The Wink is a labor of love, occasional source of ire and constantly influenced by the toddlywinks in my life- my daughters. There's also the HunkyWink. You'll read all about them as The Wink unfolds. Please feel free to wink back!

Saturday, October 27, 2007

One Pharmacy Ruins it for the Rest

For each of you who choose to come and spend time here at The Wink,

Have any of you noticed the new requirements hoops and BS necessary to comment on the normally friendly and accepting Wink? It was with incredible sadness that I logged in and dove into the blog management tools to initiate comment moderation and word authentication. I loathe being prompted to enter a series of random numbers and letters before having my comment publish, as it is not uncommon for me to fail to get the sequence right. How awful does that feel? The screen mocks me with a blaring:

INCORRECT. Please try again if you want your comment to ever see the light of day.

I have been proud to not enforce those sort of rules, hoping to encourage commenting and cultivate a sense of I belong here. Unfortunately the other day I woke up and checked my email and from that moment it was the beginning of the end. There in the inbox were 27 new messages. My heart soared, my tummy did little flip flops and my mind raced with the knowledge that I had touched you. I'd written something that you related to and felt compelled to comment on, we'd begun a conversation. I was elated to be starting the day in this fashion.

Watch out world, Amanda is here, and she's feeling like she can make a difference.

Upon opening my email I noticed an odd similarity in the 24 new emails that were not from Daily Candy, a site I am studying in the hopes of putting my friend Melissa on their radar. Anyway, back to the emails, they all had odd code in the From section, little carrots and strange spaces. Most of them had something to do with medic or pharmacy. I started clicking them and quickly realized that at long last I was a victim of some sort of spam-bot. I was crestfallen, unsure if this meant I'd made it, or that I'd been irreparably corrupted.

I deleted the emails and moved on, disappointed, but grateful for the legitimate comments from the ever witty Janet and the hilariously biting Hotfessional. Then I moved on with my day, not quite so sure I'd conquer the world, but ok. Demonstrating my unerring faith in good things happening, as the next day's sunrise came with another, bursting at the seams inbox, I swooned again, delirious with anticipation, Who wrote today?

More of the same, comments like, "Articles is great" and "Please write different stuffs" and "Is like good." I sputtered, the line about writing different things hitting me like a slap in the face, even though I knew it was some computer generated drivel. Instead of deleting the emails I clicked on the link to the posts upon which they had been published and went about the tedious process of deleting them. After that I made the official change to a blog that inists that you prove that you are human before you will be allowed to coment. I am hoping that after running into this wall a couple of times, these ghouls will fade away and we can go back to the old fashioned, "Now don't you worry Mrs. Ingalls, we'll just put that on your tab and you can pay it when you're able. We're all friends here in Walnut Grove."

Think you can bear with me, maybe even comment, while we wait for peace to once again fall on our beloved little Walnut Grove? I hope so, because we really are all friends and for that I am more grateful than you will ever know.

-Amanda

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Wednesday, October 24, 2007

A Gift, for you, and you, and you

Ahem, so, there I was, leading a group of professionals to the second of four venues, in a leadership training course. I was speaking with a guy who is the Director of Food and Beverage of a five star resort in our area. We had been discussing the seemingly futile battle to stay out of a mini-van. This conversation about cars lead to talking about having accurate directions for the seesions we have in the months ahead.

"I'm sorry I was hounding you for those directions." He had asked me in an email Saturday to send directions. I was trying to explain that I am bound by the information I get from our site hosts, and more specifically, when I get the information.

"You know," I said with great earnestness, "I tried to move forward, several times, actually. I sent out directions to locations in advance of receiving the agenda."

He was watching me and nodding.

"And don't you know that every time I did they switched the site? So despite people requesting the information ahead of time, I have to wait." We nodded and shrugged at each other in that way you do when the conversation kind of dead ends but you can neither physically leave the situation nor end the conversation gracefully.

Suddenly it felt very strange, ominously quiet for the busy street we were walking on. I turned around to check on the rest of the group. Fourteen people stood a block away, looking at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity.

"Umm, isn't this where we're going?" One of them asked while hooking her finger to the left at the building beside her, the building I'd passed several minutes before.

"Yup, it sure is." I said, incredulous and increasingly red in the face.

"So, where are you going?" They were all looking at me, I have not felt so awkward since being in the locker room in the seventh grade and having to pretend as if I'd already had my first period and knew what the hell to do with the tampon that was being handed to me.

