyed that they hadn't been
mentioned previous to my accepting the position. I went to MMM and explained
that these meetings would be a problem for me. She, in turn, informed me that
they were mandatory and that I'd have to figure something out. I explained
about my girls, with a little detail, and said that I need to take them to
school. She suggested my husband take them, that I find morning child care or
that I find put them in an early school program. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the end, I decided that this position
was never going to work. They had not been upfront about my apparently fluid
schedule and I am too old to kiss someone's butt. It was such a depressing,
dark, miserable place to work. I lasted two weeks and only lost a smidge of my soul.
I left the eye clinic behind, telling those young girls in the hub that they
were worth more and that there are better jobs out there. One of them looked at
me and said, "You're so brave!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No, just old and cranky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today, I begin a new adventure with a
small insurance office. My interview was daunting, with the boss and the entire
staff volleying questions at me for two hours. Yet, I walked out of that
interview liking what I'd seen and heard. I'm excited about the adventure to
come and a little nervous too. New things are always hard at the beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The two weeks I spent at the eye clinic
reminded me that life is short. It is far too short to spend 8+ hours, five
days a week, dressing like twinsies and having your time micro managed by a
woman who is frustrated and on a power trip. Life has to be about more than
that! I hope those girls at the clinic and others like them figure it out. It
doesn't take bravery to look for a new job. It takes bravery NOT to give them
the finger when you walk out the door for the last time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Snicker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-10418733780902989852015-05-15T15:20:00.000-07:002015-05-15T15:56:04.366-07:00That's What She Said!For the third time in a four month period, I have Laryngitis. I rarely get sick and seldom go to the doctor. I thought that I was either fighting an infection or simply catching every darn cold that came along.<br />
<br />
Time for a doctor visit.<br />
<br />
My doctor and I are just getting to know each other, since my perfect and wonderful and amazing Dr. Emily had the audacity to get pregnant and LEAVE my clinic. How could she? We had known each other for at least ten years and she was just the perfect doctor. She got my quirky sense of humor and always reeled me back in when I told her my latest and greatest diet plan (she was more realistic than I!)<br />
<br />
New doctor is okay. I have only had two visits with him since Dr. Emily left. I've been that quiet patient, waiting to know him better before I shared my true colors and my quirky thoughts on weight-loss, child rearing and aging. This plethora of information has probably been recorded in my chart and yet, he still took me on as a patient. Whew!<br />
<br />
At my visit I shared my concerns about my chronic laryngitis, the fact that for the first time in many married years, I snore, and that I cannot breath through both sides of my nose. I'm tired....so very, very tired.<br />
<br />
I was surprised when he told me he thought the culprit could be seasonal allergies.<br />
<br />
Really?<br />
<br />
I know allergies. I have suffered with pollen allergies every.single.year since I was thirteen-years-old. Allergies...snort.<br />
<br />
Oh yes! Allergies! Doctor said my throat looks like someone took their fingernails and raked them down the back of my throat. "This," he said, "is from the post-nasal drip that's been going on for months."<br />
<br />
Dang.<br />
<br />
So, here I am. I'm armed with enough medication to cure a small village of their seasonal allergies and a nagging fear that I am going to become one of the walking dead. You know, the chronically ill. That person with a humidifier in their bedroom, an air purifier and a distinct, smoker voice. Yet, I don't smoke...That person who cannot stand a live Christmas tree or surprise, delivered flowers because they might have an "episode".<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to judge or look down upon those who DO have chronic illness. I have friends who have suffered greatly under the weight of their health issues. I am just surprised by the stealth of something so simple as a pollen allergy and the fact that it's kicking my tail!<br />
<br />
Images of my mother, unable to walk up stairs without wheezing, dance in my mind.<br />
<br />
What if I can't play with my grandchildren. Not that I have any....yet.<br />
<br />
What if I am unable to go to the gym?<br />
<br />
What if my chronic laryngitis lasts for weeks and months instead of days?<br />
<br />
What if I never feel rested again?<br />
<br />
Then I remember, that I'm not <i>that</i> person. I do not live in the land of <i>what if!</i> I don't have time for that. I have a life. I have children. I have too many things on my to-do list!<br />
<br />
Full steam ahead!<br />
<br />
The gym is the first stop on this journey back to self and perhaps an overhaul of all things edible. Perhaps a little quality SCHEDULED quiet time should be enforced too. A good dose of Bible time and encouraging notes to others is sure to bring me out of these <i>what if</i> thoughts.<br />
<br />
I am such a little person, aren't I? Worrying over nothing. Silly. Apparently, I have too much time on my hands if I'm really going to wallow in this pollen bath.<br />
<br />
Achoo!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-24316144300892161452015-01-20T15:58:00.001-08:002015-01-20T15:58:02.005-08:00An Extraordinary LifeExtraordinary - <i>adjective</i>, very unusual, remarkable<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, one of the residents where I work celebrated her 100th birthday. Knowing that this milestone was approaching, I phoned her and asked if I could put together a celebration for her. "Why not!" she exclaimed. Why not indeed!<br />
<br />
