tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40570399484143966122024-02-18T18:01:49.943-08:00Life, Love, and ScotlandSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-10414325684507546162015-07-29T22:02:00.000-07:002015-07-29T22:38:53.157-07:00You're having a baby! In Scotland!!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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First of all, congrats mama! You are having a baby! And
while this reality can be overwhelming in itself, it can be all the more so
when you are planning to have said baby overseas. I’ve been getting a lot of
messages with a lot of really good questions about prepping for the experience
in the UK, and hopefully this can help to answer some of them. I had my
youngest son in Kirkcaldy two seasons ago on November 25<sup>th</sup> through
their national healthcare system (NHS). It was my first season in the UK but it
was my second baby and my third season abroad. I had a wonderful experience
from pre-natal care to delivery and post-natal care. It was such a lovely place
to live and raise my babies that we happily returned for another year even
though my husband had sworn that our first year there was going to be his last
before retirement. (How many times as your hockey guy said that? And then
decided on “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just one more”</i>.) Anyway,
I’m so happy he signed on for an encore season. The point is, we loved it
there. And I’m confident you and your little family will too. Here are just a
few things that might make the move a little easier and ease your mind about
the whole “having a baby in Scotland” thing…</div>
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<b>The Packing</b></div>
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Not knowing what would be available to me, I grossly overpacked
on year one. I brought everything that a person would need to live on a
deserted island with a toddler and a new baby on the way. Totally unnecessary.
The UK has everything you need and lots of it at discount prices. Nursing Pads
(Savers), bottles and <s>diapers </s>nappies (Asda), Clothing (PRIMARK!!).
Plus, there’s Gumtree, the UK version of Craigslist. I bought a pack and play,
umbrella stroller, ride on toys, play kitchen and TONS of other things on there
for super cheap and just sold them back before I left. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long story long, you can be rest assured
you will be able to find pretty much everything you need over there without
breaking the bank. So when packing, I would consider these things:</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Infant Carseat</b>: Easier not to mess with finding a seat in
the UK that meets US standards or that's compatible with your stroller. Get a
travel bag that will fit the next size up carseat and you’ll have space to cram
any extra belongings in there with it. No one ever questioned why my carseat weighed a gazillion pounds. Shhh… </li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Stroller</b>: Buying a stroller is like buying a car. It’s
likely you’ve researched for hours and found the stroller of your dreams. So, if
you want it, bring it! Worst case they will charge you for the extra bag since
the baby technically isn’t born yet to redeem his/her free-stroller privileges.
I gate-checked my double stroller, and maybe they just didn’t bother me because
I technically already had one kid. If they do charge you, I think it’s still
worth it. It’s fairly mild weather year round out there, so you’ll want to be
out walking. And unless you are due at the very end of the season when your
baby is still content full-time in a carrier, you’ll probably want YOUR
stroller. If you haven’t found “the one” yet, there are some great options over
there you could buy and bring home. Then your baby will have a fancy foreign
“buggy” as a great conversation starter. Whether you buy here or there, get a
travel bag for it. You can buy generic ones for fairly cheap off Amazon UK (Yes, they have their own Amazon!). And def splurge on a rain cover… it is
Scotland after all.</li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Breastpump</b>: These are expensive to buy in the UK and don’t
come with your insurance like it does in the states for most people. If
insurance covers it, talk to your doctor and get your script for one. Sometimes
the pharmacies that distribute them are funny giving them out too early, but
they should accommodate you. It’s worth calling the manufacturer and ordering
the adaptor for UK outlets. It would suck to have it fry because of being
incompatible with power. Or just plan on using batteries. You can buy those in
bulk at your nearest <s>dollar store</s> Poundland. </li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Rock and Play</b>: I only brought one pack and play and it was for my then-toddler. I brought the rock and play for my newbie because it’s super compact
and I figured it would hold me over for a little while if I couldn’t get a
second pack and play out there. Sure enough, Gumtree hooked me up with one for
15 quid that I sold back for the same price two years later.</li>
</ul>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><b>Peace of mind pieces</b>: Pack some outfits and onesies and a
small collection of whatever other baby items will appease your inner nesting
instinct. You can build from there once you’ve settled in.</li>
</ul>
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Now, for the fun part… </div>
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<b>Pre-natal care</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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If your man goes over before you, have him get right on
top of filling out insurance info for you. Once you have an insurance number
(or whatever they call it), you can find a GP. The GP office is where you will
go for most of your pre-natal appointments, general health issues, and where
you will bring your baby for wellness checks. GPs aren’t always accepting new
patients, so it might take a couple tries to find one that is. From there,
schedule your first appointment with a midwife. Midwives are only in GP offices
on certain days so the appointments tend to fill in fast. Best to get in there
as soon as possible and schedule your remaining check-ups. Don’t panic if it
takes a couple weeks to be seen. If you are ever worried about anything, they
will get you in quick and you will at the very least be seen by a nurse
practitioner. They can always refer you to the midwifery unit at the hospital
if necessary. The fact that an OBGYN isn’t available on a daily basis initially
made me nervous. However, my baby and I were always taken care of even though
the process is a little different than here in the states. </div>
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<br />
Comparing my two pregnancies, one here and one there, there
weren’t too many noticeable differences leading up to my deliveries. I found
that they didn’t do as many routine ultrasound scans as my OBGYN in the states
who took a look at the baby nearly every visit. You’ll fill out a big binder of
info and they will determine whether you require any special observation. At
one point in my pregnancy, I was considered higher risk so I had my pre-natal
checks with a Consultant at the maternity ward at the hospital as opposed to
the midwife at the GP office. I was then deemed fit to return to regular
non-consultant led pre-natal care. In both places, I was very comfortable. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, I found the birthing culture there to be less inclined
towards induction than here in the U.S. I was induced with my first at 41 weeks
and he was still over 9 lbs. I was petrified when the midwife in Scotland
scheduled me for a 42-week check-up at my 39-week visit. Fortunately, my little one arrived the day after his due date at an itsy bitsy (compared to his brother) 8 pounds. They obviously induce
if it’s medically necessary for you or the baby or when you’ve reached the
42-week mark. But, ladies, just prepare yourself for the long haul. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Delivery</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so I have now had two very different birthing
experiences. In one, I was induced, in labor for 14 hours before begging
exhaustedly for an epidural. I then took a three hour-nap and woke up for
another lonnnnnng round of painless labor before my son finally decided to make
an appearance in front of my doctor and about three nurses.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With #2 in Scotland, I went to the hospital for a night of
contractions increasing in intensity only to have them slow back down. I was
sent home in the morning, returned that night, and had the little guy within
two hours completely naturally. The only people in the room were me, my
husband, and our absolutely wonderful midwife.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure these are the 91<sup>st</sup> and 92<sup>nd</sup>
birth stories you’ve heard since you announced your pregnancy. I don’t know why
everyone shares theirs, but, in my case, I’m trying to stress the fact that,
though they were very different experiences, both ended with me holding a sweet little
baby. You can't really plan for anything other than that baby coming out, and likely on his/her own agenda. That's the same no matter which side of the ocean you are on. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All that said, you obviously have to do a little "planning" while you wait for your own birth story to unfold. Should you opt for an epidural, you will automatically be
scheduled to deliver in the consultant-led wing of the hospital. If you opt to
try a non-epidural route, you will be down the hall in the midwife-led
unit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a heads up, epidurals are not the norm in Scotland.
But this isn’t as scary as it sounds. They do have
alternative pain management options, “Gas and air” being the big one. It’s
actually starting to make its way to hospital in the states because it
supposedly works really well. My delivery progressed too fast for me to use it,
but I’ve heard it’s wonderful. I found that, while the final stage of labor was tougher without the epidural, my recovery time was much better than when I had one. So I guess it's a little bit of "pick your poison". </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Post-Natal Care</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will hear that women in Scotland are discharged 6 hours
after giving birth. And, it’s true!! Crazy, right? I got ten hours, maybe
because they sympathized that I was a foreigner and was not genetically
engineered to be a Birthing Superhero like all the other Scottish mamas. But
here’s the amazing thing. I actually felt great. And, their system of
post-natal care is amazing. Yes, in the states you get two days for your
standard delivery. But then, that’s it. Two days and you are ON YOUR OWN until
those six-week checks. In Scotland, the turnover is quick in the hospital. But
then you get two weeks of in-home personalized care for you and your baby. A
midwife comes to your house every couple of days and answers all those burning
questions you inevitably have when you step foot out of the hospital doors.
They help with nursing, check your vitals, weigh the baby, and even administer
baby’s first shots. They help you with nursing if you need it and are all
around the most resourceful people you could ask for, especially when you are
so far from home. I LOVED this aspect of the UK healthcare system. <br />
<br />
Once you are are settled in at home, you will need to start thinking about getting your baby HOME home. Here's the U.S. process of getting citizenship for your scottish-born babe. You will go to the town clerk to buy your baby's long-form birth certificate which says all the important info that you see on traditional birth certificates. Then you will fill out stacks of paperwork for baby's passport and U.S. Consular Report of Birth Abroad certificate, the birth-certificate recognized in the states. You'll make an appointment with the consulate, and receive both documents together. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One more thing:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One last final thing I think is worth mentioning and it only
pertains to those of you who are expecting little boys… It has to do with the
big “C” word. I know this is a topic that can spark huge debates, and I am not
trying to offend anyone, but here’s the scoop on circumcision. My husband and I
chose to have our first son circumcised and so we planned to go the same route
with his little brother. I found that it was not an easy issue to discuss at my
pre-natal appointments abroad. Through my own research, I found that it can be
done privately in various clinics in the bigger cities like Edinburgh and
Glasgow, but ultimately decided to wait until we were home. The procedure was
carried out at the pediatrician’s office when my son was 3 months old and,
although I’d assumed it would be an out-of-pocket expense, it was covered by
our insurance. I think when they are a little older, they need to use general
anesthesia. Whatever you and your hubby are planning to do, it’s worth
consulting your pediatrician at home before you go so that you know all of your
options before baby arrives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright, so that’s about all the rambling I am sure you can
handle. Hopefully it touches upon most of the questions you have. If not, feel
free to message me at any point and I can try and help out or direct you to
someone who can. Enjoy the rest of your summer, and safe travels. I’ll be
wishing you all a healthy and happy pregnancy (and hockey season!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
XO - Sarah</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-27117848087538519002015-06-15T18:34:00.001-07:002015-06-15T18:34:30.932-07:00A Note from Kevin<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wanted to write something meaningful about retirement, something that would cover my whole career. Something honest about the ups and downs of being a professional hockey player. But I can't really find the words right now. Maybe it hasn't set in, or maybe it’s just been too busy getting started on this next chapter to really think about it…</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20.2399997711182px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After giving everything I’ve had to this sport for over 20 years, retiring certainly wasn’t an easy decision. The fact that we'd be leaving Scotland made it even more difficult. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I first signed two years ago, I was hesitant. Sarah was pregnant with our second baby, and I had no idea how we would adapt to raising our family overseas. I didn't really know what to expect, what the atmosphere would be like for a small hockey team in a soccer country. I really couldn’t believe the support the team received from the community, and we found it a great place to raise our family. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20.2399997711182px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The people there made us feel like Scotland was our second home, and we will be eternally grateful for that. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'll always think I had more to give to my team these past two seasons. A</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"> large part of me wanted to recommit to my training to come back for another year and finish on a higher note. But few hockey players close out their hockey careers with a win. It's just a part of the job. And retiring was never going to be easy, not this season or three seasons from now...</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20.2399997711182px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the end, it’s hard work being a hockey player. It takes a tremendous amount of time and energy to stay at your peak and, as I get older, the costs of those sacrifices begin to outweigh the benefits of playing another year. I couldn't come back knowing that I might not be able to give all I have to the game. Not to mention, despite everything we loved about Fife, it’s not an easy task to move a family of four overseas every year. It's time to give our boys a permanent home, to be around our families for the whole year instead of just 4 months. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m excited to start a new career and a new life outside of hockey. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are so many people I could thank for helping my family over the last two years. I will end by thanking my coaches for giving me the opportunity to play in Fife and the fans for all their unwavering support. I couldn't have asked for a better place to play. The Flower of Scotland will remain our three-year-old's favorite "hockey song", and Fife will always have a special place in all of our hearts.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">- Kevin</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-89045034816522223342015-04-19T00:37:00.001-07:002015-04-19T07:54:39.039-07:00Dear Fifers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4stgTWWZa8B7gjBTvYZd0uVEDCwb1BB8jJpnreZWnSXhy6CKXLzSdOdL3vonadUHmWu0nNr3-dCjrcS104LkDU2VcWuXHUEuUe8lLKccKTOEhKzKK5b0XfQQroXr_jqrfejAaKAIHV6xR/s1600/DSC_1423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4stgTWWZa8B7gjBTvYZd0uVEDCwb1BB8jJpnreZWnSXhy6CKXLzSdOdL3vonadUHmWu0nNr3-dCjrcS104LkDU2VcWuXHUEuUe8lLKccKTOEhKzKK5b0XfQQroXr_jqrfejAaKAIHV6xR/s1600/DSC_1423.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">In two days, we will be on our way home after having completed our
second hockey season in Scotland. As often happens when you come to the end of
any wonderful experience, you start getting sentimental. And that’s what I’m
doing now. Looking back fondly on our little Fife life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">It seems like yesterday we arrived here, after what had been a whirlwind
off-season. Just two months before, Kevin had been recovering from his
second-consecutive season-ending injury. His career may well have been over. He
wasn’t a particularly marketable goalie seeing as 1) the timeline of his
recovery might not allow him to regain his form before the start of the season
and 2) signing him meant bringing along his pregnant wife and their little boy.
