tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76325711984475046952024-03-12T19:15:12.309-07:00Fond of BlondJenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-41776615917862658792013-05-22T12:03:00.000-07:002013-08-17T15:47:06.036-07:00A Day of Freezer Meals<span style="color: red;">As all the freezer meals are eaten and gone, I am updating this post. My comments in red beneath each recipe is how they turned out. One common theme I learned when doing this is do NOT freeze potatoes. They do, indeed, as I was warned, turn black. If you don't mind them black, then go for it, because the taste isn't affected or anything. They still taste good. It's just strange and somewhat unsettling eating black potatoes. </span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: red;">Also, I do have to say that the frozen, cooked hamburger meat wasn't the greatest once reheated. It's more rubbery when it's cooked before being frozen, but it's not <i>that</i> big of a difference really. It still turns out good and the time saving factor makes it definitely worth it.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: red;">Frozen shredded cooked chicken, however, was still fantastic. Didn't notice a difference there. And I loved the convenience of it. I did find out by doing this project just how much I prefer boneless skinless chicken <i>thighs</i> over the breasts. I know the breasts are healthier, as well as cheaper, but I have a hard time cooking them properly. Almost always, it's too dry. With the thighs, however, they are always full of flavor and very juicy. I've started buying thighs now.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: red;">Will I do this again? Probably, though not so much in one afternoon. And probably not for a while.</span><br />
<br />
I cannot believe my blog is still surviving (maybe on life support, but still surviving). And not to mention the out-of-date pictures of my boys above. Maybe someday I'll update those. Oh, and the tabs that don't even reflect my most recent writing projects and novels. Oi.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I logged on this morning for the first time since September 2011, half expecting it to be gone or something. And I'll be honest, seeing the blog made me a little sentimental and nostalgic. Not that I'm going to start blogging again (who knows, maybe here and there). I'm doing a post today dedicated to yesterday--the day <i>I</i> dedicated my time to making freezer meals.<br />
<br />
I am in NO way a cook. I don't enjoy it. So, no, this is not turning into a cooking blog. In fact, I'm so below par on my cooking abilities that I would never feel qualified enough to give people any kind of advice on the subject. But in my recent feelings of failure as a mother and homemaker, I've realized I need to do way better at making sure my family has a meal to eat every night. Usually, I cook about 2 to 3 meals a week, leaving my husband fending for himself and the boys resorting to hot-dogs or sandwiches the other days (like on days the boys play Tee-Ball, etc.). So, I decided to be like all the other Super Moms out there, <strike>though I'll never measure up</strike>.<br />
<br />
But because I dread spending the late part of my afternoon preparing meals, I decided to look into freezer meals. After spending a day gathering information on tons of different blogs (found through Pinterest, of course) and making my menus (some ideas taken from other blogs, some recreated from my own stock of recipes), I went shopping.<br />
<br />
And what a shopping trip that was. The kids and I didn't finish at the store until 10pm. And then we had to drive 1.5 hours home...on my son's school night.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the following day, I dedicated my time to preparing these freezer meals. I spent from 9am to 8pm in my kitchen. On my feet. I wanted to finish so badly that I didn't even stop to eat or drink. Not even a minute break to check facebook, or even to turn on Pandora. The only breaks I took were the <strike>annoying</strike> necessary breaks to change or feed kids, pick up Sam from school, dress them for Tee-Ball, etc. (Dave took them to Tee-ball, thank goodness).<br />
<br />
By the end of the day, I was so physically exhausted and achy and hungry, that I never wanted to set foot in my kitchen again (unless someone was going to spoon feed me). And the mess...holy crap, the mess. I don't think my kitchen has ever been as messy as it was after I finished.<br />
<br />
I know, I sound like a baby. But this is coming from someone who only cooks when absolutely necessary. So I <i>am</i> a baby.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'd say the day was a success. Crazy, but a success. I originally planned 29 different meals. The reality was 21. Honestly, I don't know if I'll be doing it again <strike>ever</strike> any time soon, but I'm sure on those late afternoons I don't feel like cooking, I'll be grateful.<br />
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Back to the reason I'm doing this blog post (Does anyone even blog anymore?): I've had a few requests from friends and family on the menu and recipes I used. So rather than send them to a few individual people, here it is for the <strike>tiny blogging community that may still exist with Fond of Blond</strike> world to see.<br />
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I chopped all the veggies first, divided them up and set them aside. Then the potatoes. Since they brown in the open air, seal them in the ziplock bags for the meals that call for them.<br />
<br />
Then I did the chicken (I should have taken a picture of my fridge the night after shopping; the entire thing was stuffed with poultry and meat). I cooked the chicken that needed to be shredded, and amidst that, I chopped the chicken for the recipes calling for cubed chicken. I added the chicken to the bags as I finished it (which I already had labeled with the meal, the date, any further directions I will need after removing it from freezer, and how many bags; some recipes required 2 bags, some only 1). The only chicken I cooked was the bunch that needed to be shredded* (which I shredded in my Kitchen Aid mixer with the paddle attachment after it was cooked).<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I cut it into cubes, then fry it in olive oil, minced onion, and shredded carrots. Then when cooked, shred.</span><br />
<br />
Then I divided up the hamburger (90/10 huge logs from Sam's Club) and began cooking it in 1-2 lb. batches. I mix in onions, shredded carrots, and seasoning in with all of them, usually.<br />
<br />
I then cut the steaks, etc.<br />