Ours is a small senior community filled with independent folks ages 55 and older. Several of our current residents have lived here since the apartments opened in 1991. Dorothy is one of them. She lives in the same 2nd floor apartment that she originally saw twenty-three years ago. Hers is one of the best apartments on property with a glorious view of Douglas fir trees and other evergreens. It feels as if you are somewhere tucked back on a mountain side, rather than in the heart of a bustling city.<br />
<br />
The property features more than two bedroom, two bath apartments. We provide activities of all sorts. Everything from Bingo, to knitting clubs, watercolor paint classes as well as potlucks and monthly birthday celebrations. Dorothy's birthday, I assured her, would be an event to remember.<br />
<br />
I contacted our local paper, advised them of this remarkable occasion and asked if they would be interested in attending the party. Imagine my surprise when I was told that turning 100 years old is NOT remarkable or out of the ordinary...unless, of course, that person has lived an <i>extraordinary</i> life.<br />
<br />
Extra-ordinary<br />
<br />
What does an <i>extraordinary</i> life mean? Is it somehow more special, more important, than say, my life? Could my life be considered extraordinary when compared to that of another? How and why do we as mere humans decide who has lived an extraordinary life?<br />
<br />
Mother Teresa<br />
Mozart<br />
Ghandi<br />
Anne Frank<br />
Socrates<br />
Newton<br />
Bill Gates<br />
Lady Margaret Thatcher<br />
Ronald Reagan<br />
DiVinci<br />
Martin Luther<br />
Martin Luther King, Jr.<br />
Malcom X<br />
<br />
<br />
Are these individuals somehow more extraordinary? Or are they merely famous for what they accomplished and if so, does this make the rest of us rather ordinary?<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, but I cannot agree with that statement or thought. I refuse to believe that because I did not invent something or write something or was in the right place at the right time, that I am somehow less significant than another human. I do not believe any of us are.<br />
<br />
I bristle at the thought that Dorothy is somehow <i>less</i> interesting than, say, Anne Boleyn. Life is interesting! The living, the breathing. Is it possible that those tiny instances in our lives that make us deliciously happy or despondently sad are extraordinary?<br />
<br />
Shouldn't they be?<br />
<br />
Think of your greatest moment...the one that leaps to mind and causes you to flush with pride or joy or love or excitement. What is it about <i>that</i> moment that outshines all the other events of your life.<br />
<br />
For me, there are so many extraordinary moments. My marriage, the birth of my children, the adoption of two of my children, my work being published, running my first mile at age 40, caring for an elderly relative, teaching my children to read, baking the perfect Banana Whipped Cream cake year after year for my Beloved's birthday. So many! So many great accomplishments and I haven't even touched on my redemption and salvation by an extraordinary God!<br />
<br />
Life is extraordinary. Each breath, each blink, each moment.<br />
<br />
Dorothy turned 100 years old on January 17th. She never married. Instead, she worked for her father, a physician until he retired. Dorothy taught herself to drive and is still driving to this day (although, some of us wonder at the wisdom of this). She has visited every National Park in this country at least twice. Dorothy has hiked trails few of us will ever see. She's read classics and romance novels and murder mysteries by the score. She is greatly loved by numerous nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors.<br />
<br />
Dorothy has lived and is living, an extraordinary life.<br />
<br />
I asked her, what is the secret of life?<br />
<br />
<i>"Just be happy. Be happy with your spot in life."</i><br />
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Dorothy 1934</div>
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I hope each of us will be remembered for being extraordinary. That we impact the lives of others around us with all the goodness and kindness we can muster.<br />
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As for Dorothy and her party, it was a smashing success. Friends and strangers gathered to honor a lady whose life we deemed extraordinary. For indeed, it is.<br />
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<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-78637699202732415712015-01-07T15:24:00.000-08:002015-01-07T15:24:22.000-08:00A Travelin' She'll GoMy Girl, my big, 22 yo, girl is leaving for a study abroad in a less than two weeks. Every time I think about it my stomach hurts. She'll be gone for four long months. We've never been separated for more than a few weeks AND she'll be in a different country...without her mother!<div>
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This will be a grand adventure. It's a chance of a lifetime. The perfect opportunity.</div>
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I'm excited for her. I truly am. It's just that, well, I'm going to miss her.</div>
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We are close, she and I. </div>
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While she's studying and traveling and meeting new people, I'll be holding down the fort and trying to keep Thing One and Two from killing me (or each other). It just isn't going to be the same.</div>
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Which is why this trip is so great for her. She will come home a different person with new experiences. It's a good test run for when she really leaves home for good and let's face it, at 22 yo, moving out is going to happen sooner, rather than later. </div>
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The girls: Things One and Two and equally excited and sad. They've been made plenty of noise about spending time with her before she leaves. Of course, they have also pitched one of them moving into her room "temporarily". They are both a little jealous of Girl's boyfriend and other friends. They want to keep her to themselves....yes, even 16 yo wants her fair share of time.</div>
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Beloved is worried, in a manly sort of way. He worries about different things than I do. I worry about illness and her getting lost. He worries about terrorists and human trafficing. The boyfriend has tossed out the thought of traveling to see her during spring break as have a couple of her friends.</div>