"My house. I was walking ya'll to my house, but by all means, let's go into the museum." The idea being that they'd chuckle.

There was some derisive laughter followed by haughty looks, so I kept going.

"Ironically I was explaining to Ted how I have on more than one occasion meesed up the directions to this class. I guess the moral here is, you shouldn't follow me or my directions."

So, tell me, was your day this mortifying? Yeah, I didn't think so.

You're welcome.

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Sunday, October 21, 2007

Coco "Holy Shit He Caught It" Crisp


I stayed up.
They won.
G'night.

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Wishes in the Leaves



Today was one of those days I'll frame in my memory for the days in the distance that don't begin, end and revolve around taking care of little people. I know now that I'll never stop thinking about them, loving them and worrying about everything from scrapes and cuts to improbable what-ifs, but one day the relentless and delicious process of bathing, feeding, teaching, protecting and entertaining these girls will end.



One day they'll be chasing dreams and loving people and places and things. Without us. They'll call from time to time, visit when they can, and hopefully they'll remember us. Maybe they'll find us in brilliant yellow leaves that do pirhouette after pirhouette as they travel from treetop to sidewalk or as they pass a stone patio



We made promises to autumns yet to come, safekeeping today's memories in the changing leaves and the smell of November's eve. I'll look for them wherever I am, knowing that a canopy of orange leaves overhead can transport me to a time when I carried our girls in my arms and felt the flutter of another in my belly.




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Saturday, October 20, 2007

Dining Room Aftermath

I met him on the front porch with my laptop in hand. He walked up the steps with a smile on his face, his eyes more relaxed than they've been in weeks thanks to the healing touch of our acupuncturist friend Kevin.

"Hey babe."

Hi," I said nervously before thrusting the laptop at him. "I wanted you to read the post I just wrote."

His face lit up. He took the computer and headed for the door.

"Will you read it before you go inside?"

"Why?"

"Will you just read it now?" I asked stepping in front of the door.

"What did you do?" He was laughing nervously and we danced there on the porch as he tried to get inside.

"You didn't," he gasped dramatically.

"Well, read it, just read it, ok? I'm so sorry. It just, ah, it just happened," my credibility was taking serious hits thanks to my giggling.

He walked in holding the laptop, chuckling and shaking his head as the relatively small expanse of wall blared its battered existence.

There were no harsh words, no "How could you's?" I am what I am and Sean, god bless him, loves me for it. Am I aggravating and impossible, you bet, but I also make a mean tray of nachos on Red Sox game nights and usually get us where we want to be by exuberantly chewing off a seemingly herculean task. He looked at me with those blue eyes of his, shrugged his shoulders and said he'd known I was going to do it eventually. I was relieved, but honestly repentant as the plaster and spackle mix took me back to the first year in this house, our Tuscan Crack House era. We worked our asses off to get out of it, through pregnancy, job loss and starting a new business.

Taking a cue from Sean, I shrugged my shoulders. I figured we'd do the rest of the wallpaper and then paint it and be done before Thanksgiving. And then this happened.



Perhaps feeling guilty that he'd jumped in feet first, Sean roped Briar into the project:



Giddy, he cheered both girls on in a bedtime hour dining room decimation:



Then, clearly crazed by the potent aroma of decades old wallpaper glue, he threw his usually cautious nature out the window(Specifically his concern about me taking it easy while pregnant) and sent me up on a chair to get crackin' on the wallpaper removal.




Now just to take you back exactly 24 hours to my post wallpaper peel horror:



Well, imagine my surprise when, less than 12 hours after the first peel, this happened:



A hole the exact size of the head of our sledgehammer. It is now a 12" square in a wall we discovered was cosmetic. Enter: Kitchen renovations. 3 and half months pregnant, experiencing huge growth and change with Sean's business and we're tearing the house apart. We're nuts, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Are you a member of our club?

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Incorrigible, me, not the kids



Four years. I mean it, four years it's been there, taunting me and I've not tweaked a corner, not fingered a single edge. Bits of decades old wallpaper have curled and frayed, exposing layers of other older wallpaper behind them, but I have not given in to temptation. Others have dared to poke a finger behind the yellowed paper, lifting and scraping, but the most I've done is pressed that same paper down, smoothing it out and leaving well enough alone.