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It was a long process and probably could have gone smoother than it had. Again, I'll emphasize I'm not an expert. So if you think of ways to make this much easier, etc., you're probably right.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here are the recipes I used (and these are for our family of 5): There are 5 oven or stove-top meals, and 9 crockpot meals (my favorite). In addiction to those 14, I also prepared 7 meal-size servings of meat that I can pull out of the freezer for any last minute meals (spaghetti, fettuccine alfredo, etc.); (2) 2 lb. bags of browned, seasoned ground beef (with shredded carrots and onions), 3 bags of shredded chicken (about 4 to 5 large chicken breasts shredded), seasoned and cooked, and 2 bags of cubed chicken (not cooked). So 21 in all. And no pictures of the finished products. Sorry. In my rush to get it done and over with, pictures were the last thing on my mind. This was the only shot, before I actually got started:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LwOWBrpQzZE/UZ0SJZSkQMI/AAAAAAAAACw/wswg_K2nKQA/s1600/meals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LwOWBrpQzZE/UZ0SJZSkQMI/AAAAAAAAACw/wswg_K2nKQA/s320/meals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I don't know if all of these will turn out fabulous or not, so I will update this post (or do a new one) as we eat them, to let you know of the outcome. I will probably plan my menu a week at a time, and the night before, I'll take whichever meal we will eat the next day out of the freezer to thaw, so that by the time I cook it the following day, it won't be frozen.<br />
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14 meals:<br />
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<b><u>Chicken, Potatoes, Green Beans</u></b><br />
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<ul>
<li>4-6 raw chicken breasts</li>
<li>new or red potatoes, cut to your preference (I did large chunks)</li>
<li>green beans (I used 2 cans)</li>
</ul>
<br />
Bag it all. Lay flat, freeze.<br />
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Bag instructions: <i>Arrange in 9x13 dish. Sprinkle with packet of Italian dressing mix then top with a melted stick of butter. Cover with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Turned out good, but the potatoes were black.</span><br />
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<b><u>Pesto Chicken and Vegetables</u></b><br />
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<ul>
<li>raw chicken, cut in bite-size pieces</li>
<li>1 red bell pepper, chopped</li>
<li>fresh chopped broccoli (or a 16 oz. bag of frozen, chopped broccoli)</li>
<li>fresh green beans (or a bag of frozen)</li>
<li>1 small jar of pesto</li>
</ul>
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<br />
Bag it. Mix it together. Lay flat, freeze.<br />
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Bag instructions: <i>Heat olive oil in large skillet. Pour ingredients in pan (you may need to add more pesto) and cook. When chicken is almost done, add a chopped tomato for added flavor</i>.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Turned out just as good as if I made it fresh!</span><br />
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<b><u>Meatloaf</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>1.5 - 2 lbs. ground beef</li>
<li>3/4 C. quick oats</li>
<li>1/4 C. onion, minced</li>
<li>1.5 tsp. salt</li>
<li>1/4 tsp. pepper</li>
<li>1 grated carrot (optional)</li>
<li>1 egg</li>
<li>3/4 C. milk (optional)</li>
</ul>
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<br />
Mix all together and place in bag (I pressed it all down flat in the bag so it would fit better in freezer, as well as thaw more evenly when the time comes).<br />
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Bag instructions: <i>Place into loaf pan and form into a loaf. Mix 1/3 C. ketchup, 2 T. brown sugar, and 1 t. ground mustard; pour over top of loaf. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees for 1 hour.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Turned out fine, as good as meatloaf can be. Not the best, but still good. My husband and kids liked it!</span><br />
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<u><b>Pizza Casserole</b> (a family favorite)</u><br />
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<ul>
<li>1/2 - 2 lb. ground beef, browned with:</li>
<li>1 lb. mild pork sausage, and:</li>
<li>1 onion, minced, and:</li>
<li>2 cloves garlic, minced, and:</li>
<li>1 green bell pepper, chopped, and finally:</li>
<li>All purpose seasoning</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>1 cup pepperoni slices</li>
<li>14 oz. jar pizza sauce</li>
<li>8 oz. can tomato sauce</li>
<li>pizza seasoning (if desired)</li>
<li>4 T. milk</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix all ingredients in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
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Bag Instructions: <i>Cook 1 package of elbow macaroni. When cooked, mix together with bagged ingredients in a 9x13 pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Top with mozzarella cheese and bake an additional 5 to 10 minutes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Good, because this is always a family favorite. You can definitely tell a difference between freshly cooked hamburger meat and cooked-then-frozen-and-recooked hamburger meat. But it's still good, and worth it.</span><br />
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<b><u>Creamy Chicken & Broccoli Casserole</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>4 to 5 chicken breasts, cooked and shredded</li>
<li>2 cans cream of chicken and/or mushroom soup (I get the combo)</li>
<li>1 cup mayo</li>
<li>2 cups shredded cheese of your choice</li>
<li>1 bag frozen, chopped broccoli</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions:<i> Place in greased casserole dish. Top with more cheese, if desired. Bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes. Serve over rice.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">This was purely delicious, and turned out really well!!</span><br />
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<b><u>Savory Pepper Steak</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>about 3 lbs. round steak, cut into 1/2 inch strips</li>
<li>1/2 C. flour</li>
<li>1 t. salt</li>
<li>1 t. pepper</li>
</ul>
<br />
Mix flour, salt, and pepper in bag. Toss in steak strips and shake until evenly coated. Then, seperately, mix together:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>2 T. beef bullion</li>
<li>4 t. worcestershire sauce</li>
<li>2 T. steak sauce</li>
<li>2 T. steak seasoning or rub</li>
</ul>
<br />
Pour into bag with steak, and add remaining ingredients:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>1 large onion, chopped or minced</li>
<li>4 garlic cloves, crushed or minced</li>
<li>1 green bell pepper, sliced</li>
<li>1 red bell pepper, sliced</li>
<li>(2) 16 oz. cans of Italian style diced tomatoes</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Cook in crockpot on low for 6 hours. Serve with rice and side salad.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Meat was absolutely fantastic, but the sauce was a bit spicy for our liking.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Scalloped Potatoes and Ham</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>12 new potatoes (or 8 or 9 red potatoes), cut in 1/4 inch slices</li>
<li>2 cans cream of potato soup</li>
<li>2 cans water</li>
<li>2 ham steaks, cubed</li>
<li>shredded cheese</li>
<li>4 cups chopped broccoli, or 1 bag of frozen chopped broccoli</li>
<li>salt and pepper</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Cook in crockpot on low for 6 hours.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Okay, not the best. Definitely eatable. But not my favorite. And again, the potatoes were black.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Salsa Chicken</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>4 to 6 large chicken breasts, cooked and shredded</li>
<li>(2) 15 oz. cans black beans (drained a little)</li>
<li>16 oz. bag frozen corn</li>
<li>2 cans diced tomatoes and green chilies</li>