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It's only four months.</div>
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Only four.</div>
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And I'll cry. I know I will. I cried when Boy was in Prague for a couple of weeks when he was 16. I cried when he was in India at Christmas time a few years ago. Oh yeah, I know the waterworks are coming.</div>
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Part of me doesn't want to go to the airport to see her off, because I know I'll be a mess and I don't want HER to be a mess. If I don't go, I'll just be a mess at home. Ugh.</div>
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It will be fine. She's going to have the adventure of a lifetime and have so many stories to tell. This is going to change her life and she'll never regret going.</div>
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As long as her mother survives :)</div>
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Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-72359169071945081942014-10-28T16:43:00.002-07:002014-11-04T12:21:25.914-08:00And Now for Something Completely DifferentI've spent a lot of blog time writing about the girls, their drama and trauma and my own insanity and insecurity. Today's blog, however, is on a different subject: Our Boy.<br />
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Sunday morning, bright and bit too early, we drove to the small town our boy lives in. The hour and a half drive can be a little daunting on a Sunday morning, when you'd rather be snuggled in your own bed and later attending your own, local church. Truth be told though, if we are invited by Boy to do <i>anything</i>, we are all over it! We don't see him as much as we'd like and when presented the opportunity to hear him preach, well, wild horses couldn't keep me away!<br />
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Boy is the Admin at his little country church. He preachers every now and again. There's been talk of an official offer down the road....but that's a tale for another time. This little church is filled with former hippies, former Hollywood types, and lots of artists and craftsmen. The casual atmosphere is very welcoming and I doubt that anyone would ever feel unwelcome there.<br />
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I love that he has found <i>his </i>place with people who are like him and that he understands. It's a good feeling to know he has a community of people that love and support him.<br />
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We sat in the back row and listened to him teach, his father, his two new sisters and I. It's a feeling that I will not soon forget. Watching this boy, now man, walking his brothers and sisters in Christ through the Word was incredible. Proud does not even begin to describe how I felt.<br />
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I watched him, mike in hand, notes and Bible spread on a music stand before him, his dark rimmed glasses and beard making him appear older than his twenty-four years. I recalled a drawing he had shown me years ago. A picture of him as an adult, wearing glasses and preaching. He was only five at the time and didn't wear glasses...<br />
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It's wild how God does indeed call the young.<br />
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He's a good boy, a good man, this boy of mine. In many ways, he is very much like his father, my Beloved. Yet, in others ways he is so very much his own man, as it should be.<br />
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Being the mother of adult children is so different from what I expected. Both Boy and Girl are strong, independent people, wise and firm in their faith. It's a good feeling to look at them and they will be okay out in the big, bad world (not that I won't worry!).<br />
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It was a good day and I'm one proud mama!Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-61662540348356552402014-05-13T11:41:00.000-07:002014-05-13T14:46:16.910-07:00BeautifulDuring the past two weeks, I've noticed something interesting about girls. It's not as if I didn't already know these things about us, but for some reason, the "beauty" issue just slapped me along side the head. It wasn't a gentle caress either.<br />
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A week or so ago, Girl and I flew to Los Angles for my best friend's daughters wedding. I hadn't set foot in CA for so many years, that I am embarrassed to even write how long it had been (20 years!). My friends girls had grown into lovely, talented, amazing young women (see what happens when you don't visit your friends? Their children grow up!).<br />
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Standing next to them, my own beautiful, accomplished, talented daughter felt...frumpy.<br />
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Frumpy?<br />
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My girl?<br />
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No way!<br />
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Yet, she did. She's a quiet, willowy young woman who would rather tackle a complex math problem than party down with a group of people she doesn't know. It's just her way. My poor girl felt out of sync with these lovely ladies; an ugly duckling among the swans.<br />
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It wasn't the way the girls treated her. Surly not! They all have their Mama's heart and embraced my Girl with love and kindness. It was something inside her that made her feel as if she somehow didn't measure up.<br />
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Simply not true!<br />
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All ended well and Girl looked lovely at the wedding, but I'm disturbed by her reaction and when I follow the thought process back to it's original...well, damn if it didn't lead straight back to ME!<br />
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No matter how hard we try, we women just can't seem to get over caring about what other people think of us. Even when we know (and we do KNOW) that no one thinks about us as much as we think they do.<br />
