tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52318654203015444342023-11-16T08:31:52.131-08:00semipseudothe story of jack & hopeThe Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-77846212292123095302013-11-25T20:19:00.005-08:002013-11-25T20:27:51.608-08:00Hope and her HopinessI keep telling myself to write a little post about our little Ms. Hope, about all her milestones and quirky ways...so that she can have something to look back on years from now. I am not organized enough to record them in her baby book(???) so I need to use this here 'blog' for such important matters!<br />
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Okay...little overdue but here goes...<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Vocabulary (WHAT HOPE SAYS) at 18 months:</b></span><br />
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She is still just using one word at a time (although recently she has started attaching the word MY in front of certain words, so I guess possessive pro-nouns are her thing. That's right. I know about grammar.)<br />
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Words that are EMPHATICALLY capitalized signify the tone in which she usually says them.<br />
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-Mama<br />
-Daddy <i>(MY daddy)</i><br />
-Ba Ba <i>("Bottle")</i><br />
-Ack <i>("Jackson")</i><br />
-UH OH<br />
-NO <i>(This is her favorite word SURPRISE SURPRISE)</i><br />
-Nigh Nigh <i>("Night Night")</i><br />
-BABY<br />
-Bye Bye<br />
-Go <i>(She says this to her babysitter when I get home)</i><br />
-Yes <i>(She rarely says yes, but I heard it a few times in reference to a popsicle)</i><br />
-Mine <i>(Also in reference to popsicles)</i><br />
-Papa <i>(For her Grandad)</i><br />
-Grandad<br />
-In Annie <i>("Aunt Annie")</i><br />
-OWIE<br />
-da <i>(dog)</i><br />
-kiyee <i>(kittie)</i><br />
-Nummy <i>("Yummy" This word is mostly reserved for when we have scrambled eggs.)</i><br />
-Appy <i>("Apple")</i><br />
-Wa wa <i>("water")</i><br />
-OH and OOH <i>(for pumpkins and anything else that fascinates her)</i><br />
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<b>A few other fun things about Ms Hope:</b><br />
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She is finally starting to sleep in her crib, but only for naps and the first few hours of night time. I made her a night time CD of soothing music, and we read her a few books every night. She loves, loves, loves books. Especially books about babies. She loves babies! If we see a baby (anyone under the age of 2, basically) she shouts, "Baby" and runs over and starts petting their head and face. Some of these 'babies' are bigger than her.<br />
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Hope has A LOT of opinions. And she is very vocal, determined, strong willed, and pretty aggressive in making sure everyone understands what the deal is. Jackson often tells me he is scared of her. Jackson was never a 'hitter' but Hope will hit you right in the face if you don't listen to what she has commanded you to do. But, her second favorite thing to do after hitting everyone she loves in the face is to give us all kisses. Lots and lots of kisses. And giggles. So, right there, that's all the ingredients for us to be in love with this little sweetie. We just can't get enough of her. Well played, Hopey, well played.<br />
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<br />The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-80542818820577514552013-04-06T23:35:00.005-07:002013-04-06T23:35:58.845-07:00Easter Basket Hunt & Other Shenanigans...captured in 671 photosThere's a tradition around these parts to get one's Easter basket AFTER a rather involved scavenger hunt of 7 - 8 complicated 'clues' hidden throughout the rooms and yard at my parent's house. We used to all cluster, packed together, in the bathroom with the door shut, while my dad hid the clues. Reviving the tradition, starting last year, for Jackson (and now Hope) has been one of the joys of moving back to Eugene. It took all of us (well -- Dad, Annie, and I) emphatically waving our arms, steering, cajoling, and dropping hint after hint to get Jack to actually follow his little trail of notes, but he did find them one by one. Annie and Dad really set the whole thing up, while my main contribution was becoming hysterical / saving Jack from dying of bee stings in the front yard by scrambling around screaming, "STAY AWAY FROM THE BEES STAY AWAY FROM THE BEES WHY ARE ALL THE NOTES BY THE BEES????" But Aunt Annie calmly guided Jack around the yard, helping him discover his clues, and finally HIS BASKET.<br />
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One thing I like about parenthood is that you can get your kid all excited about a basket full of eggs because they don't really know what's up at all. Like, he couldn't sleep the night before because of eggs. <br />
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This clue is hung up on the clothes line. </div>
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What does this note say? Dad?</div>
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Jack's Basket.</div>
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Hope's basket. She didn't get any clues because she's a baby and she wouldn't have gotten it. </div>
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What???? The kitty is climbing the fridge. Easter is crazy!!!</div>
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The chocolate bunny is what it all really comes down to for Jack. </div>
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My favorite part of the day was watching Hope BECOME AWARE of Jack's basket. She got this sneaky look in her eye and I was like, this girl is no amateur. She's on a mission. Done deal. </div>
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I thought she was too young to get the concept of the basket and treats and all the commotion of a holiday but she went for it. She was like, yep I get it IT'S PARTY TIME. Hope was totally focused during every part of the day. I'm scared for next year.</div>
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Why is there no candy in this egg? WHY IS THERE NO CANDY IN THIS EGG???</div>
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See the focus? She's all, Ohhh there's candy in HIS EGG. That's it, not cool mom. Not cool.</div>
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But the good thing about 10 month olds is that they get distracted by like, chair legs, and then you're off the hook. </div>
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GOOD BIG BROTHER SHARES HIS CHOCOLATE. </div>
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My mom had these cool fancy eggs. Beautiful.</div>
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I had to capture one of these classic holiday moments. Brent trying to read the paper and Jack all, "I'm bored, I'm on a sugar high, I need 10 more baskets...."</div>
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Hope being a little angel princess baby cutie pie. </div>
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These little eggs came courtesy of Gramma Whittaker, and here Hope is sharing one with Hol'me. Pretty aggressively.</div>
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I was really proud of myself for matching my necklace to my cardigan. And for not wearing black on Easter, which I normally do because I forget it's spring since it's normally raining.</div>
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After the Easter baskets, we went out to Pleasant Hill for dinner at Letha & Eric's house. Hope was all YAY MORE EASTER!!</div>
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Hope & Gramma Whittaker</div>
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Jack getting ready to FIND MORE EGGS. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
He was so cute in his new shirt from Aunt Teresa. I had to take a zillion pics of the day because their smiles and excitement for the day got me carried away. I JUST COULDN'T HELP MYSELF THE CUTENESS WAS TOO MUCH.</div>
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The end.</div>
The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-59201936714759536812013-02-05T21:27:00.003-08:002013-02-05T23:15:20.174-08:00A Story for Jack<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierzE1R6LPBVDCMdW_T0wVgy4dG24c_TG4t9cfBqbapTuS6am7abPULdjzrEWHkVo8H_QxSklgTbocDrUdPU9fgZ7v_joHCMRxHAWNrrKluE8oVLBW4wLkWINvtm31NDty1s-Xz0IgiMI/s1600/Rainbow-diagram-ROYGBIV.svg.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1HAl3U_4W8XOEM6_qw0q6QFzxJgZi4bBJGz4XJGQqyMpk47x2UHBcZUF5M94Kql88cpFiSgEqdcn5tWmwfbnKILV3Gd-YsIWEGGUmzZyg6pWv7dX5zQWIgwLslWFVJP4I0QmPgMV6d3c/s1600/Jack+at+Garden+Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1HAl3U_4W8XOEM6_qw0q6QFzxJgZi4bBJGz4XJGQqyMpk47x2UHBcZUF5M94Kql88cpFiSgEqdcn5tWmwfbnKILV3Gd-YsIWEGGUmzZyg6pWv7dX5zQWIgwLslWFVJP4I0QmPgMV6d3c/s200/Jack+at+Garden+Show.jpg" width="200" /></a><i>Jack, here's a story about a boy who wouldn't listen to his mommy:</i><br />
<br />
One day, there was a little boy, and he didn't always listen to his mommy. He liked to play and laugh and bounce and scream and shout and hide behind covers and throw toys on the ground.<br />
<br />
His mommy said, "Please don't do this and please don't do that. Just be a good boy and listen to mommy."<br />
<br />
But the little boy was too busy having all his fun. He just didn't have time to listen.<br />
<br />
So his mommy said, "Alright, that's it. I'll stomp my feet and clap my hands and turn your clothes to blue."<br />
<br />
And all the next day, the little boy's clothes stayed blue<i>. </i>He laughed and laughed and said, "Mommy, that's no problem for me. I love the color blue! You can turn my shirt and hat and socks and shoes and even my pants as blue as blue can be. I can be blue all day long, it's really no problem for me!"<br />
<br />
So his mommy said, "Alright, that's it, tomorrow you will see -- I'm turning all your clothes to green and when you wake up in the morning, you will see just what I mean!"<br />
<br />
And when he woke up, sure enough, his pajamas had turned as green as peas and his laid out clothes looked like lima beans! He laughed and laughed and said, "Mommy, look at what you did! Everything is super green, and that's my favorite color! I'll wear my green to school today and tell my friends that you are such a silly mother! And it doesn't make me need to listen, because I'm not scared of green!"<br />
<br />
His mommy thought and thought and thought, and said, "Hmm...I know just what you mean. But if you don't listen soon I'll have to turn ALL your clothes to yellow!"<br />
<br />
She waved her arms, and he looked down - his coat and gloves were yellower than summer! He stomped his feet and raised his hand, and said "I have a question, please."<br />
<br />
"Yes, my sweetie, I'd love to know - what is on your mind?"<br />
<br />
"I just don't understand why you turn my clothes to blue and green and yellow."<br />
<br />
His mommy laughed and gave his nose a kiss. "I didn't think that making clothes a very certain color would make you sad or worried into listening. I turned them blue and green and yellow to show you something special. I can make your world full of many colors, I'd love to show you what fun we'll have, if even for a minute, you'll just stop to listen."<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierzE1R6LPBVDCMdW_T0wVgy4dG24c_TG4t9cfBqbapTuS6am7abPULdjzrEWHkVo8H_QxSklgTbocDrUdPU9fgZ7v_joHCMRxHAWNrrKluE8oVLBW4wLkWINvtm31NDty1s-Xz0IgiMI/s1600/Rainbow-diagram-ROYGBIV.svg.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierzE1R6LPBVDCMdW_T0wVgy4dG24c_TG4t9cfBqbapTuS6am7abPULdjzrEWHkVo8H_QxSklgTbocDrUdPU9fgZ7v_joHCMRxHAWNrrKluE8oVLBW4wLkWINvtm31NDty1s-Xz0IgiMI/s200/Rainbow-diagram-ROYGBIV.svg.png" width="200" /></a></i>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-64204944645399542112012-12-14T20:19:00.002-08:002012-12-14T20:21:32.827-08:00Today<b>Psalm 34:18 </b><br />
<i>The <span class="sc">Lord</span> is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Revelation 21:4 </b><br />
<i>He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no
more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for
the former things have passed away.</i> The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-77596020846110692412012-12-02T01:36:00.000-08:002012-12-02T10:41:36.324-08:00Christmas Tree Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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* * *</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SIWORHTIxDJ2Ag_APwaqjhmwT2TxUbe7LEQU0TNJZBYe_t_zObO44jgNbSvvvclQKQQxms5BmkKZRo3S0Ojq2-TkltUfMA9eEj5-drruxyf2WkU80L19fa51PUUDxoM7njaECMmpqp0/s1600/grumpy+hope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;">Last Year: 2011. We were still in Oregon City. Jack was little. The tree was little (although we did get a slightly bigger one than the one in the picture below). And SOMEBODY was missing.</span></a></div>
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<u><span style="color: black;"> </span></u></div>
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I can't believe how far we've come in one year! Happy Holidays!</div>
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The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-72670311241086082152012-11-05T16:55:00.001-08:002012-11-05T16:59:38.976-08:00The Avocado Story<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/AVvXsEguWcdZLT0uqQTNS9RYNYYORSeSEQ_ezZB7NpHjPigV7XYATwRBLpzMm041S5pFE-7EPTxzzLE3l01S2xqX1QiUo2zGdFh_HtWEUt0qC7aJh-hEC8oyKoy7dwc2vg0bmmZMVNFRDRLMR9I/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWcdZLT0uqQTNS9RYNYYORSeSEQ_ezZB7NpHjPigV7XYATwRBLpzMm041S5pFE-7EPTxzzLE3l01S2xqX1QiUo2zGdFh_HtWEUt0qC7aJh-hEC8oyKoy7dwc2vg0bmmZMVNFRDRLMR9I/s400/photo+1+(2).JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This looks promising! Thanks for finally giving me food Mom!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZEQMwEft071sm__B0SzBcxgSDCrPEMXbTbKzUJwLng92XGKbMn8aQOM7j7uIT865HasX87aVDHEfrw3IZ8FQm8DVthpgHNCzM8MsiP-se_bGhcmnn6qIilHqL0p4cyGnnDa5TM5Ofjs/s1600/photo+3+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZEQMwEft071sm__B0SzBcxgSDCrPEMXbTbKzUJwLng92XGKbMn8aQOM7j7uIT865HasX87aVDHEfrw3IZ8FQm8DVthpgHNCzM8MsiP-se_bGhcmnn6qIilHqL0p4cyGnnDa5TM5Ofjs/s400/photo+3+(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Let's see here...just gotta...pick this thing up..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiINjOrhyJdj9rLVSqeofTpb6BlSU9rb_bSlTY_vkHVyHNec2i0_pL7VDhAFFoedtGcoXMPzxdL8zPZowW6czucorvIxB13q5ZWatxxOWfqpuEpH-eHvW7ayAglVbOUkENh5OfrFrs7quk/s1600/photo+4+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiINjOrhyJdj9rLVSqeofTpb6BlSU9rb_bSlTY_vkHVyHNec2i0_pL7VDhAFFoedtGcoXMPzxdL8zPZowW6czucorvIxB13q5ZWatxxOWfqpuEpH-eHvW7ayAglVbOUkENh5OfrFrs7quk/s400/photo+4+(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It's a bit slippery here...but, hold on, I can get it."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSDEm3c9v9JNB_7QG6rJbmvyObYGgzzDUQkt9pfP1gsA77FHaorNrsGSggO5-NBXGCP6SYuLJ08UzNYsblCjLO2PFDseOkSL53dKMgJxeQ_Q433WpFjDLFFJN5Vua1WzO-6vZsK-s8Iiw/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSDEm3c9v9JNB_7QG6rJbmvyObYGgzzDUQkt9pfP1gsA77FHaorNrsGSggO5-NBXGCP6SYuLJ08UzNYsblCjLO2PFDseOkSL53dKMgJxeQ_Q433WpFjDLFFJN5Vua1WzO-6vZsK-s8Iiw/s400/photo+5.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Don't fall off Don't fall off Don't fall off"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFwE_xJy1Lc7r13CqxNO8lYKbg60wEGOmE_G_ak2da5NNxvrV7VRcXlUx88nZvbDSWcz9hQWzwjLjqqbod1L-xbLmnNfGb2WisLhOxMRWZ_9tghzP_q6FqN0DjJL1pbL3T_Kn65vyYcU/s1600/32FB4F0F-0FEE-44F2-86B7-A8802B3C20F8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFwE_xJy1Lc7r13CqxNO8lYKbg60wEGOmE_G_ak2da5NNxvrV7VRcXlUx88nZvbDSWcz9hQWzwjLjqqbod1L-xbLmnNfGb2WisLhOxMRWZ_9tghzP_q6FqN0DjJL1pbL3T_Kn65vyYcU/s400/32FB4F0F-0FEE-44F2-86B7-A8802B3C20F8.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"YES!!!!!!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvf0QVO2D68Ei4hsEsr_CO8Xj4OzxBiC9-Uwx2NFfOEEE56poteZIQ-fvtyf1L2hRFpzwzxqeq9b_uHCw6Im4eznBCp_whVKK5pYC7H8qVvaDnhrhn9R8UuKisWxF3pUYbKxyZt604evM/s1600/922B3CE7-55C5-482A-BC28-29E532220FE9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvf0QVO2D68Ei4hsEsr_CO8Xj4OzxBiC9-Uwx2NFfOEEE56poteZIQ-fvtyf1L2hRFpzwzxqeq9b_uHCw6Im4eznBCp_whVKK5pYC7H8qVvaDnhrhn9R8UuKisWxF3pUYbKxyZt604evM/s400/922B3CE7-55C5-482A-BC28-29E532220FE9.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Seriously???"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrYvHob-Qq1ty3ip919mjNsm1SFNHGjSGRbOUJ75m38WyJlvUIPvtf6b7YoEpE_5w77eRHeq3kdgO5KKnVWfKHNanNp9iGx0sCuy5oQ5b016ujlppq6lc4VCLvWzlrW1aNa9rUFS8mn0/s1600/9403A5B0-73C4-4EED-9F13-A1C3B61AA044.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrYvHob-Qq1ty3ip919mjNsm1SFNHGjSGRbOUJ75m38WyJlvUIPvtf6b7YoEpE_5w77eRHeq3kdgO5KKnVWfKHNanNp9iGx0sCuy5oQ5b016ujlppq6lc4VCLvWzlrW1aNa9rUFS8mn0/s400/9403A5B0-73C4-4EED-9F13-A1C3B61AA044.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"What the...?"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOA33656ClaMJhQkW3s_0y5urhXuAKn_ge543DNdFjRHfIIogKa5t6cvcYlDkiqloDtdAppoyqraElYVJkhuMm7196aARAbh3_xMJqMHw3fW6GzhnGZ5GEjnBrx7jI3KJMVebPGJoQEE/s1600/F2191CC5-BEE1-43CC-BED0-ED3E0E71081D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOA33656ClaMJhQkW3s_0y5urhXuAKn_ge543DNdFjRHfIIogKa5t6cvcYlDkiqloDtdAppoyqraElYVJkhuMm7196aARAbh3_xMJqMHw3fW6GzhnGZ5GEjnBrx7jI3KJMVebPGJoQEE/s400/F2191CC5-BEE1-43CC-BED0-ED3E0E71081D.jpeg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"SERIOUSLY WHAT THE...?"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjMlq_4GvzVjKaVei_opWBGM4J6Mo6u9pHoqGiqF-Z1z1mbl6WDxWs8aD03eVtyv9rOeaOyC7-Tl_NWNr-MFs4035ymSKXbRaRMPyrcQeL5ersiwtgvrVfIvAPYcmKiH8GTkbmKqYCVw/s1600/BA8BD37B-3B81-4731-A722-38F0D38625D4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjMlq_4GvzVjKaVei_opWBGM4J6Mo6u9pHoqGiqF-Z1z1mbl6WDxWs8aD03eVtyv9rOeaOyC7-Tl_NWNr-MFs4035ymSKXbRaRMPyrcQeL5ersiwtgvrVfIvAPYcmKiH8GTkbmKqYCVw/s400/BA8BD37B-3B81-4731-A722-38F0D38625D4.jpeg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"If this is a joke, let me tell you what, I'm going to make you clean it up."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H7rM5Acz-IFFfv0qGX2emZFDvohAOq_OCxpcBew36lRJpq2Zgej6UP79t6_zZMPd-0vT6MytBH4XsCgpSKc_iU9rzprMvEncQB6LcV90fCl38JAEiYAMhY8FGvYh9haQ-YB8Z-z9WCg/s1600/9801BD9B-33A7-4228-93D8-1ED0717B3F17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H7rM5Acz-IFFfv0qGX2emZFDvohAOq_OCxpcBew36lRJpq2Zgej6UP79t6_zZMPd-0vT6MytBH4XsCgpSKc_iU9rzprMvEncQB6LcV90fCl38JAEiYAMhY8FGvYh9haQ-YB8Z-z9WCg/s400/9801BD9B-33A7-4228-93D8-1ED0717B3F17.jpeg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Mom, let's stick to the milk, okay? OKAY?"</td></tr>