<li>1 jar salsa</li>
<li>1 packet (or about 2 T.) taco seasoning</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Put in crockpot and add shredded cheese (about 2 cups). Cook on low 8 hours (if still frozen). If thawed, cook on low for 3 or 4. Serve over rice or on tortillas. </i><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: red;">Absolutely my favorite! I have made this again a few times since then because I loved it so much. Everything turned out fantastic and the flavor is wonderful. We had a TON of leftovers, which was awesome, because I used it for nachos and quesadillas in coming days. But Mexican is always my favorite. Oh, and I also added some brown rice in the mix; then, when about an hour remains, I added sour cream as well.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Chicken Curry</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>4 to 6 large chicken breasts, cubed</li>
<li>2 cans cream chicken soup</li>
<li>1 cup dry cooking sherry (I didn't have any, so I used Burgundy cooking wine instead)</li>
<li>8 green onions, chopped</li>
<li>4 t. curry powder</li>
<li>salt and pepper</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix in bag well(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Place in crockpot and add 1/2 C. butter. Cook on low 4 to 6 hours. Serve over rice with a side salad.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Turned out good! I love anything with curry.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Hamburger Potatoes</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>8 red potatoes, sliced</li>
<li>1 small bag baby carrots</li>
<li>1.5 C. tomatoe juice</li>
<li>1-2 lbs. ground beef, browned along with:</li>
<li>1 onion, minced or chopped, and:</li>
<li>1 t. salt, and:</li>
<li>1/2 t. pepper, and:</li>
<li>All purpose seasoning</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Place in crockpot and add about 1 C. more on tomato juice if necessary, to make sure all is evenly coated and to prevent dish from getting too dry. Cook on low 6 hours.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">Good, but of course...the potatoes were black.</span><br />
<br />
<u><b>Sausage and Peppers</b> (I don't know how this one will turn out. I wasn't fond of the smell while making it)</u><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>6 Italian sausages (or chicken sausage), chopped. (if you buy it uncooked, like I did, you will need to brown it)</li>
<li>2 green bell peppers, chopped or sliced</li>
<li>1 red bell pepper, chopped or sliced</li>
<li>1 large onion, chopped or minced</li>
<li>4 garlic cloves, minced</li>
<li>2 cans Italian diced tomatoes</li>
<li>2 T. Italian seasoning</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Add a drizzle of olive oil in crockpot. Cook on low 6 hours. Serve over noodles or fresh french bread with mozzarella cheese.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">This one was questionable to me when making it, but it turned out fantastic! I absolutely loved the flavors.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Teriyaki Chicken</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>medium bag of baby carrots</li>
<li>1 onion, chopped</li>
<li>2 large can pineapple, undrained</li>
<li>4 garlic cloves, minced</li>
<li>4 to 6 chicken breasts, raw</li>
<li>1 C. teriyaki sauce</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Add an additional 1/4 C. of teriyaki sauce when in crockpot. Cook on low 6 to 7 hours. Serve over hot rice.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: red;">If you use boneless skinless chicken thighs, the chicken is great. The rest was soggy and not so good.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Savory Chicken</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>4 to 6 raw chicken breasts</li>
<li>2 cans stewed tomatoes</li>
<li>4 T. white wine (again, I used burgundy cooking wine instead. You can also use extra broth here instead)</li>
<li>1 large onion, chopped or minced</li>
<li>4 garlic cloves, minced</li>
<li>1 C. chicken broth</li>
<li>Salt & Pepper</li>
<li>2 bay leaves</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Place in crockpot. Cook on low 6 to 7 hours. Add 4 C. broccoli (or frozen chopped broccoli) during last 30 minutes. Remove bay leaves before serving.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<span style="color: red;">Very good! Use boneless skinless chicken thighs! So juicy.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u>Lazy Day Stew</u></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>4 lbs. cubed stewing beef, raw</li>
<li>8 red potatoes, halved or cubed</li>
<li>10 oz. package dried lima beans</li>
<li>4 t. quick-cooking tapioca</li>
<li>Salt & Pepper</li>
<li>15 oz. can tomato sauce</li>
<li>2 T. brown sugar</li>
<li>small bag of baby carrots</li>
<li>2 onions, chopped or minced</li>
<li>2 cups chopped celery (optional)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Mix well in bag(s). I needed two bags for this one. Lay flat, freeze.<br />
<br />
Bag instructions: <i>Add 1 C. water in crockpot. Cook on low 4 to 6 hours. Eat as soup, or serve over noodles or rice.</i><br />
<span style="color: red;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: red;">It was good, other than the black potatoes. And next time, I won't use lima beans. It just made it kind of weird. Not really our thing.</span>Jennie Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10185476167071828754noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-40963330619653252762011-09-30T11:38:00.000-07:002011-09-30T11:39:33.243-07:00Hooked on HooksBelieve it or not, I <i>am</i> still alive. I got really busy there for a while, and then by the time I had time to post again, I was so far behind in Bloggy Land that it was overwhelming to even think about getting back into it. So instead, lately I've been using my free time to get through my huge and hopefully final (and pretty treacherous) revisions, for both my books.<br />
<br />
I'm finally done with one (hallelujah!), and now I'm into my second. And it's been really grueling actually (rewriting them in third person, among many other things). But it's been worth it. I'm so glad I've stuck with it, because it's made my <b>W</b>ork<b> I</b>n <b>P</b>rogress(s) so much stronger.<br />
<br />
So speaking of WIPs, I'm participating in <a href="http://www.zookbooknook.com/">Kimberly Zook's</a> prompt, Hooked on Hooks, where we are to post the hook of our WIP (the first 3-4 sentences of the work itself) in order to get feedback. So here's the hook of my most recent WIP (<i>The Exception</i>). Please comment and leave your thoughts/criticism!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>My Hook:</u></b></div>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Samuel Tercy froze at the
shrill scream, the aged walls of the house doing nothing to mute it. It didn’t matter how many times he’d heard
it; nothing could ever prepare him for the way it ripped him apart inside. From his place in the oak tree’s underbrush,
his muscles tensed and the never-ending battle waged inside him: run inside and
save the girl, or listen from the shadows undetected? Technically, he didn’t exist, so up until
now, listening from the shadows had always triumphed over being her hero. </span></span></blockquote>
Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-73495745466665791012011-09-03T16:58:00.000-07:002011-09-03T16:58:09.126-07:00Everything's In Working OrderThanks, everyone, for the warm wishes and thoughts on Luke's surgery. I was away from the blogging world yesterday, as nearly every second was spent with Luke in my arms, so I'll have to spill my "<a href="http://www.alittlesomethingforme.com/p/fridays-confession-booth.html">confession</a>" <i>next</i> Friday. :)<br />
<br />
The surgery went great (as well as getting your genitals sliced can get, I suppose) and he is home healing. He's tender and has some major redness (more like purpleness), puffiness, and bruising in the area of the two stitched up incisions (I'm not posting pictures, don't worry), but he seems to be himself again, for the most part, as of this morning.<br />
<br />
I have to be careful what positions I put him into, and I have to double-diaper him for a week. Also, no straddling anything for a while (whether it's the walker, saucer, or my hip), and hopefully, after a week or two's time, he'll be better than new.<br />
<br />
Getting up at 2:45 a.m. and driving to Phoenix was difficult, but I really couldn't have asked for it to go smoother than it did. The surgeon also found a hernia while in the process, and fixed it up. Apparently, that's pretty common for an undescended testicle.<br />
<br />
I'm just so grateful for the convenience and blessing of modern medicine. And I owe the smoothness of the whole process to the many prayers that were offered. I am one blessed mama.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wvp5TxKO40g/TmKzAojtbiI/AAAAAAAAB9o/mgMJ6wiqfDE/s1600/323977_10150280977701283_550791282_8344371_7591822_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wvp5TxKO40g/TmKzAojtbiI/AAAAAAAAB9o/mgMJ6wiqfDE/s400/323977_10150280977701283_550791282_8344371_7591822_o.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the most precious picture to me. This was before they took him back, oblivious to it all.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uLoc7ev-y3A/TmKy_211SdI/AAAAAAAAB9k/nMO43GZBLi0/s1600/323195_10150280998776283_550791282_8344507_960265_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uLoc7ev-y3A/TmKy_211SdI/AAAAAAAAB9k/nMO43GZBLi0/s400/323195_10150280998776283_550791282_8344507_960265_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back view. So cute in that tiny hospital gown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jy79Ig9dAJY/TmKy_ft1AWI/AAAAAAAAB9g/guwnWu2axWc/s1600/322617_10150280999476283_550791282_8344518_7558912_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jy79Ig9dAJY/TmKy_ft1AWI/AAAAAAAAB9g/guwnWu2axWc/s400/322617_10150280999476283_550791282_8344518_7558912_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the babe, right after meeting with the anesthesiologist, and right before they took him from me. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlulQxokj-0/TmKy-zs1YcI/AAAAAAAAB9c/9Djou0XyMr4/s1600/289496_10150281262021283_550791282_8346295_6783721_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlulQxokj-0/TmKy-zs1YcI/AAAAAAAAB9c/9Djou0XyMr4/s400/289496_10150281262021283_550791282_8346295_6783721_o.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recovering, and slowly coming out of the anesthesia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jAdSNX0zbtc/TmKzBCzdmdI/AAAAAAAAB9s/dMayZIyUpDs/s1600/328741_10150281399436283_550791282_8347410_8187606_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jAdSNX0zbtc/TmKzBCzdmdI/AAAAAAAAB9s/dMayZIyUpDs/s400/328741_10150281399436283_550791282_8347410_8187606_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Later that night, laying in bed with me. I was surprised to get such a big, beautiful smile.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In closing, and in honor of Sam--who is sick in bed with the flu right now--here are his most recent Samisms:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Watching me dump three scoops of formula in Luke's bottle last week, he asked, "Mom, is that baby seasoning?"</li>
<li>While at a stop light in Prescott, my eyes were wistfully glued to a vintage Karmann Ghia across the way (which I love, by the way, for reasons I might delve into another time), and Sam says, "Mom, why is that car so cheap?"</li>
<li>He calls space ships "space shits." And I don't correct him. I even bring his toy one to church with us because there's something hilarious about him yelling, "Josh, give me my space shit!" in the middle of sacrament meeting.</li>
<li>While wearing an old, favorite t-shirt of mine I hadn't worn in years the other day (actually, the same one I'm wearing in the above pictures), Sam said, "Whoa, Mom! Your shirt is stylish!" Yeah...Savers-chic.</li>
<li>I couldn't find Zeus a couple days ago and Sam matter-of-factly said, "He's probably out taking a dump." Thanks, Dave.</li>
<li>When asking him what snack he wanted, he replied, "I want crackers, the moldy ones."</li>
<li>This morning I caught him and Josh hugging (they do this frequently and it makes my heart skip a beat <i>EVERY</i> time), and when Josh reached up to give Sam a kiss, Sam scolded, "Josh! We don't kiss on the lips! We are boys, and boys can only kiss on the cheeks."</li>
<li>Yesterday morning, while wearing just a t-shirt and his underwear, he got off the couch--where he'd been playing with his doggy (his favorite stuffed animal who frequently gets the blame for naughty things and loud, annoying noises)--and told me, "I need to get some pants on so Doggy doesn't see me in my underwear."</li>
<li>This isn't really a Samism as much as it's just an example of his personality. I was changing Josh the other night (no, he is <i>not</i> potty-trained yet) at the end of a very long, stressful day, and I wasn't just on the edge; I was hanging off, by my pinkie. And because kids feed off the stress of their parents, Josh was tormenting me, making it as difficult as he could. And Sam stood by watching. Josh threw his disgusting, bursting-at-the-seams-with-urine diaper on my head and I thought Sam was going to bust a gut from laughing so hard. I barked, "It's <i><b>not</b></i> funny, Sam!" The tone in my voice would have scared me as a kid, but instead Sam sobered and said, "Actually, Mom. It <i>is</i> funny. <i>Really</i> funny." And he was right. It <i>was</i> kinda funny. I ended up laughing.</li>
</ul>
Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-71080430821411849692011-08-31T21:13:00.000-07:002011-08-31T21:13:06.916-07:00Way Too Tiny For SurgeryI will be leaving for Phoenix at 3 a.m. Friday morning, just me and my little Luke. Off to the surgical center. So my tiny guy can get both his testicles where they need to be.<br />
<br />
It's not supposed to be invasive, they say. They just make an incision, go in, find the testicle that's hiding in the abdomen, bring it down into the scrotum, close up the scrotum from the inside so it doesn't leave the sack, and sew him up in the outside. Piece of cake, right?<br />
<br />
The surgeon/urologist says he does more than many of these, and that it's pretty standard. In and out.<br />
<br />
But that doesn't mean I'm not stressing over having my smaller-than-average, almost-eight-month-old knocked out with anesthesia and cut open on an operating table.<br />
<br />
In fact, I'm pretty sick about it. I can't even let myself think about it for too long or I feel my eyes start to burn. To say the least.<br />
<br />
I wish my husband could go with me for support. Or that I had some form of support there at all.<br />
<br />
But the kids need him here, and I don't want them there.<br />