And then it happened. The girls were sitting, happily ensconced in PB&J on fresh sourdough, the bread halves opened and the gooey peanut butter and jam fast becoming a mask on their Saturday morning faces. I had, up until that very moment been content to take the wipe I had in my hand and absentmindedly clean the nutty smudges on the table. I still don't know how it began, but somehow one of my hands, I'm not sure if it was my right or my left, reached out and finally took hold of the 6 inch flap of wallpaper that fluttered each time we opened and closed the front door. It was brittle in my hand and I think I expected it to break, leaving the 5 feet of paper above it in place. That was not the case, not the case at all.

Before I knew it I was holding a swath of wallpaper longer than my arm, the room went silent and Briar said,

"Mama, what are you doing? Are you ruinin' the wall?"

Suddenly I was 7 again and standing beside the tv that had just unceremoniously tumbled from its perch after I innocently tried to turn it. Oh. My. God.

"Umm, honey, mama isn't ruining the wall. She's fixing it. Yes, sweet jesus, I'm fixing it. Mom and Dad are going to fix the wall, make it better."

"Oh, you aren't ruinin' the wall? Ok. You gonna fix it? Is daddy gonna paint it pink?"

"Rooo-nin. Roo-nin. Pay-purr," Avery chortled.

"No, honey, not ruined. Better."

I looked at the wall and then at the clock. Sean was not going to be happy. He has warned me time and again that this is not the next project in our never ending project docket, in fact this doesn't even make the top five, or top ten, he's told me. Don't get any ideas. And I didn't, I so didn't, but this was going to look like a grade A, Amanda, I-thought-it-would-be-ok idea.

"Daddy's gonna be mad. Very maaaaad." Briar was saying with a heavily furrowed brow. I realized that I had been repeating those very words over and over again as the edges of the remaining paper curled as if involved in some sort of Rockette-style dance.

Pop. Pleep. Pucker. Whip.

No less than 6 strips of paper had sprung from the wall, this in a house with at least one room that damn near took a blow torch to get the wallpaper down. Shit.

"Mama, we don't say shit."

"Oh, honey, yes we do. Sometimes we really do."

My shoulders were slumped and I realized I had no choice but to forge ahead and at least clear off the rest of the wallpaper, hopefully isolating it to the corner in which I'd begun. I filled a bowl with hot water and set about sponging all the paper to loosen it. I shook my head, still in a state of utter disbelief that I had been so foolish after so long. The truth is, I think Sean has been closing to peeling that same piece for a few weeks now, kind of like a scab. Sigh.

The girls delighted in watching me soak the walls and peel off the strips of paper. Briar checked in every so often.

"You fixing it?"

"Yup, I am. Can you say the paper was ugly?"

"Da paper wasn't ugly."

"No, honey, the paper was ugly."

"Honey, the paper was ugly." She waited for my reaction.

"Perfect! Now say, the paint will be sooo pretty"

"The pink paint will be sooo pretty."

"Pink?"

"Uh-huh, pink. If we gonna make it pretty it's got to be pink. Yup, yup."

"Pink. PINK!" Avery concurred.

"Ok, then. Pink." I chuckled, the wall was looking better and if I want to teach the girls anything it's that what's done is done and you just have to move forward.

Think the picture will help soften the blow?

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Thursday, October 18, 2007

Thwack, Shllfft, Thwack, Schllfft

Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
THUNK THUNK THUNK!

That is the sound of my head slamming against my desk. Again and again and again. I have somehow allowed myself to slide down the slippery slope of workplace aggravation and have found myself irrevocably mired in a frustration that has me threatening to unleash a torrent of uncensored commentary regarding a certain person. I apologize, but I am left with no option but to use this forum to vent.

I have reached the point where the sight of her, the mere mention of her, or even the idea of her sends me sputtering and twitching in fits of, "How could she?" I hate being here, mainly for the lack of control it makes me feel and the degree of power it seems to give her.

The title of this post? That's in reference to her shoes. Her misshapen mules with their pointy toes, fashioned clumsily from tired faux leather and punctuated by peeling heels. They seem not fit her feet appropriately as she walks down the halls and they slap obnoxiously against her feet, the lines of her self tanner resembling the smudges of dirt the girls have after playing in the backyard.