Would all that extra paperwork be worth it for a player that might not be able
to stay injury-free for the entire year? Most recruiters would have said “no”. And
I wouldn’t have blamed them. But Stewy wasn’t most recruiters. He saw past
Kevin’s injury-record and past the fact that our family situation was more
complicated than other potential prospects. I will be forever grateful to him
for taking a risk on us, and to the rest of the Flyers management for trusting
his judgment. Had it not been for them, we never would have had this
extraordinary opportunity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">In two seasons, we’ve been lucky to see so much of what this beautiful
country has to offer. From Edinburgh and Stirling to Inverness and The Isle of
Skye, from little fishing villages like Crail and Anstruther to bigger seaside
towns like St. Andrews and Kirkcaldy, we’ve marveled at the scenery and soaked
in the culture. In all our adventures, we’ve driven through more <s>rotaries</s>
roundabouts than we will drive through for the rest of our lives in the States.
We’ve eaten more toast and consequently more butter than ever before. And we’ve
taken more pictures than we could ever afford to develop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Looking at our lives now, I see little pieces of Scotland everywhere. I
love that our backyard is the “garden”, the mail is the “post”, soccer is "football", and Brayden knows chips as “crisps” and fries as “chips”. I don’t have any shame
about the fact that I practically eat Scottish butter with a spoon. (Yes. It’s
that good.) I’m proud that I now understand about 90% of what Mr. Allan
Anderson says, which is a testament to my vastly improved understanding of a
thick Scottish accent. And I’m happy that my boys have spent many of their
toddler days puddle jumping in tidal pools at the beach, playing in Fife’s
pristine parks, and exploring the ruins of Ravenscraig Castle. We are so lucky
that so many of our earliest memories as a family-of-four will have Scotland in
the backdrop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Thinking back to what this community has meant to our family, I couldn’t
be more grateful. This is the place our youngest son was born. The place where
I was welcomed into a group of lovely mothers who, over the course of playdates
and playgroup sessions, and the occasional night out, have become wonderful
friends. Where we have found lifelong friendships in players and their better
halves. The place where my husband’s played in front of his favorite type of
home crowd, the big and loud and proud kind. Where he was given tremendous fan
support, even when he thought he didn’t deserve it but probably needed it the
most. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">This hasn’t been the easiest two years for us. Having a new baby so far
away from our own families comes with its own set of challenges. Losing my
sister last January was the start of what has been a long and painful journey. Through
it all, we have been so humbled by the support that's poured in. We are so lucky that hockey brought us
here because we would not have been able to do it alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">So, to all those who have been there for us in different ways over the
course of our time here, I want to say thank you. And to those of you who also
happen to be Flyers fans, keep doing what you do. This may not have been the
season that you all wanted and deserved. But better seasons will inevitably
come, as well as some long-awaited hardware. Until that day, no matter what
future seasons hold for us, we will be cheering on the Flyers. And, all the
while, you can take pride in having made Fife such a wonderful place for your
hockey families to play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">All our love and thanks,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">The Regan Family<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8rsgqtE5Lj6IfAs-qhcnAiXWhvrGZBgB3B01EBeKK9DEYIposqMmHCUB1Zy7O4z5ZFr8DfdvnrV_wnL44ETCTUvpkrQqsVLUkLsEjLHnGq41uADFUws6-Kv6er5j_mGmFazterAnZV04/s1600/IMG_1003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8rsgqtE5Lj6IfAs-qhcnAiXWhvrGZBgB3B01EBeKK9DEYIposqMmHCUB1Zy7O4z5ZFr8DfdvnrV_wnL44ETCTUvpkrQqsVLUkLsEjLHnGq41uADFUws6-Kv6er5j_mGmFazterAnZV04/s1600/IMG_1003.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-62671016289103855152015-03-28T02:12:00.003-07:002015-03-28T02:12:52.164-07:00My Love Affair with Hockey
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I didn’t always love Hockey. It only took one pre-adolescent trip-up on
double-bladed skates for me to decide I should stick to sports that aren’t played
on frozen surfaces. And so my father, a former collegiate player himself,
swapped his skates for a softball glove and spent his weekends at track meets
instead of hockey games. He wasn’t offended that his three daughters had little
interest in his personal sport of preference. On the topic, he only had one
request : “Never date a hockey player”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">And so I made it through the first nineteen years of my life with very
little understanding of the sport. How many innings(?) were played in a single
game… how many players were on a roster… Which hall-of-famers played for which
NHL team… That was until, in the fashion of a stereotypical daughter, I found
myself at odds with my father’s one wish. I didn’t do it as an intentional act
of rebellion, but I started dating a hockey player.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">So began my love stories with Kevin in particular and the sport of
hockey in general. Falling in love with one was quicker and easier than falling
in love with the other. One had wit and charm, blue eyes, and a cute South
Boston accent. The other had lots of rules I didn’t understand, a cold venue,
and an NHL network that always interfered with my reality TV viewing schedule. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">When I started watching Kevin play, I didn’t know much about what I was
seeing. The whole experience stressed me out. I’d sit there in the Whittemore
Center Arena, clapping nervously when other Wildcats clapped, and just hoping
the puck wouldn’t go in the net. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">As time went on, however, Kevin’s passion started to rub off on me. Without
meaning to, I learned about the game. I soon found myself reading plays as they
developed, analyzing the quality of shots made on net, and actually enjoying
hockey highlights over breakfast. I knew what systems should look like, and
when ref’s made iffy calls. I could match NHL-ers to their teams, recognize
different styles of goaltending, and appreciate a good, high-intensity hockey
game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Just when I was starting to think Hockey wasn’t so bad after all, it
really upped its game and sent us on all sorts of wonderful adventures. It brought
us to Providence where Kev and I spent our engagement in an adorable East Side
apartment. Just a few weeks after our honeymoon, it sent us to la bella Italia for two
seasons. Next it landed our newly expanded family in Wichita, the land of Sunny Decembers and smoky barbecues. And then, with a
second baby on the way, it flew us to beautiful Scotland where we’ve been ever since. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">It hasn’t always been perfect, nor would I have expected it to be.
Hockey comes with a lot of baggage, literally and figuratively speaking. There is
a lot of pressure and very little stability in such a performance-driven career.
There are challenges to living away from our families. There is packing. (A LOT
of packing.) There are everyday stressors magnified by being in foreign
surroundings. But even in the hardships, there are positives. As I watched
Kevin rehab from potentially career-ending injuries, I admired his resilience
and work ethic. When we needed support we would have found in our families back
home, we found it in our Hockey communities. When we struggled to balance his
schedule with our graduate programs, parenthood, and marriage… when all we had
was each other, we learned how strong we are together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Maybe it’s just me getting sentimental as the season winds down, but somewhere
over the past eleven seasons I fell in love Hockey. I love it for showing me
places I never would have seen, introducing me to people I never would have
met. For bringing out of Kevin some of his best qualities, the ones I fall in
love with every day. For teaching me to be more flexible, inspiring my
wanderlust. And for challenging us as a couple in the best possible way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Now, all that said…. as much as I love Hockey, I will likely be a bit of
a stress-case in the stands this weekend, feeling the pressure of a do-or-die
playoff series. I’ll be cursing the clock for going too slow if we are ahead
and too fast if we are behind. I’ll be sitting on the edge of my seat, cursing
my Hockey affection for driving me on the verge of crazy… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">love can do that sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-79279621418444968852015-03-15T08:45:00.003-07:002015-03-15T08:50:16.123-07:00Lessons of a Tummy Bug<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgo5WKck6BnB2br7R1bCl0hBqWj7QVv3hH6j1pT7irpXDmX_CzEJOVyGLAaBMBjmL9z6jMF7kHRk1rPiUagoTVoZecoDOlg5MlffpPhGDcCFegEbeprJD7riuXhoVQfqPpUdEuv7PRCrw/s1600/milk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgo5WKck6BnB2br7R1bCl0hBqWj7QVv3hH6j1pT7irpXDmX_CzEJOVyGLAaBMBjmL9z6jMF7kHRk1rPiUagoTVoZecoDOlg5MlffpPhGDcCFegEbeprJD7riuXhoVQfqPpUdEuv7PRCrw/s1600/milk.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
You know it’s going to be a long night when you wake up to your husband
asking you to help him determine whether your one-year-old is covered
(COVERED!!) in puke or poop. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Puke or
Poop? Sounds like an awful gameshow category.</i> Baby looks completely
exhausted (and rightfully so seeing as its 3am). You check his diaper and, since
it’s clear, you know it’s the other end that’s responsible for producing the
vile-smelling substance that’s filled his bed and he’s apparently rolled in.
You’re weirdly relieved. Is it better to be cleaning vomit than shit from your
baby’s neck folds and hair? Probably. The Would-You-Rather game takes on a
whole new level when you have kids.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">And so the night progressed with more of the same, big brother, joining
in the fun shortly after. It was the first time, and likely not the last, that
BOTH babies in our house were hit with a tummy bug in the same night. And here
were some things I learned from the enlightening experience, one that serves as
yet another rite of passage in parenthood…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Do not under any circumstances give your baby a
glass of milk following a vomiting episode. Even if it appears to have been an
isolated incident. Even if he’s begging you for it “milk. Milk. MILK, MILK!!!”.