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<i>*In case you were wondering, the purple all around Hope's mouth is from her Gentian Violet treatment for thrush. SO FUN.</i>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-39911746003952151332012-10-18T22:00:00.004-07:002012-10-18T22:00:29.048-07:00October Snapshots<div style="text-align: center;">
All of a sudden, it's fall.</div>
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To get in the spirit, we did some baking & some shopping.</div>
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We made some banana muffins. Pumpkin muffins are more fall-ish. But we already tried those and they turned out, kind of, not so great. </div>
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These were super easy. All we needed were regular baking ingredients (Flour, sugar, baking soda, salt, eggs) + ripe bananas.</div>
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Jack helped.</div>
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I'm always the last parent to remember fall gear. All the other kids are arriving to school with rain jackets and hats, and my little ones are still in flip flops. So I jetted off to Old Navy the other night and grabbed some coats, mittens, hats, boots, and an umbrella. Just my luck, they didn't have Jack's size so his coat is too big and I couldn't find one for Hope (but I did find like eight adorable pairs of baby boots, and that's like winning the jackpot right there).</div>
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And I think the best fall weather purchase so far was...cowboy boots from Goodwill. Five dollars! (Half off from $10). Finding good boots is soooooo difficult, so to find super cheap ones that are cute too? My toes are happy:</div>
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The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-91842900781027353312012-10-13T01:04:00.004-07:002012-10-13T09:16:13.326-07:00The Dream of An Organized Life<i>*I wrote this on the eve of returning to work after 9 weeks of maternity leave. However, due to severe procrastination and a reluctance to 'let the crazy out of the box', this post has been collecting dust for a few months -- which has actually provided an opportunity to include updates on how successful or not-successful my well intentioned & ambitious plans turned out.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Articles with captions like "HOW TO ORGANIZE YOUR LIFE IN 10 DAYS OR LESS"</span><span style="font-size: large;"> and accompanying photos of pencils and paper clips in crisp acrylic drawers, labeled, compartmentalized, and looking terrified makes the budding neat freak within me jump up and down on the couch like a love-crazed Tom Cruise. I've never been an organized person in "real life" but I have always known it is my destiny. And I'm really feeling like this is the decade for me to transition from a wanna-be to the real deal. For now, I'm just faking it 'til I make it. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's 2 am. Do you know where your label maker is?</td></tr>
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And until I make it, I continually manage the stress and anxiety
related to the affliction of severe disorganization and hoarding
tendencies by developing awesome organizational systems inspired from
articles on Yahoo news, shiny copies of Elle magazine, and
Facebook links to Pinterest images that promise to enlighten me with the
secret to an organized life.<br />
<br />
I read these articles and think, <i>"This is SO me."</i> Even though in real life, the real me is hoarding landfill size amounts of old coffee cups, expired coupons, crumpled magazines, and dirty diapers in every nook & cranny of my car. But no matter what my car smells like, I am eternally optimistic that one day I will be a master organizer.<br />
<br />
This will probably happen as soon as I complete all of my systems. I have to keep a lot of my ideas for systems on the down low from my husband, because he thinks the real system is just 'putting things away.' But I think it's a little more tricky than that. I hate for anyone to rain on my parade, so when I get a really great idea, I just order all the components needed from Amazon.com, and then when the packages of 100 clear plastic hangers arrive, for example, I just say, "STOP JUDGING ME" to my husband and then he understands I'm in the process of implementing a new system.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIk8-mp0AeIgQs8hYUXU5Veu5syLVwXlPaHv4cfET-CDGHT1BL3eUSiT6KSLgyD7uKOzvvyD9KyMz42jjadnSOhLXfnOvF6D4JzZwG2ylnF_P1emCJBcS1IMaWUVBdcSJW2bHyT_PvF0/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIk8-mp0AeIgQs8hYUXU5Veu5syLVwXlPaHv4cfET-CDGHT1BL3eUSiT6KSLgyD7uKOzvvyD9KyMz42jjadnSOhLXfnOvF6D4JzZwG2ylnF_P1emCJBcS1IMaWUVBdcSJW2bHyT_PvF0/s400/photo+1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good Hangers</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBr2rgFWdjw-ZR05YbeVoI19qrO5ER3l9AUMvv8ANvmTldGl7tNp1vHYjHMXuEuU5kBGRUsdV2wlvj5uhWGd-jtIRB9Vml8J807hYOa3O51qH7pUer9mbNklnLLeTVIpQl4Z5osGLM00c/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBr2rgFWdjw-ZR05YbeVoI19qrO5ER3l9AUMvv8ANvmTldGl7tNp1vHYjHMXuEuU5kBGRUsdV2wlvj5uhWGd-jtIRB9Vml8J807hYOa3O51qH7pUer9mbNklnLLeTVIpQl4Z5osGLM00c/s400/photo+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad Hangers</td></tr>
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<br />
This obsession with having everything organized has definitely hit an all time high in the last few months. I think it started during my first pregnancy -- this is called the 'nesting syndrome', yes? Well, I didn't quite get my 'nesting' done before Jackson was born and that triggered this constant feeling of panic that nothing was ready. After he was born, I would have these repetitive thoughts:<br />
<br />
<i>"Why haven't I sorted his clothes into 1-3 month / 3-6 month / 6-9 month piles?"</i> The image of all those different sized baby clothes hanging together in the closet or sharing the same dresser drawers - not categorized by size, color, or alphabetical order was like a constant tick. If I could just sort the clothes, everything in my life would make sense...<br />
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or<br />
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<i>"I should have a special place in the cupboards for all these bottles."</i> The bottles were small and light weight and they would fall over and spill onto the plates in the cupboard, or get hidden behind the cups and then I couldn't find one and Jack was hungry and Brent and I were looking everywhere and we were causing all this unnecessary stress and anxiety on our innocent baby because we didn't have a system for keeping the bottles organized and OH MY GOD.<br />
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Where do thoughts like these come from? Is this post-partum depression? Typical new parent anxiety? I don't know, but it never went away and I would lay awake at night, resenting my closets for their disheveled insides and lack of compartments. EVERYTHING IS TOUCHING EVERYTHING ELSE. Like a five year old who doesn't want his peas and mashed potatoes touching, I bristle, like nails on a chalk board, at the thought of shoes and work bags crammed together in the front hall closet. <br />
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The problem is that I'm not an organized person by nature. I'm very messy and I hate to be bothered with the mundane task of putting anything away. I am, however, good at coming up with ideas. Instead of 'get rich quick' schemes I often think of 'get organized quick' schemes.<br />
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In preparation for returning to work after maternity leave, I decided to create some systems that would make some of our daily tasks a bit simpler and faster to carry out. My husband and I both work full time in careers that require travel and varied hours. Our mornings involve getting ourselves and our two kids ready for the day and out the door to daycare and work quickly and without too much screaming. I did not want my return to work to result in tears, mismatched shoes, and a feeling of hopelessness before the clock struck 8 am every day, so I knew a plan involving multiple systems would need to be put in order.<br />
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After much thought and deliberation about the events and points throughout the day which cause the most stress, clutter, and anxiety, I put together the following systems:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #1: Have breakfast.</b></span></div>
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I portioned out two weeks worth of steel cut oats to create homemade 'instant oatmeal'. No need to measure, boil water, find the sugar, etc -- its all ready to pop in the microwave & BAM there's a healthy, quick meal before the day starts.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH9ual3FJ12GIQ7wZAdFuApDGfoILUVMv4hsIBtdMErAefq944lkhPRkKgyhWw5C0qxjF0K40sQ-I5qAJJMvnp3OnVrkcydjR7rD2vJ1XbAtV9GU-DzyNDgQGa0rn27kg4TB60jOREbk/s1600/photo-1+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH9ual3FJ12GIQ7wZAdFuApDGfoILUVMv4hsIBtdMErAefq944lkhPRkKgyhWw5C0qxjF0K40sQ-I5qAJJMvnp3OnVrkcydjR7rD2vJ1XbAtV9GU-DzyNDgQGa0rn27kg4TB60jOREbk/s400/photo-1+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update:</b> Yeah, this worked for one week. I'm back to a grab-n-go system of like an apple and string cheese</i>.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #2: Be Ready To Head Out The Door</b></span></div>
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Have
keys, cell phone, work bag, purse, and shoes by the door before turning in for the night. This can save me anywhere from 15 min to an hour running around
looking for these items. Especially when you have a three year old who
enjoys burying cell phones in the backyard.<br />
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<i><b>Update</b>: I've been sticking to this new habit.</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #3: Feed The Baby</b></span></div>
<br />
The goal was to have lots and lots of milk pumped and stored so that baby can eat while I'm at work. I managed to pump all of ONE bag of milk (if 1 oz counts as a bag) before returning. Go me! That's a whole other post. I have no idea how some moms can store stockpiles of extra milk. This system continues to be a work in progress.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGAUkMltBoVv7npV9N7kP28vVgL121KBQqwhSyiYG8gf69ZB_wZX4D1q0LQf_7qZt4QIbaxvGVKMdZxJGHj2d1uW0zrUjg5S6gcIQ1dZwdb9C-MmqBh_LMx2F2qk4zVs2BLTVOGrGcbA/s1600/photo-10+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGAUkMltBoVv7npV9N7kP28vVgL121KBQqwhSyiYG8gf69ZB_wZX4D1q0LQf_7qZt4QIbaxvGVKMdZxJGHj2d1uW0zrUjg5S6gcIQ1dZwdb9C-MmqBh_LMx2F2qk4zVs2BLTVOGrGcbA/s400/photo-10+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update:</b> Enfamil. (Plus me visiting daycare at lunch to nurse).</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #4: Remember Your Mantras. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgrwJDotC0nlrpIivqieYW7DkpW7-GxVs11J0DRmlnR5ctuHLNbAU0sqot1dMvy8hMbyj9-x6K98dkFwJHJQlk0IE2C0XyCcWdG9tnzB9lrjVPwgAjXzbEVEN9kcwy5w8_AGffWCIVkA/s1600/7E81C7E9-2009-485F-AF68-E506F6FBF0FE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgrwJDotC0nlrpIivqieYW7DkpW7-GxVs11J0DRmlnR5ctuHLNbAU0sqot1dMvy8hMbyj9-x6K98dkFwJHJQlk0IE2C0XyCcWdG9tnzB9lrjVPwgAjXzbEVEN9kcwy5w8_AGffWCIVkA/s400/7E81C7E9-2009-485F-AF68-E506F6FBF0FE.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update</b>: I remember them.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #5: Realize that your life deserves </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>a LARGE CALENDAR</b>.</span></div>
<br />
When trying to coordinate work schedules, family visits, daycare, doctor's appointments, travel, play dates, etc. a larger than life calendar is necessary. Trying to cram all of those things into a regular sized calendar will just result in frustration and binge drinking. Also, it's easier to win an argument with your husband when you can say "How could you have possibly planned to view a golf tournament on the stupid golf channel when it states right there on the LARGE CALENDAR that I'm watching the season finale of 'The Bachelorette' that night?!"<br />
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I used poster board paper to create an enormous calendar, and I hung it up in our kitchen. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic95HAZ-o7xT52_oknx-WMSktFpxTc2QCU-B_ppLUmARp2atb36WL3i3kkV3O77J_AjsPzEE7sTKWv1c6DZb8l-ApeRaz24WhUHF8_vJe09LeA0-Daopv7htqiAWj_jL7nXWpyq-OBeYU/s1600/photo-2+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic95HAZ-o7xT52_oknx-WMSktFpxTc2QCU-B_ppLUmARp2atb36WL3i3kkV3O77J_AjsPzEE7sTKWv1c6DZb8l-ApeRaz24WhUHF8_vJe09LeA0-Daopv7htqiAWj_jL7nXWpyq-OBeYU/s400/photo-2+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update:</b> This worked really well for August and September. I forgot to make October. But it's only October 12 so I still have time. (I would like to coordinate our calendars on my IPHONE but haven't figured out how to yet so if you have tips please leave them in the comment section, thank you!)</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #6: Take a break</b>. </span></div>
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For a long time I did not even entertain the thought of taking a night off because the conversation in my head went something like this: "How can you take a few hours for yourself when all your spare time outside of work should go to your children?" However, children do go to bed at some point (That's an old John & Kate Plus Eight quote by the way) & chances are they won't miss me while they are snoozing. So, I'm allotting myself one sticky note AKA one free night per week. I also created sticky notes for Brent too, because I'm nice like that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzShP0gPuMuzAmEQrSVjH8xEa0yIMDtytwCsxAmitWyt98Wk-t0QEQhgIg24BBQFakx7nBvToK-reQ2zzS0c5w4NcpwDBx2gjFmI1JJ-BEkHKjwU2nUh5UFo_7T_CqvbQ8DPPhPxzzxk/s1600/photo-12+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzShP0gPuMuzAmEQrSVjH8xEa0yIMDtytwCsxAmitWyt98Wk-t0QEQhgIg24BBQFakx7nBvToK-reQ2zzS0c5w4NcpwDBx2gjFmI1JJ-BEkHKjwU2nUh5UFo_7T_CqvbQ8DPPhPxzzxk/s400/photo-12+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update</b>: Instead of going out with friends, I just drink alone after the kids go to bed. In my living room. (And if you want to give me a hard time about my Diet Pepsi addiction be prepared for me to go all Biden Malarky Irish on your ass). </i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System #7: Meal planning</b>.</span><br />
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Meal planning is a huge priority for me and helps with a variety of issues:<br />
<br />
-Makes grocery shopping easier <br />
-Saves money<br />
-Way healthier (takes away the "what's for dinner, oh crap, let's just order pizza" excuse)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hMCBqbOwTETgUZC3pT_3_BcvI8M5MYZGzzv5J-mrf5oQBAY8__9NrCY3hDakQGvb4JgLPYW83spcRDxJahbcuiRpMjpOs6FUYfC9nmD409ExpPRegR67WwAlopSsPqkxtNqYRdAm3cM/s1600/198109F6-5948-4626-A49C-520881D0F4F9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hMCBqbOwTETgUZC3pT_3_BcvI8M5MYZGzzv5J-mrf5oQBAY8__9NrCY3hDakQGvb4JgLPYW83spcRDxJahbcuiRpMjpOs6FUYfC9nmD409ExpPRegR67WwAlopSsPqkxtNqYRdAm3cM/s400/198109F6-5948-4626-A49C-520881D0F4F9.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update:</b> For the most part, we've been meal planning each week. Not without some bumps in the road but this system is definitely a keeper.</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>System #8: Organized Cupboards.</b></span></div>
<br />
I've spent too many nights being owned by the fear and anxiety of searching for a clean bottle while a screaming infant speed dials DHS to report me for child neglect. Just say NO to bottle clutter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVgPrfiKeDp3rnKRHXWxteiqxVvonGH3BRqRhnoI_v8dWRpzuyzA1NW7RIY9gK82KkJ9XFQ42KUukdAigXXSyehK69CNr6Y5kSUfL8MDVBKcygAhqZqGT9dikPG1TBMq41RfNzE9pWXmA/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVgPrfiKeDp3rnKRHXWxteiqxVvonGH3BRqRhnoI_v8dWRpzuyzA1NW7RIY9gK82KkJ9XFQ42KUukdAigXXSyehK69CNr6Y5kSUfL8MDVBKcygAhqZqGT9dikPG1TBMq41RfNzE9pWXmA/s400/photo+4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Update:</b> This one is easy. But sometimes Brent throws sippy cups in the bottle bins and then my brain goes all agghhhh and I have to visualize my safe place. </i></span></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <b>System # 9: Get The Freakin Clothes Figured Out</b>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3N03_X4LraDJkqz_gcHgacCN40SLw_DEv0Hvt106QIwVwQYPuU7scK61PHHTCOpAqiLpbwrpU3Aez36OkszOQO-fHu1ktn6MXslRUqjTHYx8G_G9wDaj8EnPLqJkWv2yYkvA1fZBFac/s1600/photo-7+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3N03_X4LraDJkqz_gcHgacCN40SLw_DEv0Hvt106QIwVwQYPuU7scK61PHHTCOpAqiLpbwrpU3Aez36OkszOQO-fHu1ktn6MXslRUqjTHYx8G_G9wDaj8EnPLqJkWv2yYkvA1fZBFac/s400/photo-7+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Update:</b> Have not worked up the courage to sort these drawers out yet. I have stuck labels inside the drawers. So.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>System # 10: Mail is A Real Thing</b></span></div>
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I have a full proof mail system. And it works at least 20% of the time. Here's what you do:<br />
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1) Collect all the mail from wherever it has been living in your house.<br />
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2) Dump all the mail onto a flat surface (like a table or the floor).<br />
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2) Pray (this can be done silently or out loud).<br />
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3) Sort mail into labeled piles (I use sticky notes).<br />
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"Bills"<br />
"Follow Up"<br />
"File"<br />
"Coupons"<br />
"The Neighbors Mail"<br />
"Toys / Jackson's discarded peanut butter & jelly sandwiches "<br />