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So, my own insecurities have bled over into another generation.<br />
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Great.<br />
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Which brings me to pretty girl number two and her new found beauty.<br />
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KK is an athlete. She's tough. She's very much a no make-up, hair looks fine, gray t-shirt wearing if you don't like it, don't look at it, kinda girl.<br />
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Until Sunday, that is.<br />
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What led to this make-over? Not a clue, but suddenly there she was, blond hair curled, eye lids tinted a soft blue and lashes swept with mascara.<br />
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And she was lovely. So, so lovely.<br />
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And we did what everyone does...we bathed her in praise.<br />
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We didn't praise her because she is intellegent or because she's a beast on the Lacrosse field. Nope, we saw a pretty face and complimented her on it.<br />
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Palm to face.<br />
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For all my bold and brash language concerning beauty being on the INSIDE, I have taught my girls by example and word, that beauty is on the outside. I didn't mean to. I do not want them to feel inferior in a room full of super models. I want them to stand on their own two feet, secure in the knowledge that they are strong, talented, and amazing. I desperately want them to see that they are a powerful and they do not need anyone's approval.<br />
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It's a hard subject to teach...when you don't always believe it yourself.<br />
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I think I drank too much of the Koolaid when I was growing up. I think we all did and do.<br />
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So, I'll keep telling my girls how smart they are. I will remind them that their hearts are what is truly beautiful and I'll try to remember that a pretty dress does not a pretty girl make.<br />
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Just don't ask me about this one.... Because she already knows she's all that and a bag of chips.<br />
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<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-64051813833772045452013-08-27T11:46:00.004-07:002013-08-27T11:46:42.137-07:00They Grow Up so Quickly<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last week, Girl and I attended orientation at her chosen university. I'm so proud of her. She received the Founders Scholarship - which is nearly a full ride scholarship to this private school. It was interesting to see all the pomp and circumstance of the welcoming ceremony. I admit that I was giddy as I watched her sign the book, shake the president's hand, and ring the bell - something she will do again when she graduates in a couple of years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The only thing larger than the Cedar trees surrounding us, were the egos of the professors. I couldn't help but smile inside as I recalled Solomon's words from Ecclesiastes 1:16-17</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="text Eccl-1-16" id="en-NIV-17332" style="background-color: white;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;"> </span>I said to myself, “Look, I have increased in wisdom more than anyone who has ruled over Jerusalem before me;<span class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-17332G" title="See cross-reference G">G</a>)"></span> I have experienced much of wisdom and knowledge.”</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="text Eccl-1-17" id="en-NIV-17333" style="background-color: white;"><span class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;">17 </span>Then I applied myself to the understanding of wisdom,<span class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-17333H" title="See cross-reference H">H</a>)"></span> and also of madness and folly,<span class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-17333I" title="See cross-reference I">I</a>)"></span> but I learned that this, too, is a chasing after the wind.</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not that I would deduct from my daughter's accomplishments, it's only the foolishness and egotistical statements of the staff, that made me smile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Girl is well grounded and knows what she believes. I have no fear of her being swayed by the "wisdom" of some liberal, narrow minded, wacko professor. I know these next two years will be filled with new adventures and new friends. I'm glad for her!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Writing a letter to herself, to be opened at graduation.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last Saturday, my close friend's son got married. How he is actually old enough to marry is beyond my understanding. It was very moving to see my Boy and her boy together. I could not help but think back over twenty years to the little boys they once were. Surely these two young men are not the same two boys who played and wrestled and fought?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy ties friend's tie before wedding.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then yesterday I remembered that October 5th it will be one year from the first time we laid eyes on KK and Hay-Hay. How our lives have changed since then! Certainly, there has been a lot of laughter, a few tears, and yes, a few terse moments as well. If these next few years fly by as quickly as these last few months...well...I suppose I will look back and marvel at the changes that have been wrought. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The most important thing to remember is that the drama of today, may very well be the funny story of tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One day and a time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One foot in front of the other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eyes heavenward.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Feet firmly planted.</span><br />