<br />
So it's just me and Luke.<br />
<br />
I've done it before. After all, when Sam had his 2nd surgery at 13 months, it was the same thing. Drive down to Phoenix, just me and him. Be there when he comes to, thrashing and disoriented. Comfort him, hold him. Drive three hours home with him, praying he would sleep on the way, since I could do nothing to comfort him in the car.<br />
<br />
They say it's pretty standard.<br />
<br />
But I'm freaking out inside. Worried sick. Praying it's as standard as they say, that it goes smoothly, and that God will bless him with quick healing and good health, as well as steady hands on the surgeon.<br />
<br />
I pray I'll be able to keep it together and that my baby won't be scared.<br />
<br />
I pray it will go well and be over before we both know it.<br />
<br />
That's all.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i904.photobucket.com/albums/ac246/shellthings/pouryourheartout.jpg" /></a></div>
Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-44545191341621055262011-08-31T00:05:00.000-07:002011-08-31T00:05:02.139-07:00Wordful Wednesday: Some DaysSome days are like a much-labored-over, fresh pan of lasagna falling face-first on the bottom of the oven...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hebRfK0b77w/Tl3bdVfEwUI/AAAAAAAAB9M/Jqwga64ZixI/s1600/IMG_2761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hebRfK0b77w/Tl3bdVfEwUI/AAAAAAAAB9M/Jqwga64ZixI/s400/IMG_2761.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Or like pencil, crayon, paint, and stickers on a freshly-cleaned counter top...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vVStI_pE1cU/Tl3bUix4IpI/AAAAAAAAB9A/y8Ga0eJG3uw/s1600/IMG_2764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vVStI_pE1cU/Tl3bUix4IpI/AAAAAAAAB9A/y8Ga0eJG3uw/s400/IMG_2764.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Or like bites taken out of school work...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v0kFr1QZOhE/Tl3bkjgUe3I/AAAAAAAAB9U/u3JukEPjhvE/s1600/IMG_2765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v0kFr1QZOhE/Tl3bkjgUe3I/AAAAAAAAB9U/u3JukEPjhvE/s400/IMG_2765.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone know how to get an almost-three-year-old to stop eating paper? I'm desperate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But then other days are like Nutella mustaches...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rVlwUhB0pBQ/Tl3bSCdEjqI/AAAAAAAAB80/RuQUgTaRFNs/s1600/286718_10150268996546283_550791282_8231969_8444_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rVlwUhB0pBQ/Tl3bSCdEjqI/AAAAAAAAB80/RuQUgTaRFNs/s400/286718_10150268996546283_550791282_8231969_8444_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And cute, new baby teeth finally coming through...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H91YXIsIZ7U/Tl3bSuNcm8I/AAAAAAAAB84/KTWoXRhRuF0/s1600/325510_10150278849921283_550791282_8326159_667353_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H91YXIsIZ7U/Tl3bSuNcm8I/AAAAAAAAB84/KTWoXRhRuF0/s400/325510_10150278849921283_550791282_8326159_667353_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And sunny, blue-eyed smiles.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--2Wgny7Fzo0/Tl3cL7J-7PI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/DNvuUA_3SqQ/s1600/IMG_2867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--2Wgny7Fzo0/Tl3cL7J-7PI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/DNvuUA_3SqQ/s400/IMG_2867.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sevenclowncircus.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/sevenclownbutton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="http://sevenclowncircus.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/sevenclownbutton.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><center><a href="http://www.parentingbydummies.com/"><img alt="parenting BY dummies" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4103/5012943002_7ff9b52c81_m.jpg" /></a></center>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-86604395145179045712011-08-28T16:03:00.001-07:002011-08-28T16:03:30.604-07:00I *Don't* Wanna Marry You<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by <a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/">the Lightning and the Lightning-bug</a> Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "I Wanna Marry You."</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>For our next prompt, I'd like you to write about a wedding. The wedding can be fictional or real; the only requirement? That a wedding appears at some point during your piece.</i> </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is another segment from my novel, <i>November Rain</i>. For more, and to see where this fits in with the other segments I've posted, visit <a href="http://jenniedavenport.blogspot.com/p/november-rain.html">the page above</a>.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">The strangest scene played before Justice, and a faint, deadly tune was its soundtrack. A funeral? </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">No, there was no casket. But is sounded like a funeral. It <i>felt</i> like one. There was a congregation, but she wasn’t a part of it, and every person sobbed. She stood before them, at the front of a chapel, and a priest was there, too. And so was Lily, Russell’s sister that Justice had only met a few times. She and Justice were matching in dark purple gowns, the material stiff and constricting. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">A wedding? The preacher started to speak, the deadly, funeral-like song still lingering in the background, and she looked around in order to find where it was coming from. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">That was when she saw Raegan. Justice couldn’t see her face, since Raegan was shrouded in a black veil, but there was no question in her mind that it was her best friend. Justice sensed her, sensed her familiar dismal energy that had a long time ago killed her sunny soul. Her dress was heavy and black, unfitting for the matrimony she was clearly a part of, but fitting for the person who wore it. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Even stranger was the man, Lucas, standing with her, his large dog loyally at his side. Lucas’s hands grasped Raegan’s tightly, and he looked desperate. Happy, but desperate. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Just as the preacher was about to ask Lucas if he took Raegan as his wife, Raegan shuddered with a sob and ran from him, down the aisle and through the large church doors. Justice wanted to go after her, but she couldn’t move. And that music…</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">That damn tune still played in the background, and none of it made sense. Then her surroundings appeared hazy, the picture slipping away and leaving blackness in its place. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Still, the tune played. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">She lay in her bed now, slowly coming to, and forced herself awake. Her phone was on her nightstand, coming to life with Raegan’s personalized ringtone. A few months ago, Raegan had stolen Justice’s phone and set it in an attempt to be morbidly funny: Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor—or better known as <i>the Funeral March</i>.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://img836.imageshack.us/img836/1093/flickerbutton.