It is October in the Adirondacks and she is still wearing capris. And the tops, the tissue paper thin, cut-down-to-here-tops. They are neither appropriate nor flattering. I suspect they are selected solely on their strength in highlighting the burnt umber shade of artificial tan she sports, highlighted nicely against the misguided shade of khaki that her I-wish-I'd-been-born-a-blonde-but-since-I-wasn't-I'll-just-thrice-weekly-dye-it hair is.

And you know, it's not even really these things that get to me (I mean, obviously they do, but I could handle it and just laugh if that was all). It's the pathological lying in the workplace and the inability of the people capable of addressing the situation to see what is so clear to the rest of us-

A consistent failure to perform the responsibilities as assigned to her.

She takes it further by requesting additional responsibilities from our boss and then sluffing the duties off on us as she twirls the aforementioned straw-like hair, round her French manicured nails feigning (or, perhaps not) ignorance. Then, as she is not doing the things she asked to be able to do, she dives head first into non-work related activities that preclude her from handling the basic responsibility of answering the phone and greeting visitors.

I have worked hard to fight the "I'll just do it myself" mentality, knowing that I cannot do it all myself, but honestly, with her, it's true. So I find myself trying to drown out the sound of her regaling friends with the latest cheer she has taught the squad, or campaigning for her husband, or spreading the Mary Kay gospel and just put my nose to the grindstone. And I am close, so close to being able to do it, but then she brings her STOMP knock-off sounding walk down the hallway and it takes everything in me not to leap over my desk and take one of those godforsaken Payless , special occasion mules and stuff it sideways in her tequila sunrise frost lipstick shellacked mouth.

Help, this cannot be good for the baby.

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Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Three's Company, but different

A toddler twist on the classic Three's Company snippets of conversation taken out of context.

I've been working with Avery on colors and numbers.
Briar's fascination with poop and and the variety of colors it comes in continue.

The scene this morning: Changing Avery's diaper

"Mom, can you read me a story?" Briar called from the other room.

"In a minute honey, I'm changing Avery's diaper."

"Ok, I'll wait for you with my stroller and my baby and my pony and my gloves in the kitchen." She called back.

"Perfect. Ok, Ave, let's change this diaper. Can you tell me what colors your tights are?" I coo down at her grinning face.

"Geen."

"Uh-huh."

"Wed."

"Good, that's right."

"Did she poop?" A bellow from the kitchen.

"Yes, she did," I answer slightly exasperated.

"Uh poop, uh poop. Uh poop-ed." Proudly.

"Yes, you did."

Briar thunders into the room, breathless, "What color is the poop?"

"Purple."

Sprinting to us Briar says, "Wow, purple poop, that's great Avery."

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Sunday, October 14, 2007

Rocked the house

The performance was a success. Representatives from different organizations, several of whom compete aggressively professionally, came together to put on a show in the spirit of community. The event raised over $700 for a local organization called Feet First that makes sure all kids have shoes. My Sean took the stage with the rest of the Trampoline gang and performed an awesome set. I've posted a clip below, you can visit the Trampoline blog for more. Enjoy!

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Wednesday, October 10, 2007

My Spark

The inimitable Flutter tagged me for a meme. Actually she tagged anyone who was reading and interested, and since Nutmeg recently let spill that she likes hearing me gush about Sean, and then Painted Maypole said she like it too, I thought, "Who am I to disappoint Meg and the mom of the May Queen, by passing up this kind of opportunity?"

Let's sail away on a blanket of butterflies and weak knees, shall we?


1. Who is your man?

Sean, source of endless butterflies, giver of magnificent back rubs, maker of beautiful babies, crafter of delicious eggs and bacon breakfasts, and fixer of all things seemingly unfixable around an old house.

2. How long have you been together?

Let's ignore those pesky, insignificant little breaks and say since 1999...thoughts of Prince, anyone?

3. How long did you date?

I fought any sort of courtship the summer we met and then, having turned down the heart he so earnestly offered me, as a plane carried me 3,000 miles away, I realized that oh-my-god-that-was-the-guy-I-am-supposed-to-be-with. We carried on a torrid bi-coastal romance for 2 years, spending the summers together in Williamstown and then finally beginning our life of unwedded, co-habitating bliss in 2001, followed by a wedding in 2003.

4. How old is your man?

31, of course his answer would be "Three years younger than she is."