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<i><span class="text Eccl-1-17" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></i>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-83776861543887424982012-08-12T19:16:00.001-07:002012-08-12T19:16:08.626-07:00OodlesIt's my favorite time of the week. It is an early evening on a warm summer day. The house is blaring with the noise of the air conditioner, Beloved is returning not just Girl, but Boy as well, to their respective summer abodes and the dog is sleeping peacefully at my feet.<br />
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The work week has yet to draw my brows into a furrow and I'm reflecting on twenty-four hours of time spent with my kiddos. I'm so blessed to have oodles of love in my life. Boy is settling into an adult life. He's working, he's biking and most recently he's running. School waves from the distant shore of September as he sings for his supper at the farmers market and in the local pubs. He serves. He ministers. He's cleaning his house. ....<br />
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Cleaning his house? That toxic testosterone filled parsonage house he dwells in with Guy One and Guy Two? It can only mean one thing...a girl.<br />
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Then there is my little Girl. My little blondie, tanned, curvy girl who finds herself in command of many littlies. Camp is filled dirt and song and horses. Girl has bandaged oozie knees, and wiped homesick tears, and longed for a week all her own. I know this will be her final summer as a counselor. She's ready for more than the hustle and tussle of camp.<br />
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Calculus growls and rumbles from the classroom on campus, but for now she's plotting starting her own business and dreaming of mornings that don't start at six.<br />
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This weekend has been filled with laughter and baking and happiness.<br />
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And I hope it will stay with me throughout the crazy, stress of this coming week.<br />
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<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-18576670139032017942012-08-09T19:21:00.001-07:002012-08-09T19:23:15.125-07:00HazingSince I became the Big Boss, I have dealt with a paving project, a tree trimming project, a tree removal project, the rebuilding of our fire units, a property wide paint project, a flood in three apartments, one horrible fall, and a bee swarm.<br />
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I've been yelled at, told off, snickered at, mocked, laughed at and ignored.<br />
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Yay me.<br />
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I'm exhausted and stressed out.<br />
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Today, the property Foreman explained that every property manager goes through this. It's a hazing of sorts. It's like all that can go wrong, will go wrong. According to him, it teaches you that you can handle whatever is thrown your way.<br />
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I just want to sleep.<br />
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And never hear another complaint about the pool ever again.<br />
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Seriously.<br />
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On the up side, I've gone toe to toe with unpleasant people and been calm and collected. I've treated folks the way I'd like to be treated. I have tried hard to compromise when it's appropriate and not let anyone wipe their feet on me. My delinquency is under $3000 which is good and should be even better by month end.<br />
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I've approved two move ins.<br />
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I've dealt with contractors and vendors and been frank, but kind.<br />
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I hope I'm setting a standard that will be looked at as just and fair.<br />
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If this doesn't work, I may look for another job.<br />
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<i>Y'all want fries with that thar burger?</i>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-87604643452415996482012-07-22T19:29:00.001-07:002012-07-22T19:29:20.494-07:00I'm Not the Boss You Thought I'd BeI became the BIG BOSS ten days ago. Since then I have posted for tree removal. Posted for tree trimming. Posted for crawlspace repair. Posted for pavement repair. Posted for the building paint to begin. It's a lot of posting going on.<br />
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I've also told one resident that what goes on in her neighbors apartment is none of her business.<br />
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I've asked another resident to let me do my job.<br />
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I've informed a third resident that if she doesn't keep the noise down that there will be trouble.<br />
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I've sent for a police report, told someone to watch their language, and assured yet another that I would see to the ant problem in their unit.<br />
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I've worked 9-10 hour days.<br />
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I've gone without lunch.<br />
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I've fretted over this, that and the other.<br />
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I've asked stupid questions and sent far to many emails to my BIG boss. I've paid the bills. I've dealt with the roofers, the landscapers, the pavers, the carpet cleaners, and the bank.<br />
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What I've learned is this:<br />
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I knew more than I thought I did, but not as much as I'd like to know.<br />
<br />
My Foreman is my lifesaver and knows a great deal...just ask him. Seriously, he's saved my bacon a couple of times and I couldn't run things without him.<br />