"Contact the DMV and/or the IRS immediately"<br />
"Recycle"<br />
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4)
Attach a permanent shelving unit to the wall or the inside of a hall
closet -- somewhere relatively close enough to the front door so you don't talk yourself out of sorting the mail by the time you get there.<br />
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5) Vow to sort your mail every single day for the rest of your life in sickness and health and forever and ever (<i>and don't hide the DMV warning letters in the coupon bin, amen)</i>.<br />
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<i><b>Update:</b> This is not a new system for me. But I did make a changes to the type of shelving unit I use. When I'm on top of my game, this system actually works pretty well and is definitely better than the alternative: shoving all my mail into an overflowing basket by the door. </i><br />
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* * *<br />
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So those are my systems. I still have like 893 more to work out. And I'm still plotting against my closets. Hopefully I'll make enough progress to write a follow up post soon. In case you were worried this post was too short, lol.<br />
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Do you have tricks to keeping your house / life / day organized? Do you have unfinished projects that keep you up at night? <br />
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The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-74189615932833045282012-10-07T21:40:00.002-07:002012-10-07T21:45:41.055-07:00Pumpkin Patches 2009 - 2012We started visiting Pumpkin Patches in the fall of 2009 -- the year Jack turned one year old. My intention was to make it an annual tradition. Surprisingly enough, given my total lack of follow through on 99% of my brilliant ideas, we have managed to go each October. Now that we are settled in Eugene, I hope we can do our pumpkin hunting at the same farm every year so the kids will remember it as a childhood tradition.<br />
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My dad used to take us to Detering Orchards, a farm in Harrisburg. I don't remember if we got pumpkins there, but I know we got boxes of apples each year from their produce stands. I've been meaning to head out there ever since we moved back, but haven't seemed to get around to it. We finally went this week, and it was exactly as I remembered.<br />
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Jackson wanted to pick out a pumpkin for 'Jack' and one for 'Hope' and one for 'Mom' and one for 'Dad' to make "A Pumpkin Family". We started with the bin of little pumpkins and he got started on finding one that most resembled his own features:</div>
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He wanted to make sure he got just the right ones for him and Hope.</div>
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Big brother pumpkin & baby sister pumpkin.</div>
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Hope approved. (Except she was looking at apples and had no idea what we were talking about.)</div>
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Grandma and Aunt Letha were waaayyyy more interesting than<br />
Jack and I's 'Family Pumpkin' project.</div>
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Then we were off to browse all those apples that Hope was so fascinated by.</div>
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Jack got distracted by watermelons.</div>
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I got distracted by cool looking popcorn. We totally bought it. I mean, c'mon, that's some pretty awesome looking microwave popcorn.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWGzzFCjeE1w3Rs2bld3w2MMtQ_qbtQrJqQ9YhGouIrwemuZpl0xOCEDCzAbP37d46QWC6eElZ6YhFabrUC0LM_UZ6MYLX0Jv4Ks4B8zYa2sgG7Z3sZ8U9nUKp4oU8yLjeFFKry0Kf44/s1600/CE6E249D-79B4-4484-B101-1E9CB66BD022+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWGzzFCjeE1w3Rs2bld3w2MMtQ_qbtQrJqQ9YhGouIrwemuZpl0xOCEDCzAbP37d46QWC6eElZ6YhFabrUC0LM_UZ6MYLX0Jv4Ks4B8zYa2sgG7Z3sZ8U9nUKp4oU8yLjeFFKry0Kf44/s400/CE6E249D-79B4-4484-B101-1E9CB66BD022+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Then it was time to find the "Mommy & Daddy Pumpkins".</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngIdM1dghrcu71799o_FebEfro3Ganu97NXFQOGIudPSxr6HEnHeJ8Veezciu_ZvoEKjF7b3wB9Yk4Wj-PDa4mhMyG5nYTbVDNVDXOK5KR8HGcU-_af96A6OL0i1fCU9Ht14lBpp_-l0/s1600/F60491DB-6010-4A1F-AB35-CEEA2EB4E105+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngIdM1dghrcu71799o_FebEfro3Ganu97NXFQOGIudPSxr6HEnHeJ8Veezciu_ZvoEKjF7b3wB9Yk4Wj-PDa4mhMyG5nYTbVDNVDXOK5KR8HGcU-_af96A6OL0i1fCU9Ht14lBpp_-l0/s400/F60491DB-6010-4A1F-AB35-CEEA2EB4E105+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lpF6OaXR7iOH5MtBFp8BPC45vL_LlFh5187Yc1-Q4khqVhn3XMU3b0hUfEavqb17951uWP3q8ZndEBryavJhSQ7_N7rzx5DpALE5UjNctphgxeTl6HcL2pdPAKWiDqixcVFJwbpaYeo/s1600/DB548796-0889-4B16-B39F-84AED1823251.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lpF6OaXR7iOH5MtBFp8BPC45vL_LlFh5187Yc1-Q4khqVhn3XMU3b0hUfEavqb17951uWP3q8ZndEBryavJhSQ7_N7rzx5DpALE5UjNctphgxeTl6HcL2pdPAKWiDqixcVFJwbpaYeo/s400/DB548796-0889-4B16-B39F-84AED1823251.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jack thought this one looked like dad.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGMPMGEerz5kWA74c8LpFy-BQDGlBIM7mxi5IYAU6NGdblCqdhVeqCLRs7Do_rSsv302W0cngxvMP5vPcAAN7xhNNUinmnqHoouqgHrttSvWf6cV3E9fwKKiBRrnaUzDHvP6ary532t0/s1600/9AC68D10-14B0-4635-9064-2C4A12CF39B3+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGMPMGEerz5kWA74c8LpFy-BQDGlBIM7mxi5IYAU6NGdblCqdhVeqCLRs7Do_rSsv302W0cngxvMP5vPcAAN7xhNNUinmnqHoouqgHrttSvWf6cV3E9fwKKiBRrnaUzDHvP6ary532t0/s400/9AC68D10-14B0-4635-9064-2C4A12CF39B3+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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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/AVvXsEiRuFsyoksCy-sJVd0BNNppoPI3wIe52s0D6MN0XY3koQIIoF10jZ-nkPF3iL1_a-wOpolZJNJoMGmeKWILDRP0avEo0jcGh5gZwTOod8kVqy8cXf8Cch-TodLt1vs4jKVcF6gQ6sjIDuQ/s1600/CB7F192C-B3C8-406E-9C05-B6115255358F+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRuFsyoksCy-sJVd0BNNppoPI3wIe52s0D6MN0XY3koQIIoF10jZ-nkPF3iL1_a-wOpolZJNJoMGmeKWILDRP0avEo0jcGh5gZwTOod8kVqy8cXf8Cch-TodLt1vs4jKVcF6gQ6sjIDuQ/s400/CB7F192C-B3C8-406E-9C05-B6115255358F+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting on Mom & Dad Pumpkins<br />
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</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHiVpam3RPu80PgOGqPbiN-WzwiWclGpK0KWeu_FQ1HbfDbbJSNMjhrJHy-4s32J91Oejss52hr7kLPUJ0FntBIqYgX0kHBPGlEKBYTOIesKWX1JbqO38tRfe_k6XhOOJkG29q2mrQjg/s1600/9F1DAAE8-445B-487A-94DD-E3881AF71C47+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHiVpam3RPu80PgOGqPbiN-WzwiWclGpK0KWeu_FQ1HbfDbbJSNMjhrJHy-4s32J91Oejss52hr7kLPUJ0FntBIqYgX0kHBPGlEKBYTOIesKWX1JbqO38tRfe_k6XhOOJkG29q2mrQjg/s400/9F1DAAE8-445B-487A-94DD-E3881AF71C47+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
No pumpkin patch experience is complete without posing in a Giant-Pumpkin-Carve-Out next to a Scary Scare Crow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wbEfSx8RTohywV0N7Zu0lI4W87vC11xBalGZ5yp2XUdCX7z_vUgoz7F90S1pJLHMTIIayp21FA3VRoh2wxSWELdCXxUDmgom-FSFMvJDxwwZeY3LVNUjVUWzu86x1kVRx8bna-n_xhg/s1600/FB7E3BA6-70BB-40D9-A397-9BE5B871B43F+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wbEfSx8RTohywV0N7Zu0lI4W87vC11xBalGZ5yp2XUdCX7z_vUgoz7F90S1pJLHMTIIayp21FA3VRoh2wxSWELdCXxUDmgom-FSFMvJDxwwZeY3LVNUjVUWzu86x1kVRx8bna-n_xhg/s400/FB7E3BA6-70BB-40D9-A397-9BE5B871B43F+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fun, fun, fun.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpJCZlGCdgHhyphenhyphenxJ13xJ3Z1sTiU33y4cvwQ52Dt_mT_qYdIfJJabfjvdtojRVDhJlFpGzOyqk4SYH9E9tNZiyKDYvQXzaqG_aXgxxpQjsoRCiFByNbiAhfrDX0vAz8ERVgWRoyFc4Cxt8/s1600/C15B18D2-E366-4DB5-BAC0-AEAF6CAE891D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpJCZlGCdgHhyphenhyphenxJ13xJ3Z1sTiU33y4cvwQ52Dt_mT_qYdIfJJabfjvdtojRVDhJlFpGzOyqk4SYH9E9tNZiyKDYvQXzaqG_aXgxxpQjsoRCiFByNbiAhfrDX0vAz8ERVgWRoyFc4Cxt8/s400/C15B18D2-E366-4DB5-BAC0-AEAF6CAE891D.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
One thing we have not been good at (here's that follow through issue again) is actually CARVING THE PUMPKINS. Unfortunately, they've just sat in our front yard each year, forgotten the moment we get home and left to rot until they get their guts frozen out in December. I know, I know: WE ARE BAD PEOPLE. This year we are totally carving the pumpkins.<br />
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We also have two full grown pumpkins in our own garden. I didn't notice them until we got home from the Pumpkin Patch.<br />
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* * *</div>
<br />
<i>Here's some golden-oldie pics from years past:</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2011</b> </span></div>
<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/AVvXsEjACjnbSg44U3Ys_qDfhgDEArYJjZFZP97-6sVsfz2GHfUp6H0zBJ2dMh8oLwX5Xt61SFnT935zl42ykWd9O2ALjRaw111ejEWSqzy4BPIlHO7_k_GNXBRZW6ICGH1kx_V8tuFUxaEmso4/s1600/319938_10150332468492001_2116785108_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACjnbSg44U3Ys_qDfhgDEArYJjZFZP97-6sVsfz2GHfUp6H0zBJ2dMh8oLwX5Xt61SFnT935zl42ykWd9O2ALjRaw111ejEWSqzy4BPIlHO7_k_GNXBRZW6ICGH1kx_V8tuFUxaEmso4/s320/319938_10150332468492001_2116785108_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pumpkin Patch in Oregon City. They had a Fire Truck and free Fireman hats. Serious fun-ness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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/AVvXsEgnIVCdc7sd20pN_HR_SzRTQHXRTuViDRPmiXs3y2pASAPz4JC45Cfy48h6QjseX16my3e2hG0P6rPhSZGk6Lje9lJ0wJuC_VtahjMM9BZcdTU0UyaCCNX3WIF8PmBnQrPBnuMRvcV-uho/s1600/300661_10150332468457001_276255758_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIVCdc7sd20pN_HR_SzRTQHXRTuViDRPmiXs3y2pASAPz4JC45Cfy48h6QjseX16my3e2hG0P6rPhSZGk6Lje9lJ0wJuC_VtahjMM9BZcdTU0UyaCCNX3WIF8PmBnQrPBnuMRvcV-uho/s320/300661_10150332468457001_276255758_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And caramel corn. That's even better than antique-looking microwave popcorn bags.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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/AVvXsEjwa6ZyVpTVwPq1TM4XxXQOaODc3MSug0HFg2bbQbqFBJKpFGRiE_cyKnrvunMo7pJTiaf0yQ9dp-Qnidv80-5wRFUEwd3q9pa1tCGYSUPpyqGYzs4y6cyfY1YNqH0_8kwS0uX7xqUXjXo/s1600/305850_10150332470542001_325413781_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwa6ZyVpTVwPq1TM4XxXQOaODc3MSug0HFg2bbQbqFBJKpFGRiE_cyKnrvunMo7pJTiaf0yQ9dp-Qnidv80-5wRFUEwd3q9pa1tCGYSUPpyqGYzs4y6cyfY1YNqH0_8kwS0uX7xqUXjXo/s320/305850_10150332470542001_325413781_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hats off to you, Mr Pumpkins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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/AVvXsEgj4uZNeX0cBTM3Feu3TAiGHUoRhg4Jgvm-yzsN7_Lzepk42MDjiUcoeOZS8AgjHUtfdc6NJzHRxT6SQ9Tr5-7w7PozpqU0Lw4FCNRtnJcF49POaS7_39xYVBbsbu8POGzY_gV2c7NddUM/s1600/308700_10150332469117001_1200121176_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4uZNeX0cBTM3Feu3TAiGHUoRhg4Jgvm-yzsN7_Lzepk42MDjiUcoeOZS8AgjHUtfdc6NJzHRxT6SQ9Tr5-7w7PozpqU0Lw4FCNRtnJcF49POaS7_39xYVBbsbu8POGzY_gV2c7NddUM/s320/308700_10150332469117001_1200121176_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hands off. That's my fireman.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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/AVvXsEihHUyqe0q5tf00a4WgEoiVX1C5zlgoMl-ouh8YGuS7q7Xx-iRAbnJ0_IPf0gDbvuEGNlFAt_xi6E0jc568vB3eZ7oPMQiIowxGVCIe0V9CaC0X5pBMQ2GKgav6Wif7NvgWOgfQA3-rGpc/s1600/299269_10150332469092001_98975945_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihHUyqe0q5tf00a4WgEoiVX1C5zlgoMl-ouh8YGuS7q7Xx-iRAbnJ0_IPf0gDbvuEGNlFAt_xi6E0jc568vB3eZ7oPMQiIowxGVCIe0V9CaC0X5pBMQ2GKgav6Wif7NvgWOgfQA3-rGpc/s320/299269_10150332469092001_98975945_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hay Rides are the bees knees.<br />
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* * * <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2010 </b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkJeeuuKzbOn98_yHIucKYyRU27C2kH7iaB_VUJVtLei5m46p6uIE_mJi-IHUhrgM5zpIqx_FkCvFXfto7237I0MNuwDXpl50-LJZzhqAap564TPKVfO0bhgobGuUHWqrtpmluosRhRw/s1600/73457_458261562000_7864222_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkJeeuuKzbOn98_yHIucKYyRU27C2kH7iaB_VUJVtLei5m46p6uIE_mJi-IHUhrgM5zpIqx_FkCvFXfto7237I0MNuwDXpl50-LJZzhqAap564TPKVfO0bhgobGuUHWqrtpmluosRhRw/s400/73457_458261562000_7864222_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
...and that t-shirt would be saying: <i>Cow Tipper In Training</i>. Totally against our values. But catchy!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS96KLBO26j8ES20BRBQDlDfLzjHIlF5pVn0MSwpZ6ghOqw2nrqZjmafSdV4JBewQdLDCrr4hwvSfbYTjjWNTKCDzsG7AgvptKvHwcv6PUggl12oOpLVSkDGGzCfnzyz9AfVI5uEMVWSQ/s1600/74280_458261357000_7460810_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS96KLBO26j8ES20BRBQDlDfLzjHIlF5pVn0MSwpZ6ghOqw2nrqZjmafSdV4JBewQdLDCrr4hwvSfbYTjjWNTKCDzsG7AgvptKvHwcv6PUggl12oOpLVSkDGGzCfnzyz9AfVI5uEMVWSQ/s400/74280_458261357000_7460810_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Jack is not impressed with this pumpkin.</div>
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* * *</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2009</b></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Our First Year, Pumpkin Patching.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYwbquvbUwacJJvK6ekIIiz0VzMBM7DxU1mdCFCmFI5gfN4uyWB-uPBcw6ia_UFPnZl2Ge4617JwoBDIWwFxiIcppesWnVxsVL8-zv_yY1L8uesz_KrICvGEyXwanvyYnLq2WHRcv2A0/s1600/14534_177829657000_2983149_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYwbquvbUwacJJvK6ekIIiz0VzMBM7DxU1mdCFCmFI5gfN4uyWB-uPBcw6ia_UFPnZl2Ge4617JwoBDIWwFxiIcppesWnVxsVL8-zv_yY1L8uesz_KrICvGEyXwanvyYnLq2WHRcv2A0/s400/14534_177829657000_2983149_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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We followed the instructions and 'got lost' in the maze. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Bo1V8TxBAYouzhvhbxlB63EDqSSwWK4rp6QP0ZjWYEVIvmiVidSCw7-jyyQm1Ct305SwdjIAk-JjY_k24LhaMTVU19BpiRJgRfehLnncdSxPcJoEJFRn6jUSgNhyphenhyphenQbbvqsnYEsBwIPw/s1600/14534_177830702000_5383526_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Bo1V8TxBAYouzhvhbxlB63EDqSSwWK4rp6QP0ZjWYEVIvmiVidSCw7-jyyQm1Ct305SwdjIAk-JjY_k24LhaMTVU19BpiRJgRfehLnncdSxPcJoEJFRn6jUSgNhyphenhyphenQbbvqsnYEsBwIPw/s400/14534_177830702000_5383526_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Really, really lost.<br />
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Scary lost. <br />
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But Jackson led us to safety.<br />
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Thank God somebody knew what was going on.<br />
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Little feet. Where did those little feet go?<br />
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Old Baby-Man.<br />
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What is that saying? <i>The days are long but the years are quick.</i></div>
The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-14307688840019170352012-09-26T01:32:00.001-07:002012-09-26T20:37:57.511-07:00Hope's Birth Story Part 2<br />
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<br />
<b>2 am:</b> I woke up to a searing contraction and two nurses standing next to my bed. I let them know I was starting to feel some more intensity. Clearly, my cervix had relaxed to the point where it decided to stop relaxing and just start screaming. I also let the nurses know that everyone should feel free to do whatever was in their power to make my birth as pleasant and pain free as possible and perhaps a little something something before the epidural was in order. The nurse who had just come on duty mentioned she had had natural home births for all her children. At that point I started to get a little wild-eyed. "I'm not having a home birth. I'm here at the hospital. And I'm going to need some pain medication because this is starting to hurt."<br />
<br />
So then the nurse mentioned that pain is a pretty common labor symptom, and that I should "not be worried."<br />
<br />
And then she mentioned that I could try sitting on a yoga ball or taking a hot bath.<br />
<br />
And then I mentioned that those were birthing tools for people who don't take pain medication during child birth, and that I was not such a person, and that my doctor had assured me I could have pain medication at any point and that I did not have to be any certain centimeters dilated to qualify nor did my water need to be broken, (I had made sure to ask that) nor did my husband need to approve nor any nurse nor anyone BUT ME need determine when I needed a little pain medication so I would be wanting that now, please and thank you.<br />
<br />
So the nice nurse went off to see what she could do and I reluctantly bounced on the yoga ball and waded into the hot tub with jet streams and clumsily soothed myself through contraction after contraction and the whole time I did not even think I was actually in labor because somehow in my mind I was convinced my labor wasn't 'starting' until they induced me via Pitocin, hours from now, at 6am. And this was only 2 am, and the cervix chillaxer was just a warm up, and the contractions were just tiny mountains on the squiggly monitor so I was definitely not in labor. But I still wanted something to take the edge off because every time I had a tiny mountain contraction I wanted to say motherf----er really loud. Because that's how they felt, they felt like mother f---ing contractions that hurt like a motherf----er. I mean, I'm sorry, that's the only way I know how to describe it. <br />
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<b>3 am:</b> Brent woke up after I got out of my bath. The nurse came back in the room. Cold, wet, and draped in towels with no idea how to change back into my hospital gown, I stopped saying motherf----er silently and started to say it out loud and continued to do so for the next two hours. Instead of breathing 'heeheehuhuheeheehuhu" to get through each contraction, I said 'motherf---er' to no one in particular REALLY LOUD. And then I would say, "I am so sorry for saying that." And then the nurse and Brent would say, "That's alright, you are in labor and you can say that if you want to." And that made me feel better. And like they understood me. And I also thought it was nice of them to not be mad at me for swearing. Someone brought me some Fentanyl. I guess it is a narcotic? I thought it was, like, a muscle relaxer. I think I'm the poster child for every single argument in favor of natural childbirth. Because I'm THAT MOTHER who is like, "Hey hook me up whatever you got, and I'll take a double dose, thankyouverymuch." <i>(Although for the record, she came out looking quite sober and latched on like a champ.)</i><br />