It WILL come back up. Almost immediately. But not before you’ve cleaned his
bed, changed the sheets, and dressed him in a fresh pair of pajamas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Vomit smells absolutely, positively, repulsive. I
had hoped there was some sort of maternal odor immunity that comes with having
children, but that is not the case. I am always surprised by how disgusting it
is, irrespective of who it comes from. And how that phantom smell persists long
after it’s been Lysol-ed away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">You have approximately one hour and twenty-seven
minutes before another child in your household is up with the same bug that
tormented the first one earlier. You have approximately thirty-two seconds
after that “mommmmmmyyyyy” wake-up call has been issued to get that child to
the toilet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">It is in these moments that you are most strongly
reminded of how single parents are truly the most kick-ass people out there. How
do they do THIS?? ALONE?! And so follows my incredible gratitude to my husband
for being all-in even when the going gets rough. I see him climbing up the
stairs with a third batch of cleaning supplies, comic sound effects bouncing
off him, “KAPOW” “KABOOM” “BOING”, like a handsome Calvin-Klein-boxer-brief-wearing
superhero. Maybe it’s the fumes from the cleaning products, but I swear he’s as
handsome as ever. Mommy goggles I guess. I am such a sucker for seeing my guy
being such a good daddy to our boys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">The cuddles you get the next day almost make you
forget about the fact that you were up all night scrubbing puke off the floors
and rubbing your toddler’s back while he stood over the toilet. You all snuggle
on the couch watching Frozen for the millionth time and life isn’t bad at all. This
will be the light at the end of the tunnel that I’ll hold onto the next time a
stomach virus rolls around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-83449844975419929742015-03-03T13:08:00.000-08:002015-03-03T13:08:17.854-08:00Don't Laugh, Sarah.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoOtRzVZ5uDNg-5rY_wBulLUcdhAci6ZctNqLVoFL7yJ85Mc5aOazQCpd85K1LtdYKmd2xNPZQn7WgKZeVM9PINjmgpC-PAX8rCJHbNlh_qHkaxEZNbVJ8s_z0jbA4f9J5tNYWOBQ2slk/s1600/DSC_1287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoOtRzVZ5uDNg-5rY_wBulLUcdhAci6ZctNqLVoFL7yJ85Mc5aOazQCpd85K1LtdYKmd2xNPZQn7WgKZeVM9PINjmgpC-PAX8rCJHbNlh_qHkaxEZNbVJ8s_z0jbA4f9J5tNYWOBQ2slk/s1600/DSC_1287.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
You think your day was hard? Try NOT laughing at some of the shit a toddler says. This be-the-responsible-adult-and-don’t-laugh thing is really difficult. Especially when you are chronically sleep-deprived because things are always funnier when you are tired. The problem with laughing at something your toddler does is that it encourages them to do it again. This is not a secret to toddler parenting, but a fact of human nature: It’s fun being funny. And toddlers are often funniest when their innocent curiosity crosses the line with inappropriateness. They are candid comedians, but, if you're trying to raise conduct-appropriate citizens, you must represent a stone-faced audience. Here are a few instances where it’s been the most difficult and simultaneously most important that I NOT laugh.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Toddler is being irrational.</b><br />
This happens a lot. Take, for instance, when I unwrap a granola bar that’s split in half and Brayden absolutely refuses to eat it because it’s “broken”. Screaming fit ensues because he’s starving. Starving!! <i>And yet, he can’t imagine eating a perfectly good, albeit broken, snack</i>. Or, here's another example: he’s throwing a tantrum because I simply cannot do anything right. I push his seat in too close to the table, then pull it out too far. He wants the yellow cup with blue lid not the red cup with green lid (obviously). He wants his pancakes cut up smaller, but not THAT small (clearly I’m an idiot). And on and on it goes until he ultimately decides he doesn’t want pancakes and eggs at all. Instead he wants the slice of pumpkin bread that I’d offered him at the start of this whole debacle and he’d refused. It’s funny because it’s all so absurd. <i>Is this little person really THIS irrational?</i> Yes. He is. But he's also clearly distraught so laughing would be a cruel response. <i>Look away from that ridiculous but equally adorable pouty face. Leave the room. Give him a hug. Whatever you do, don’t laugh at him. </i><br />
<br />
<b>2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Toddler reacts unfavorably to having to share his mother.</b><br />
I want my sons to know I love them both. Equally. And that, though they have to share their mommy and daddy, they get a brother out of the bargain. So, I like to use their bouts of jealousy as learning opportunities. I can’t do that, however, if I’m laughing. Picture this: I am making lunch and a cranky/hungry/i-don’t-know-why-I’m-crying Tyler is gripping to my leg like a spider monkey. Meanwhile, his older brother is having a fit of his own across the kitchen. When I ask him what's wrong, he screams, “that’s MYYYYYYYY leg”. In other words, <i>my</i> right leg, the one Tyler is clinging to, actually belongs to <i>Brayden</i>. Maybe it's the chaos of the minute, but his claiming possession over one of my limbs triggers a giggle. I quickly rein it in. “Actually, Brayden, that is my leg. But if you really must borrow a leg of mine to cry on like your brother, you can use my other one. I have two boys I love and I have two legs.” Learning opportunity seized! Christ help me if I have a third child.<br />
<br />
<b>3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Toddler discusses his private parts.</b><br />
Ugh. The innate fascination a boy has with his penis is truly remarkable. My 14-month old can’t find his nose but he can easily say “pee-pee” and locate what he obviously identifies as a more important body part. I’ve read enough about this to know that it is normal. For the sake of preserving what is a natural and healthy curiosity, it’s best not to scorn their behavior. But you don’t want them running around in public yelling “Look, mommy! There’s a ball in my penis” either. So you just have to develop some matter-of-fact responses. “Yes. I see that.” and “No. You shouldn’t play with them in public”. Or, you might need to practice non-reaction. This is probably a more difficult alternative because when I hear my two-year-old say “Look, mommy! My penis is getting bigger” it’s really hard not to cringe. <br />
<br />
<b>4.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Toddler uses the potty in a public place. </b><br />
There’s a lot of descriptive dialogue that my little guy uses on the toilet. When we are in the privacy of our own home, I am generally unfazed by the exclamatory remarks about the bubbles in his pee or the size, smell, and consistency of his “poopies”. It’s when he’s pooping in public restrooms, something he’s actually quite keen on doing, where my maturity is really put to the test. It’s hard not to laugh knowing there are strangers listening to the whole thing… his grunting, followed closely by a, “That was a BIIIIGGGG splash, mommy!” I can’t fault the kid for anything more than stating a fact. I mean, it WAS a big splash. <i>Should something so big come out of someone so small? I make a mental note to google that later. </i>“That was a stinky poopy, mommy.” Another truth. <i>That woman waiting for the bathroom picked a really bad time for a pee break. </i>I really don’t want to encourage potty-talk so I swallow the yes-this-is-the-story-of-my-life-now laugh that’s stuck in my throat. And it’s not easy because I’m also trying not to breathe.<br />
<br />
<b>5.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Toddler premeditates assaulting his younger brother with a vegetable. </b><br />
You always know when Brayden is up to no good. Just ask, and he will tell you. The other day, I spotted him walking towards the kitchen with a large cucumber in hand. Why he had a cucumber at all, let alone outside of the kitchen is irrelevant, but I'm guessing it has something to do with Tyler helping me "unpack" groceries earlier in the afternoon. The part that really got me was his very matter-of-fact response when I asked him what he was up to. "I'm going to hit Tyler in the head with a cucumber". <i>What did you just say?</i> “I’m going to hit Tyler in the head with a cucumber.” <i>Oh. Ok. Just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Don’t laugh, Sarah, don’t laugh. </i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-19016682858595641032015-02-24T15:56:00.002-08:002015-02-24T15:59:56.611-08:00A Toddler's Lesson on Accountability<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">No one holds me as accountable for anything as my two-year old does for
everything. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">The other day I was getting Brayden ready to go to school. We took one
last trip to the bathroom before heading out the door. As he was doing his
business, he commented that I needed to clean the toilet. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, really, little man. You can eat food off the floor without
flinching but can’t pee into a toilet that is a bit less sparkly than it could
be. </i>I laughed at his very high standard of bathroom cleanliness and ushered
him to the sink to wash his hands. “Please clean the toilet for me, mommy” he pleaded
in that sweet little voice he usually reserves for requesting an extra book at
bedtime or five more minutes of hockey before dinner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">“I’ll clean it while you
are at school”, I said to appease his concern, as silly and ironic as it seemed. </span>And there it was. An empty promise. In my defense, it was a completely
unintentional one. I typically use Brayden-free Friday mornings to do these
types of chores because it’s easier to clean toilets and <s>resurface hockey
rinks</s> mop floors while only having to keep the potentially dangerous
cleaning supplies away from ONE toddler. It just so happens that on this
particular Friday, that one toddler took a random morning nap. And this chronically
sleep-deprived mother took one too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Fast forward a couple of hours and it was time for pick-up. Feeling
refreshed from a nap and a shower, I applauded myself for successful time
management during the morning. Little did I know, I wasn’t deserving of this self-praise.
Because the very first thing my darling Brayden asked when he spotted me at the
door to his classroom was, “Mommy! Did you clean the toilet?” While his
teachers found this hilarious, I was a bit humiliated. I mean, what would my
kid’s excitement over a clean toilet imply of my housekeeping? Of this poor
child’s living conditions? Not to mention that fact that I hadn’t actually
cleaned the toilet… so I was both a keeper of dirty washrooms AND a liar.
Ugh. Mommy fail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">On the ride home, I fessed up that I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning
the toilet. Fortunately, Brayden was very forgiving. But the whole situation
made me think about how loosely I sometimes say I’m going to do things. How the
other day, he’d nearly cried when Tyler ripped a page of one of his books and
I’d yet to tape it like I promised. How I’d forgotten to get strawberries
elsewhere after we saw they were sold out on our last grocery shop. They are
harmless things really. But that’s not the point. The point is that follow-through
is so incredibly important. I don’t know that I will forever doom my child to issues with accountability if I
fail to do those little things I say that I’ll do now. But, what if? I shuddered
to think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I knew what had to be done. The toilet didn’t really need to be cleaned,
but I needed to model follow-through. So that’s what I did when Brayden was
napping. And guess what happened later that afternoon when he used the sparkly,
fresh bathroom…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Did I see flashes of his future, a future full of follow-through… a
seven-year old teaching Tyler to tie his shoes to make good on a promise, a
teenager replacing the toilet roll like I made him swear he would, a new father
taking his own babies to the park like he said he would? </span>Ok, not really. But I did get a very adorable smile and a gracious “Thank you mommy for
cleaning the toilet for me!” And that’s more than I need to keep me doing those little things… taping the ripped page of his
favorite book, remembering strawberries at the grocery store, cleaning the
bathroom... Because those small, seemingly insignificant things actually matter.
To one of the people that matters most. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-22178690246658332802015-02-23T06:57:00.003-08:002015-02-24T14:28:07.563-08:00I married a good one.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Marry someone who can make you laugh. It doesn’t need to be constant
fits of rolling on the floor laughter. Little laughs when you need them most are just as
important, and maybe even more so. In other words, comedic timing often trumps the
intensity of hilarity.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">It was one of those days where the boys were being especially difficult.
They each wanted different things at different times, and seemed intent on
annoying/physically harming one another. I spent the majority of the morning
moving from one failed activity to another, wrangling the boys in and out of
their carseats, and putting together food that was ultimately getting tossed on
the floor. My patience was thinner than I care to admit, I was tired, and I
felt defeated. Thankfully, Kevin had just walked in the door. </span>He assessed the situation with a pair of fresh eyes, and must have
instantly gauged my distress. He took over the babies and ushered me out the
door to run the errands that had been mounting up over the previous few hectic
days. I quickly briefed him on what exactly he was walking into, feeling
somewhat guilty to be walking out.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
All of this transitioning happened
routinely, a quick and efficient communication about the afternoon’s division
of responsibility. We were a team and this was our plan of attack. I felt
relieved just knowing I wasn’t alone. And then to be given a much-needed break
too! (Funny how running errands without children in tow qualifies as a break,
isn’t it?)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I loved my husband in that moment, as he turned bravely towards the
battlefield cries in the kitchen. But I loved him even more when I explained
how Tyler had dropped my phone in such a way that the battery was lost under
the washer. That was when he handed me his own phone to borrow. And with a
playful smile, he said “If any of my girlfriends call, just take a message”.
That was all it took. I felt muscles in my face relax that I hadn’t even
realized were tense. I took a breath, and I laughed. And it was just what I
needed. Humor in the height of chaos, a quick-witted line that reminded me it was all going to be okay, that I had the best possible partner for all this craziness. I think this a lot
for a lot of different reasons, but it won’t ever stop being true: I married a
good one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-26012866915009431642015-01-27T14:42:00.001-08:002015-01-27T14:46:33.327-08:00"The Happiness Project"Last year, Theresa gave me a beautiful journal that reminded her of Stephanie. For a long time, it sat blank on my nightstand. Journaling in the way I imagined it involved writing lengthy, reflective passages. And that seemed like too much work, too much of a commitment. I wanted to use the journal for something meaningful, but I was feeling uninspired.<br />
<br />
A few months later, browsing the shelves of a gift shop bookcase at the Cape, I noticed a journal that went along with a book by the same name: "The Happiness Project". The premise for the journal was simple: Write one sentence a day, every day, for five years. The author suggests developing this habit to compensate for the reality that time goes too fast. And, as much as we think we will remember the little intricacies of each passing day, we won't. Well, not without something that will trigger our memories... a photograph, a souvenir, or, in this case, a sentence.*<br />
<br />
I thought about how true her words were. How, since losing my sister, I've struggled to recall specific memories. I know that we shared in so many seemingly trivial interactions and countless little adventures, but the details I long for are lost. I also thought about how my babies are growing so fast that it's hard to keep up. I know that my days are full of silly little moments, but, by the end of every sleep-deprived week, those moments have blurred together into a general sense of wonderful chaos.<br />
<br />
It's ironic, but the small fleeting moments that are hardest to remember are actually the ones that life is about. They're the ones that you enjoy most without realizing it, the ones that you miss most once they are gone.<br />
<br />
It was there in that gift shop that I found a purpose for my journal. I couldn't fathom writing nightly essays, but, a sentence? Even at the end of a really long day, I figured that I could manage that!<br />
<br />
It's been 8 months since I turned my colorful peacock feather-painted journal into a makeshift "Happiness Project" journal. I don't write every night. And I usually find myself writing a few sentences as opposed to one. But it's worked! Tonight, I flipped back and smiled as little sentences triggered memories of moments that I may have forgotten otherwise. And those moments were gateways to other moments from the same day or the days surrounding it.<br />
<br />
I know that I can't go back in time. And I know I can't record my life as it's happening so that I can rewind it ten years down the road. But I CAN write a few sentences here and there so that I can find my memories when I need them. So that I can capture as many of the fleeting moments as possible, and treasure them. Forever.<br />
<br />
* If you're interested, here's a link to a blog entry by the author about her one-sentence journaling: http://www.gretchenrubin.com/happiness_project/2007/03/one_of_my_succe/<br />
<br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-13419103841095511712015-01-18T15:23:00.001-08:002015-01-18T15:24:16.213-08:00Be HERE Now<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1RHJVheqCLwzK3iHsqlaZyLO_Q-N3KhbCktE1-9gW82qNMaHvT27c9AB9CBpi7p57Q1mGk6fw1gZMfnDS2s5t-uxjTLCsRHTiSud-NJc2Qfki2TnWlTav-iggboPjRMZYK0GCCIYizWA/s1600/be-here-now.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1RHJVheqCLwzK3iHsqlaZyLO_Q-N3KhbCktE1-9gW82qNMaHvT27c9AB9CBpi7p57Q1mGk6fw1gZMfnDS2s5t-uxjTLCsRHTiSud-NJc2Qfki2TnWlTav-iggboPjRMZYK0GCCIYizWA/s1600/be-here-now.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I knew that life would never be the same when I lost my sister. But I
didn’t realize that, in losing her, I’d also lose so much of myself. The weight
of my sadness challenged the inner workings of my mind, body, and spirit in
ways I couldn’t have anticipated. As the months passed, I allowed myself the
freedom to experience any and all emotions as they came. I didn’t want to
pressure myself into feeling one way or another. So I let myself fall into the
fog. The world was turning, and I was wandering aimlessly within the passing
days. I often noticed that I was going through the motions while my mind was
elsewhere. I was very anxious, and I felt helplessly controlled by my racing thoughts.