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-91104640905768695492011-08-27T07:53:00.001-07:002011-08-27T07:59:08.990-07:00Dare to Share: Loss<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by the <a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/">Lightning and the Lightning-bug</a> Dare to Share prompt, "Loss." One of the themes throughout one of my novels, <i>November Rain</i>, is Loss, so I thought it appropriate to share some of that. In fact, I'm posting the prologue to it--the introduction to the main character and her story, that sets the tone for the rest of the novel (though it's not all dark). It was a bit longer than this, so for the sake of too many words, I cut some out. As always, critique is welcome!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">For more of <i>November Rain</i>, visit the <a href="http://jenniedavenport.blogspot.com/p/november-rain.html">page above</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">Alone for the first time in days, Raegan Fairbanks dug her nails into the palm of her hand, staring into the blackened storm. Through a thunderous crack of white, she hardly flinched. She placed her hands on the frigid windowpane, absorbing the house’s vibration. The lightning was close, just overhead, but her vision stayed loyal to the white bench, its luster holding her eyes. It had been his, and hers, and now it was the storm’s.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Her mother was asleep upstairs, and Justice was on the couch. It was the first time Raegan hadn’t been watched like a fragile infant since Russell died. They hadn’t left her side the past three days, even laid next to her when she sobbed herself into a nightly coma. But tonight was different. Tonight they sensed her desire for solitude, and though their leash still choked her, she reveled in the temporary abandonment. In that moment with the bench.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">The thought of her mother in her own bed—<i>their</i> bed—brought some of her fury to life, and a piece of numbness flaked to the ground. But she’d do anything to keep her mother at a distance, even if it meant tarnishing the place where her late husband once warmed her. Besides, now it was empty, cold. More fitting for the bitter woman atop it. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Her late husband. A woman in her twenties shouldn’t have to think that profane term. It aged her, pulled her to the ground. It gave gravity a win as it had its way with her. Three days and she went from twenty-eight to eighty-two. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Rain pelted the glass pane in a sideways fury as it had the last three days. It was unusual, but fitting. The universe seemed to mourn with her, letting her know Russell’s undue absence was known to the heavens. It seemed to threaten her fondest memory, consume the bench as though it was its own.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Three days. It didn’t matter how short the time was; there was no way she could go back and change it. He’d been there, in that very kitchen, and now he was…where? </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">…</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">His things haunted her, the memories tearing through her. She looked back to the sinister yard, puddles swallowing the browning lawn. The white bench at the base of the cottonwood tree replaced the sting of trivial reminders with the throb of a precious memory. It’d been her birthday surprise last year, handmade. He’d apologized for its crooked panels when lifting the sheet, revealing the thoughtful token of his love.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">She wanted to keep it forever, wanted to take it back from the storm. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Riveted by the bright, crooked panels, she unlatched the back door and walked outside, shivering as the almost frozen November rain beat against her. Russell had always said rain smelled of a cleansing shower, of a new start. But tonight it reeked of loss.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Surrounded by darkness, she warily made her way to the bench, her bare feet sloshing through the muddy puddles. Water cascaded relentlessly down her face and blurred her vision, the bench appearing as a smear of white.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">She mindlessly sat, saturating her clothes—<i>his</i> clothes. She ran her hands over the sopping panels, feeling the rough, splintery spots as affectionately as the pieces still glazed in glossy finish. Her fingers took in every touch, extra sensitive to embrace the feel she once took for granted.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Her tears poured to match the vibrancy of the rain as she imagined his solid, sturdy figure, hunched to carve her gift. She imagined white paint stains in his hair, speckling his arms and callused hands. As if able to connect her to him, she laid against the uneven panels, planting her cheek against the sodden wood. Creaking, it spoke of the many memories. Sunny afternoons, late nights, and even an early morning.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">In the fetal position she sobbed, trying to press every inch of her aching body against it in the hope its touch could heal her, in the hope that the material reminder would feed his void. Like a roaring freight train, the rainfall intensified and buckets poured over her, attempting to take it back. Attempting to revive a lost cause. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">Lightning flashed and thunder cracked—temporarily lighting her surroundings. Strings of hair hindered her view, but she was sure a figure was beside her. Unable to force movement of her limbs, unable to turn to see more clearly, she let herself believe it was him. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">“I’m sorry,” she hoarsely cried at the apparition, her teeth chattering. She hardly noticed her fingers and toes numbing in the icy rainfall, hardly noticed as her swollen eyes closed and her body deadened in drowsiness.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing">She heard a murmur above her, maybe even her name. And before blacking out, she dreamed the added pressure of a warm hand on her shuddering back was Russell—there to wake from her nightmare.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://img3.imageshack.us/img3/9083/daretoshare.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-60959867075982050892011-08-26T11:45:00.000-07:002011-08-26T11:45:58.844-07:00To Walmart Elderlies Everywhere:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I did <a href="http://jenniedavenport.blogspot.com/2011/06/keep-your-unsolicited-advice-to.html">a post similar to this already</a>, but because unsolicited advice is thrown at me in a continual stream--and because just the other day I wanted to explode with some more "Eff Offs," and <a href="http://jah-justjennifer.blogspot.com/">Just Jennifer</a> created a new meme at <i>just</i> the perfect time--I'm going to vent. Again.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">So here is my first installment of <a href="http://jah-justjennifer.blogspot.com/2011/08/very-first-fantasy-eff-off-friday.html">Fantasy Eff Off Friday</a>. Got something you need to vent about, someone you want to lash out? Go link up!</span><br />
<br />