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At this point, the Ambien had not completely worn off yet and the Fentanyl was kicking in. And, in between contractions, I was feeling GREAT. But during contractions it felt like your typical run-of-the-mill torture session. By the time 6 am rolled around it was clear that baby girl no longer need me to hold my horses. It felt like go time. "I'm ready for my epidural. I would like that now." <br />
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The nurse called the anesthesiologist and then came to tell me it would be about a half hour until he arrived. They checked me and I was 3 centimeters dilated. (And counting.) When the anesthesiologist entered the room I suddenly wished I had asked for the epidural hours ago. The contractions were coming very quickly, and one right after the other, without any breaks. Fear of paralysis was the only thing that kept me motionless when the needle went in because I was starting to feel really shaky. Afterward, the contractions continued, and continued, and continued. I began to panic because I was feeling each one, and the pain was not lessening. With Jack, the contractions subsided very quickly after the epidural. The nurse checked me again. I was 10 centimeters. (And counting?!)<br />
<br />
"Oh my God and please Jesus, I do not want to feel the ring of fire." I told Brent who was filming again.<br />
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I started to plead with the anesthesiologist, "This isn't working, I need more, what can you do?" He told me the epidural must have only numbed half my body. (Obviously, not the half that the baby was coming out of.) As we started to weigh various pain-relief options (spinal anyone?) my Doctor arrived. I was VERY happy to see her. Suddenly I felt calm. Within minutes, the pain subsided. The epidural was working and it was time to have a baby.<br />
<br />
<i>The irony was thick as I realized I had just gotten my <b>pro-epidural-shout-it-off-the-rooftops-soap-box-self</b> all the way to 10 centimeters without any pain relief. Yes, the Ambien and Fentanyl were making me loopy enough to be doing a fair-to-modest impersonation of Anna Nicole Smith, but I can guarantee I felt the full force of every single contraction up until that baby's head was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Next time I will remember to order the epidural ahead of time.</i><br />
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<b>6:40 am:</b> I had the green light to start pushing, but that's when it occurred to me that I had not taken the time earlier to 'fix my face'. What with being in labor and all, I had totally forgotten. And now the baby was coming, and I looked a mess. And photos would be happening. And I'm somewhat shallow. So this was a problem. I turned to Brent and said,"You need to find my make-up bag." Out of the corner of my eye I saw the anesthesiologist excuse himself from the room.<br />
<br />
My doctor sat patiently at the end of my bed. She smiled. "I don't have a mirror so I'll just have apply it without one," I explained, before proceeding to put on a full face of lipstick, blush, eye-shadow, mascara, you name the product and I was putting it on. I WAS PUTTING IT ALL ON. And then I remembered my earrings. So Brent searched through my bags and brought my earrings over. My doctor, still sitting at the edge of the bed and facing me, mentioned they matched my hospital gown. I replied, "Yes, I like this hospital gown a lot." Then I puked 10 times, and announced I was ready to push.<br />
<br />
The nurse asked, "Do you need re-apply your make-up?" I remember thinking to myself -- <i>What a silly question, of course my make up is FINE.</i><br />
<br />
Then I pushed little Hope out. And she was perfect. And she had a crazy mom waiting for her.<br />
<br />
<i>I didn't remember anything of the 10 minutes right before she came out, until hours later in the day, when it all came back like some kind of Alice In Wonderland dream. I turned to Brent with a question mark on my face, and he just shook the video camera at me, and smiled.</i><br />
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* * * <i>Scroll down for accompanying videos* * * </i> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Aunts<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">And for your viewing pleasure: The Videos... </span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">7:30 pm - Arrival </span></i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwxhtq0rd5Z_AIBvEWq-56c1-s36YF4n4JiNp0V5DFQ1E2MNIyolfyVOM8UT5cM9vRuG2vtMW9eUQkJ9kpvOg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">7:35 pm - The Prelude</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">10:20 pm - The Sister</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">6:24 am - Fully Dilated </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">6:41 am - Primping </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">8:49 am - Hope</span></i></div>
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The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-57032172085529931482012-09-20T20:10:00.000-07:002012-09-26T07:12:26.514-07:00Hope's Birth Story - Part 1<i><b>Disclaimer</b>: This is a birth story. So, it's going to be kind of gross (in a wonderful way). Also, it does not get R rated until Part 2.</i><br />
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Hope's due date was May 19th. At the time, she was named "Either Hope or Juliette" if anyone asked, but in my heart I knew her name was Hope. As the date got closer I began to wonder when this little girl would arrive. Jackson had been premature, and I assumed she would make an early appearance as well. But as the weeks ticked on, I got the feeling that she was going to keep us waiting. It's never too soon to have a prerogative, right? And hers was clearly, "Hold your horses, mom". When I went in for my 39 week check up on May 11th, the Doctor and I discussed inducing. I had been hovering back and forth with some potential Preeclampsia symptoms, although it looked like things were going to be fine. To be on the safe side, we decided to induce that weekend. Afterwards, I called my husband (who was at home with our little guy) to let him know. Although this news was not surprising, it did make him a bit nervous.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijo9cvSf-cgo6rCyzlcOdZa8e_kGifhs3_R4lL0BL88PgNoU_IoPWuF7qTjqsqR-D6hBvqViWHVa8t7Kf3ysBRiTlf2iUQsZsolMDnpYFb0JG1CiqxF3N2h23MUvfS71M5PxQ5NQatCp4/s1600/013+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijo9cvSf-cgo6rCyzlcOdZa8e_kGifhs3_R4lL0BL88PgNoU_IoPWuF7qTjqsqR-D6hBvqViWHVa8t7Kf3ysBRiTlf2iUQsZsolMDnpYFb0JG1CiqxF3N2h23MUvfS71M5PxQ5NQatCp4/s320/013+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackson being swallowed by the baby belly, a few days before she arrived</td></tr>
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We went through our schedule for the next few days and wrote out a list of 'To Dos'. As we made our plans, we realized that Jack and our soon-to-arrive-baby-girl's journeys into the world were turning out to be quite different. With Jack we were caught off guard when 6 weeks ahead of schedule he decided to arrive. We had nothing prepared. <span style="color: #4c1130;"><i>(<a href="http://semipseudo.blogspot.com/2010/01/birth-story-part-1.html" target="_blank">Click here for Jack's Birth Story</a>. <a href="http://semipseudo.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html" target="_blank">Part two.</a> <a href="http://semipseudo.blogspot.com/2010/02/birth-story-part-3-final-frontier.html" target="_blank">Part three</a>.) </i></span><br />
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But with this pregnancy we had spent the last several months making sure every detail was ready. And now we even knew the exact date she would be arriving. Part of me wished for that long anticipated and spontaneous moment when you 'just know' that labor is coming. I had been wondering for months about what the moment would be like when she decided to join this world. What would I be doing? Would my water break suddenly like a popped balloon as it did with Jackson, or would it be a slower, more typical labor experience? But, for many reasons, it made sense to have her induced and we were definitely ready to welcome her! What opposites these two babies (and pregnancies) were turning out to be!<br />
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Later that night Brent and I took turns not sleeping. He woke up at 1:00 am and didn't come back to bed for a couple more hours. Then I couldn't sleep, so I got up and went to the living room where I sat on the couch and started to cry. The end of pregnancy can feel like a departure and a goodbye. Which is so odd because you are about to meet your child! And yet. Suddenly you feel alone, and like you are losing something. You feel the need to just rub your belly, and tell this little one who has been taking over everything inside of yourself that you will be there on the other side, waiting for them. You hope your arms are good enough, safe enough, to protect them on the outside just as you did when they lived inside you. But you know it won't be the same. Nothing will ever be as comfortable, as easy, as perfect for them like that bubble, literally, they have been living in. It will be life: huge and unexpected and uncontrollable. With no walls and no promises and no safety nets. While thinking all these deep thoughts, the tears started to flow and I released 9 months worth of hormones and emotions. All at once and while watching sappy homemade You Tube videos of other people's random kids as inspiration for my own imaginary montage of post birth photos with <span style="color: #4c1130;"><a href="http://youtu.be/lVam-fshUgw" target="_blank">THIS SONG</a></span> playing on repeat.<br />
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* * * <br />
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When the next day finally arrived, we had several hours to fill. We were not scheduled to arrive at the hospital until 7 pm. Besides taking random belly shots in the bathroom mirror from every possible angle, there was not much left to do.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgUZksB1rhZjQy6Bfg3abhmd4K0n5b6NWBQ52AG39vKBm-ahtWOAhSOYFjqv70n0PRvpQeXegLOiOL_miNDbqw7r6gNKgSdhn9FnNSzJq7F8uN_8hcHftixmSBdbaT6WZmhcYJXvV6yU/s1600/Pregnant+Pic+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgUZksB1rhZjQy6Bfg3abhmd4K0n5b6NWBQ52AG39vKBm-ahtWOAhSOYFjqv70n0PRvpQeXegLOiOL_miNDbqw7r6gNKgSdhn9FnNSzJq7F8uN_8hcHftixmSBdbaT6WZmhcYJXvV6yU/s320/Pregnant+Pic+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random belly shot, last day of pregnancy, shortly before we left for the hospital</td></tr>
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My goal for the day was to spend time with Jackson. I wanted to give him all of my attention, albeit distracted, and prepare him (for the seventieth time) for his sister's arrival. We stopped by a friend's house in the neighborhood who was having a garage sale. She piled my arms up with tons of maternity & nursing tops. Jackson played tractors with several little boys sitting on a huge pile of gravel. Then we were off to do some last minute shopping and I willingly gave in to every candy / small toy request. It was our special day, and there was no room for rules or self restraint. I pestered him for a thousand hugs and told him how special he was. Just thinking about being away from him for the next couple of nights made me nervous and I started to miss him, even with his little hand right there, holding mine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgze15stv6ir28rZRRvA7Yveo8H9WCeEX66w9Hjeu2ystz_uIM-MWY2axLNqtZ-Cm2BIS2_N2b2XlSNuyGbrB9C9ME2SKZx83RH6AjxOXmxcU6UorXu-_txwV10_oAKesYKWwh-gCs3xhs/s1600/Jack+lolly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgze15stv6ir28rZRRvA7Yveo8H9WCeEX66w9Hjeu2ystz_uIM-MWY2axLNqtZ-Cm2BIS2_N2b2XlSNuyGbrB9C9ME2SKZx83RH6AjxOXmxcU6UorXu-_txwV10_oAKesYKWwh-gCs3xhs/s320/Jack+lolly.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's more exciting than a lolly pop ring? It was a 'spoiling day'.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzK02nzJOuLtXpPiBrl_8VzZYl6BQ59Loj_BDgCf9rm5it4rx6H3NFYm9AMIEZOtmE4tcEYVLq7TPKGCDJCxV58KUuK1VL6XibKxpHSyai0BwV_s-0i8vSy9sgUgcegx1BjPeUc2Zcsc4/s1600/Jack+tractors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzK02nzJOuLtXpPiBrl_8VzZYl6BQ59Loj_BDgCf9rm5it4rx6H3NFYm9AMIEZOtmE4tcEYVLq7TPKGCDJCxV58KUuK1VL6XibKxpHSyai0BwV_s-0i8vSy9sgUgcegx1BjPeUc2Zcsc4/s320/Jack+tractors.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tractors + Gravel + Friends = 3 year old Heaven.</td></tr>
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<b>6pm</b>: Brent and I dropped Jackson off at my parent's house. The plan was for him to stay there until Hope was born, and at that point Brent was going to pick him up and bring him to the hospital so he could meet his little sister with just the four of us in the room, so it wouldn't be too overwhelming. I wanted to say hi to my sister and mom before we headed out, but only my dad was at home. I don't know if it was a hormone surge or what, but I started getting weepy again as I left their house.<br />
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<b>A Few Minutes Later: </b>We stopped at Albertsons to grab some post-epidural reading material and fried chicken for the drive to the hospital (in case we didn't have the opportunity to eat after we arrived). I started obsessively checking the car to make sure we didn't forget anything. We had packed our digital camera, video camera, lap tops, IPODs, IPHONES, and our I-everything-chargers. We wanted to document the labor and birth. We went a little overboard this time, but we had regretted not bringing any of that stuff for Jack's birth. All we have from his first day are a few cell phone pictures (and we're talking flip phone pictures). <br />
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<b>7pm</b>: We checked in to the hospital. I immediately started taking pictures of chairs, medical equipment, and the paper print-outs that showed my squiggly-line contractions. Brent was being just as ridiculous and began video taping the linoleum floor and the view from our room. I thought this was a great way to pretend we were on 'Baby Story'.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby contractions. No mountains yet!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was really enjoying taking my pictures.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YJXzEEguHZJfoxQQ-Po2NgqE5WKEAJoJ4uqT-buCJukM4YCehw7Jrf0ou2jqzZp3mO3Iw51qzmvY9NrdEf_eIhlbrjboASpBN7h6CL1xWRT13ZLfTR5ko_6p5v272kq9CmL57Lz6UvQ/s1600/023+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YJXzEEguHZJfoxQQ-Po2NgqE5WKEAJoJ4uqT-buCJukM4YCehw7Jrf0ou2jqzZp3mO3Iw51qzmvY9NrdEf_eIhlbrjboASpBN7h6CL1xWRT13ZLfTR5ko_6p5v272kq9CmL57Lz6UvQ/s320/023+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This blog posting not sponsored by wheat thins. (Obviously.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent giving me encouragement.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our lovely view</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jessica and I bonding over our new baby girls. Jennifer, you're up next.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used this a lot.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9emPy2oWlMDtnA7GPFqF5TeNvIkopZdwnTrxA6FgdaAy4xD2LZvAsIPugw0jU_Nx_iSkhMr-95zJxdMUerLBw2ItETERRO6wLlL2QzQl7Nd6X_5BnwdC2VO1fdIc-09lDz0EiFu5AOg/s1600/041+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9emPy2oWlMDtnA7GPFqF5TeNvIkopZdwnTrxA6FgdaAy4xD2LZvAsIPugw0jU_Nx_iSkhMr-95zJxdMUerLBw2ItETERRO6wLlL2QzQl7Nd6X_5BnwdC2VO1fdIc-09lDz0EiFu5AOg/s320/041+(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty much every Expectant Mother's emotions vs the Expectant Father's emotions.</td></tr>
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<br />
Teresa arrived soon after to keep us company, and that's when the party began. A series of questionable video taped interviews and photos began to emerge from what I would call 'The Beginning of The Blurriness Period." Somewhere between the adrenaline, the fried chicken, and the Jessica Simpson US Weekly article we started to get a little silly. And this was before the Ambien. So, I'll explain about that. Around 9 pm, the Nurse had come in and gave me something to 'relax my cervix' or, as I called it: "cervix chillaxin time'. Then, observing our rowdy and un-lady-like behavior, she strongly recommended I get some rest, and asked if I could use a sleeping pill. I had never taken a sleeping pill before, and I figured it would be awhile before anything got started, (I wasn't scheduled to start pitocin until 6 am the next day), so I said sure.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejUWX9gE7nsYQFyh2ULlMATuUNQn2tvWWPdP76a8ydQD9ekLCbNYsb_PCWQ3yWa6VP1b3mPFRANrckqfIvx6svRL2sR1JVEG5RL7aa7FHKUfbTfDJri8ZPUWR41bDWlL-9u8C-JoE6J0/s1600/039+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejUWX9gE7nsYQFyh2ULlMATuUNQn2tvWWPdP76a8ydQD9ekLCbNYsb_PCWQ3yWa6VP1b3mPFRANrckqfIvx6svRL2sR1JVEG5RL7aa7FHKUfbTfDJri8ZPUWR41bDWlL-9u8C-JoE6J0/s320/039+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me imitating a pregnancy monster. This was taken pre-drugs.<br />
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As the nurse left the room she called back, "Just buzz the Nurse's Station if you start to have hallucinations". Um, what the what? So that was the Ambien. Then I fell asleep.<br />
<br />