<br />
My Leaser is sweet and kind and talks too much, but knows when to leave me alone.<br />
<br />
I like being the Boss.<br />
<br />
Heaven help me.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-24386171968511862992012-07-04T19:43:00.002-07:002012-07-04T19:44:46.971-07:00If it Isn't You, It Must Be MeOnce again, we are empy nesters. Boy hasn't live at home for ages and Girl is working out of town again this summer. Our Student from the East is also out of town at the moment. We are alone, just the two of us.<br />
<br />
It's quiet and we are both out of sorts. We were invited to a 4th of July BBQ, the same one we've been attending off and on for years with friends we seldom see. We decided it was better to go than to sit at home mourning the empty.<br />
<br />
What a huge mistake.<br />
<br />
We should have stayed home.<br />
<br />
Our host's are the most amazing and wonderful couple, so I mean no disrespect to them. It's just that...apparently we don't fit in any more. The conversation was awkward at best, but I really think it was the silence that cut me to the quick.<br />
<br />
Beloved and I sat alone a great deal of the time. After an hour I told him I was ready to leave. He said we should mix a little bit more.<br />
<br />
So we did.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Finally, half an hour later, I told him I was done and that I was leaving.<br />
<br />
I was so thankful for my dark sunglasses and what they hid.<br />
<br />
As we walked out the front door, passing a group of girls we've know most of their lives, one of them said in a sarcastic, snotty voice, "Nice to talk to you..."<br />
<br />
I retorted with a loud, "What a nasty thing to say." Especially considering she hadn't said, "Boo," to either of us all afternoon.<br />
<br />
My feelings are hurt. I know of no other way to say it. Granted, they were tender to begin with because I'm missin' my kiddos.<br />
<br />
What I don't understand is how this happened. Yes, we've had some trouble these last few years feeling welcome in this old circle of friends. I know some of the reason stems from our not attending the same church or social circles or being in the same stage of life (empty nest).<br />
<br />
I'm an outgoing person, friendly, compassionate, and occasionally funny. For Pete's sake I get paid to be FRIENDLY! And yet, this afternoon was such a dismal, hurting failure that I'm not sure of myself any more. We must be too weird, too something, too unlikable?<br />
<br />
All I know is that my heart is sick with missing my kids and now I feel like I've been run over by a bus.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, the kids have grown. They are doing what they are supposed to do. I accept it as a part of life's plan. I suppose I just didn't expect to feel like I was in high school again - on the outside looking in.<br />
<br />
I hate this crap and the clickly little circles people make.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-52042762004332918922012-07-01T08:02:00.002-07:002012-07-01T08:02:44.795-07:00Paper TrailOur Student has been forced to leave the haven of the Little, Green House and fly back East to sign a paper.<br />
<br />
Yes, she had to <i>fly</i> back East. The form couldn't be faxed. It couldn't be scanned and emailed. It would be illegal to pop it in the post, addressed to her care of the Little, Green House on the Corner.<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
I am appalled that she has had to pay the price because someone didn't do their job. However, I am truly aghast at the fact that she had to <i>fly</i> allll the way back East just to sign a piece of paper so someone wouldn't lose their job or get fined or whatever the punishment is. In this day of TECHNOLOGY one would think that we had moved beyond the Stone Age.<br />
<br />
Apparently not.<br />
<br />
Our Student will return sometime this week. Although her employer wanted her to <i>fly</i> back East, sign the paper, and then immediately hop on a plane and return to Oregon, Student decided not to do that.<br />
<br />
I can't say that I blame her.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-10962070033117643232012-06-22T12:46:00.000-07:002012-06-22T12:46:41.934-07:00Looking for a Decent PitaHere we are. It's been nearly one full weeks since our student arrived. We've had some great discussions about, well, everything. Our student is so sweet and warm. We are very thankful to have her in our home. My husband, who can be....rather blunt at times, has warmed to her and makes concessions so that she will be more comfortable. She is indeed wheedling her way into our hearts.<br />
<br />
We have found ourselves wanting to make her stay in our home very comfortable. Her internship isn't all that she had expected and she finds her commute weary. We know that if she can find housing closer to her office, that she will move. We understand that she must do what is best for her, but we will miss her.<br />
<br />
How can this be? She's a stranger, from a scary country, who practices a religion that is FAR different from ours and yet...we adore her!<br />
<br />
I asked the Student about living in her country, what it was like growing up there, etc. She smiled and said that it isn't much different from the US. Children play in the parks, their mothers shop at the markets, families love each other. Then she turned very serious and confessed that things in her country are very bad right now.<br />
<br />
Shopping with the Student is enlightening. She finds the abundance of food and goods amazing. She also notes the unripened fruit and veggies. The Student is unable to locate a decent pita bread, so we've decided to go to the Halal market.<br />
<br />
Should I tell her that it makes me nervous? Even though I know that I have nothing to fear, I'm fearful? We haven't discussed the radical terrorist. It's one of those odd topics we all know about, but don't really want to dig into.<br />
<br />
Her family is liberal. She laughs and tells me that she is more conservative than her parents. I nod, but smile because she may be conservative, but she's wearing a tank top and no head covering. It makes me wonder just <i>how</i> liberal her parents are.<br />
<br />