Other times, I felt like an observer to my own life. I felt like I was living outside
of my body. My life was a story, and I was watching it unfold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">As the year anniversary approached, I was tired. Physically, mentally,
emotionally… I knew that I needed the fog to rise. I couldn’t live in it forever. I was always living <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in my
head</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">outside of my body</i>, when
I really needed to be living <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in the
moment</i>. I also knew that I needed to start taking care of myself. Between
caring for two young children, and coping with losing Stephanie, I’d lost the
diligence I formerly had with eating well and exercising. Factor in my lack of
sleep and it was a trifecta of poor self-care. Between my need to be present
and my goal to get healthy, my challenge was a mind and body makeover. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I decided it would require a very conscious effort on my part to accomplish such a lofty transformation. And, judging
by my energy (or lack thereof), I knew that I needed to keep my expectations
realistic. So, in the spirit of New Years Resolutioning, I made a little list. And
I figured I would share it here to increase my accountability. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li> Start running again. Nothing crazy. Two times a
week. Just me, doing what I used to do all the time to find my head. Twenty
minutes of fresh Scottish air in my lungs and sweet Stephanie-approved music in
my ears.</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"> Eat three meals a day plus snacks. Munching on the
boys’ leftovers might appease my appetite, but it won’t gain back the weight I
lost last year. Weight that my naturally small frame couldn’t afford to lose. </span></li>
<li> Practice mindfulness. Whether through yoga,
meditation, or simply forcing my thoughts into the present moment, I have to
get myself out of the fog.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">And there it is. A little happiness project for 2015. For me. For my sister. Bring it on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Peace and love, Sarah<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-30769189097720635262015-01-08T19:52:00.001-08:002015-01-08T19:52:41.506-08:00A Year Later
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">January 5<sup>th</sup> came and went. The anticipation that preceded the
day was actually worse than the day itself. As we hung a dreamcatcher in her
memory and watched footage from her memorial in New Hampshire, I wasn’t
overwhelmed by the sadness I’d expected, but by a far more gentle feeling. In
the days since then, that feeling has grown in substance, making it more
tangible and definable. It’s love, yes. But it’s also something else… It’s
pride. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
As Facebook lit up with countless stories from countless of her friends,
I kept thinking about what a good person my sister was. How she befriended everyone
she met. How she could look past anyone’s weaknesses and find their gifts. How
she was as genuine a person as you could ever hope to find. And how she had the
biggest heart. As I read post after post, I was filled with an enormous sense
of missing her and knowing that so many of us lost a wonderful friend. But the
pride was there, stronger than the sorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">The pride also came when I reflected on her spontaneity. She may not
have been the most financially responsible 23-year old, but she didn’t need to
be. She lived simply. She didn’t get caught up in the materialistic culture of
our society, and spent what little money she had on things that mattered… On
music festivals where she danced and laughed uninhibitedly, surrounded by
like-minded souls that loved her. On gas so she could visit her hometown
friends, attend her nephew’s baptism or be a part of her family’s Christmas. On
rent payments so that she could continue to live in Burlington, a place she loved
and her spirit felt free. She invested her money in the same place she invested
her time and energy… in living in the moment, chasing her passions, and
developing meaningful relationships with people she met along the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I think sometimes people measure themselves against a very narrow
definition of success, one based on diplomas, professions, and net worths. But
if this year has proven anything, it’s that my sister leaves behind an
incredible legacy all her own. And her successes are more commendable than any
degree or career accolade. She lived life in the way that it is meant to be
lived: vibrantly, uniquely, compassionately, spontaneously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Not many people can be the person that everyone turns to for
judgment-free love and support. She could. Not many people are brave enough to
take their own path. She was. Not many people make such a lasting impression on
the people they meet. She did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Stephanie really and truly made a beautiful little life for herself. And
she made so many lives more beautiful just by being a part of them. There is
nothing else she could have done to make me more proud. Of all the
emotions I’ve experienced over this awful year without her, this pride is one that I will
embrace for the rest of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I LOVE you, Stephanie. And I am incredibly, yell-it-on-top-of-a-mountain-so-it-echoes-across-eternity,
PROUD of you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEX3JxWRixzcTt1lcGPwR4K-k0BdlU0Iy72ElPJFHrGglmHCBGS1jJJZCCcPPGEjkQx4MkepCVsxIxcvb3T3meJ7wi3kGldFKLWKyEv4QqUhSgmQ_k8EP01RLcmrlFejj3bkO_XpJGk7T/s1600/IMG_7189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEX3JxWRixzcTt1lcGPwR4K-k0BdlU0Iy72ElPJFHrGglmHCBGS1jJJZCCcPPGEjkQx4MkepCVsxIxcvb3T3meJ7wi3kGldFKLWKyEv4QqUhSgmQ_k8EP01RLcmrlFejj3bkO_XpJGk7T/s1600/IMG_7189.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-21020889919268985042015-01-04T06:14:00.003-08:002015-01-04T08:39:09.193-08:00The Day Before<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZ31v4hyphenhyphenMGx6BvFPMHq9Xs8XdKxJZukmgOWZVf1MhiTUX-10-PlFMhOdZWYkGIDsihX7x1C4yF9pyJis5NbxtAXPFrLPldc9RYIy7Kd2ZEkJ47-wo9-ApIpbYxM52ilrgW5KLvXsiZcCh/s1600/IMG_5150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZ31v4hyphenhyphenMGx6BvFPMHq9Xs8XdKxJZukmgOWZVf1MhiTUX-10-PlFMhOdZWYkGIDsihX7x1C4yF9pyJis5NbxtAXPFrLPldc9RYIy7Kd2ZEkJ47-wo9-ApIpbYxM52ilrgW5KLvXsiZcCh/s1600/IMG_5150.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">This picture was taken a year ago today. January 4, 2014. I was tired and overwhelmed, caught in the
blissful whirlwind of having a newborn and a toddler. I look at it now and I
think of how innocent I was. How unaware I was that my world was about to come
falling down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">There are days in your life that you want to remember forever. You want to
re-live them a million times over. These are the days that you cling to
desperately but somehow the details manage to fade away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">There are other days that you wish you could forget. And these are the
days that stay with you, playing over in your mind more times than you’d ever
imagine. I couldn’t have known when this picture was taken that my tomorrow
would be one of those days…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
January 5, 2014. Kevin was on a roadtrip and I was driving my friend to the Edinburgh
airport. It was a gray day, but for the first time in what seemed like weeks it
wasn’t raining. Which was perfectly inconvenient given the fact that we ran out
of windshield wiper fluid on the motorway. We then encountered several
obstacles as we tried to replace it. We eventually made it to the airport on
time, though just barely. The ride home would have been uneventful if I hadn’t missed
the exit and extended the trip by twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that felt like
a lot more because Tyler cried for at least nineteen of them. By the time we
got home, all I wanted was a nap to give the day a much-needed restart. But the
boys had different plans. And they were just as cranky as me. In the exact
moment that Ty finally fell asleep, I heard Brayden waking up in the other
room. I will never forget how I felt right then. So close to the nap that I
desperately wanted but very clearly wasn’t going to get. Exhausted.
Overwhelmed. And alone. I wanted to cry. It’s hard to look back at this moment
where I lay in bed feeling sorry for myself because, little did I know, at that
very moment, my sister was thousands of miles away… dying. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I know that, no matter what kind of day I was having, it would be
painful to think back to that moment. And, no matter how I’d been feeling, it
would be impossible to forget it. The same goes for every other detail from the
day Stephanie died. I can’t un-hear my mom’s broken voice on the phone later
that night when she called to tell me about the accident. I can’t un-feel the
knot in my stomach and ache in my heart as I cried, shook, and screamed out in
agony. I can’t un-feel the trembling in my knees before I crumpled to the
floor. I can’t un-see Tyler’s sweet face as he continued to sleep soundly in my
arms while I rocked myself back and forth. These details are etched in my
memory as permanently as my sister’s fate is written in history. They are a
part of me now. And they will be forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I imagine tomorrow all of this will come flooding back. As will the
thoughts that have haunted me at different times at different intensities this
past year...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">The questions about her final moments: Before her car started to skid,
what had she been thinking about? What song was playing on the radio? When she
lost control of the car, was she consumed with fear? What did she think about
in the final seconds as her car slid over the embankment? Did she feel pain as she
broke through the windshield? The thought of my beautiful baby sister lying
broken beside a frozen pond is as unbearable now as it was the day it happened.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I’ll think about the people that lived by the scene of her accident. How
they’d raced across the street only to find there was nothing that could be
done to save her. How traumatizing it must have been for them, but how
comforting it has been to my family to know she wasn’t alone. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I'll cry at the thought of my parents driving up to Vermont to see the body of their youngest daughter. Nobody should have to endure such a nightmare and I feel so deeply for parents that have. As much as I mourn the loss of my sister, I also mourn that my parents have lost their baby girl. Even now, their heartache shows behind their smiles. It hurts to know the depths of their love for me as it's the same love they have for Stephanie. And feeling this love gives a glimpse into the depths of their pain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I’ll reflect again, for the millionth time, on my relationship with my
sister. And how, as much as we loved each other, I’ll always wish for more. One
more chance to say “I love you”. To see her hoop on the back deck, dancing in
the sunshine. To watch her hold my babies, covering their cheeks in kisses.
I’ll wish for one more hug. One more shared laugh. One more outrageous story.
One more. Always one more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I’ll remember the seemingly instantaneous and incredibly widespread flow
of support in the hours after I heard the devastating news. All the love Steph
had shared with the world was being gifted back to my family. It's a year later and
I am still humbled. I’ll be forever thankful to the people that took care of my
mom, dad, and sister in the days before I got home. And to all the people
involved in getting me, Kev, and the boys back home to join them. There was so
much support and it’s continued all the way up to the conclusion of this first
year.</span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">These are the thoughts that will likely race through my mind as the day
passes. They are things we will inevitably talk about as we spend the day
missing Steph. Like the 364 days before it, I imagine it won’t be easy. But the
day will go on. As days always do. And if we are lucky, the end of it will
come and we will feel a small bit of relief. The details of the day Stephanie died won't ever fade. I might not ever be the same person seen in the picture above. But the first year will be over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-57836580667655920452014-11-27T06:15:00.000-08:002015-01-04T06:19:20.733-08:00Always SomethingThere is always, ALWAYS, something (and more likely a lot of things) to be grateful for. And those somethings are what make your life bright, even when it feels impossibly dark. Today, on Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for all the people who have been those lights for me. It hasn't been an easy year to smile and laugh, but at the end of every single day, I am grateful. For my parents and sister who are strong for me even though they are broken, my sweet boys whose innocence reminds me of the beauty of this world, and my husband who is always there, keeping me together. For the most wonderful in-laws I could ask for, an abundance of aunts, uncles, and cousins that I love, grandparents that I cherish, and so many loving and supportive friends from across the globe. And, finally, even in her absence, I am grateful for my sister Stephanie. There will never be a day that I don't think of her, and, whether those thoughts bring a smile or tears, I know I am lucky to have her in my heart.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-44853671262210258322014-03-13T05:15:00.001-07:002014-03-16T02:07:50.478-07:00The thing about guilt...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
“I didn’t even wish her happy new year”. I can’t tell you
how many times in the days, weeks, months following Steph’s death I choked on these words on their way out because they were too big, too full of regret.