If you're an avid follower of my blog, you probably know I hate Walmart. With a passion. I'm grateful for the convenience, but there's just something about being there that makes me agitated and on-edge. Beyond the vast spaciousness or the confusion that comes because they've moved something to a different aisle yet again, or even beyond the fact that the items I need always seem to be out of stock or off the shelves.<br />
<br />
Or even beyond the fact that I ask Sam if he needs to go potty when we first get there, and every time he says no. And--<i>every</i> time--thirty minutes into it, he decides he does have to go...<i>soooo</i> bad. Now that I have my cart full of merchandise. And no merchandise is allowed in the restrooms. And I can't send him in alone. Or leave my cart with the other kids outside the restroom alone.<br />
<br />
Even beyond that.<br />
<br />
I turn into Momzilla as I'm pushing that cart down the aisle, trying with all my willpower not to ram into old women in motorized carts, slow people, or just those people who love to block the aisle in general. I. Just. Want. To. Get. Out of there. I'm alone with all three kids. And that says it all. Josh opening the shampoo and squirting it all over himself, the cart, and inside my diaper bag when I'm not looking: <i>that</i> says it all.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, great</i>. Another trip to the bathroom. Where I ask the lady employee giving me the evil eye to watch my cart, since I can't take it into the bathroom with me. She looks overwhelmed just from looking at my kids, and can hardly nod. I take that as a yes and leave her alone with my stuff. Trusting she's not some thief, since my wallet is in there, too.<br />
<br />
So, if you see me at Walmart, with a red face, a sweat-gleamed brow, and steam coming from my ears, it's probably best just to keep walking. Keep your mouth shut, try to ignore my bad parenting, and whatever you do, do <i><b>not</b></i> make eye contact.<br />
<br />
I ask myself,<b> <i>why</i></b> <i>does it seem like the unsolicited advice always occurs at Walmart</i>? And <i>why</i> do I keep going to such a monopolized mall when I hate it so much?<br />
<br />
Oh yeah. The convenience. They're cheap, and usually have everything. The less stops I have to make and the less times I have to drag my kids out of the car, the better. So you win, Walmart. Again. As always.<br />
<br />
And Wednesday was particularly bad. We'd just gotten done spending an hour at the ER so they could followup on Josh's stitches--an hour of waiting, just so they could take a gander and tell me everything looked fine. It was just me and my kids, and when it's just me and my kids in settings such as doctors or hospitals, they love to make me miserable.<br />
<br />
Even beyond the way they do at Walmart.<br />
<br />
This time, they all decided to cry at the same time. Sam kept pulling back the curtain to the space next to us, where some sickly woman waited. He also had to yell and run around, since he knew it was a place he shouldn't.<br />
<br />
Then there was Josh. When he wasn't crying from being back in that place, he was also pulling back the curtain, swinging on it, and dancing in it. And I tried to control them, people, I really did. But when I have the joyous background noise of Luke's screams, I have to weigh my priorities. Preserve everyone's hearing, or hold down my kids?<br />
<br />
I picked preserve everyone's hearing. Especially because I heard the woman next to me tell the doctor she had a migraine. And when I decide to feed Luke, my kids know my hands are tied. And they become even more out-of-control.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I just wish I had six arms. And that's what I wanted to say to all the silent watchers. That and, "No, I'm not a single parent. I just feel like it sometimes."<br />
<br />
And, "Yes, I <i>did</i> have to bring them all."<br />
<br />
Needless to say, all I got were either looks of pity or looks of chastisement.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Ugh.<br />
<br />
And then to top it off, I had to lug all three kids to the car afterward during a massive monsoon. <i>Massive.</i><br />
<br />
Oh, and we were parked as far away from the entrance as we could be. By the time we got to the car, we were completely soaked through, Josh was crying (he hates water), and Luke was screaming. I guess there was <i>one</i> good thing though. Sam was laughing, since he loves getting wet.<br />
<br />
That was when we ventured to Walmart. <i>Stupid</i>, you might say? <i>Why not wait until someone is with you</i>, you ask?<br />
<br />
In our situation, it doesn't matter if all the kids are crying, it's raining, or I'm tired. If we are in town, we <i>have</i> to take advantage of Walmart. We have to knock down the shopping list, since we don't have the convenience of living close to civilization. We take advantage while we are there, before we venture 1.5 hours home.<br />
<br />
We waited in the car for a bit, until the rain slowed, and when we finally got out, I put the baby, in the car seat, at the top of the cart, Josh in the main part of the cart, and Sam walking next to us (thought I wish he wasn't, since he runs up and down the aisles and gets into everything). Oh, and the diaper bag is in there with Josh, too, getting ransacked.<br />
<br />
So, where do I fit the hoards of groceries I <i>have</i> to get?<br />
<br />
My only option--unless I let Josh walk, too, which I try to avoid, since he wreaks more havoc than Sam, and I wouldn't be able to accomplish a single thing in that store--is to have Josh stand by the diaper bag in the cart and hold on tight.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">And now that I'm typing this, I'm thinking that maybe I should get a leash. Hmm...good idea. Kinda wish I would have thought of it sooner.</span><br />
<br />
Anyway, when the groceries start piling up, I did just that: made him stand. And that's when the looks of judgment come. And the comments. All from old people who haven't had kids in probably fifty years.<br />
<br />
"Sit down, young man!" an old man told him, as though he was his guardian and I wasn't standing right there. As though I'm some dense breeding machine who isn't fit for parenting. "That is dangerous! There are hundreds of deaths each year by kids who've fallen out of shopping carts!"<br />
<br />
And even more irritating was how stern his voice was, like Josh was being horribly naughty.<br />
<br />
I. <i>Swear</i>. To. Hell. I <i>will</i> punch you.<br />
<br />
Instead I glared, fuming inside. I stayed silent as he sent me his reproaching eyes and I sent him the eyes of a defiant daughter in return, and then he eventually passed.<br />
<br />
Seriously, where does he come off?<br />
<br />
Next, another old man, glaring at my rowdy kids in passing, jeers, "How many more are you gonna pop out?"<br />
<br />
I laugh politely, not trying to hide the edge coming through, and move my feet faster, desiring to be outside those Walmart doors even more desperately now. Especially because I noticed Josh was tearing holes in all the boxes of pasta I just put in the basket.<br />
<br />
Next, I'm standing there, comparing two products and trying to determine the best value with the coupons I spent too much time searching for, and the kids are taking advantage of my loss of attention. Because if I had my attention on them 100% of the time, there's no way I'd be able to shop. And they know that.<br />
<br />