<i>...stay tuned for part 2 and some awesomely amazing video clips... </i>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-19262395164445399782012-09-05T09:23:00.001-07:002012-09-05T09:26:13.498-07:00Snapshots <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/AVvXsEiAZMZ6tD89kwxxISFeMGZJsACTxhU7JBbRfjZFbtdxOJ4c7RM3yf4mSTtqrwgKrPb_F06LMsnEBmWk7LfEkusg7V718tQT48pona-PmKa89BhGfUugrDH0XXW3EmmI96WhCEGS28c9euQ/s1600/267.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZMZ6tD89kwxxISFeMGZJsACTxhU7JBbRfjZFbtdxOJ4c7RM3yf4mSTtqrwgKrPb_F06LMsnEBmWk7LfEkusg7V718tQT48pona-PmKa89BhGfUugrDH0XXW3EmmI96WhCEGS28c9euQ/s320/267.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shannon sent me tons & tons of baby clothes for Hope. Shannon has been my best friend for almost 19 years. But she lives in Los Angeles so we don't see each other too often. I'm so excited we both had our baby girls in the same year. Abby is 6 months older than Hope so I'm sure she will have a lot to teach her! They are coming for a visit this weekend and it will be the first time Abby & Hope meet. I am so excited, I cannot wait!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRW8iEaujnaEAq_DWQk1vfyE_RpfAmsmtwzylsSFfAEu-7LtM6NqUfEUTAhdY-iZt5kQPUmxuXxBGTU5StiLUeQr5VuwZR74Tt4QF2wCYX2g-f2J0WIqRKKaDS6WMmFvS_iwUv5KJIZ1w/s1600/069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRW8iEaujnaEAq_DWQk1vfyE_RpfAmsmtwzylsSFfAEu-7LtM6NqUfEUTAhdY-iZt5kQPUmxuXxBGTU5StiLUeQr5VuwZR74Tt4QF2wCYX2g-f2J0WIqRKKaDS6WMmFvS_iwUv5KJIZ1w/s320/069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture is a bit old -- but I think it perfectly captures Hope & Jack's dynamic. LoL.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><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/AVvXsEhogpSNgk7EZvo4JWE7MHYyI1ep7SlH-4Oz7aAgt6ak0CavAz8ZlhjJ2xzTQ0rd5o41BeMpqpHprenxlcy9nPzdnHus39SwGbdq3Sqbt66kEgcBsmsK87iE_HxG3LCo3BEiJf_QHQ_JnAw/s1600/189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogpSNgk7EZvo4JWE7MHYyI1ep7SlH-4Oz7aAgt6ak0CavAz8ZlhjJ2xzTQ0rd5o41BeMpqpHprenxlcy9nPzdnHus39SwGbdq3Sqbt66kEgcBsmsK87iE_HxG3LCo3BEiJf_QHQ_JnAw/s320/189.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've been meaning to do a post on our trip to the library (we took the bus there for fun - it's only a 5 minute trip & the bus stop is half a block from our house). I haven't had time to write the post yet so for now these pics will have to do! Little preview! Jack found these books and wanted to take them home 'for daddy'.</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/AVvXsEhCWMu6sQFdVEYzYHYEmJm3TACWx4tO7ot0dBSgm79KMrCvC1uxt3zbviQrkrp14XE7trJ79SdJ5xBeUAG40xjAriktfUseEnAMR2CmSEshktdE9gxEYmEdUAxwEfwYk1XksPTCqbZbOh4/s1600/202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWMu6sQFdVEYzYHYEmJm3TACWx4tO7ot0dBSgm79KMrCvC1uxt3zbviQrkrp14XE7trJ79SdJ5xBeUAG40xjAriktfUseEnAMR2CmSEshktdE9gxEYmEdUAxwEfwYk1XksPTCqbZbOh4/s320/202.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone got tired...</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/AVvXsEgKoQBdw7B9gDNyxJHcrkuFJeTB0CqEytzFVQCD6yMMwljOBwUwlenLAeGWUVigX-olSplEE0Wywv4abPzXuEbGZ8qryJpthsdcUnQc91nNJ4Q9a7N-EUT3ijI-ICQn8Xe_4R77J5T3Xpg/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoQBdw7B9gDNyxJHcrkuFJeTB0CqEytzFVQCD6yMMwljOBwUwlenLAeGWUVigX-olSplEE0Wywv4abPzXuEbGZ8qryJpthsdcUnQc91nNJ4Q9a7N-EUT3ijI-ICQn8Xe_4R77J5T3Xpg/s320/004.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in May, just a few days before Hope was born, Brent's mom invited me to a 'tea party' at their church. They had a panel of women who spoke on the topic of 'kindness'. I loved it -- and I even won a door prize for being pregnant!</td></tr>
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The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-34878914600651590212012-07-10T23:54:00.127-07:002012-07-16T23:17:30.412-07:00Record PartyAs kids, my sisters and I used to dance on our parent's bed to the soundtrack of 'Annie' and children's albums like 'Puff the Magic Dragon'. Their room was filled with records. "Over a thousand", my dad told me when I asked how many. We did backward somersaults, catapulting ourselves with the help of the wall in front of us (the one lined with all the records). We sang along to the words as loud as we wanted. And after exhausting myself with elaborate dance moves that only a 7 year-old can think up (I can't speak for my sisters' dance moves), I would plop down and stare up, memorizing the images and words to the posters tacked to the ceiling. I don't know when I stopped dancing on their bed. But I do remember that even as a kid I knew I would never have more fun than that. I also knew that only kids could have that kind of fun.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2pzxV9ot3w0kl-xwq5mewGbWHs5gXB44XliVltarx4prcYjlFMEHjDLszP5ufdpHMnGF2URqj-DLbsoAZcUn7-qd8QSTe8331OvOptiWOv45nmlYBWPT62Iu5oiSZIq7_02CPNvCuIs/s1600/photo-4+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2pzxV9ot3w0kl-xwq5mewGbWHs5gXB44XliVltarx4prcYjlFMEHjDLszP5ufdpHMnGF2URqj-DLbsoAZcUn7-qd8QSTe8331OvOptiWOv45nmlYBWPT62Iu5oiSZIq7_02CPNvCuIs/s400/photo-4+%282%29.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Sk5N2SGqBN_DqUttc6A7FLkxdo18Gy6yyRiwKSb8JlqcYav07nKXVXc8tFvIqMkLAv25wbLCEmVv-xWLW6h3Ij_XgVSt9bfl70ZzB32HH0c5O3sYJ2AjpE1CYc5ry3bEB0d5giEV2s8/s1600/photo-6+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Sk5N2SGqBN_DqUttc6A7FLkxdo18Gy6yyRiwKSb8JlqcYav07nKXVXc8tFvIqMkLAv25wbLCEmVv-xWLW6h3Ij_XgVSt9bfl70ZzB32HH0c5O3sYJ2AjpE1CYc5ry3bEB0d5giEV2s8/s400/photo-6+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQu7V7hz6l3HNtbzVDykaHUCtCMH9duCWi6smKEiTF6kDNWFHzZ01ql3R5KG9HSyupHelutpowsozAzfgnW4EeIrc-t6pKjYYSOEtuFlNnzW09xzzuB-o3eVmw_3H08zSDXua7GlzPfQw/s1600/photo-4+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>These memories have led me to the following conclusions:<br />
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1) Jumping on beds (and couches) at my house is definitely allowed, if not encouraged. Preferably while singing "NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED".<br />
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2) A record player is a must-have for childhood sparkle, magic, rainbow fun. I just don't think IPODS and CD players have the same zing to their thing, you know?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKrwoJwv4ZQHe3bmsmu-M1bS31eUwwWie7CpXiR2D-zDQHhYKI6qlvL3pRz2O5SLNq72OR6KWphKM85xCpJ2FbVedzXixFYJj8atPjUk6Z7hAbp12p3HnJMILtFu2X5BNlBb40oREpY8/s1600/photo-7+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKrwoJwv4ZQHe3bmsmu-M1bS31eUwwWie7CpXiR2D-zDQHhYKI6qlvL3pRz2O5SLNq72OR6KWphKM85xCpJ2FbVedzXixFYJj8atPjUk6Z7hAbp12p3HnJMILtFu2X5BNlBb40oREpY8/s400/photo-7+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poster #1: I always wondered if someone was going to come along and sit down.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYrbP0Gw2fKwujdY5VMkHQhXKSc0C1KM1FjG7aDhR88_o_F9XxOzWDL4dBN_2xowYiTiw5UMtReAQnw4BePkS9enfMwGHAafkG_0X9rE_Jrm0YGajkf06rEZcQNyknW4r-s4hYHBAAFkg/s1600/photo-1+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYrbP0Gw2fKwujdY5VMkHQhXKSc0C1KM1FjG7aDhR88_o_F9XxOzWDL4dBN_2xowYiTiw5UMtReAQnw4BePkS9enfMwGHAafkG_0X9rE_Jrm0YGajkf06rEZcQNyknW4r-s4hYHBAAFkg/s400/photo-1+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poster #2: We thought the girl in the middle looked like my sister Annie, and we thought the boy with the shorts on looked like my brother Joe. And we didn't know who the other kid was.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The good news is that we do have beds in our house for jumping on. And since buying a record player for <strike>myself</strike> Brent last year for Christmas we've started building up our collection. So far we have a mix of punk rock and Irish bands (Brent's picks) and some vintage awesomeness with my finds: Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jackson Browne, Stevie Wonder, and Tracy Chapman (if you could call Chapman 'vintage' which I'm pretty sure you can't). But even with a record shop on every corner in Eugene, acquiring kid's records has not been so easy. Now that there's TWO kids in the house (and yes, Hope is already dancing) I'm eager to start finding some cool kid records. Or maybe I can walk the six blocks to my parent's house and rummage through those THOUSANDS(!) of records to find our old favs. Dust them off and start a dance party in my new living room. <br />
<br />
In the meantime, check out my Goodwill SCORE below from the other day. 10 records for .99 cents! Is that a deal or is that a deal? I couldn't believe it. I kept asking the clerk, "Are these really .10 cents EACH????" And he was all, "No, they are .49 cents each but ten for .99 cents." Okay, that makes no sense but obviously ten was cheaper than three and I'm no good at math so who am I to argue? I made my choices based on (1) If I knew the singer, group, or the album (2) If I thought I SHOULD KNOW the singer, group, or the album (hello Glenn Miller Orchestra) or (3) If I liked the album cover. (That didn't work out so well, not naming names GIGI).<br />
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I'm going to go jump on my couch now to a little "Jesus Christ Superstar"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwGbxbY5xYQ_Y6OKz4HWjWs08tDwOX7jfgvi9VUgNNEUHRGqKCtI469Ims0xxQnGq3NWx8YI89uV1dawFAVgJTiBoUHUfXODNFLvez8b_-j59OpMQe70mgYfFG7qBKPjoIVIUOjY4V9A/s1600/daddy+onesie+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwGbxbY5xYQ_Y6OKz4HWjWs08tDwOX7jfgvi9VUgNNEUHRGqKCtI469Ims0xxQnGq3NWx8YI89uV1dawFAVgJTiBoUHUfXODNFLvez8b_-j59OpMQe70mgYfFG7qBKPjoIVIUOjY4V9A/s320/daddy+onesie+%282%29.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I am so happy the nursery is prepared for our little one to come home to (although she probably won't be in there much since she'll be sleeping in our room for quite awhile). Poor Jack's nursery was not anywhere near complete when he came home, and I feel like he's never had a "real" room until this house. Now both of them will have their own special place that's cozy, bright, and whimsical. The thing I love the most about her room is that everywhere I look there is a special gift or handmade item that a family member or friend gave to us. I'm so grateful that she is being welcomed into the world with all this love and I can't wait to show her each one of the special & thoughtful gifts her loved ones provided her. Thank you all so much for helping to create her special room!!The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-46714983134818506132012-03-25T00:08:00.004-07:002012-03-25T00:23:51.719-07:00Countdown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yZ0VwN71oUOZi0FtYGIw3QUWqvHMyVdssHt2z4xpYb-7AI50SgXJhFrvpZ7W55w5Ceygxfym_KB3-mZpHZg8UVfeIXwcspqbHxxB1QIa8OKdzs9zCJYlZkAoR2OnaWmeWEf_L4ydRx4/s1600/iCE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yZ0VwN71oUOZi0FtYGIw3QUWqvHMyVdssHt2z4xpYb-7AI50SgXJhFrvpZ7W55w5Ceygxfym_KB3-mZpHZg8UVfeIXwcspqbHxxB1QIa8OKdzs9zCJYlZkAoR2OnaWmeWEf_L4ydRx4/s200/iCE.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>I had high hopes to blog throughout my pregnancy with posts full of nursery updates & comparisons to last time. But. Now I'm at 32 weeks and I haven't written a thing since January. In my defense, I have been busy eating. And working. And thinking a lot about curtains. <br />
<br />
Okay. So, I was reading an article about how Facebook is an accurate assessment of how narcissistic a person is depending on the frequency of their status updates and what they post about (IE -- themselves). I did a quick scan of my FB wall & was like, yeah, so clearly I'm self involved. I doubt I needed Yahoo News to to tell me this. But I would hate to be that person who doesn't just ACCEPT THEMSELVES FOR WHO THEY ARE so in that spirit I'm going to conduct an interview with MYSELF about how my pregnancy is going. This will be (A) really fun for me and (B) catch us all up on the last couple of trimesters in which I have failed to write anything.<br />
<br />
<b>What's the biggest difference between this pregnancy and the first one?</b><br />
I'm expecting a daughter.<br />
So that's different.<br />
<br />
Also, this pregnancy is much easier than with Jack. The whole having my appendix removed at 20 weeks, recurring and random medical issues, and pre-term labor threw me for a loop last time. With this pregnancy, the months have just flown by. Most of the time I don't even feel pregnant, other than her constant poltergeist type movements inside my body.<br />
<br />
<b> Any food cravings?</b><br />
YES. Thanks for asking.<br />
<br />
1st trimester -- I just wanted beer. I really wanted me SOME BEER. Normally, I hate beer.<br />
<br />
2nd trimester -- Anything salty, especially anything that included fried cheese. By month five, I nicknamed this baby "my little trucker". I also spent a lot of my time alternating between salivating over the thought of Bud Light, slim jims, nachos and pink nursery accessories. (In contrast, I just wanted apple slices and chocolate milk during my pregnancy with Jackson)<br />
<br />
3rd trimester -- I'm averaging 5 to 7 cups of crushed ice everyday. All I want to do is eat ice. Crushed Ice. Cubed Ice. Shaved Ice. I almost ate our front lawn the other day when it snowed.<br />
<br />
<b>Pregnancy symptoms?</b><br />
On a typical day, I feel great and enjoy feeling her <strike>constant thrashing</strike> movement. The only times I feel really 'pregnant' are at night -- that's when I tend to get back pain, some heartburn, restless leg syndrome (mild) and then of course, there is the 10 minute pee cycle WHICH JUST ROCKS. I described this awesome side effect of pregnancy <a href="http://semipseudo.blogspot.com/2010/01/birth-story-part-2.html">here</a>. Sleeping at night has also become more difficult, and I wake up frequently to pee or to adjust the 18 pillows I utilize to prop my belly up. But all of these things just go along with the territory and I don't really mind of any of the minor inconveniences since they are all normal pregnancy symptoms and I'm so excited that each day brings me closer to meeting my daughter.<br />
<br />
<b> How is Jackson reacting / processing all the changes?</b><br />
I try really hard to turn the abstract of pregnancy into something tangible and real for him, so that when she comes it's not a complete shock. I explain there is a baby in my tummy, and that she's growing big enough to come out and be part of our family. There is one great blog that has a mommy with a little boy Jack's age and she has pictures with the big brother holding the baby at the hospital. I show him this blog and explain that when the baby comes he'll get to be a big brother, and hold his sister, just like the boy in the pictures. He has also been helping me with the nursery, putting the bedding together and he picked out one of his stuffed animals to share with her. He LOVES to hold my belly, talk to her, give her kisses. He comes running into our room in the morning, and says "Can I give sissy a big hug and a kiss? I'm her big brother!" We'll see how he handles it when she arrives, but I'm not too worried. I'm sure it will be a mix of emotions for him over the next year but we are very good huggers around here, so I know my little guy will get tons of attention no matter what.<br />
<br />
<b> Colors & themes for the nursery?</b><br />
Pink & turquoise. The theme is kind of like bohemian / flowery / antique thrift store finds meets Ross.<br />
<br />
<b> Any names picked out?</b><br />
Hope or Juliet. I also like Rory, Bailey, Cora, and Tulla. Unfortunately, Brent's golfer friends keep naming their dogs or their own kids the names I have picked out. This is making me extremely grumpy.<br />
<br />
<b> Any pregnancy dreams?</b><br />
I dreamt right from the start I was having a little girl. All of my dreams have been very peaceful and calming. Which is really surprising because my whole life I normally have tons of nightmares and 'world ending' and 'everyone dying' type dreams. So that's a nice change of pace.<br />
<br />
<b> What's the birth plan?</b><br />
Epidural with a side of epidural. Actually, my birth plan is just to have the baby. Everything that comes AFTER the birth is much more important to me than the actual logistics of getting her through the tunnel.<br />
<br />
<b> Following any mommy / baby blogs?</b><br />
YES. Mommy blogs make me so happy and are a highlight of my pregnancy. As they were with Jackson. I am so grateful to my friend Andrea for exposing me to the world of blogs. The connection to other mothers' stories and journeys bring me a lot of comfort and therapy during these months. Right now I am obsessively reading:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.girlsgonechild.net/">Girls Gone Child</a> (She just had twins)<br />
<a href="http://whitpics11.blogspot.com/">Watch Me Grow</a> (Another mother who has a three year old son and just had a baby girl)<br />
<a href="http://babyinbroad.blogspot.com/">Noelle, Baby on Broad</a> (Starting her second pregnancy and also has a son / expecting a girl)<br />
<a href="http://prebabyblog.com/">The Art of Making A Baby</a> (This one is a hoot!)<br />
I also really enjoy '<a href="http://emeryjo.blogspot.com/">Moms Are For Everyone</a>' and I just started reading '<a href="http://littlebandofbrothers.blogspot.com/">Little Band of Brothers</a>'. I love the fashion / decorating styles highlighted in their blogs.<br />
<br />
<b> Maternity Leave Plan?</b><br />
I'm taking two months off, followed by one month of half time. I'll be back at work full time when she turns 3 months.<br />
<br />
<b> What else is happening?</b><br />
We've completely changed our entire life and I couldn't be more relieved at what a difference it has made. We moved from Portland to Eugene. Our house has gone from 3000 square feet, and three floors to 1200 square feet on one floor (SO EASY TO CLEAN AND LIVE IN! I LOVE IT!). We finally have a real backyard, and live across the street from a massive park. Taking walks and being outside is so easy and wonderful. We live 6 blocks from my parents, and Brent's parents live here as well. To have so much family and friends nearby is, just, everything I hoped for. No more crazy commuting and hectic work/daycare balance. Brent is home with Jackson, and he just started preschool 2 days a week. Even if/when Brent returns to work, I think it will still be a much calmer schedule, now that we live in Eugene and it is SO EASY to get around here. I love it. Done deal. Now I am just counting down the weeks for us to become a little family of four!The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-52347691641241723422012-01-03T21:45:00.000-08:002012-01-03T21:50:47.376-08:00Let's Put A Bird On It.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Rgh_vHA5LU_X0noYoFmPKve700VOb6DNAdhJ0hlASzcc8nzLQw_eIjjq7XnUEoYdqiGHt2a-rmDYYSbrVF-8g2o1cr0Ztx_bSRXX-LA2f0QF5K2JMhZ_Onw7qGPj7MwJGwyDv62XAb4/s1600/photo-9+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Rgh_vHA5LU_X0noYoFmPKve700VOb6DNAdhJ0hlASzcc8nzLQw_eIjjq7XnUEoYdqiGHt2a-rmDYYSbrVF-8g2o1cr0Ztx_bSRXX-LA2f0QF5K2JMhZ_Onw7qGPj7MwJGwyDv62XAb4/s320/photo-9+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Now that I'm moving to Eugene I feel the sudden urge to start an herb garden, buy a bicycle, and cleanse my new house with patchouli incense. And I might start putting a bird on everything. My inner hippy has gone into hiding while living in Portland's slightly more aggressive version of Northwest culture. But in Eugene I'm very "eh, let's put some Bob Dylan records on and call it good..." So if you see me at the Saturday Market buying homemade candles, just don't worry about it. <br />