I figured it had been two weeks since I talked to my sister in some form… a text,
facebook message, a phone call. Anything that, more than the words themselves, said
I’d thought of her. That something reminded me of her, that I missed her. Two
weeks was a long time for us to go without any communication, even given the
five-hour time difference and her busy work schedule and my busy new baby plus
toddler schedule. And when I learned she was gone, those two weeks became a source
of such guilt. I hadn’t had the chance to say I thought of her, to show I loved her, just
one more time.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
But the guilt didn’t stop there…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I left for college before Steph was in high school. While I
was gone, she grew up. Each time I
came home I marveled at my baby sister’s transformation from goofy, adorable
tween to goofy, beautiful young lady. From a little sister wanting to emulate
everything about her older sisters to a little sister forging her own way. Without
any pressure from her family to be anyone other than herself, she became her
own person. And her person just so happened to be very different than mine. There
I was, a live-by-the-rules, follow directions, dress in all neutrals kind of
girl. And there she was, free-spirited, wild, with not a single piece of plain,
neutral colored clothing in her wardrobe. She wore more jewelry at single
moment than I had worn my whole life. And I worried more in a day than she did
in all of hers. It’s inevitable that we’d be different. That we’d have
different interests, strengths, weaknesses. But that’s the beauty of sisters…
love transcends these differences. It didn’t matter that we were in different
stages of our lives, she in her carefree early twenties and me in the latter
part of that decade. Me with two babies and she still a baby herself. I know
that we loved each other, and I believe that she knew it too. But love hasn’t
been enough to ward off regret or shield me from guilt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
Reflecting on these last few years, I see what could
probably be considered a typical relationship between sisters. We had different
priorities, different schedules. We played a lot of phone tag. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when we did catch up, there was no
denying we were sisters. In giving advice, I didn’t always tell her what she wanted to
hear, but I supported her nevertheless. There were lots of laughs, but also
moments of contention. I was grateful to have someone to tell me to lighten up
and I took the responsibility of telling her to buckle down. It all felt so
normal. I embraced the good, and dismissed the bad as unavoidable rough patches
in sisterly growth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, after
she died, my perspective changed. Normalcy suddenly wasn’t good enough. The bad
overshadowed the good and every imperfect interaction was magnified.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I was pained by the possibility of missed memories on
account of the role I’d taken in our relationship. I had accepted and
understood that I may not have been her top choice in company, and so I
resigned myself to the sidelines. I was there if she needed me, but didn’t
force her to share with me the side of herself she reserved for her friends. I suppose
I was waiting for her to outgrow the insecurity that inevitably accompanies
young adulthood, and was often only shown to her family. I wanted it to happen
naturally, as it should, but knew she might need guidance along the way. And I
knew that getting to fully experience her fun, bubbly personality would be the
reward for my patience. I always looked forward to the day our age gap would be
less significant, that she wouldn’t need me to love her so responsibly and I
could love her more freely instead. I couldn’t have known that that day would
never come, but it tortures me just the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
Each instant of tough love I’ve given her brings me to tears…
Were my concerns genuinely attributed to my love for her as I’d formerly
reasoned or had I not been accepting enough? Was my concern received with love
or dismissed as judgmental?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
My reserve in our friendship puts a knot in my stomach… Had
she appreciated the space to grow without my hovering or had she wanted me more
present? Had she understood it was out of love or did she feel it was without
it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
Selfishly I consider my own burdens in the wake of her
loss… Was my being on the sidelines really of my own accord or had she put me
there because I was too hard on her? In trying to protect her, did I drive her
away? In my looking forward to our growing even closer together through the
years, did I overlook and under-appreciate what we had in the present? Why
didn’t I call her every time I thought of her? Even one more conversation to
hold onto now would have been well worth the nine unanswered ones it would have
taken to reach her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
So many questions, guilt residing in nearly every
perceivable answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
The thing about guilt is that it’s grounded in hypocrisy. You
can say to someone else in your very position “you can’t feel guilty about
that”. And you’ll mean it. You will believe with every ounce of your being that
there is no place for harboring guilt. Yet, you’re ears will be deaf to you’re
very own words, grounded in steadfast belief though they may be. In this way,
guilt is a powerful and dangerous thing. It can devour you from the inside out
and there isn’t an easy way to stop it. I’m not sure there is a way to stop it
at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
But there may be a way to overcome it…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
A couple of weeks ago, as I was missing my sister, I
scrolled through her Instagram. That’s when I fell upon one of her signature
selfies, this one taken on New Years Eve. Below it was a little comment “Happy
New Year Steph”. And it was from me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I had wished her a “Happy New Year” after all. It’s
something so small, but it’s strangely comforting. Something I had done broken
through the clouds of things I hadn’t. With one little comment, she might have remembered that I love her. If but for an instant, she knew I cared. I’m not sure I will ever stop
considering the things that I didn’t do or should have done differently. But
maybe if I let myself breathe during these tiny reliefs, I can get through this. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepRl2u-LXsLzuERBK707PWYMvydfZUTxAFSWcZ9Szw4ON-P23FFbow0FsXELnxLJ4G_D7E1d9Y6N-EdanKqmqXLjtU2KKZq6W5YAaPWMxRJajXgk_W-LyrFnghLDTICdK0jHr0vVvJJf-/s1600/image-4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepRl2u-LXsLzuERBK707PWYMvydfZUTxAFSWcZ9Szw4ON-P23FFbow0FsXELnxLJ4G_D7E1d9Y6N-EdanKqmqXLjtU2KKZq6W5YAaPWMxRJajXgk_W-LyrFnghLDTICdK0jHr0vVvJJf-/s1600/image-4.png" height="400" width="266" /></a><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-5115513989679788922014-02-03T19:30:00.000-08:002014-02-03T19:36:37.049-08:00Never-ness<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Somehow, four weeks have gone by. The only proof that time is
not standing still is that Tyler has put on two pounds and looks more like an
infant than the newborn he was at the start of the New Year. Without my babies’
growth as a benchmark for the passage of time, I wouldn’t be able to tell the
difference between today and yesterday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
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We are all making it through each day. We are sleeping,
breathing, eating, smiling. We are even dappling in living a bit. But that’s
when it hits. The sudden reminder that Stephanie is gone. And it hurts in a way
I can’t describe. It’s like a sledgehammer. Hard, fast, heavy, leaving my head
pounding and body crippled by the blow. Like a wave. Crashing over me, knocking
me off my feet, throwing me around under the water until I can’t tell which way
is up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a sledgehammer leaves a
bruise, while this is an invisible blow from the inside. And a wave can be seen
growing on the water, while this comes on without a tidal warning…</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
Death by its very nature marks an end. It finishes life.
Forever. I can tell myself this a million times and yet the finality of it is
still unfathomable. In this life as I know it, I will never see my littlest sister again. I will never
have the chance to hug her, my nose tickled by her curly colorful hair. I will
never step on the back deck to see her practicing new hoop tricks in her
underwear. I will never say something to bring on her trademark laugh. That deep
chortle that, except for its’ authenticity, was completely unsuited to her
petite adorable self. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I can’t believe, if I called her, she wouldn’t answer. Not
because she’d lost her phone, again. Not because she missed the call, per
usual. But because she’s not there. And never will be in the way she was a month ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I don’t know when I’ll come to understand this concept of
“never”. I’m not sure that I ever want to. For now, I’ll keep looking for life
in the midst of missing Steph. The waves will come. The sledgehammer will
strike. But I’ll try not to be consumed by the never-ness of it all. I’ll try
to align my living with her memory, instead of living around it. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-30829368548800734022014-01-22T19:51:00.002-08:002014-01-22T19:59:04.761-08:00Theory of Relativity<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zuxhhwlfAB0IQVZvlqZalsI5Qow9hbJgXf0J-dbM66SoEiYCeVxSRjUqDUf2Es81f7T8Q2iMJBwyv4OET5CCpsOO4jtaooXj93pOXWqKjGcdHNpsls9mvvkT9h-jLLZkzrOmLHQWaH2S/s1600/regan_306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zuxhhwlfAB0IQVZvlqZalsI5Qow9hbJgXf0J-dbM66SoEiYCeVxSRjUqDUf2Es81f7T8Q2iMJBwyv4OET5CCpsOO4jtaooXj93pOXWqKjGcdHNpsls9mvvkT9h-jLLZkzrOmLHQWaH2S/s1600/regan_306.jpg" height="320" width="303" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
January 5<sup>th</sup> feels like the start of a different
life. Everything in the present feels relative to life before then. The grief
is all-consuming. It dulls all else. The sun shines a little less bright,
happiness is less happy, sleep is less restorative. Everything bad is a little
less bad in light of it just having gotten a whole lot worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
There are no words to describe how you’re feeling after
this kind of loss because all the words you know had different meanings before.
“How are you doing?” is a simple question, but suddenly there aren’t enough
adjectives for a simple answer. So I settle for “good”. Good, as in “good….relatively”.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
The love and support we’ve received these past two and a
half weeks is absolutely incredible. It is what has kept us together. People
from all over the map and all across the timeline of our lives… cards, phone
calls, drop-ins, emails, facebook messages…. Some people offer beautiful words,
others make delicious casseroles. Some give the most comforting hugs, others
share their extraordinary ability to make people laugh even in the toughest
times. And more people than we can count have come forward to offer an ear for
listening and a shoulder to cry on. The number of lives my sister has touched
is a testament to her wonderful character and to my family’s warmth and love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
While there is no denying that Stephanie’s accident has
affected an enormous number of people, the world somehow feels larger than ever
now. For as many people that knew and loved my sister, there are millions more
that didn’t. Though this grief is so big, the truth of the matter is, we are so
small. And the world is moving on without us. Time may have stopped for this
large army of friends and family, but the sun is still rising and setting. People
are still shopping for birthday gifts at the mall and picking out produce at
the grocery store. Waiting at red lights and paying their electric bills.
Watching American Idol, arguing over politics. Life is going on. At some point,
we will have to step back in. That’s where I am now… dipping my toes into the
life I knew before January 5<sup>th</sup>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
A recurring theme to the wisdom that friends have shared
about loss is that of a “new normal”. Things will never be the same, but we
will grow accustomed to the change. The pain will lessen, but the scar will
remain. We will learn to live with this void. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I understand that we’ll slowly reintegrate ourselves into
the lives we knew before. I realize that we will learn to cope with having Steph
solely in our memories. I believe in a new normal and I believe I can be happy
within it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I can’t help but
wonder if life will always feel relative to the one we lived before January 5<sup>th</sup>.
If “good” will always be “good, relatively”. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-59344436847872515072014-01-18T17:44:00.001-08:002014-01-18T17:44:29.214-08:00Her Gift was Love
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68XzQL-tQbaiyRIpWRid6dMqq9AfGEquUBzjhxRElLtYtLmBaMZ0dFXRF9SR5ywr3X3iYJpGHx8NjdkY2QqwdIkqquKrYjHjYyLTtIViLa1vHsKNSjXlwdfvO41iTj-GHclowlg1FSL9H/s1600/IMG_5323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68XzQL-tQbaiyRIpWRid6dMqq9AfGEquUBzjhxRElLtYtLmBaMZ0dFXRF9SR5ywr3X3iYJpGHx8NjdkY2QqwdIkqquKrYjHjYyLTtIViLa1vHsKNSjXlwdfvO41iTj-GHclowlg1FSL9H/s1600/IMG_5323.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;">Our "goodbye" to our sister from her Celebration of Life spoken one week ago today:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Since January 5th,
we’ve been thinking about our baby sister. Her bubbly, hilariously-uncensored,
personality. Her empathy and extraordinary drive to make other people feel special. Her beautiful smile, and contagious</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;"> laugh. So many wonderful thoughts, but none that could be put
into words that seemed suited for saying goodbye.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;">When we were looking through some of her things, a yellow post-it note fell out of one of her sketchbooks. On it, she'd written a quote by Pablo Picasso " The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away". Judging by outpouring of support from all the people whose lives she touched, it's clear that her gift was love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;">Growing up,
we girls were so fortunate to be surrounded by so much of that gift. Our immediate
family, our extended family, our friends that are like family… Love was the
most important aspect to our lives. In our house specifically, “I Hate you” was
worse than any curse word. In moments of childish tantrums, that phrase was
grounds for time out. Our father had a zero tolerance policy for this. “You’re
sisters, you love each other, you always will” he would say. We are so grateful
for this now. He never let us go to bed mad at each other and he never let us say
goodbye without saying “I love you”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And that’s all we can really think to say now. We love
you, Stephanie. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 17px;">This goodbye is so different than the ones we’ve said before, but what matters is that we love you. And we always will.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-554448949405451052014-01-06T14:57:00.003-08:002015-01-04T06:24:49.579-08:00In response to an Outpouring of Love...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">
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</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJk438w91w587UYJcbEpg0cdwkTDzDH1MkpjMAcYTt9XpPlplOxs2UoMCUXxu1qrBUrbdYEmHaaqopHETEdU9S3QTfqjPlo3GRbhMUSrqi9OgOaZqaaNu41RHIKHfhXTWo6jvTImbj6Gm/s1600/129600724058708629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJk438w91w587UYJcbEpg0cdwkTDzDH1MkpjMAcYTt9XpPlplOxs2UoMCUXxu1qrBUrbdYEmHaaqopHETEdU9S3QTfqjPlo3GRbhMUSrqi9OgOaZqaaNu41RHIKHfhXTWo6jvTImbj6Gm/s1600/129600724058708629.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">To be completely honest, this time last night I was
tortured by the idea of our horror story spreading throughout social media. It
was so surreal, so devastating that what I was feeling seemed too personal for
Facebook. No status or wallpost could rightly capture the beauty that was my
baby sister or actually describe the impact of her being gone. I dreaded the
moment the news would seep onto my page. I knew once it happened, it would
spread exponentially. There was no taking it back. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">In retrospect, I don’t know why I was so concerned about
stopping time in that moment before everyone knew. What did it matter when the
moment that really mattered, the one that changed everything, had already
passed?</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
I would not wish the past 24 hours or what inevitably
follows from here on anyone. This is the beginning of what will likely be one
of the hardest times of my life. But I will say this: Social media ended up
bringing me, not the torture I’d anticipated, but a small dose of comfort. In a
time where I am much too far away from the people who I need and who need me
most, it brought me a bit closer. Pictures slowly started appearing as people’s
profiles. People from everywhere that know me personally and others I’ve never
met started sharing stories. More people than I could ever hope to thank
individually offered their sympathies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
None of this keeps me from breaking down with each flicker
of a Stephanie-memory and each phone call with my parents or middle sister. But it does remind
me that I’m not alone. Even though it might feel like I am from a geographical standpoint, I’m not. And, until everything is sorted and I can get to my family,
I will be grateful for that. Thank you from the very bottom of my broken heart
for thinking of me and my family. And, most importantly, for thinking of
Stephanie.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></span>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-52987189126569549762013-12-30T07:51:00.002-08:002013-12-30T07:51:13.645-08:00Post #13: 10 Things for the New Mom-of-Two-Under-Two
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYcTepJR4n_4iobDM818RWq7ntljogKgko4QyBI3PrCUTtP3XVUXvoUmLwPOV72vqKE5hj2NwviexxyXANPjagHNjnhsreXHx1kf5358tmDBNCtR1piLiC-eJ3Uz4ZGe9_IB3aLqbpsgu/s1600/DSC_0411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYcTepJR4n_4iobDM818RWq7ntljogKgko4QyBI3PrCUTtP3XVUXvoUmLwPOV72vqKE5hj2NwviexxyXANPjagHNjnhsreXHx1kf5358tmDBNCtR1piLiC-eJ3Uz4ZGe9_IB3aLqbpsgu/s320/DSC_0411.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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We’re one month in, and when people ask me “How are you doing?” my
response depends on the day, and sometimes even the hour. One moment I will
think, I’ve got this. The next, I will feel on the verge of a breakdown, bogged
down by exhaustion, about to drown in the sea of this responsibility. The one
thing that keeps bringing me back up is the relentless faith that this
rollercoaster is all normal. Even if it isn’t, I am telling myself that it is,
and my mom tells me it is, and Kevin’s mom too. That this is all part of the
experience. That being said, I have learned a few things about being a new mom to two babies under two years old. I figured I would share them here for any woman that finds herself in my shoes. And for myself should I forget my own advice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Never pass up the opportunity for a nap. EVER. Five minutes for me now
can be as refreshing as 5 hours was in my college years. If at any point during
the day both babies are asleep, I am too. Any time I’ve opted to get something done,
I’ve regretted it later. Making Applesauce and Cinnamon ornaments when you
could be sleeping isn’t heroic. It’s stupid. Just buy yourself a scented candle and
get your butt in bed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">2. Never pass up an opportunity to shower unless it conflicts with your opportunity
for a nap. Which it probably does. So stock up on dry shampoo and educate
yourself on how to use baby wipes for a runner’s shower. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">3. Simplify, simplify, simplify. This can mean anything from doing your
grocery shopping online to buying yourself some paper plates and bowls. I
especially like the concept of freezer meals. I cannot tell you how much I
appreciated this one feat of my nesting. We have since used up our reserves,
but I’ve started to restock them by doubling up a meal a week and throwing one
of the pair in the freezer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Anything you can do to make managing a household a little easier, do it.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">4. If you can’t find the milk, check on top of the fridge. I thought
pregnancy brain was bad until I got my new-mommy-of-two-under-two brain. To
accommodate for a new degree of mindlessness, I strongly recommend having a
designated place for your keys. A very specific place like “in a bowl on the
counter five inches to the left of the toaster”. If you don’t get in the habit
of ALWAYS putting them in the same place, you run the risk of 1. Forgetting
where you put them or 2. Letting them fall into the hands of your toddler. I
don’t know which is a worse scenario, but certainly neither one is ideal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">5. Ask for help. I’m working on this one. The fact that you have no time
for anything except changing diapers, feeding babies, and getting acquainted
with the new little person in your house works to your advantage here. Anyone
in your company will gladly watch your little monsters for you because your taking
a shower is doing EVERYONE a favor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">6. Quit being so hard on yourself. Another toughie for me. Apparently,
you are delusional if you think you can do it all. And delusional doesn’t mix
well with hormonal. So, especially that first month, cut yourself some slack. It’s
not the end of the world if the floor doesn’t get mopped this week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">7. Prioritize. Picture this: You’re dealing with a pooptastrophe. Little
baby just defied the laws of physics and pooped sideways, out his diaper and
onto your arm. You didn’t notice so now it’s on your hand. Meanwhile, big
brother has dropped the Parmesan cheese onto the floor (which is dirty because
you’ve quit being so hard on yourself) and he’s now scooping it up with a spoon
and eating it. Sure eating spoonfuls of Parmesan cheese off of a dirty floor is
gross. But a poop-covered hand is grosser, and so that becomes the priority.