I am so grateful for this opportunity to get to know this Student. She is bright and cheery and certainly brings a wonderful flavor to our household. Yet, I wonder, what would have happened if she were different. What if she were very conservative?<br />
<br />
Boy pointed out with a chuckle, that if she were conservative, she wouldn't be here.<br />
<br />
Point taken.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-36219329957940932752012-06-18T16:12:00.001-07:002012-06-18T16:15:18.805-07:00Would I know Her?We stood at the gate waiting for our student. Her flight came in late, Sunday night, and even though we had spoken on the phone, my stomach still fluttered about. What if she didn't like us? What if we are too different? What if....she's wearing a burqa?<br />
<br />
What if...<br />
<br />
I scanned each woman's face as she walked by, looking for recognition. We shifted our <i>Welcome Ayah</i> sign a little higher and waited some more. At last I saw her. We exchanged smiles as she walked towards.<br />
<br />
She didn't look exactly like her photo, but I knew her. My heart squeezed in my chest. She was exactly what I hoped she would be, sweet, delicate and just as scared as I was.<br />
<br />
Our embrace was that of old, dear friends and I looked at this young woman and saw my own flesh and blood.<br />
<br />
I know it sounds trite, but we fit together. We are not so different as the media would have us believe.<br />
<br />
Certainly, we have adjustments to make and things to learn about each other. Yet, in the span of just a few hours we have fallen into a fast friendship.<br />
<br />
What a grand opportunity. I am humbled to think that this young woman would entrust herself to us and that we would care for and protect her as best we are able. She will not be a guest in our home, but a distant family member who is welcomed after a long journey.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-73425855337532619292012-06-14T20:11:00.000-07:002012-06-14T20:14:53.245-07:00Cultural Differences<span style="background-color: #990000;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">A funny thing happened while I was just minding my own sweet business.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">The phone rang. It does that sometimes. On the other end was a friend I had made at my previous employer. She's a giggly, blondie, tiny woman whose smile is simply infectious. I've never heard a bad word come out of her mouth. She's a gem.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Over the years, she and her husband have provided housing for nearly thirty foreign students, most of which have been Islamic. I distinctly remember telling her how I would be so afraid to open my home to strangers. Especially </span><em style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Muslims</em><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">. I'm just a sissy that way.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">I seemed to have that narrow-minded view that </span><em style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">they</em><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"> are out to kill all of </span><em style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">us</em><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">. Which is true in some circles. So imagine what I said when my friend phoned me and asked if we could take in a young woman from Syria for ten weeks this summer. And could we decide quickly, because she'll be here on Sunday.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">I laughed a little and said that my Beloved is a little funny about strangers living in his house. I told her I'd ask him and get back to her.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">And then a funny thing happened....</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Beloved and I agreed that we could, that we should, that we would be happy to open our homes and lives to this complete stranger.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">That was Tuesday.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">She arrives late Sunday.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">I am excited, but concerned that I will make some stupid "American" mistake and offend her. I'm looking forward to learning about her country and her beliefs. Mostly, I'm hoping to make a new friend and hope she is too.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white;"><br style="font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;" /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #990000; color: white; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">I'll keep you posted.</span>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-53834694069603202632012-05-27T14:59:00.001-07:002012-05-27T20:24:41.383-07:00Notes of the Practical KindWell, maybe not <em>too</em> practical. I'm a bad blogger since I started working full time. That's what happens when you work for the man. He demands your time, all of it. What you are left with is a couple of hours of twilight to collect your thoughts, love your family, wash the dishes, and crawl into your bed....just so you can repeat it all over again the next day.<br />
<br />
Ain't life grand?<br />
<br />
Now, before you think I'm grumbling - I'm not. I'm stating facts here deary, clean and simple.<br />
<br />
I work for the man so I can live in the little green house on the corner. It's a reasonably fair trade and my labor isn't dreadful or terribly difficult. It's just toil. Plain and simple.<br />
<br />
My friend, the one with the cancer broiling in her throat, will have those cancer cells eliminated via radiation soon. It will be a long, painful, dreadful seven weeks.<br />
<br />
The upside is: She'll lose weight (not that she has that much to lose)<br />
<br />
The downside is: She'll lose weight. So much weight that she may need a feeding tube.<br />
<br />
We've both decided that's disgusting.<br />
<br />
Boy is good. He studies. He bikes. He sings his songs and sometimes he even gets paid. I was alarmed to learn that he basically lives on $450.00 per month. Who does that? <em>How</em> do you do that?<br />
<br />
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He lives simply - as only a single guy with two roommates and no automobile could.<br />
<br />
I'm proud of him. But you already knew that.<br />
<br />