<br />
My sister was helping me sort Jack's baby clothes the other day. I couldn't remember which bag I had put aside for Goodwill and which one was full of keepers. After she examined the contents of both she declared, "Well, this one has a bunch of Tie-Dye onesies in it so it must be the bag of clothes you are saving."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, must be." I nodded.<br />
<br />
See??? All my huffing and puffing and righteous indignation about Portland culture and I'm secretly hoarding Tie-Dye paraphernalia in my closets.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
In other news, I think I am going to do a 'before and after' series for the new house. It's empty now, so that will be the 'before' part. I'll post those pics in a few days. Then I'll fill up all the rooms, change the curtains 18 times, and post 'after' shots. And to digress for just a moment, I have to tell you that I can spend many an hour worrying about the statement my curtains are making. I've spent the last two years avoiding them all together and I've had bare windows this entire time --- which has been worth it just to avoid all the stress of taking them down and putting them back up again over and over. But sometimes I do go to K-Mart, Target, Fred Meyers, Ikea, Ross, and wherever else is open at 10 pm to peruse the curtain aisle, then I get sad because it seems to me everyone else has no problem at all picking out curtains. (Or sometimes I do buy some and stick them in the closet with Jack's Tie-Dye's -- hence the 18 different sets I have for my 'after' shots.)<br />
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When it comes to the kids' rooms, I'm much more confident. I already have a ton of ideas and am hoping the landlords will let us paint. If we can paint, I'm debating different options for the color of the nursery. My brother suggested I put a poll up for her NAME and I was going to go for it but after a brutal round of in-person polling with just siblings and parents I don't think I have the stomach for having all my favorite names voted down on the Internet! But advice is welcome on what color to paint her room, so here are the options: <i>(please feel free to vote in the comment section since I don't know how to create a real poll).</i><br />
<br />
LIGHT PINK<br />
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TANGERINE ORANGE<br />
<br />
SOFT GREEN<br />
<br />
YELLOWThe Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-61726998528002945002011-12-01T16:32:00.000-08:002011-12-08T13:52:46.166-08:00Let the Baby Bump BeginLet's talk about the baby bump. As in, is that a baby in there or did you just eat a lot of bacon and eggs for breakfast? Little bit of both! I'm a bit of a whiner when it comes to pregnancy, which is an unfortunate quality (working on it!) but the one thing I absolutely love about being knocked up is the belly! Even at my skinniest, I have never, ever had a 'flat tummy' so having an excuse to flaunt the bump rather than perpetually finding ways to hide it in between pregnancies is such a nice breath of fresh air. I can just relax, and let it all hang out, literally!<br />
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Here I am below, just over 15 weeks.. I am already rocking the maternity shirts! If you look at the second picture, you can see my belly now is almost as big as it was when I was 20 WEEKS with Jackson. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-b_VM3YRQg1h5xrWup79NZJaGwc2U4ngS1TbwFdDntH5Pfv5aRuVItXyLaskyYsMyT_7ttleFuE8EBlA4_e1hKsNfkemJFGYaQorGHtKcIPWfrekI9XOb6UbisHipXbN5EJqlNob1J1c/s1600/photo-11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-b_VM3YRQg1h5xrWup79NZJaGwc2U4ngS1TbwFdDntH5Pfv5aRuVItXyLaskyYsMyT_7ttleFuE8EBlA4_e1hKsNfkemJFGYaQorGHtKcIPWfrekI9XOb6UbisHipXbN5EJqlNob1J1c/s320/photo-11.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_VLTg-IM0w5IbHFHmqdWQdnkwBII_Ioc5D22eUDulZjGOPhtyxiYOfjoUUa8seWcsSTaqSFeUzUZ5QSddEddVxZ1hHB9vWMdY_3bB8OguMMkVmm32A4saxMOCuPt366JDp4WFe15BQ8/s1600/seiu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_VLTg-IM0w5IbHFHmqdWQdnkwBII_Ioc5D22eUDulZjGOPhtyxiYOfjoUUa8seWcsSTaqSFeUzUZ5QSddEddVxZ1hHB9vWMdY_3bB8OguMMkVmm32A4saxMOCuPt366JDp4WFe15BQ8/s320/seiu.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-12440982417859753702011-11-29T23:48:00.000-08:002011-11-30T11:51:35.153-08:00The Daycare Diaries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_T3a6I5dVLOQ1Bqo1zc2jRqvWmtzfKLXn3oXL6RwK95D_S8wf1K1yODLhqDCj63W08D0edVGkystyPgPDNPDEPX0w4SnAhJh73gx6ajGCAN5TUOb_9NKYc-jzpMZWMeavr2j9Ojgg_4/s1600/daycare.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_T3a6I5dVLOQ1Bqo1zc2jRqvWmtzfKLXn3oXL6RwK95D_S8wf1K1yODLhqDCj63W08D0edVGkystyPgPDNPDEPX0w4SnAhJh73gx6ajGCAN5TUOb_9NKYc-jzpMZWMeavr2j9Ojgg_4/s200/daycare.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Jack has been at The Sunshine School since he was 6 months old. He's played with the same friends for three years. He's been in a serious, although sometimes rocky, relationship with his girlfriend Ruby for that entire time. He's moved from the infant room, to the wobbler room, to the big boy room for "potty-trained" toddlers.<br />
<br />
This school has been our saving grace. For all the hectic mornings, crazy work schedules, and days we forgot diapers / shoes / milk, etc -- they always have a smile, a reassuring word, and an extra set of whatever we dropped in a puddle, peed on en-route to daycare, or happened to leave at home that day. Most days he lunges toward his favorite toy, favorite friend, favorite teacher. Laughing and engaged the minute we arrive. And for the one or two days a month when Jackson clings to me, holds onto my leg, cries and begs: "Mommy, don't go" the teachers bend down, pat his back, give him hugs and always say "Here, let me help with this transition" as I nod, fight back tears, hold him for 30 more seconds, and then stumble out of the classroom toward my car, toward my work day, toward ten more hours before I see him again.<br />
<br />
A common joke between Brent and I (among many inside jokes since we became parents) is "Oh, did Daycare teach you that?" Which, I guess, is more of a question than a joke but we always laugh in amazement and wonder at the new words, skills, and tricks he brings home. After his first few weeks there, our 6 month old started using sign language at the dinner table for the words "milk", "more", and "all done". Fast forward a year and a half later, Jackson starting counting to ten in the car everyday, it went something like this: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. JUST A MINUTE WE'RE NOT DONE!" (This last sentence was a line he stole from one of his favorite books. It adds a certain flare to the counting segment that I attribute to a budding appreciation for the dramatic).<br />
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He's also learned the alphabet, certain colors, how to pee standing up, and a rapid response outcome to the phrase "I'm going to count to 3" that I can only thank the teachers for instilling in him since we have absolutely not even one back bone between the two of us and neither one of us knows what the heck is supposed to happen after three. We just know it gets him to stop throwing pickle jars out of the cart during our weekly grocery shopping. (He must be putting the pieces together: Pickles + Mommy = total cliche and baby on the way! Like the flare for the dramatic, he also picks up on those psychic tendencies from me -- but we'll be going more into the whole 'I KNEW I WAS PSYCHIC!' epiphany later in this posting).<br />
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Apart from all the obvious benefits of early learning, social development, etc I just find everything about daycare very comforting. From the macaroni seasonal-themed artwork to the potty training sticker charts to the hand written notes at the end of the day: <span style="font-size: large;"><i style="color: #274e13;"> </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="color: #274e13;"><span style="color: magenta;">"Jackson really enjoyed playing with the dinosaurs today! He ate all of his broccoli at lunch time! He got to sleep in the Director's office because he wouldn't stop giggling at nap time and then all the kids were giggling instead of resting! Actually that happens quite often we thought you should know!"--Ms Tina</span></i></span><br />
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I'm probably so grateful for the dependable yet diverse routine they offer Jack because I know that if I were to be home with him each day, there would be no schedule, no music class, no arts & crafts, no daily walk to the playground. Cause on the weekends, I'm pretty much like "Let's cuddle all day!" or "Winnie the Pooh!!!!!" <br />
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They also give great advice. And they manage to do it in a really non aggressive but firm way (with lots of teacher head nodding that I find quite affirming, actually). <br />
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"Some of the other parents are starting to potty train at home. Would you like to try that? (Head nod).<br />
<br />
<i>and 4 months later...</i><br />
<br />
"We noticed Jack still wears diapers every day. Would you like to see what a pull up looks like? Here's an article on p-o-t-t-y t-r-a-i-n-i-n-g." (Extra long head nod).<br />
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"It's starting to rain a lot now. Because of how we live in Oregon and all. Would you like to bring a rain coat for Jack? That will help him stay d-r-y if we go outside to play."<br />
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And stuff like that. I kind of like it. They are always helping us figure out how to parent better which is super awesome because Brent and I are both the youngest of our siblings and WE HAVE NO FREAKIN IDEA what we are doing most of the time. <br />
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But now. Oh boy. We are moving. And Jack will have to say goodbye to all his little friends. (Who he probably thinks are his brothers and sisters since he's spent so much time with them his entire life). I know I'm gonna be a total hot mess on his last day, but for now I am putting those thoughts out of my head and just concentrating on finding him an equally fantastic pre-school in Eugene. He won't need to go full time, which is great, but we want him to go two days a week so that he can continue learning all that stuff that we fail to think of. And so he can still have access to crayons. <br />
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So I prepared an extensive list of daycare options to call through and first on my list, by random chance, was a Montessori school. Thanks to the huge chip on my shoulder and my constant cynicism of God-knows-what I immediately scrawled "going to be bitchy" on the form that contained their contact information. I sighed, then called anyway. The lady who answered said:<br />
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"It's a little late in the day for us to be answering questions. You need to call in the morning if you want information on our school." <br />
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"Oh, umm, okay, sorry. I was just wondering if you do part time care? Like, for a couple of days a week?"<br />
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"Oh no. Definitely not. It's very important the children have a regular school day 5 days a week."<br />
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So funny they have no time to answer pesky questions like "Do you have any openings?" but plenty of time for a phone lecture. Snap. They told me, yes they did! Oooh, I'm so scared of you Mister Montessori! Anyway, I got the chance to confirm my psychic abilities, which was cool. Proof below.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfzjCPUMDjl4ZTRkYD2ihrsQXNLomV3nnNKn6nh4VZ4ytErO0jA_GUcfduskMaJTSGzukEnkoGsTYVjQxJldKc8D8zHkgV6xLrXFuLEPe_eejQyGOJtLVDDgDaMVXeJL8QJ4A06ragOg/s1600/Montessori.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfzjCPUMDjl4ZTRkYD2ihrsQXNLomV3nnNKn6nh4VZ4ytErO0jA_GUcfduskMaJTSGzukEnkoGsTYVjQxJldKc8D8zHkgV6xLrXFuLEPe_eejQyGOJtLVDDgDaMVXeJL8QJ4A06ragOg/s320/Montessori.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The only daycare, oddly enough, that was more than willing to answer every question I had over the phone and BE NICE TO ME was the Baptist one! The Sunshine School is also Baptist. For all my crazy politics and Catholic upbringing, who would have figured? But you know what? Those Baptists make some good daycare!<br />
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We are going on a few tours after Christmas, so perhaps I will have an update then on what we decide. I may stop by the Montessori school just for some more material.<br />
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<i>*To dear friend Sarah -- this post is for you (and all amazing teachers out there) in tribute to the many years you spent at Head Start. Where would all us clueless moms & dads be without smart, dedicated, loving teachers who care for our kids and save our butts every day? You probably don't want one of my crazy blog postings dedicated to you. But I did it anyway. </i>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-4038340667467318112011-11-18T21:53:00.000-08:002011-11-18T23:41:43.895-08:00Almost Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB0u35Ca_iVX_swL8n6LeiigN4vnRpVA7mz11WT_T4WvsE3w2hhbRWsduPgWD-StNQkVX-WoIqj9qJvQl3wqUuyQA0iimzm1cUAmjVpzn3gEE7wsMJMLs4qYgt5gae4NonHYGwZxFb99c/s1600/eugene+freeway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB0u35Ca_iVX_swL8n6LeiigN4vnRpVA7mz11WT_T4WvsE3w2hhbRWsduPgWD-StNQkVX-WoIqj9qJvQl3wqUuyQA0iimzm1cUAmjVpzn3gEE7wsMJMLs4qYgt5gae4NonHYGwZxFb99c/s320/eugene+freeway.JPG" width="262" /></a>We drove down to Eugene for a friend's birthday party a few weeks back. Also on the agenda was looking for our new home. As we pulled into town, I began taking pictures of the freeway in front of us. Leaning out the car window to snap photos of my home town is not something I would have done in the twenty five years I lived there. But after seven years in Portland, I felt like a tourist giddy with excitement.<br />
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Sometimes you don't know how much you've missed something until you almost have it back. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgceg7UMPyBlQL6gRomgTKIQY7l4wpyZDLYdksp_mfbSP9agO8CxMaNYwMuEnCR7a-_J6qBFKucpObU-qL63ZVr7o2Fkz5hjWRZGwVK2BRbPU8DHjfHXMUtsewnwPfEEQ6ZSQr8vr_vO-Q/s1600/brent+eugene.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgceg7UMPyBlQL6gRomgTKIQY7l4wpyZDLYdksp_mfbSP9agO8CxMaNYwMuEnCR7a-_J6qBFKucpObU-qL63ZVr7o2Fkz5hjWRZGwVK2BRbPU8DHjfHXMUtsewnwPfEEQ6ZSQr8vr_vO-Q/s200/brent+eugene.JPG" width="164" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi230QAIa5odNRn2wkupir3HJFnXiCIfUpOI_IvDebZUhCXOQy8ZPxfZS1VAtFaIgdPKznlVzn2n_347BDYj5iC3Tj5WYbRVAYuOB-Nvw-3fl8VRmsmtMTEAdUk6WsoKplnHoxEKi0IeCM/s1600/eugene+freeway+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi230QAIa5odNRn2wkupir3HJFnXiCIfUpOI_IvDebZUhCXOQy8ZPxfZS1VAtFaIgdPKznlVzn2n_347BDYj5iC3Tj5WYbRVAYuOB-Nvw-3fl8VRmsmtMTEAdUk6WsoKplnHoxEKi0IeCM/s200/eugene+freeway+2.JPG" width="164" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiHJkVyx4JXT7HKZgSZ5YoEREdfWGQjV7yEUkBsxoai-hQMyQAX5okgyRMTGLN5xJu2cBmNBFdpog0DK4n7L-z92PNoouOS4qkhVEQaZbRCL5d00faNc_K5h0f1YbNEbDyjUFnq-LYAM/s1600/bekah+eugene.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiHJkVyx4JXT7HKZgSZ5YoEREdfWGQjV7yEUkBsxoai-hQMyQAX5okgyRMTGLN5xJu2cBmNBFdpog0DK4n7L-z92PNoouOS4qkhVEQaZbRCL5d00faNc_K5h0f1YbNEbDyjUFnq-LYAM/s200/bekah+eugene.JPG" width="164" /></a>People think I'm nuts for being so sentimental about moving home. But the nice thing about getting older <i>(I can use that expression now -- I found GREY HAIRS the other day, which is a whole other situation I need to post about later. Correction, my co-worker and dear friend actually found the grey hairs on my head and I insisted she pluck them out so I could stare in disbelief)</i> is that I have come to accept a few things about myself. For instance, I like everything that is safe, familiar, and known.When I was little, spending the night at a friend's house seemed so exciting, but by 7pm, like clockwork, the homesickness would kick in and I'd ask the parents to drive me back. When I traveled to places like New Orleans, Los Angeles, or Mexico I usually spent the whole time sitting inside, calling home. During my pregnancy with Jack, I spent a month in Mexico at a language school. Everyday after class I went straight to my room and read until bedtime <i>(there was no TV</i>). I only brought four books so I read Barack Obama's autobiography three times in a row. <i>(Thanks Mom! I feel quite connected to Obama now -- and you know, as a side note, he used to watch a lot of TV himself and where did he end up? Harvard and the White House!)</i>. Anyway, only twice did I go sightseeing -- forcing myself to sign up for day trips to the local sights and museums. My other outings consisted of walking to the Internet cafe down the street to email friends and family. <br />
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Throughout the years, after each trip I took, I would always return home and scold myself: Why can't I be more adventurous? Why don't I explore the city, make new friends? Why not embrace the change of scenery? Back then, it seemed so small minded and almost offensive to good judgement that I did not enjoy those experiences more. Over and over, I would ask myself: What am I so afraid of? <br />