Besides, it’s the first time all day you’ve seen your toddler so quiet, so
engaged. Who would’ve known spilt Parmesan was so entertaining? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">8. Take a step back from the chaos and laugh. Preferably out loud. There’s
probably some aspect of humor to the situation if it involves two tiny humans.
Like the fact that Brayden always eats with his hands when he’s sitting at the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> table</i>, but uses a spoon perfectly well
to eat grated Parmesan off the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">floor</i>.
See. That’s funny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">9. Take a deep breath. Finish up that laugh will an inhale….. and an
exhale…. Ahhh…. Feel better already, don’t you? Forget about Lamaze breathing
for labor. Parenting classes should teach you about this breath. The one you
take when you feel like you’re in the midst of chaos. When you’re nursing baby
2 and baby 1 pees on the kitchen floor. Or when baby 2 finally settles in for
bed and you’re ready to do the same, but then baby 1 wakes up. This breath
saves your sanity. The simple rush of oxygenation reminds you that you’ll survive
this, and one day, probably even look back on it fondly. You’ll wish to trade a
good night’s sleep for a chance to cuddle the newborn version of your grown
son. Or a clean kitchen for a chance to play with his toddler-self. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">10. So follows my final note: At the end of your seemingly
crazy day, when both babies are sleeping peacefully (at least for the next few
minutes), and you’re ready to collapse into bed , be sure to tell your other
half you love him. Because you do. Even though it may not feel like it at
times, you love him for getting you into this mess in the first place. Somewhere in the densely settled fog of exhaustion, far less tangible than the
sticky film on your un-mopped kitchen floor is your baby’s first smile and your
toddler’s first unprompted “I love you” as you’re settling him into bed. As it
turns out, this “mess” carries with it a whole bunch of wonderful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-83188412978042804612013-12-30T07:41:00.003-08:002013-12-30T07:41:47.447-08:00Post #12: Welcome Tyler!He's here! But this post isn't. At least not yet. I'm working on it though, so check back sometime soon. If I'm lucky it'll be done sometime before 2030.<br />
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xo-SarahSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-57041462200924688062013-12-17T14:09:00.003-08:002013-12-17T14:09:28.476-08:00Post #11: Happy Hundredth!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today, my blog is one hundred posts old. Somewhere between #1 and #100,
I went from newlywed to mother and then mother of two. Kevin calling me “wife”
then was as novel as hearing Brayden call me “momma” now. We’ve spent two
seasons in Italy, one in Wichita, and we’re in the midst of another in Scotland.
Our scenery has changed, our family has grown, and our network of friends has
expanded to new countries and states. Through all the ups and downs, wins and
losses, opportunities and challenges, wanderlust and homesickness, I’ve been
consistently grateful for the love that surrounds our little family. Looking
back on posts from these last three-plus years that love has been the most/only
consistent element to our lives. Suffice it to say, wherever we find ourselves
over the course of the next 100 posts, I’m pretty sure it’ll be a wonderful
place to be.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYtf5xNXe9w4wnE_trtQsdSCTLLjKt5wRaB8HojXiA3G19intKLiUwnY56sCVVjR0AW55Q3jaH-eP-tqZTVLh0a0NyjKPye33wvSeYltLsxNecN37RZp-0Ygm_7JCdVAgNi0r59P5mFVJC/s1600/182602_761763313161_4055603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYtf5xNXe9w4wnE_trtQsdSCTLLjKt5wRaB8HojXiA3G19intKLiUwnY56sCVVjR0AW55Q3jaH-eP-tqZTVLh0a0NyjKPye33wvSeYltLsxNecN37RZp-0Ygm_7JCdVAgNi0r59P5mFVJC/s320/182602_761763313161_4055603_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Season 2010-2011<br />Life, Love, and Gelato</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWs-RR-3i4ESI8sLN7NOoc-kSulXBDJsmvoRo4plu0A6Gn7l5bvf7TjNbE_ogpQ2XrTpBR22kALxGMcknHMzM3IHKztP_COk1m-OyzzYmKAnfwLqwApWZC1iTOsZInceVZegrTg4R9eAo/s1600/DSC_0412_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWs-RR-3i4ESI8sLN7NOoc-kSulXBDJsmvoRo4plu0A6Gn7l5bvf7TjNbE_ogpQ2XrTpBR22kALxGMcknHMzM3IHKztP_COk1m-OyzzYmKAnfwLqwApWZC1iTOsZInceVZegrTg4R9eAo/s320/DSC_0412_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Season 2011-2012<br />Life, Love, and Second Helpings</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmi1ZXfBYskW2G1O-4fzz7BRT_VJmZSG5rIu1pQMoCsWkl7YSrOlMFgbx1uMoGgADlYTkHODGqlswDS6Kb65gpsf2BJSs-XuTRgjB4HxGR0kXyfJxxCHL-_4pIoX-FxrOBI2KLhRVNB_a6/s1600/DSC_0514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmi1ZXfBYskW2G1O-4fzz7BRT_VJmZSG5rIu1pQMoCsWkl7YSrOlMFgbx1uMoGgADlYTkHODGqlswDS6Kb65gpsf2BJSs-XuTRgjB4HxGR0kXyfJxxCHL-_4pIoX-FxrOBI2KLhRVNB_a6/s320/DSC_0514.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Season 2012-2013<br />Life, Love, and Diaper Rash<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbxy6IFw8TwHjNnKWF1nzG3BITgJSq3hpEYgvlULkE-stTW4e8tT24mYdvs5fRe9tYzjVqL6Cm50_wRLbqMQN8GdQpf_P0vDOSm1ARauJ22GKLV7NhXoqdisQD8MbX_BfA91fgNSOY5qR9/s1600/DSC_0227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbxy6IFw8TwHjNnKWF1nzG3BITgJSq3hpEYgvlULkE-stTW4e8tT24mYdvs5fRe9tYzjVqL6Cm50_wRLbqMQN8GdQpf_P0vDOSm1ARauJ22GKLV7NhXoqdisQD8MbX_BfA91fgNSOY5qR9/s320/DSC_0227.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">2013-2014 Season<br />Life, Love, and Scotland<br /></td></tr>
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<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-51034827766253106812013-11-10T14:24:00.000-08:002013-11-10T14:24:42.338-08:00Post #10: A Letter to Big Brother Brayden<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPJTj_9XlZYvZ78Ca3KoSnvPno26FUMTIi78Y5MJagTi3_jU36ivGqzX_wWKVAutGqVocCAAIwgVtFt_tq4z5dgYmsDWJ0RVMGcY9xO7HMoGR6gknDgKNHsE6ofUNQi_fI9mUXm-_rOUh/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPJTj_9XlZYvZ78Ca3KoSnvPno26FUMTIi78Y5MJagTi3_jU36ivGqzX_wWKVAutGqVocCAAIwgVtFt_tq4z5dgYmsDWJ0RVMGcY9xO7HMoGR6gknDgKNHsE6ofUNQi_fI9mUXm-_rOUh/s320/IMG_3952.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">To my sweet baby Brayden,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve gotten bigger, slower, and a little more
tired, but I doubt you realize the significance of these changes. Since I first
learned that you, my little boy, would be made less little by becoming a big
brother, I’ve wondered what it all would mean. For you, for me, for our family…
Especially these last few weeks, I’ve found myself worrying about how you’ll
feel when a new little love is brought into our family. There’s so much I want
to tell you about the wonderful chaos that is waiting just around the corner,
but I don’t know how. As we cuddle up with our books, collect colorful leaves
on our walks, practice our hockey passes outside, I struggle to find the words.
So, I guess I will just write them here. Maybe someday you’ll find them and
you’ll understand. You’ll nod your head about how smart your mommy is. How she
knew so well the things you’d need to know as you made your way into the Older
Sibling Club…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">First, you may not
always like your little brother, but you will always love him. Always</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the reason why you might say
something mean to him, it might even be true, but when someone else says the
exact same thing, you might morph into a Hulk-version of yourself. Being
protective is a natural instinct when it comes to your siblings. And your
unconditional love for him will excuse a few minor not-so-niceties that, coming
from anyone else, would be unacceptable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Second, he will
look up to you from the moment he is born. </span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Yes, it will get annoying when he wants to
follow you around and play with your toys and do whatever you do. But, you will
always have a sidekick, a playmate, a friend. A cowboy to your Indian, a bad
guy to your good, a forward to your defense (unless you somehow both become
goalies like your Daddy and Uncle Mike.) This trade-off works in your favor, I
promise. But have no doubt there will come a day where he confides in you. Not
in his dad or mom, but in his brother. Be it with a personal struggle, a girl
problem, or the request for you to buy him and his underage buddies some beer. When
this happens, you are under no obligation to tell him what he wants to hear.
Let his friends do that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He may
not like what you have to say, but he will trust that whatever you advise will
be in his best interest. He will know, whether he admits it or not, that you
know him better than anyone else. You will either have the answer or the tools
he needs to find it within himself. Don’t take this responsibility lightly. And
don’t forget that he will be there for you to do the same, minus the beer. This will be one of
the greatest gifts of your brotherhood, worth more than all of the annoyances
and disagreements that come with the territory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">And, finally, no
matter who your little brother turns out to be, your daddy and I will always
love you</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">. And while we won’t love you more than him, we won’t love you less either.
Despite what your Aun-T might tell you about her being Gramma and Grampa’s
“favorite” daughter, there is no such thing as a favorite child. You’ll have to
trust me on this one, because you might not fully understand it until you have
a baby of your own some thirty years from now. Even though I have always felt
loved immensely, I couldn’t truly fathom my parents’ love for me until you were
born. The reason that there won’t be favorites is that my love for you is
immeasurable. My love for your brother will also be immeasurable. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And you can’t compare infinity to infinity…
you just can’t.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I remember before you were born feeling overwhelmed by the reality that
our lives were about to change forever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the same feeling now, but I know, thanks to you, just
how wonderful that change is going to be. So, my little Knight, no matter what
lies ahead, have faith that your brother will be as great a gift in your life
as you’ll be in his. And please don’t ever lose sight of how much I love you…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">xo - Mom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-42924988423863349492013-11-02T11:04:00.002-07:002013-11-02T11:04:40.179-07:00Post #9: The Scot on the Cot
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It’s funny how, even after nearly a decade of friendship and love
including over three years of marriage, Kevin still surprises me. There's always more to learn about the oft-perceived quiet
Bostonian I’ve been calling my other-half since the fall of 2004. Our new
adventures in parenting have definitely given us the chance to learn more about
ourselves, about each other. Things we want for our children, things we don’t. When
it comes to the big important things, he is as steadfast in his beliefs. But these are the things
that we agree on, like our values, morality, and what it means to be good parents... we wouldn’t be married or at
least not happily so if we didn’t have these things in common. When it comes to
the little things, however, that’s where we sometimes run into disagreement.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Being a really laid-back guy, Kevin usually relegates all small
decisions to me. He knows full well that I might agonize over simple little choices
about which he (or most normal people) wouldn’t care. Black or brown picture
frame for this photo? Should the couch be on this wall or that wall? Should I
buy this shirt in a color other gray, black, or brown? Needless to say, he
happily takes a back seat to most interior design, organization, and shopping
decisions. Which explains my amusement when he actually DOES have a strong
opinion about something that I would have otherwise categorized as a simple
little decision in my territory. Take v-neck tee shirts for example. I
mistakenly bought him v-neck undershirts a while back. Despite the fact that
any undershirt would have been a vast improvement to the holely, miss-shapen
ones in his dresser and regardless of the fact that v-necks had long since become
a trend in male attire, this package of v-necks needed to be returned. Non-negotiable.