5. Who eats more?

I guess he does, though I would argue that, to which he would respond that I eat like a bird. I eat. A lot. I just prefer to do it in many snacks throughout the day. Unless we're talking turkey burgers, in which case hand me a stack and a couple of bottles of squirty mustard and stand back.

6. Who said "I love you" first?

I am not sure that I remember, I am awful at these things.

7. Who is taller?

He is, though I often rock some sexy heels, in which case, I am.

8. Who sings better?

And my self esteem plummets. He serenaded me at our wedding. Beautifully. He wrote me a song one summer for my birthday. He has a beautiful voice, I on the other hand...let's just say that I was upstairs with Avery one day and I was singing to her softly. Sean bolted up the stairs. "Are you ok?" He asked panting. "Yes, why? What's wrong?" I asked. "I heard a voice up here, a singing voice. I thought someone else was up here."

I do not sing in front of him. That I cannot play an instrument or sing is a source of deep shame and sorrow and haunts me. No joke.

9. Who is smarter?

We are each exceptionally smart in areas that complement one another.

10. Whose temper is worse?

Kind of like our smarts, we play well off one another.

11. Who does the laundry?

I do.

12. Who takes out the garbage?

He does.

13. Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?

Taking a page from the field in which we met, he sleeps stage right, I sleep stage left.

14. Who pays the bills?

Physically? I do. Financially? There is no distinction between his money and mine.

15. Who is better with the computer?

Hmm, he is a wiz with Photoshop, Illustrator and Flash, but I am the Nancy Drew of internet searches and I have been knocking around with Blogger for so long I am a bit ahead in the blogging realm.

16. Who mows the lawn?

He is the lawnmaster.

17. Who cooks dinner?

He is the grillmaster, but I am the marinade, stew, salad, meat loaf, pizza, pasta and crock pot magic master.

18. Who drives when you are together?

Generally he does.

19. Who pays when you go out?

Hmm, if the girls are with us I do, otherwise he does.

20. Who is most stubborn?

Stubborn? Only when we're awake. Photo finish.

21. Who is the first to admit when they are wrong?

I am getting better at this.

22. Whose parents do you see the most?

His mom.

23. Who kissed who first?

I am going to say he kissed me first, but I had to go hat in hand in April of 2001 to declare my love for him. I was terrified and thought he'd turn me down, I think it rivals a first kiss in laying-it-all-on-the-line vulnerability.

24. Who asked who out?

I don't think there was ever n actual date request.

25. Who proposed?

He did, but it was several months after I had an uncharacteristic public tantrum. I'd never thought that I cared about marriage and all that, then I got a lecture from my grandfather, something to with cows and milk and giving it away, I was too horrified to truly digest it.
Sean gave me a small, ring sized box the Christmas after we moved in together. Anyone would have expected a ring, right? Wrong. Earrings. Ouch. Humiliation. Shame. And then he resignedly showed me the ring through my sniffling sobs. Months passed. Nothing. Tantrum. More months. Finally a proposal while kayaking in Victoria, British Columbia.

26. Who is more sensitive?

Mostly me, but kind of him...

27. Who has more friends?

He does. Hands down.

28. Who has more siblings?

He does.

29. Who wears the pants in the family?

We both look great in a tailored trouser, but if I had to say we err on the side of a traditional relationship with a side dish of sassy mouth.

That's it...for now. If you want to run with this manly ball, go for it. And as for the title, it isn't missing a "y." It wasn't until Sean that I felt the real spark, fireworks actually. Small town, last night of the carnival, starry night fireworks.

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Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Uh, Hit Me Now...

Ok, I realize I can be a tad insufferable with the gushing about Sean ad nauseum, but what can I say? I love the guy and he's great, like really, really great. He's performing with the other members of Trampoline at a Media Night this Friday to benefit Feet First, an organization dedicated to making sure that all kids have the shoes they need. A local paper contacted Trampoline and said they needed a photo.



Raeanne, guitar and vocals
Derek, tambourine and vocals
Trina vocals and bad-ass-diva-hair
Sean, guitar and vocals

Photo by John W. Yost, filmmaker, photographer and all around cool guy...he also happens to be married to Raeanne.

I ache to be that cool. Sigh, if I were in the shot it would say:

Amanda, groupie and dropper of loud, clanging objects and exclaimer of stage whisper expletives during performance while standing backstage

Anyone wanna come sit with me, maybe keep me from making an ass of myself?