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But now I'm all: Who cares? In theory, expanding your horizons is an essential component of one's life journey, blah-de-blah-de-blah and all that plus a bag of chips. But at the end of the day, I'd just as soon learn about the world through books, movies, and television. I'm a dreamer, not a doer. That's who I am. I would prefer to explore Iceland by watching a documentary rather than risk the flight. Cause that's some ocean flying right? And actually, I'm not even that curious about Iceland. And while everyone else on Facebook is doing it, I really don't want to backpack through South America, die of frost bite while climbing Mt Hood during a blizzard, or ride my bike to the Coast while enjoying Oregon's scenic highways. I just don't enjoy adventure.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mGe311Ah1UkGbYizzhq85kJE2eMbe4CwIWIbuotQ2Fa13YBtFX8xE2WGygTvt21dB4xXsc8gpnYkSaK7hW1a1P140W1kdAflJIMWxK64UQ4zbxu2WTH2hE2xSi5QORkA_rxg5Ou67uM/s1600/jack+eugene.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mGe311Ah1UkGbYizzhq85kJE2eMbe4CwIWIbuotQ2Fa13YBtFX8xE2WGygTvt21dB4xXsc8gpnYkSaK7hW1a1P140W1kdAflJIMWxK64UQ4zbxu2WTH2hE2xSi5QORkA_rxg5Ou67uM/s200/jack+eugene.JPG" width="164" /></a>What I do enjoy is the familiar. The comfort of laughing for hours in my parent's kitchen, driving past streets that carry a thousand memories, calling family friends up on the same phone number they've had for years, running into people I know at the grocery store, and most of all -- being in my own skin. Eugene is like a glove that fits perfectly. And in that town, I can merge the unfamiliar with the familiar. I've been navigating parenthood for three years now. This whole time; I've been asking myself all those same questions that <b>twirled around in my head</b>* after each trip. Because all those questions boiled down to just one: What am I so afraid of? <i>(*I'm sorry, but <a href="http://firstread.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2011/11/14/8803868-cain-on-libya-i-got-all-this-stuff-twirling-around-in-my-head">Cain's quote</a> is too much to resist and, to be honest, I can relate).</i><br />
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In Portland, I feel like a failure as a parent. Always paralyzed with anxiety over where to go and what to do. I don't know which park is the best or how to find a kid friendly restaurant for family date night. Is there a place we can go to paint pottery? I wouldn't know, so intimidated am I to even Google it on the Internet. "There's too many options, too many freeways", I whine to Brent. Should I find a kids indoor gym by my work, or near our house? I scribble out pros and cons lists in my head for the perfect library. WHICH ONE WILL BE MY SON'S CHILDHOOD LIBRARY??? The Clackamas one has more books, but the Oregon City one has a pretty brick exterior. The Portland metro area is suffocating me with eye-rolling worthy dilemmas.<br />
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At this point, I'm ready to break up with my mundane and ridiculous crazy parent inner-monologue. The hopes I hold for my children are nothing unique. Just a magical childhood. That's all. And up here, I'm beyond lost as to how we'll provide that. But in Eugene, I don't even need a map. I know every amazing, special, and awesome spot to go. For each season, there are numerous traditions from my own childhood that I can't wait to share with my kids. In Portland, being a homebody means BEING AT HOME. But in Eugene, being a homebody means BEING ANYWHERE IN THE CITY. It's my territory, and Internet searches to find a pizza place are not required.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbyCY0Shz2ZQ8xBHg74wtiSJ9N-s1Qw0j3HfCYmTmsZ-zhIAgGSLRtFV0wak76kg5-zXrpVy6IFDIIo-by6Ta3PxJ_JdpPCQE839Ulyk5iECbK8MU3v77pFYvF64zHeMdOCIta2fDcBo/s1600/eugene+us.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbyCY0Shz2ZQ8xBHg74wtiSJ9N-s1Qw0j3HfCYmTmsZ-zhIAgGSLRtFV0wak76kg5-zXrpVy6IFDIIo-by6Ta3PxJ_JdpPCQE839Ulyk5iECbK8MU3v77pFYvF64zHeMdOCIta2fDcBo/s200/eugene+us.JPG" width="164" /></a>So I continue to count down the weeks until we move. Ten! Every night I comb through Craigslist looking for the perfect 3 bedroom, 1 bath, ranch house with wood floors and an attached double-car garage <i>(Are you writing this down, my Eugene peeps?). </i> In my head, every Saturday is mapped out with the places we'll take Jackson. Dinner menus are planned for Sunday night gatherings with our family.<i> (That someone else will be cooking)</i>. Maybe life won't be perfect in Eugene, but I know that it will be OUR life. So I can't wait to be almost home. No apologies for that sappy ending.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSVMQOv4f8VkNmmtI5nq4RuJuml8k0PqTkuDqChyphenhyphenMa8aivZc6041Wf7mFBoundwslefdXskCPsPTWc9x37f7fZ48G6bzLtpjpPjg9RIHyuWeGMoM-DrR2LQkFpVJ5C3K2n-R-O7TxMuQ/s1600/funny+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSVMQOv4f8VkNmmtI5nq4RuJuml8k0PqTkuDqChyphenhyphenMa8aivZc6041Wf7mFBoundwslefdXskCPsPTWc9x37f7fZ48G6bzLtpjpPjg9RIHyuWeGMoM-DrR2LQkFpVJ5C3K2n-R-O7TxMuQ/s200/funny+2.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0JkL6dHjs8C3JLaBaDMXVAt-3WCZrotLXNezIigKZ2itgccFhusgGmslpz8MYUVjKKlj7uD06aOwrSOTNgD6VUsBqXvtQKFmCWA8UONBO1FXq-5DBL5LJxlpFsyEYFcif2GU5GAJuBk/s1600/hilarious5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0JkL6dHjs8C3JLaBaDMXVAt-3WCZrotLXNezIigKZ2itgccFhusgGmslpz8MYUVjKKlj7uD06aOwrSOTNgD6VUsBqXvtQKFmCWA8UONBO1FXq-5DBL5LJxlpFsyEYFcif2GU5GAJuBk/s200/hilarious5.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><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/AVvXsEie7DC_YBSncviH-zfKGKYJKeQ_ZI0jrIiH-g1Z5riojOpg0EYv47d4gMact2tFb-fn2-fWoiaxtkfEwlYeRoVnNwDZ1FN2c-lZ9bOVEvs8rSBX1XbmFN_0Ya5b38XBrL7skp-pLszEhPc/s1600/funny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7DC_YBSncviH-zfKGKYJKeQ_ZI0jrIiH-g1Z5riojOpg0EYv47d4gMact2tFb-fn2-fWoiaxtkfEwlYeRoVnNwDZ1FN2c-lZ9bOVEvs8rSBX1XbmFN_0Ya5b38XBrL7skp-pLszEhPc/s200/funny.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my parent's kitchen. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Once again, I deleted a quarter of my post before putting it online. I had to make a cup-o-noodle and watch two episodes of "Brides of Beverly Hills" just to motivate myself to rewrite it. (And no, cup-o-noodle does NOT have enough sodium in it and YES it does need extra salt).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEEIAbcmiUMzUD79Q1ONOfs15dvyIFuOxuKv3nbFTWhcJ0GCUY0G1LQnb6zfgXRoYlLzLQaNmhhcSm8qar25f1Ym3At2MuvQbS6eIK7doSkC6C1uK2pgF4euhvmEk941duK33QL-3XVM/s1600/photo-cupo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEEIAbcmiUMzUD79Q1ONOfs15dvyIFuOxuKv3nbFTWhcJ0GCUY0G1LQnb6zfgXRoYlLzLQaNmhhcSm8qar25f1Ym3At2MuvQbS6eIK7doSkC6C1uK2pgF4euhvmEk941duK33QL-3XVM/s320/photo-cupo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-46936857740853618342011-09-30T20:41:00.000-07:002011-11-17T16:37:59.434-08:00People Are Very Mad At Me (Except for Tina Fey)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG0w9QbTr65pWLdAdnb8IOf289i9Vyn6f9mx1wUuNZA-7gAiq66qxqb4ssC8i-B10KIrynkwoQ8E17rn7eReR3mn7GcON313S7apixeIFxHSeWt0Bw1Z3jWzIiKDuQCP7edHM9TOMs3dA/s1600/Natural+Child+Birth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG0w9QbTr65pWLdAdnb8IOf289i9Vyn6f9mx1wUuNZA-7gAiq66qxqb4ssC8i-B10KIrynkwoQ8E17rn7eReR3mn7GcON313S7apixeIFxHSeWt0Bw1Z3jWzIiKDuQCP7edHM9TOMs3dA/s320/Natural+Child+Birth.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>I wasn't going to post about my latest shenanigans here, because I believed doing so would contaminate the innocence of this blog. But. Here I go. (LOOK AWAY, semipseudo, LOOK AWAY!)<br />
<br />
Here at this blog, I'm nice. You're nice. Everyone's nice. And with the exception of the 'Farmer's Market' posting, I've pretty much stayed away from controversy. <br />
Which is not without effort. I have a lot of opinions in my little brain, and they tend to manifest themselves in a very vent-y, hysterical, arm-waving way. That's why I mostly just lecture the world IN MY HEAD. And not IN PUBLIC. However, there was a little bitty line, and I sort-of-kind-of-a-tad-bit crossed it. By entering a blog contest, about pregnancy, on babycenter.com via a post on the topic of 'natural' childbirth. <br />
<br />
Apparently, people do not respond well to aggressive honesty masked by humor. I would have added a bunch of disclaimers like "I support every woman's right to make her own independent choice when it comes to child birth" but they only gave me 350 words so I thought I should spend the majority of my word budget on, you know, inflammatory and somewhat interesting statements instead. Silly me. I have, from time to time, promised to write a post on Semipseudo about my aversion to 'natural' childbirth, but I knew it would be so involved and long winded that my lazy self just couldn't get around to it. So instead, a sub-par & abbreviated version of my argument is now on the world wide web, provoking an army of angry women who were not very impressed by what I had to say on the subject.<br />
<br />
Let's take a peek at what some of them had to say:<br />
<br />
"Your opening paragraph was perhaps meant to be snarky and funny but it was really annoying and offensive to me."<br />
<br />
"If you aren’t interested in natural childbirth or feel it is not for you, then that is what it is. Good for you. But to assign words like “martyrdom” to an experience you don’t understand or share is simply ignorant."<br />
<br />
"Is this article supposed to be funny? Or well-written? Huh."<br />
<br />
"Can you imagine if someone turned it around and characterized medicated/c-section births as “Those too posh to push, lazy, druggy mums?” A Slice-n-Dice Delivery? No I guess we’re all too busy listening to Enya in our birthing pools to put words together. How about we all sit around and critisize each other’s births to make ourselves feel better about our own choices. Yeah, that’s a great idea."<br />
<br />
"uh I really hope this person is not picked as the new blogger she sounds like a bit@h. I really dont get why people feel the need to be so snotty and self righteous about their choices who asked you?"<br />
<br />
"And I’m terribly disappointed in BabyCenter for picking this as a good blog. It’s insulting, patronizing, one-sided, NOT amusing, condescending, and not particularly well-written. This is what is supposedly reflects blogging moms?"<br />
<br />
"Do you honestly think this is witty, insightful or clever? Do you think this even makes any sense?"<br />
<br />
"I did not find this blog funny or well written at all. Referring to women who make a different choice than you as martyrs is insulting and ignorant, no matter how much you try to sugar coat it or cove it up in a failed attempt at humor."<br />
<br />
"Ignorant."<br />
<br />
"There is a lot more to this than just Virgin Mary Martyrdom or whatever nonsense this author wants to call it. The medicalisation of birth is having a HUGE impact on the health and wellbeing of women, the rise and rise of PND and PTSD and the difficulty so many parents in first world countries are experiencing with bonding and conciously parenting their children. Ask yourself why we hear stories, in this day and age, of people leaving babies and toddlers unattended at home because they are worried about their careers or twisted stories of physical and sexual abuse and so on. So much rests on good beginnings, which will never be taken seriously while we have this rubbish focus on whether labour pains are warranted or not. Grow up Rebekkah Whittaker."<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Wow. Well, first off: my name is spelled with one 'k' not two. So if you really want to slam me then why distract from your zinger with spelling errors? That just has novice written all over it.<br />
<br />
There were also a lot of supportive, hilarious, love you forever(!) type comments. (No one actually said "I love you forever" but that was the spirit of their comments, in my opinion.) I won't quote all those women because I think the other side brought up a lot of good points. So I am giving them a forum here, on my blog, as my way of saying: "You are right. You have convinced me. Well said, people."<br />
<br />
Actually, the reason I am quoting them here is because of a little advice my mom gave me. And moms always give the best advice right? MY MOM, who happens to be the smartest mom, told me that Tina Fey also has critics. Now, you should know that Tina Fey and I have A LOT in common. She's probably trying to call me right now. That's how almost close we are to being friends. Anyway, my incredibly brilliant mother said "Rebekah, Tina Fey does not respond to her critics. She prints their comments in her books. And then makes fun of them." (Or something like that, right mom?). I don't have a book deal yet. So I just have to print their comments in my blog that 14 of my closest friends and family read. Cause I'm poor like that.<br />
<br />
The evening we had this discussion, it was late, but after I dropped my mother off and put my son to bed, I couldn't stop thinking about what she said. I logged onto my computer and googled the words "Tina Fey makes fun of natural childbirth" ON A WHIM. And you know what came up? YOU KNOW WHAT CAME UP, PEOPLE? This: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/239646/saturday-night-live-birthing-class">SNL Skit: "Birthing Class" </a><br />
I kid you not, Portland is mentioned in this clip. (Click above to see the video)<br />
<br />
I don't know if Tina, in real life, had an epi or not. But, Tina, if you are listening, I want you to vote for me so I can win this friggin' contest because now I'm all: bring it. Bring. It. On.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://blogs.babycenter.com/mom_stories/vote-baby-bump-blogger-contest/"> Click here</a> to vote for me or to leave an educational comment. I love you all forever.The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-51365504618914175352011-09-28T20:26:00.001-07:002012-07-08T13:27:52.793-07:00Fall Fashion Week - WednesdayOkay, rockin' a totally boring outfit today. Sorry. But, it's super comfy & I do have a bit of flare on my back jean pockets. (Also, same issue as yesterday in that I have no husband around to take full length shots since he is working out of town) Here's what I got::<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL8gWWNOZrvX6_GhbX8fIDDpN8cKsgRjJeE5yUPiFGzYCRGn7HCgE5Tu74ENw6Ba2BrpWmg3plE34GLGFiKjd1FiEvXWC4iZMTGVMXc3ySfw3NBmpViXa-whpmdOg8fO1JiDrxzXe2L8/s1600/photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL8gWWNOZrvX6_GhbX8fIDDpN8cKsgRjJeE5yUPiFGzYCRGn7HCgE5Tu74ENw6Ba2BrpWmg3plE34GLGFiKjd1FiEvXWC4iZMTGVMXc3ySfw3NBmpViXa-whpmdOg8fO1JiDrxzXe2L8/s320/photo-3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKF9ABJrUUbVd8u_wMgLgMC0NydL87T4AOGB5s4XXfmzAPzs-JuGtprPetJ1sztXZouJ3VQQmr2IB6UCECM7cCttrViyfFw3tQMdI6IjPKECfetETf95Acf79CD9UEBTQkoaLhHRYo354/s1600/photo-5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKF9ABJrUUbVd8u_wMgLgMC0NydL87T4AOGB5s4XXfmzAPzs-JuGtprPetJ1sztXZouJ3VQQmr2IB6UCECM7cCttrViyfFw3tQMdI6IjPKECfetETf95Acf79CD9UEBTQkoaLhHRYo354/s320/photo-5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_Qn95fEPzLEF-cCyd4tcfcCet_6JIQNQPKxEb2nvtv77vXbraqybtdLOsP4bodbrc81AA5MgZjIOEHXuQ-ee35KLSIs1OoZnHqXkINrKWuHSyx8Al9-zKzGmoqZ9l2hnX9ZhI2YWSxE/s1600/photo-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_Qn95fEPzLEF-cCyd4tcfcCet_6JIQNQPKxEb2nvtv77vXbraqybtdLOsP4bodbrc81AA5MgZjIOEHXuQ-ee35KLSIs1OoZnHqXkINrKWuHSyx8Al9-zKzGmoqZ9l2hnX9ZhI2YWSxE/s320/photo-4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Top(s) -- My good friend gave these to me!<br />
Jeans -- Ross (per usual)<br />
Shoes -- Ross (as always)<br />
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</div><a href="http://emeryjo.blogspot.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://i196.photobucket.com/albums/aa122/emeryjo/fallfashionbigbutton.png" /></a>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-5957773582931759652011-09-26T20:03:00.001-07:002012-07-08T13:27:24.568-07:00Fall Fashion Week - Monday!<b>We like stripes...<i></i></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijO3GWQadn3p4TvyHaucRBy5RABjdd1MT1gGIh7MYqOMpWpkPZa_VlxtD4Q2cBx4hHSy4EKzzbaJTzo0c1wRF7S9JlivS3Ld5Bm5PUBd-W9apCxifBabv8Vem8Rum5EeVRoI19etEFQMU/s1600/D2+looking+down.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijO3GWQadn3p4TvyHaucRBy5RABjdd1MT1gGIh7MYqOMpWpkPZa_VlxtD4Q2cBx4hHSy4EKzzbaJTzo0c1wRF7S9JlivS3Ld5Bm5PUBd-W9apCxifBabv8Vem8Rum5EeVRoI19etEFQMU/s320/D2+looking+down.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRVM_jd4ALeZpi7HyWt84527tu2GXTJjq9Wkkl13YLPikZGO5l6L520lUnVsu8zhElYgmGDKSc6nTyq_r6p9ngUm-SyCP87GMTTWQVsY50iKhC0pkyJeof-P4L37VU4jlXkOk6zAhHchM/s1600/D2+smile.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRVM_jd4ALeZpi7HyWt84527tu2GXTJjq9Wkkl13YLPikZGO5l6L520lUnVsu8zhElYgmGDKSc6nTyq_r6p9ngUm-SyCP87GMTTWQVsY50iKhC0pkyJeof-P4L37VU4jlXkOk6zAhHchM/s320/D2+smile.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOeCjhUkLESMAwqj2CiJIpBgiMpRTfZqyfcgaLQAEca9kRrGfdqKkHP1sq91iD-SOpLb8kaCRoi5TZ9rcZyR7l8xVhjfED0Qcxoq3Qhc5BlTXQ1ICG1a5QBIzgQmOBG6a07UNvgxFEc0/s1600/D2+quirky+smile.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOeCjhUkLESMAwqj2CiJIpBgiMpRTfZqyfcgaLQAEca9kRrGfdqKkHP1sq91iD-SOpLb8kaCRoi5TZ9rcZyR7l8xVhjfED0Qcxoq3Qhc5BlTXQ1ICG1a5QBIzgQmOBG6a07UNvgxFEc0/s320/D2+quirky+smile.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Cardigan: Ross<br />
Tank: gifted<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FlMDx3OxTA1sMobZNTaG7xLBLCZ2YV68wEn_pedhMwmoZMLqPfsB7BNdVwdLWArKqrWsENIB3ba-x7cJjGPgu1490lC5VBK9839wDjC8UUDqIPzng5PFhg4C2YNt0t-gBvbfhWAfbLk/s1600/D2+purse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FlMDx3OxTA1sMobZNTaG7xLBLCZ2YV68wEn_pedhMwmoZMLqPfsB7BNdVwdLWArKqrWsENIB3ba-x7cJjGPgu1490lC5VBK9839wDjC8UUDqIPzng5PFhg4C2YNt0t-gBvbfhWAfbLk/s200/D2+purse.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGaAinB9hcBtIi-gh7Oh2KtSjRsdUunw8ris0aZpLMjJy9NszLqUZrTB_-1vz_CpFTX7g9HPrNZnq6J2ymjQ56ujDz1grWfb8LpyCcc_M-oQ-_9IKmbra3klyNfsUKq7suHkRo35jLWQ/s1600/D3+shoes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGaAinB9hcBtIi-gh7Oh2KtSjRsdUunw8ris0aZpLMjJy9NszLqUZrTB_-1vz_CpFTX7g9HPrNZnq6J2ymjQ56ujDz1grWfb8LpyCcc_M-oQ-_9IKmbra3klyNfsUKq7suHkRo35jLWQ/s200/D3+shoes.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcbQpi_vvHsdua0bA9dH5usqCRx43PC79fB9opYY-vEvWC-U5AKlYjWqUzJOTT6tqlk__D12b7zCtyCGV9ijA5qkjlWjQ6kOGUi5s4Ip_Rdb5y2hP5Q-A_5DIcl31bxasIIwGrr-anhk/s1600/D2+long+view.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcbQpi_vvHsdua0bA9dH5usqCRx43PC79fB9opYY-vEvWC-U5AKlYjWqUzJOTT6tqlk__D12b7zCtyCGV9ijA5qkjlWjQ6kOGUi5s4Ip_Rdb5y2hP5Q-A_5DIcl31bxasIIwGrr-anhk/s200/D2+long+view.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Purse: Target<br />