He would NOT wear v-neck shirts. Here’s a guy who wears most whatever I buy for
him just because it means he doesn’t have to shop for himself and he hates
shopping. But he wouldn’t wear a v-neck. He’s since caved, as I happen to
really like them on him and I’ve casually mixed them into his wardrobe the last
couple of years. He concedes when laundry gets low, but I can’t say he’s
thrilled about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Anyway, last November I learned that there is something else that, much
to my surprise, Kevin has a very strong opinion about: The Elf on the Shelf. In
my excitement for our first holiday season with a baby, I was all about
establishing some fun traditions. Having a cheerful elf come around to cause a
little mischief and bring some fun Christmas activities from the North Pole
seemed, to me, like a marvelous idea. I did not expect in the slightest that my
Christmas-loving husband would disagree at all, let alone so vehemently. But,
he did. “Absolutely not” were his exact words when I suggested we adopt an elf.
I thought that maybe it was just the v-neck he was wearing making him grouchy,
so I decided to bring it up again later. But he stood his ground. He argued
that the elf was creepy and the whole concept was unnecessary while taking away
the true meaning of Christmas. And that was that. Well-played Kevin. Spend 95%
of the time letting me make the little decisions so that, when you DO put your
foot-down on something, it really counts. Yes, Sarah, you can decorate the
mantle with whatever your little heart desires, you can choose the hotel and
itinerary for our vacation, you can order your own meal but eat mine when you
decide it looks better, but NO, you CANNOT bring a little elf into our home
every December. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Now, sometimes my darling husband gives me a hard time just for the fun
of it. He really agrees with me on whatever it is I’m suggesting, but he
pretends to disagree with me anyway. He thinks it’s amusing to see me plead my
case on things that are probably ridiculous to him and rest of the world. I
brought up the elf again recently in hopes that maybe this was one of those
things. That maybe he’d forgotten his joke from the year before and he’d back
my idea. But, he didn’t. Same reasoning, same “Absolutely not”. Humph… I really
loved the idea of hiding the little activity-bearing elf every night for my boys
to find. And maybe I loved it even more now that Kevin was so against it. Why
does it work that way?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">So, there I was. Defeated. I couldn’t just go get an elf because it was
supposed to be something for the whole family to enjoy, Kevin included. But did
that mean I had to give up entirely? Marriage is all about compromise… if I
could just find a way to meet in the middle. But where was the middle of
“creepy, unnecessary, takes away from the meaning of Christmas” and “adorable,
fun, adds to the meaning of Christmas”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">That’s when E-bay saved the day. I’d ordered a trainset for Brayden for
Christmas and so a list of other things I might like popped up at the bottom. It
kind of freaks me out how the web can do that, but without this stalkerish
technology I never would have found him… the little plastic Scottish man,
dressed in a kilt, and donning a bagpipe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Ta-daaaa!! What if we had a little Holiday Scotsman instead of an Elf? That
addresses the creepiness factor. And what if the said Scotsman brought
activities that embraced the spirit of love and holiday giving. Sometimes,
crafts, yes. But also activities like “Donate a toy to a child in need” and
“Give daddy a big hug”. A glorified advent calendar of sorts! I could concede
on having a fun storyline behind his presence in the house like the Elf has
with helping Santa to make his naughty or nice list. The Scotsman didn’t have
to tie in with Santa at all as long as I could hide him somewhere fun on a
nightly basis and use him as an excuse for some holiday activities. Kevin
shouldn’t have reason to disagree on those terms!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">A click of a button and 5 quid later, the little toy Scottish man was
ordered. And, when he arrived Kevin decided he was welcome in our home for the upcoming holiday season. To all of you in my very small but lovely lifeloveandgelato
community, I’m very happy to introduce little Hamish from the Kingdom of Fife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pc2WESjOWP6kjLZeReLqPkEZdy2RBVJGS0emnzDVfK_nJ6iNJH4skGP7tK769j6t-J4IN7Wi_oh3eufRRhZQy7Utzl-e4EYvwsYtSx8cUyBNbq0EFAY9A2qaPF7DgrX3kv6DpvbYwkch/s1600/photo-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pc2WESjOWP6kjLZeReLqPkEZdy2RBVJGS0emnzDVfK_nJ6iNJH4skGP7tK769j6t-J4IN7Wi_oh3eufRRhZQy7Utzl-e4EYvwsYtSx8cUyBNbq0EFAY9A2qaPF7DgrX3kv6DpvbYwkch/s400/photo-1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">He’s no Elf on the Shelf, but he sure is one fine Scot on the Cot. Can’t
wait to see the fun and cheer he will bring to my boys and I this Christmas!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-15417692695739170242013-10-29T08:30:00.003-07:002013-10-29T15:38:33.131-07:00Post #8: The Fife Coastal Path<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Here I am, over a month into my stay in Scotland, finally getting around
to talking about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scotland</i>. To give
you an idea about where we are in this lovely country, I’ll say very generally
that we’re a bit South and very East. To my North we have the picturesque
Scottish Highlands and to the South we have the great city of Edinburgh. To the
East, and, by that I mean two blocks East, we have the ocean. Farther South is
where Scotland turns into England, and just beyond the Western coast is where
you’ll find Ireland. Outside of Scotland’s borders is where even my most
general geographical awareness ends. Hopefully traveling about throughout the
season will broaden my scope of the entire UK. For now, you’ll have to refer to
our friend Google for more specifics.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Like Italy, Scotland is divided into regions. Here, the region’s names
sound like they are straight out of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a Tolkien novel…Ayrshire and Arran, Loch Lomond, Trossachs and the Forth
Valley, Aberdeen City and Shire (to name a few). We happen to be located in…
wait for it… the Kingdom of Fife. Yes, it’s really called a Kingdom. I don’t
know why, probably the geek in me, but that makes me smile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are in a town called Kirkcaldy directly
situated on the water. Which is, for any New Englander, a happy place to be. A
short walk from our <s>apartment</s> flat in almost any direction brings with
it views of ocean. And, even on a rainy day, the ocean is beautiful. What’s
better is that they’ve made it really easy to appreciate its beauty by
maintaining a 117 mile-long coastal walking path. It’s an ocean-loving
outdoorsmen’s paradise. The path winds you along the waterfront, bringing you
from one quaint Scottish town to another. Green sloping pastureland, tree-lined
parks, ancient stone sea walls, tiny fishing communities, all emerging from the
sea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">I’d hoped to explore more of the path before reporting on it, but, by
Doctors orders, my hiking days are over until baby comes along. Fortunately, I
think the few miles of the path that we have traversed are enough proof of its
impressiveness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><b>Ravenscraig Castle to Dysart Harbor</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">As promised, I didn’t browse the internet for details on where we’d be
living prior to our arrival. Which is why Brayden and I were splendidly
surprised when our short morning walk led us to a castle overlooking the ocean.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Ravenscraig Castle was built in the 1400’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sits perched on a grassy cliff above the water with views
along the coastline of Kirkcaldy. On a nice day, you can see out to Arthur’s
seat, a walkable peak in Edinburgh from which you can view the city and it’s
castle. (On our to-do list this Spring!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Kirkcaldy’s little castle happens to be situated on part of the coastal
path running through the town. From there, an upper set of trails extends through
a beautiful wooded park and a lower set passes directly beside the water. Low
tide uncovers a vast rocky beach and high tide brings waves up to the
stone-bricked seawall. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">After reaching a grassy opening via the lowermost trail,
you come to a tunnel passageway that leads to little Dysart Harbor. There, old
fishing boats bob gently beside their moorings. Cute little old men, likely the
proud owners of the boats, tinker with their engines and wash their decks.
Faithful canine companions sit patiently by, watching from above. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><b>Crail to Anstruther</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">While we would have been perfectly content to walk from Ravenscraig
Castle to Dysart Harbor every day, Kevin and I decided we shouldn’t forget
about the other 99.5% of the Fife Coastal Path. One particularly sunny day, we
packed up a picnic lunch and drove the windy country roads north to Crail. We’d
been told that the roughly 3-mile stretch from there to Anstruther Harbor was a
notable walk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">We learned the hard way that, while the coastal path in Kirkcaldy is
stroller friendly, the same can’t be said about this particular route. We’d
forgotten our hiking backpack, and couldn’t expect Brayden to walk 3 miles, so
we opted against doing the entire stretch on foot. Instead, we walked a bit out
and back from Crail, and drove to Anstruther to do the same. These segments, we
figured would give us a good idea of what the route was all about. We weren’t
disappointed in the least...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Starting from Crail, the path took us along the water through grassy
pastures. Looking forward put Ocean, rocky beach, and lush sloping hills within
the same peripheral. Behind us, the little village of Crail sat atop the water,
it’s harbor and old buildings providing a unique companion to the sight of
ocean below. Ocean feeding into grassy hill, then sloping up to little town.
I’m no stranger to the ocean, but the fluidity between these three elements is
different than the ocean views I’m familiar with. While beautiful in their own
right, the beaches from home have less dramatic changes of elevation and the
greenery is, well, less green. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">After having our lunch in town, stopping in a small family-run pottery
shop, and a nearly buying more vases and teacups than we could ever manage to
transport home, we jumped back in the car and drove down the road to
Anstruther. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">While only a couple of miles south of Crail, the drive took about 10
minutes. Pastureland is prioritized over roadway as evidenced by the barely
two-lane road winding along the shore. We’ve traversed similarly narrow roads
in Italy, but never from the left side. At least from a passenger’s
perspective, it feels like every curve is going to bring you crashing into an
embankment. To distract myself from worrying about this possibility, I focused
on the pleasant views of the drive. As we pulled into the harbor, we realized a
significant change in the beautiful weather we’d experienced only minutes
before. Blue skies were now gray, and a damp cool replaced the warm dry air
coming off of the water. Scotland weather has proven quite unpredictable. You
can’t ever leave the house without an umbrella AND a pair of sunglasses. You
might run into a shop using one and leave a few minutes later using the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Despite being overcast, there was an intrinsic charm to the little town.
Café bars and restaurants lined the waterfront and streetside benches were
filled with an assortment of locals and coastal path visitors. We happened to
be there during school dismissal and so Brayden was happy to watch/admire herds
of “big kids” walking through. In their school uniforms, one would think that
they were enrolled at Hogwarts. (I keep trying to inconspicuously grab a photo
of the little witches and warlocks, but, as it turns out, being inconspicuous
is not in my nature.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">At this point, we were quickly approaching afternoon nap time, and this
momma doesn’t like to miss her nap, so we piled back into our little Passat to
get home. Not before devouring a plate of fish n’ chips, of course. Afterall,
who are we not to try arguably the best fish n’ chips in all the Kingdom of
Fife? And coming from ice-cream loving families, what kind of example would we
be setting for our son if we denied him a lick of gelato after that? </span></div>
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Good, old-fashioned family fun. In Scotland. :-)</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057039948414396612.post-43777377851151222412013-10-24T15:15:00.001-07:002013-10-24T15:35:37.747-07:00Post #7: Feeling Pinspired<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I promise that my next post will bring me back to my blogging roots and
actually focus on the sightseeing and cultural components to our
hockey-lifestyle. Despite how it looks, I have not been a hermit since my
arrival over a month ago. Scotland is GORGEOUS, and deserves way more
blogging-rights than I’ve given it. So here’s just one more motherhood
musing…</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">When Brayden was a newborn, I spent many a late-night hour snuggling,
feeding, and pinning. In line with the baby books, I tried not to interact with
the little babe during his midnight feeds because “too much stimulation at
night interferes with the development of a natural sleep cycle” or something
like that. But I often needed some sort of stimulation to prevent from nodding
off myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not a fan of
infomercials and I only had so many recordings of Cupcake Wars on my DVR.
Therefore, Pinterest was a much better mindless alternative to television at
3am. And so I pinned. A lot. I happily organized my pins into categorized
boards and built enthusiasm for all the projects that I’d collected for myself
to carry out… And then, I never looked at them again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the exception of a few recipes, I didn’t re-visit my
account for months. Christmas passed without even a cursory glance at my
“Jingle Bells” board, and Brayden move into toddlerhood before I’d had the
chance to use my collection of infancy tips stored in my “Oh Baby” folder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">For whatever reason, (new desire to become a domesticated?,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pregnancy cravings for cheesy or
chocolaty deliciousness? Good-old-fashioned-nesting?, peer-pressure from my
sister to check out the hilarious board she’s made for me?) I’ve been feeling
Pin-spired. When Baby 2 wakes up at 11pm with a serious case of the hiccups, I
spend the next hour in bed kick-counting and exploring the Pinterest universe.
Unlike during my last Pinterest craze , I click on the links and read before
actually pinning. Then, soon after, I put some of my pinning to practice.