Girl is good too. She buries her head in Trig and Japanese. She spars with her History instructor. She beats boys up in Judo (well, only a little bit). Girl is preparing to return to camp in a few weeks where she will earn roughly $580 a month.<br />
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<br />
I'm proud of her too.<br />
<br />
My Beloved is, as always, wonderful. Still employed. Still alive. And still the love of my life.<br />
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<br />
We are thinking about a road trip to Seattle. Most of these plans hinge on my boss not going on bed rest towards the end of her pregnancy. I've never walked the streets of Seattle, opting to fly past her on my way North or East. Pikes Place is beckoning to us...<br />
<br />
You may recall that we had a little home improvement project some months ago. The finished project was well worth the hours of painting.<br />
<br />
Take a gander:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Lj0iiVO9MmeqcTME25vssCTylQOgvmQo5iuBPrLb3OiP_mNZyayR3vL1gLtmmt1BUOVF5-LCNWGuoyl3kdaSCL0seFQOdSxMaVsdmAp0Lwfp-DnchGlqSJJQWqEXY5p2WH0b/s1600/before+rock+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Lj0iiVO9MmeqcTME25vssCTylQOgvmQo5iuBPrLb3OiP_mNZyayR3vL1gLtmmt1BUOVF5-LCNWGuoyl3kdaSCL0seFQOdSxMaVsdmAp0Lwfp-DnchGlqSJJQWqEXY5p2WH0b/s320/before+rock+wall.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ugly Rock Wall</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IEgf9FvZrtobMzJYV6gEbpzKCLyBTl3jG6tmYbMJ_bz8mL2x3bDwckibaA7Ab-SHDByquj_zp9LAair6TN8OZzauX3RCwx4B0D04-vsLpFcCl7w9nTd57wLBugzCQBWLMTCu/s1600/Tearing+it+Down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IEgf9FvZrtobMzJYV6gEbpzKCLyBTl3jG6tmYbMJ_bz8mL2x3bDwckibaA7Ab-SHDByquj_zp9LAair6TN8OZzauX3RCwx4B0D04-vsLpFcCl7w9nTd57wLBugzCQBWLMTCu/s320/Tearing+it+Down.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Removing Ugly Rock Wall - One Stone at a Time</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cedar Ceiling </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxIiyW8htq97ipAKkrwgTnUzsF1BxEaVw7v3fGqshRj7drA5zO-MVqQ3I3QlrcCVdgTxnRkLYetzvCc3L5VfCogGjwoqUHJXVj0mpJdWE9zxCAeH4VF64JAmpj-da25L2L3jN/s1600/after+rock+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxIiyW8htq97ipAKkrwgTnUzsF1BxEaVw7v3fGqshRj7drA5zO-MVqQ3I3QlrcCVdgTxnRkLYetzvCc3L5VfCogGjwoqUHJXVj0mpJdWE9zxCAeH4VF64JAmpj-da25L2L3jN/s320/after+rock+wall.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No More Rocks!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFAByzzZkAc3xjPBjL7N4iIKKFOlKIQcTqepS1d1SQtLrpK7GpRyVEdq_1KR7VZsAnlTK5ujYoaA0rAN8A7QV_weom2UqZ46_MFLwpMsPRZNQAr7ZbV1OZrjWbFETN5LqsS1D/s1600/painting+cedar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFAByzzZkAc3xjPBjL7N4iIKKFOlKIQcTqepS1d1SQtLrpK7GpRyVEdq_1KR7VZsAnlTK5ujYoaA0rAN8A7QV_weom2UqZ46_MFLwpMsPRZNQAr7ZbV1OZrjWbFETN5LqsS1D/s320/painting+cedar.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting is a Pain in the Neck - Truly</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGInshZX0EOaj4-2wbeIeFZ_mLBPQ5bvyYa8PP5a-ceohS-TjsGiTSFyZza7IdCmIVVaRbLOk7z-ssPJvLhftr2Yt4994ANejBZSGOXmfkhUWgJM9xFmCY-7blxH28IRZ04dD/s1600/finised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGInshZX0EOaj4-2wbeIeFZ_mLBPQ5bvyYa8PP5a-ceohS-TjsGiTSFyZza7IdCmIVVaRbLOk7z-ssPJvLhftr2Yt4994ANejBZSGOXmfkhUWgJM9xFmCY-7blxH28IRZ04dD/s320/finised.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Carpet, New Wall, New Chair</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8PjIVbwGd4LagdpcAUdsXC7Hp8syXMXWH_GTA-CSxJ9Eh-qiGqwN4zAiy2mA_ekCIt3V74znqjzW9yTRA3QyzqKnXSDo731a9blE0jSF8rchdfydsChMEz1K37B72GJaAvhK/s1600/another+after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8PjIVbwGd4LagdpcAUdsXC7Hp8syXMXWH_GTA-CSxJ9Eh-qiGqwN4zAiy2mA_ekCIt3V74znqjzW9yTRA3QyzqKnXSDo731a9blE0jSF8rchdfydsChMEz1K37B72GJaAvhK/s320/another+after.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bright! Cheery!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTrVH5HgOGo0_7zeuCn7RD01xiQV1yu-f02xOZKaGb6cVoxgO3B_feji-8xN1TbPMd9hHsjVPzP3t7xgfr_J4e_2Gd_0MGwxRw2-7tSjuJ8piS1BRzkQ7xuS6Q5WnNn5qwbSS/s1600/cedar+ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnTrVH5HgOGo0_7zeuCn7RD01xiQV1yu-f02xOZKaGb6cVoxgO3B_feji-8xN1TbPMd9hHsjVPzP3t7xgfr_J4e_2Gd_0MGwxRw2-7tSjuJ8piS1BRzkQ7xuS6Q5WnNn5qwbSS/s320/cedar+ceiling.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished!</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
We haven't done much since this little project. I think it took everything out of us. <br />
<br />
We still need to rebuild our fence.<br />
<br />
The lawn needs mowing - again, but I planted tomatoes and peppers.<br />
<br />
And I have tomorrow off.<br />
<br />
Life is good.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30452539.post-46296322772849549022012-04-03T19:42:00.000-07:002012-04-03T19:42:40.352-07:00The Doctor is Not In - SeriouslyFriend had PET scan.<br />
<br />
Friend phoned doctor the next day and was told the doctor was out, but would be back on Monday. Then Nurse said, "Yeah, I really want him to look at these (results). Thus she left Friend and Cancer to be all warm and cozy with each other <i>all weekend long.</i><br />
<br />
Friend ate wonderful, soothing, Orange Blondies.<br />
<br />
Friend ate nearly <i>all </i>the Orange Blondies, that I baked and delivered, by herself. Which is fine since I only took her a plate of them and not a pan full. Plus, I baked them for <i>her</i>, not for anyone else.<br />
<br />
Friend phoned her doctor Monday morning.<br />
<br />
Friend was informed <i>again</i> that the doctor, whom I will refer to now as Dr. NoSeeUm, was out again, but would return on Tuesday.<br />
<br />
What the ??<br />
<br />
In my little pea brain I had decided that Friend was terminal. It was the only way I could get through Monday without bursting into a crying fit. If she already had the worst diagnosis than there was no where to go but up.<br />
<br />
And up we've gone.<br />
<br />
The PET Scan did not reveal any cancer below the neck. None. Nada. Zilch.<br />
<br />
They will continue with their plan of attack and Friend will go in for surgery in a few days.<br />
<br />
In the mean time, I am scouring cookbooks for the sugary deliciousness that will help her get through the next phase of kicking cancer's fanny.<br />
<br />
And I'm going to Zumba...so that the sugary goodness doesn't kick mine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14830175253251435851noreply@blogger.com2