Shoes: Ross<br />
Jeans: Ross (I basically buy everything at Ross!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQf79Iru1hLy3sVwOQcLY7YrAVsophR9nLFSh3SZVsYVR4KBVkN3eL2YoNkqfIpLdZXdUbfTyqu4E2oIdqRFkugNUYUew6GaLrVQbutJWzT9jq_yRrKZDwYw4EEA0WCD385Sv43hTnREY/s1600/D2+looking+out+Jack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQf79Iru1hLy3sVwOQcLY7YrAVsophR9nLFSh3SZVsYVR4KBVkN3eL2YoNkqfIpLdZXdUbfTyqu4E2oIdqRFkugNUYUew6GaLrVQbutJWzT9jq_yRrKZDwYw4EEA0WCD385Sv43hTnREY/s320/D2+looking+out+Jack.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd14z8cXzTg6YrP08BvKwwEUeNjuY6Lxf3fpBfwaQUVmq3EF5bFyohoWXXyWeyXYPZsi1QTkucOmWIMk7hi7iyhyFNsjz2APZf9NAYcLYslTM_SNKkBQ7nggiYnVO2HBS9EtQ4Er9_J_Q/s1600/D2+sitting+on+chair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd14z8cXzTg6YrP08BvKwwEUeNjuY6Lxf3fpBfwaQUVmq3EF5bFyohoWXXyWeyXYPZsi1QTkucOmWIMk7hi7iyhyFNsjz2APZf9NAYcLYslTM_SNKkBQ7nggiYnVO2HBS9EtQ4Er9_J_Q/s320/D2+sitting+on+chair.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8BU-Y0Dv6DL0Z6Ou0XBmjD91WN4XpOIKFAG60-EDP67BdDF-jCOJbJJvWPMtwM3vG5NYgoJ5tcbA8f8ULtnQfnWv2iFL3eCpUdHsrKK3-3zqu2unCiGgqwV3I-sxF5wfeFXybGxowLs/s1600/D2+window.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8BU-Y0Dv6DL0Z6Ou0XBmjD91WN4XpOIKFAG60-EDP67BdDF-jCOJbJJvWPMtwM3vG5NYgoJ5tcbA8f8ULtnQfnWv2iFL3eCpUdHsrKK3-3zqu2unCiGgqwV3I-sxF5wfeFXybGxowLs/s320/D2+window.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Top: gifted from a sis!<br />
Jeans: gifted from a friend!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://emeryjo.blogspot.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="200" src="http://i196.photobucket.com/albums/aa122/emeryjo/fallfashionbigbutton.png" width="200" /></a></div>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-22391250019302126932011-09-25T17:18:00.002-07:002012-07-08T13:26:43.662-07:00Fall Fashion Week<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_etCvS1cGEyNVfwBm0O0j9Dvwl6MgHTqHsWPUmd-nVpMRttyP9yBpCVe1laDPYzNInACuqvsj4lLoZGgTPKYvsM755kS7tX0Uye7ngMyAmWI8x2nH_mgwnwm7-Imi1ycTP3eEj8RFZCM/s1600/photo-11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_etCvS1cGEyNVfwBm0O0j9Dvwl6MgHTqHsWPUmd-nVpMRttyP9yBpCVe1laDPYzNInACuqvsj4lLoZGgTPKYvsM755kS7tX0Uye7ngMyAmWI8x2nH_mgwnwm7-Imi1ycTP3eEj8RFZCM/s320/photo-11.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Blouse: Target<br />
Jeans: Old Navy<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEM3UNgHDcqalwmpt-b1jxhKPT__wWpZpM_zu5UQrCSdR3_uoLLfUq7p5eNyOHImgOi8N-mXh5T3tPQ1y3lCz9lsqil794npcDik3e-ApxunZ5-4qHfvhigx2TqirxDShw-Ic_pBeJQo/s1600/photo-6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEM3UNgHDcqalwmpt-b1jxhKPT__wWpZpM_zu5UQrCSdR3_uoLLfUq7p5eNyOHImgOi8N-mXh5T3tPQ1y3lCz9lsqil794npcDik3e-ApxunZ5-4qHfvhigx2TqirxDShw-Ic_pBeJQo/s320/photo-6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Native American Hair Clip: Eastern Oregon Antique Store<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkagOGW4giAjJJF-hU-SNSiKN8dYMr8_19DKnr_FbSRQyIvbZt-i3yINT0-WL7Hmd-uDKZ1cOKxZfGKHfPm2A39eHNUb_cvMGKQOTmBtXEfc1N6Mq5YyAUfc0HVJ1NYODH6OaGfWx04Cg/s1600/Copy+of+photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkagOGW4giAjJJF-hU-SNSiKN8dYMr8_19DKnr_FbSRQyIvbZt-i3yINT0-WL7Hmd-uDKZ1cOKxZfGKHfPm2A39eHNUb_cvMGKQOTmBtXEfc1N6Mq5YyAUfc0HVJ1NYODH6OaGfWx04Cg/s320/Copy+of+photo-3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Earrings: Target ($2.49!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVEvBy28gHv3ZSgLyMzeySMZpkMNBKrHTSsqp2HyIRG7eg2gaUFwhXjeB8W2O5AwPQXKgVpU7YIkCSXgb8ZSlPv-4Si7RkI_fA2J-3A1-pCFgFHdae_9cOmCMf1k8RBsSF4f872QwkKc/s1600/photo-9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVEvBy28gHv3ZSgLyMzeySMZpkMNBKrHTSsqp2HyIRG7eg2gaUFwhXjeB8W2O5AwPQXKgVpU7YIkCSXgb8ZSlPv-4Si7RkI_fA2J-3A1-pCFgFHdae_9cOmCMf1k8RBsSF4f872QwkKc/s320/photo-9.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Boots: Kmart<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhC3LXxthEB9TJ-Ylc_GFzyBo6fwG1R4rxcoUGUDqqTeK_WCgdDT0xLeOgV4IijgzOB7Lw7eZgLI4WjW1aBVgW-Nk1dBG8Me2bWycpMGrM8ygSJ1d-m5B7fApZ5auWTKGYs6_5kmcRVc/s1600/photo-5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhC3LXxthEB9TJ-Ylc_GFzyBo6fwG1R4rxcoUGUDqqTeK_WCgdDT0xLeOgV4IijgzOB7Lw7eZgLI4WjW1aBVgW-Nk1dBG8Me2bWycpMGrM8ygSJ1d-m5B7fApZ5auWTKGYs6_5kmcRVc/s320/photo-5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Child: My Womb<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i196.photobucket.com/albums/aa122/emeryjo/fallfashionbigbutton.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i196.photobucket.com/albums/aa122/emeryjo/fallfashionbigbutton.png" /></a></div>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-66308668384605358382011-07-08T23:32:00.000-07:002011-07-08T23:35:00.951-07:00A Bridge To Somewhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ4xry9zNj3vptTuA3S9RG8MNngszzySn8gO1UKZkzEK-ayt1jueNMOSWCX3WfGAG4G7mnPsKJmDN3LfVcSdUSsocGavZHsKMG5Vk5fMqlRistOX-GD3xSgraIKK8O4SH-os2qYoQWAc/s1600/bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ4xry9zNj3vptTuA3S9RG8MNngszzySn8gO1UKZkzEK-ayt1jueNMOSWCX3WfGAG4G7mnPsKJmDN3LfVcSdUSsocGavZHsKMG5Vk5fMqlRistOX-GD3xSgraIKK8O4SH-os2qYoQWAc/s320/bridge.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>To where? Outside, I guess. As a first step, anyway. I joke about my aversion to anything that involves opening my front door, and stepping out. My clumsy, non-rhyming motto goes something like this: No walking, no hiking, no white water rafting (despite the never ending invites from my well meaning co-workers and friends), no outdoor-sy type stuff at all.<br />
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But there is one exception to my indoors-activities-only mantra. A certain thing that is the very definition of outdoors: camping.<br />
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Growing up, our Dad took us on wonderful trips - to the Coast, to Sisters, to Olympic National Rain Forest, trips across the Country and to Canada, to name a few. Our mode of transportation was usually a big van with a tent tucked in back. The snapshot memories in my head are distant and blurry but I remember them as:<br />
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Circling the site round and round, finding the perfect spot to set up camp.<br />
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Stories by the fire, one after the other, as we watched the flames flicker towards the darkening sky, taking our words and giggles with them as they disappeared, into the stars that looked so different out there, a thousand sparks of white dotting the endless black universe. A thousand questions provoked as you stared up, up, up.<br />
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Sisters side by side, the flashlight our dim lamp, as we flicked our hand, card by card, onto the picnic table. Winning and losing<i> War, Gin Rummy, I Doubt It.</i><br />
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Burnt marshmallows & rocks that dug into our elbows at night as we tried to sleep on camping mats until the wee hours of the morning.<br />
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Mosquitoes, wet clothes, and cold chicken noodle soup out of a can that tasted delicious.<br />
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* * *<br />
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I’m always waiting for those moments when I can stand on the other side, as a parent, and take in the view as Jackson introduces himself to the world as it offers itself to him. At points in his life, years from today, he will have a bank of memories, some of which will come on him like a tidal wave when he least expects it. But today, I do not know if he even holds a single memory inside him that will last til his fourth birthday or beyond. So I wonder: Which will be the memory that sticks? The one that he’ll look back to, and think, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"that’s when my life began…".</i> Of course, so much more had come before. But he won’t know it. He is almost three, and I wistfully tell myself that any day now will be the one that contains a ‘pause’ button. Will he tell me later, that he remembered trick or treating on Halloween? Or the 4<sup>th</sup> of July Fireworks display he gleefully danced to? Or the first time he sat in a big kid swing, flying toward the sky as he learned to pump his legs and pull the chains as he held on tight? Or the time he zipped the tent flap-door open and closed, over and over, on his first camping trip? <br />
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The timing of his first real memory is beyond my control But the stuff that memory is made of, I might have a hand in.<br />
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* * *<br />
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We decided on July 2<sup>nd</sup> that it might be fun to go camping for the holiday weekend. Procrastinators yet optimists that we are, we figured no reservation and no camping gear would not be major impediments. It's also been years since we last camped, but Brent and I pulled it together after completing a few pre-trip tasks such as: googling 'Oregon Coast Campgrounds' and comparing several side by side shots of fir trees to find the exact right location, securing the last space available for the 4th of July weekend, frantically fitting in two trips to the local sporting goods store for supplies.<br />
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We almost got sidetracked by a few arguments over brands, sizes, and prices on all the necessary equipment: <i>We have to buy a <u>Coleman</u> tent. They are most superior! But this one is $15 less! The sleeping bag has to be warm enough for 30 degree weather. No, it just needs to be tsunami proof! That cooler is NOT large enough and is definitely the wrong shade of green, it needs to blend gently into the background of foliage so as not to shout it's presence to the forest! </i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7QflReLelE_X1NJJMeGvTmy-UUbtH3iGwzszRI4ze498tWEsbx7F-MEgWZzssXvhs9osi63Vk6wGGMk4h41tlygRwWUGCP6z5uNEXeJFYWFYB_90I-IYzWa363cUC1ywUDBJ58gcm1E/s1600/Camping+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7QflReLelE_X1NJJMeGvTmy-UUbtH3iGwzszRI4ze498tWEsbx7F-MEgWZzssXvhs9osi63Vk6wGGMk4h41tlygRwWUGCP6z5uNEXeJFYWFYB_90I-IYzWa363cUC1ywUDBJ58gcm1E/s320/Camping+005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was going to give you the minute by minute play back of the entire trip, but then I figured: why invite more people to delete this website from their bookmark menus? Didn't the Farmer's Market post do enough damage? Instead, I will give a brief recap of our mini-camp-cation. So! Highlights! Here we go:<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i>The Short Version </i></b><i>for those of you who find reading about people’s vacations worse than clicking through 78 uploaded Facebook photos while simultaneously asking yourself “Why am I voluntarily viewing this entire album while sitting on my couch alone, muting the television so I can give the waterfall shots my full attention?”:</i><br />
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WE COOKED POTATOES FOR 2 HOURS OVER THE FIRE BUT THEY WERE NEVER DONE, WE SLEPT ON THE GROUND, THEN FACED A (POTENTIAL) BEAR ATTACK THAT ALMOST HAPPENED, THEN WE DROVE HOME!<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i>Longer Version</i></b><i> (minus the potato situation, because that was what it was):</i><br />
I’ll say this: I am not one for sleeping on the ground. Therefore we brought an air mattress. Which apparently requires batteries. So that was an extra trip to the local grocery store 14 miles down the road, right before dark. But you can't really trick Nature. It's like, "Heck No! You may have cheated labor pains through excessive, recurring epidurals but you are going to feel every moment of sleeping outdoors!" On a positive note, I may have stumbled upon a new exercise fad; because after 8 hours of trying to balance three people on a 'shifting air' mattress every muscle in my body was d.o.n.e.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmJySCjlycG4zCBQ0egdM15ZbfzOHJnGoTxlfM4YA3MT1WZGP2gHo2bBru7FRKpgwV26HytvQLmUi-IAFEE5jXXy0IjN5fQAx-Sq4j75WSqyL571fPKXPaLT5BVOlbbofGrl9yWeevJw/s1600/Camping+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmJySCjlycG4zCBQ0egdM15ZbfzOHJnGoTxlfM4YA3MT1WZGP2gHo2bBru7FRKpgwV26HytvQLmUi-IAFEE5jXXy0IjN5fQAx-Sq4j75WSqyL571fPKXPaLT5BVOlbbofGrl9yWeevJw/s200/Camping+004.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Asleep</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><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/AVvXsEhyWo8_xv0zVxsuxEOJsLECxDEAZoYDSvbmxGbODvkWAhYlRPYhrArIjJ-En0WGtgDTzgirilqtNjiWGlYjpQap6jYNLHjMDCHVlsyJyNX5QZsyTJth7TLYNs1Z93aBEmE9uuq57JdQN8c/s1600/Camping+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWo8_xv0zVxsuxEOJsLECxDEAZoYDSvbmxGbODvkWAhYlRPYhrArIjJ-En0WGtgDTzgirilqtNjiWGlYjpQap6jYNLHjMDCHVlsyJyNX5QZsyTJth7TLYNs1Z93aBEmE9uuq57JdQN8c/s200/Camping+002.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Awake</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><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/AVvXsEi7PITIngPUKOJ-pSnQQKNFiHjS7la-8dKgkGfK1gptCP_UM8hVbIR0_tgnXEs_mdo9KZMnTABCYicwh8okTTKUipXHNqrGNUz4apuDv6pVc1iI94bFX-pOWpNSKdNAUQUN-_t1unIADek/s1600/Camping+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PITIngPUKOJ-pSnQQKNFiHjS7la-8dKgkGfK1gptCP_UM8hVbIR0_tgnXEs_mdo9KZMnTABCYicwh8okTTKUipXHNqrGNUz4apuDv6pVc1iI94bFX-pOWpNSKdNAUQUN-_t1unIADek/s200/Camping+003.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Really Awake!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>But, being as ambitious as <s>Brent is</s> we are, hiking was still in order <u>first thing</u> in the morning. My nostalgia had sort of worn off by then and it took every ounce of willpower to hold back the words, "Can we go find donuts?" as we started down the trail. I will admit, after a few minutes of inner sighing, I did find it quite beautiful.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0Gan6rkWcYcd7Og1POYReHwskJdVQM4qaVdxxWvqQr0VYO9OHPWq0Ig_9C2vxjd8gUvYME8E6127TSeaCYeDMzxFhkAJEmeyANDFNjF0MNhe4yZXYUEHAeJqha7sVDAJ_5134WXdHzU/s1600/Camping+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0Gan6rkWcYcd7Og1POYReHwskJdVQM4qaVdxxWvqQr0VYO9OHPWq0Ig_9C2vxjd8gUvYME8E6127TSeaCYeDMzxFhkAJEmeyANDFNjF0MNhe4yZXYUEHAeJqha7sVDAJ_5134WXdHzU/s320/Camping+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Until I saw a sign much like this one:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5v8KEmIjXdGGiKQLrLvOp_eOuORymnk42mWDMd-D5kO5OOcdyrV7qZbVdpPbtmqC2ubLd2vXOHHKQWrQVPhf-UC19t-aX9ouUGLr4a3pWgTD6uy2H8r_3Q6oIzaybQt_AI6T0wbn8dM/s1600/Bear+Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5v8KEmIjXdGGiKQLrLvOp_eOuORymnk42mWDMd-D5kO5OOcdyrV7qZbVdpPbtmqC2ubLd2vXOHHKQWrQVPhf-UC19t-aX9ouUGLr4a3pWgTD6uy2H8r_3Q6oIzaybQt_AI6T0wbn8dM/s320/Bear+Sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
And then it was on. Truce over. Nature wants to maim, claw, injure, and kill my child. Just like the tsunami. Not cool. Not cool, nature. "Let's turn back, it's not safe! The Mother Bear is going to eat Jackson!" I tried to warn Brent, but he was way ahead of me on the trail, pretending he had never met me before and/or didn't hear me. I spent the remainder of the walk to the beach clapping my hands over my head while shouting "Here we are, we are here, no surprises, we are not surprising you Mother Bear, no need to protect your cubs, no danger here, we are kind Oregonian humans who do not carry weapons!" Fortunately my technique worked because we made it to the beach fine.<br />
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However, Jackson promptly fell into a massive hole in the sand filled with three feet of water and after a few to-be-expected hysterics on my part, we were ready to go. I finally got a pastry and our trip was complete.<br />
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Not quite the same experiences as the camping trips I remember growing up, but close enough. What always catches me off guard as a new parent is the continuing realization that our old (young) selves come visiting time and time again as we hover at the edge of our kids’ childhood. It’s not ours. But we get to witness it. A childhood that is fresh and new, and all its own, but stitched together with the thread of a life already lived. We get to take the best of what we had, and offer it to our children. One generation to the next, we build a bridge between our lives. Raising a child makes me want to step outside my front door, outside my comfort zone, dive head first back into the mystery and joy and mistakes of childhood. Take a picture of every moment, so he'll have his own snapshots.<br />
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***<br />
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P.S.<br />
<br />
Through no proactive searching of my own, what did I come home to when I opened up my Yahoo browser? A news article titled: <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/grizzly-bear-kills-yellowstone-hiker-034633908.html">Grizzly Bear Kills Yellowstone Hiker</a><br />
<br />
When you’re right, you’re right. (That's my other mantra)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4NOc-YxezSznMUXwvUz-EzVohY3H9MEOYTy6vgepyrVQkpsZi0Yg2CHmaoLfKthPeWTJS8UZqXjF8PuVlio1E9UTDoMPH5__jdR1NwwGlKWFGdeuS3s_ndyiDlVA2alBucmo7FZeCCw/s1600/Dad+and+Sisters+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4NOc-YxezSznMUXwvUz-EzVohY3H9MEOYTy6vgepyrVQkpsZi0Yg2CHmaoLfKthPeWTJS8UZqXjF8PuVlio1E9UTDoMPH5__jdR1NwwGlKWFGdeuS3s_ndyiDlVA2alBucmo7FZeCCw/s320/Dad+and+Sisters+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5231865420301544434.post-81100207519223987682011-06-26T23:10:00.000-07:002011-06-26T23:10:42.413-07:00Where's Dad? He's Working. Let's Go Visit Him...<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" height="240" id="vp1Ptbtz" width="432"><param name="movie" value="http://static.animoto.com/swf/w.swf?w=swf/vp1&e=1309154673&f=PtbtzZs0hgDx0gd6ob5WgA&d=158&m=a&r=240p&volume=100&start_res=240p&i=m&options="></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed id="vp1Ptbtz" src="http://static.animoto.com/swf/w.swf?w=swf/vp1&e=1309154673&f=PtbtzZs0hgDx0gd6ob5WgA&d=158&m=a&r=240p&volume=100&start_res=240p&i=m&options=" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="432" height="240"></embed></object>The Becksterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02873749968016888115noreply@blogger.com5