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Monday, October 8, 2007

Come Rain or Come Shine

This morning started early, like, dark early. Briar woke with a start, an accident in her bed. I forgot to wake her in the night.

"Change my gown, change my gown." Howl, sob "Mommy, can you fix my bed fresh so there's no more pee?"

I tapped Sean to let him know what was happening and ran to her. By the time I reached her she was alternately whimpering and wailing, her distress waking Avery.

"Maaaama. Maw-muhh, Bwi-uh cryning, cuh-rye-ning! Bwi-uh, fis'it, mama."

Sean was up and had Avery in his arms before I scooped Briar up and rushed her to the bathroom to finish peeing. We worked quickly and tenderly, soothing the girls while we changed sheets and dug out new pajamas. Soon it was time to go back to sleep. Briar slipped back into bed easily as Sean cuddled beside her, while Avery sought an extra bit of nursing. The four of us sat quietly as a storm rushed in, lightning flashing outside the windows illuminating the entire upstairs, and roof rattling claps of thunder sent us curling into one another. It wasn't yet six when Sean and I finally met back in our room. We held hands and remembered storms from our first summer together at Williamstown. It was a sweet turn after a cold-water-in-the-face kind of rising.

I am girlishly giddy now as I dress to meet Sean downtown. One last chance at a date before mom and Abbie leave tomorrow. No wine or fancy clothes, but with a husband that I still worship and butterflies in my tummy, I think today is going to end up being a pretty special Monday.



I'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you come rain or come shine
High as a mountain and deep as a river come rain or come shine
I guess when you met me it was just one of those things
But don't ever bet me cause I'm gonna be true if you let me

You're gonna love me like nobody's loved me come rain or come shine
Happy together unhappy together and won't it be fine?
Days may be cloudy or sunny
We're in or we're out of the money

But I'm with you always, I'm with you rain or shine

I'm gonna love you like nobody's loved you come rain or come shine
High as a mountain deep as a river come rain or come shine
I guess when you met me it was just one of those things
But don't ever bet me cause I'm gonna be true if you let me

You're gonna love me like nobody's loved me come rain or come shine
Happy together unhappy together and won't it be fine?
Days may be cloudy or sunny
We're in or we're out of the money.

But I'll love you always, I'm with you rain or shine

Rain or shine.

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Sunday, October 7, 2007

Soul Sandwich



I've been quiet these past few days, a combination of pregnancy induced fatigue and family inspired bliss. My mom and sister are visiting and accomplishing day after day of dizzying, thrill-them-like-it's-Christmas-morning memory making with the girls. I've tried to ease back and simply take it in, but it's been hard not to get down into the thick of it. Just shy of a week here, and I am only just now really relaxing, but I wouldn't change a minute of it. Between my mom and sister, and the memories they bring of my childhood as half of a sister duo, and my own family of Sean and the girls, I feel as if golden threads are being woven in my soul, healing old wounds and providing a protective veil for whatever may come. A strength is raditaing from the inside out and as I look around I am keenly aware and staggeringly grateful for the blessings in my life.

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Wednesday, October 3, 2007

All the kids are doin' it

I'm caving. So many blogs, so many delurk buttons. Help me out. Today is the day that we bloggers ask you readers (and a lot of you bloggers as well) to fess up to reading us. I know, I know, the shame, on par with reading the faded newsprint tabloid at the checkout that always boasts the latest martian and uptown girl love child, but do it. I promise you won't have that slimy feeling when you're done.



Leave me a comment, let me know you are here and reading this blog. Tell me you agree that Jeannie Velasco and Rachel Ray make you want to grab a rasp from the garage and shave your ears from your very head. Or, tell me that you love 'Rache' and her EVOO. Shudder

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Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Gone too soon



Another soldier is coming home and now a family mourns, standing to receive him in a way no family should. Jenn over at Serving the Queens is putting together a tribute in honor of Sgt. Matthew Blaskowski to be shared with his parents, Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski.

Please go and visit her site and leave comments, it's a chance to help a family in their darkest hour, feel ever-so-slightly less alone.

For Matthew.

Monday, October 1, 2007

I want to praise you

I was reading the other day how another study had been completed demonstrating another way we parents are failing when we think we are doing the right thing...too much praise, tsk tsk tsk. Apparently it messes kids up. Swell. I've decided to stick to my guns, I think we've got a pretty good thing going. Check out the praise crew we've got in the can:

video

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