Brayden and I crafted colorful bowling pins with plastic bottles and a little
bit of paint poured inside. I made vegetarian chili, a quinoa and chicken
entrée, and chocolate chip cookies. I looked at book recommendations for
one-year-olds and used them as guidance during library trips. And, most
recently, I bought a bunch of little craft supplies necessary for the plethora
of wonderful toddler activities I’d found during my midnight pinterest prowls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">There is only one problem. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My</i>
toddler son STILL puts everything in his mouth. So I have to forget about all
those cute smiley face stickers, mini pom poms, crayons, paint brushes, and,
well, rocks, leaves, and sand. As it turns out, he’s not quite ready for
anything even remotely inedible or that could potentially function as a choking
hazard. So much for that really awesome moon sand made of baby oil and flour
and so much for all that crafting paraphernalia. I needed something else, and
fast. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why was this so urgent?</i> You
wonder…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Well, for anyone who doesn’t know Brayden, he likes to GO. He always
has, especially since he started walking at 10 months old. And when he’s on the
go, running from room to room, practicing his slapshot, climbing on castle
ruins, following big kids around at the park, and riding his Lightning Mcqueen
push car, he’s REALLY happy. And a happy baby is a LOUD baby. When he’s not on the
go, happy and loud, he often gets bored. And a bored baby is a LOUD baby too.
This is a problem for a daddy that often has practice until 12:30 in the
morning and classes at 8:00. There is a two-hour window after Brayden’s 6am
wake-up where mommy is on duty and daddy needs to sleep. As do our neighbors
for that matter. Since it’s much too dark to go outside and the 24-hour
Wal-Mart-like store is quickly losing its appeal, we are stuck in the
apartment. And we need to be considerate. i.e. we need to be quiet. i.e. we
can’t be running around i.e. we can’t be bored. What’s more is that I can’t
always be 100% dedicated to making sure those three conditions are met. I need
activities that aren’t entirely dependent on my involvement. While we love
cozying up with a book, building ramps for his car, playing with his kitchen
set, and making/demolishing block towers, sometimes I need my 17-month old to be quietly
AND <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">independently </i>engaged. Like when
I’m making breakfast, for instance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">As I wait for Brayden to grow out of his put-everything-in-the-mouth
stage and grow into all of those fantastic crafty activities I’ve pinned, I’ve stuck
to a few that are Brayden-proof or could be made so with a little modification.
They achieve a little free-time for mommy AND quiet-time for baby. I figured,
should there be another toddler like mine out there, I should share those ideas and save some other mother the learning curve. I will
include the links that provided inspiration to give credit to those amazingly
creative mommies that have enriched our morning routines.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ol>
<li>Baby Word Book: I made this for Brayden before
leaving for Scotland so he can remember his loved ones back home, and learn all
their names. I chose to use a small three ring binder I found at Staples because
it fit a half-sheet of computer paper perfectly. Each page simply has a picture
with a name in large print underneath. I popped each word-page into a
sheet-protector with a sheet of cardstock paper to make it sturdy and Voila!
I’ve since added a section for “animals”, “things that go”, “food” and “the
outdoors”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s basically just a
flashcard system, but I like that it’s personalized for Brayden, and that I can
add words of new things he likes in 10 seconds flat. He’s pretty happy flipping through the book
himself. But, sometimes, I will remove a section’s worth of pages, spread
them on the floor and ask him “Can you find me the monkey?” or “Where’s the
lion?” and he’ll bring me back the match. I'm happy to give you the template for my cards so that you only have to right click the image and select "Change Picture" to make your own. I'm just not tech-saavy enough to link it here, so you'll need to message me your email. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigb_bKwJ79zOcVVtpR021UMSOZzMZiGGYpcjyD6JM8oDTSZZxFQxIxLw8z7ImMi4iMDo5RXEhzF9vfPZ1qX_KS13lN70xnPb4hwzBx91C0Y43FmbnTvQPSoxOB8By6jh8gE0lfuEycDaiH/s1600/IMG_3787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigb_bKwJ79zOcVVtpR021UMSOZzMZiGGYpcjyD6JM8oDTSZZxFQxIxLw8z7ImMi4iMDo5RXEhzF9vfPZ1qX_KS13lN70xnPb4hwzBx91C0Y43FmbnTvQPSoxOB8By6jh8gE0lfuEycDaiH/s320/IMG_3787.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
</li>
<li><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Water Play: During the summer, with the luxury of
having a back deck, Brayden was easily entertained by a large plastic tub of
water and an assortment of various-sized cups, spoons, and water toys. I don’t
know why I never thought to bring water-play indoors, but thankfully someone
from Pinterest did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot
believe how content B is with pouring water between a few plastic teacups and
little yogurt containers. Beyond keeping him entertained, he’s gotten really
proficient at drinking from a cup. So, if you want a happy, well-hydrated baby,
throw a towel under the high chair and serve up a bit of water.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-cxR3tFjqMk1bbnAWvE7pL6kmFi9G8GfOtx51Alu6kJE_K21itNx4wRWUb_kqYQLxmuy2CKm1l6V4kZxdsS1AQiV4PuIB3ricibSZCSCaoI6q7eV139tCiw5xFC7UoUr37TvCmn9kBwx/s1600/IMG_3762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-cxR3tFjqMk1bbnAWvE7pL6kmFi9G8GfOtx51Alu6kJE_K21itNx4wRWUb_kqYQLxmuy2CKm1l6V4kZxdsS1AQiV4PuIB3ricibSZCSCaoI6q7eV139tCiw5xFC7UoUr37TvCmn9kBwx/s320/IMG_3762.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</li>
<li>Penne Pasta: Stick kebab sticks in a piece of foam
or, in my case, a cardboard egg carton. Have baby put pieces of dry penne pasta
on the posts. Since we usually do this after breakfast, B isn’t very interested
in eating the uncooked pasta. “Yuck”. But, if he is nearing meal-time, threading
cheerios onto pieces of thin spaghetti is an edible alternative. Such clever
ways to promote motor skill development in your toddler while you’re doing the
dishes or folding laundry (or writing for your silly little blog).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dvUrMeRYxkHd3WOPaJAkal0OYOQaX0hVzB-XTWmLAg-CC8j1uQNrKw5cEe-TPEU0JjlWqqcju2gUZEjkf5BpgdJa5EVIP95msX6NuQQDGZ4DnDcLFOEGdEtBuCGfXSnk40vsZR8PWFvk/s1600/IMG_3771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dvUrMeRYxkHd3WOPaJAkal0OYOQaX0hVzB-XTWmLAg-CC8j1uQNrKw5cEe-TPEU0JjlWqqcju2gUZEjkf5BpgdJa5EVIP95msX6NuQQDGZ4DnDcLFOEGdEtBuCGfXSnk40vsZR8PWFvk/s320/IMG_3771.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
</li>
<li>Flour Power: ‘Sensory Table’s are all the buzz in
early childhood development. I know because I have a sister who works in a
Pre-K center and happens to be incredible at what she does. Her sensory tables
are always suited to the week’s learning theme. Of course, I can’t steal most of
her ideas because, again, my baby can’t handle manipulatives like sand, dried
beans, or acorns just yet. But what about flour? It sure doesn’t taste good by
itself, but it’s harmless for B who inevitably tries it EVERY time we use it.
Put a little scoop of flour in front of baby and give him a few props. It’s
really that simple.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuIhvp7RGnhAxYC3YCJZRBlXVkT0abVJRHQDJFpjEMqqPNaE3ju7TOOWB0CJG9sdbE3ZUEHINL4pNViPDWbmCbqLVAk-KwpGcxVo1r7AC25weznsNlSNOq7t1upq3CCrZtxEgo0S1xuTb/s1600/IMG_3832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuIhvp7RGnhAxYC3YCJZRBlXVkT0abVJRHQDJFpjEMqqPNaE3ju7TOOWB0CJG9sdbE3ZUEHINL4pNViPDWbmCbqLVAk-KwpGcxVo1r7AC25weznsNlSNOq7t1upq3CCrZtxEgo0S1xuTb/s320/IMG_3832.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Sometimes he ends up a bit of a mess, like when he sneezed
directly into the powdery mound in front of him. But it’s super easy clean-up.
Done and done.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89JbT1TA4VtZ9RgDpjt4TfV-RmDxV6tHbYTom_wM3e_7X0vH7pHjZDsJKLdRwVzihrx7XOzHmyDW1rYSs-rHhJrGZ6Aqm1OPxeJbkb4xk4ihpkU6H1f0rTKbxjsFQd3rQP5Kx3aNkyf_4/s1600/IMG_3823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89JbT1TA4VtZ9RgDpjt4TfV-RmDxV6tHbYTom_wM3e_7X0vH7pHjZDsJKLdRwVzihrx7XOzHmyDW1rYSs-rHhJrGZ6Aqm1OPxeJbkb4xk4ihpkU6H1f0rTKbxjsFQd3rQP5Kx3aNkyf_4/s320/IMG_3823.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li>Baker Baby: I’m not the first person on the face of
the planet to let their baby, pour, measure, and mix while baking. But, I also
didn’t need Pinterest to plant this wonderful idea in my head. My momma did
that for me a long time ago when I was just a wee girl. I love to bake. Babies
love to bake. It’s the perfect activity to do together. I will happily play
with cars, splash in mud puddles, wrestle and play hockey with my dear sons.
But they will bake with their mommy, gosh darnnit, however boyish they may be.
For at least as long as I have a say in the matter… How long is that, anyway?
I’m hoping for a couple of years, but maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll grow on
them. This activity clearly requires supervision because, despite my efforts, B
hasn’t quite gotten a grasp on reading recipes or understanding fractions ;-)
However, I’d be baking anyway. And baking together checks something off my list
while also accomplishing the goal of entertaining the toddler. Most recently we
made easy, but <a href="http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Basic-Biscuits/Detail.aspx" target="_blank">yummy biscuits</a> to go with our beef stew dinner. Brayden played with the left-over dough while the
first batches were in the oven. He loved it!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDEAXHhS3gnNtf5LrDf3TRg47k8iDWYdYnrwuLav4Ajn08UDeYBbXuLqcitSkni_a-KWe4jYXZExsSxFNMgIcd8JQ47V4LVh58qFw2-WCEacBdLt-6oTgpEX_HFMyRdIlo1wOsn2f2SLl/s1600/IMG_3868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDEAXHhS3gnNtf5LrDf3TRg47k8iDWYdYnrwuLav4Ajn08UDeYBbXuLqcitSkni_a-KWe4jYXZExsSxFNMgIcd8JQ47V4LVh58qFw2-WCEacBdLt-6oTgpEX_HFMyRdIlo1wOsn2f2SLl/s320/IMG_3868.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Look at his tongue hanging out
there in concentration while he’s using the canteen-bottle rolling pin. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFP-qVbraWN7QPDoWeOBftIv4lsPToBByd0UCp1yISq5qy1RQiU3t0zZMT1aR43qIt3jRfWeSanR4w0elVqrmCheBzIQ8cG7FhdfLJBzaBYssomFg8VbbkCjgbJngwcVI56ZcEe27hHSeu/s1600/IMG_3872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFP-qVbraWN7QPDoWeOBftIv4lsPToBByd0UCp1yISq5qy1RQiU3t0zZMT1aR43qIt3jRfWeSanR4w0elVqrmCheBzIQ8cG7FhdfLJBzaBYssomFg8VbbkCjgbJngwcVI56ZcEe27hHSeu/s320/IMG_3872.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
I chose the recipe because it only called for a few
ingredients, and an egg wasn’t one of them. (It’s funny that I’ve joined the
Raw Egg Police when I think of all the cookie dough I’ve consumed, laughing off
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>mom’s fears about salmonella
poisoning. Things really do come full circle, huh?) Obviously eggs are an
integral part to baking. But, when baking with baby, I use this handy
substitution: 1 egg = 1 tbsp flaxseed + 3 tbsp water. I’ve also tried subbing
apple-sauce for oil with great results just to make it a bit less sinful and
messy.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
And there you have it. Five things everyone probably already knew about
babies, but took me nearly a year-and-a-half of mommyhood and several hours of
pinning to learn for myself. Oh, and by the way, when all else fails, there are
Baby Einstein videos on YouTube. They might not make geniuses out of babies
like the creators had claimed, but they are inexplicably captivating to my
little guy when I’m desparate for 15-minutes of calm. A mommy’s gotta do what a
mommy’s gotta do. And where’s the harm in letting him watch a montage of short
clips portraying ocean creatures, farm animals, or ‘things that go’? (Set to
classical music no less!) It’s not like I’m using the Kardashian brood to
entertain my impressionable son. They’re for my amusement… at the end of the
night while he’s sleeping soundly in bed and I’m sweeping up the flour,
cheerios, and pasta off the floor. The end of another lovely day. Be well,
mommas!<br />
<br />
Here are some links to more toddler activities! (I'm especially excited about the make your own paint and playdough recipes.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.notimeforflashcards.com/2012/06/2-activities-for-kids-under-2.html">http://www.notimeforflashcards.com/2012/06/2-activities-for-kids-under-2.html</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.funathomewithkids.com/2013/09/the-ultimate-list-of-baby-play-ideas.html">http://www.funathomewithkids.com/2013/09/the-ultimate-list-of-baby-play-ideas.html</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://handsonaswegrow.com/no-setup-toddler-activitie/">http://handsonaswegrow.com/no-setup-toddler-activitie/</a><br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://handsonaswegrow.com/50-toddler-activities/">http://handsonaswegrow.com/50-toddler-activities/</a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18124792199185713542noreply@blogger.com0