By this point, Josh is out of the cart because there is simply no room for him, and both he and Sam are racing down the aisle and knocking things down. I stop what I'm doing and sternly snap, "STOP running. NOW!"<br />
<br />
An older couple passes, and the woman says under her breath to her Marlon-Brando-in-his-older-years-looking husband, "You hear that? You hear her?"<br />
<br />
Really, woman? I <i>will</i> chuck this carton of eggs at your head.<br />
<br />
Lastly, not even a minute later, I have the kids herded at the basket, my eyes still comparing products, and the kids decide to start crying, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!..."<br />
<br />
"Kids!" I yell. "Stop! For just <i>one</i> second!" I feel like<a href="http://youtu.be/6dncx6O5J4U"> Chris Farley as the bus driver on <i>Billy Madison</i></a>.<br />
<br />
"Aw," the old lady next to me says, sending her mushy grandmother-like stare at my boys, "They just want your attention, Mommy. They're not misbehaving, they're just telling you they love you. Nothing wrong with that."<br />
<br />
And there you have it: the WORST comment of that day. I felt my eyes twitching as my heart raced, and I clenched my fist in an attempt to keep myself in check. Before I could kick her in the throat, I stormed off, forgetting the eggs I needed in the process.<br />
<br />
Because apparently I'm a self-absorbed mom who pays no attention to my attention-starving children.<br />
<br />
Lady, you had NO idea what my kids were putting me through that day. In fact, you do not know my kids at all, or the way they misbehave vs. the way they show affection.<br />
<br />
To all of you who felt it was your place to judge me on yet another stressful, hair-pulling trip into town on Wednesday, I say....<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Eff Off!</i></b></span><br />
<br />
<i>Sigh.</i> There. I said it.<br />
<br />
Maybe next time I will actually get the guts to say it to their faces.<br />
<br />
Probably not. Which means I will continue to use my blog as my venting platform.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://jah-justjennifer.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i1200.photobucket.com/albums/bb331/JenAnnHall/fuck-off-kitty-1-1-1.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-79360122855766866542011-08-26T09:24:00.000-07:002011-08-26T09:24:51.104-07:00Friday's Confession Booth: Satanic Dentists<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">First of all, I want to say I'm excited to be participating in Kristen's (at <a href="http://www.alittlesomethingforme.com/">A Little Something For Me</a>) new blog meme: <a href="http://www.alittlesomethingforme.com/p/fridays-confession-booth.html">Friday's Confession Booth</a>. Got a juicy confession you want to unload? Or even a less-juicy one? Anything goes, so go on over and link up!</span><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Confession #1</b>: I haven't been to the dentist since (oh my gosh, I can't believe I am about to admit this <strike>out loud</strike>)...before I got married.<br />
<br />
<i>Gulp.</i><br />
<br />
That's right. Eight years. Gasp, judge, cringe, think me white trash. I don't care.<br />
<br />
<strike>I hate the dentist.</strike> I <i>LOATHE</i> the dentist. Not them, personally. I'm sure they're great guys. And you cute dental hygienist chics? Love you.<br />
<br />
But get your hands <i>away</i> from my mouth. You ever think that just maybe I like my bacteria-infested mouth the way it is?<br />
<br />
Okay, we both know I don't, or I wouldn't be there. But I want to throw a tantrum when I think about going--two-year-old style. And I know these are big words, but <strike>I think</strike> I mean it when say I'd rather give birth than go to the dentist.<br />
<br />
And that's coming from someone who's given natural childbirth <i>twice</i>, and prefers it that way.<br />
<br />
There's just something about my teeth, and people's hands, and sharp instruments that makes me want to run screaming. It's so unbelievably uncomfortable, sitting there with your mouth pried open and instruments scraping at your gums/teeth. So today I sat there, knuckles white, as I grasped my shirt in my fists and closed my eyes, willing it to be over...<br />
<br />
...And made unflattering grunting sounds in response to the stories Mrs. RDH was telling about her son. They don't really expect you to answer, do they--with their claws, blades, vacuums, and hoses down your mouth?<br />
<br />
But I <strike>don't</strike> have an excuse for not ever going the past eight years. I know, blaming it on the kids is a poor one, but I'm still going to use it. That, and I've always been told by every dentist that I had amazing teeth, so....if I have amazing teeth, why go?<br />
<br />
Well, I learned a couple lessons today, and I'll get to those.<br />
<br />
I went to the dentist every year before I got married, got the routine cleanings, etc. And in all that time, I've never needed braces and have only had one<i> tiny</i> cavity. Dentists have told me I'm lucky.<br />
<br />
And then I got married and my parents could no longer force me to go. So I stopped. I thought, <i>I never have cavities. My teeth are strong.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
And then we come to <b>confession #2</b>: I never floss either. Like, hardly ever.<br />
<br />
And <b>confession #3</b>? I usually never brush my teeth more than once a day.<br />
<br />
And you thought I was disgusting in the beginning?<br />
<br />
At least I learned my lesson, though. I'm telling you, people, no matter how satanic the dentist is, if you <i>ever</i> plan on going back again some day, <b><i>do not</i></b> skip your yearly/twice-yearly checkups! You. Will. Regret. It. It makes all the torture that much worse.<br />
<br />
Torture at its finest. Pure, pure Hell.<br />
<br />
<b>Blood-squirting.</b> I'm not making this up. It actually squirted, and by the end her latex gloves were covered in it. She says it might be because I'm still nursing and the hormones make your gums more sensitive. But I just think <i>she</i> needed to be more sensitive.<br />
<br />
<b>Gagging.</b> I chocked on a mix of water, my own blood, and my own tooth crap, and ended up spewing it all over the front of me. Drenching my shirt, my hands, my legs, and my arms in pinkish, watery goo. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gosh, aren't you loving this post?</span></i> I know, this could have happened to any regularly-going patient, but maybe if I had more practice going, I would know how to NOT breath the crap in that's running down the back of my throat. Little vacuum, you sucked. Or....rather, you didn't suck.<br />
<br />
<b>Scraping</b>. <i>Oh</i>, the scraping. I swear, she was trying to sculpt the statue of David in my teeth with that little hooked dagger.<br />
<br />
And the watermelon-flavored gel stuff? Do they think giving it a melon flavor is going to make it appealing? Well, it doesn't. I still gagged.<br />
<br />
And seriously, lady? Again...my gums have feeling. Stop man handling and be a little gentle with the weapon in your hand. When I cringe and you see blood, that's my body's way of saying <b><i>BE GENTLE!</i></b><br />
<br />
So after eight years of dentist-free teeth, and an almost two-hour-long <strike>torture</strike> cleaning, here are the results: Aside from the massive tooth-aches from all the "work," I have four cavities. Dis. Gust. Ing. I know. It grosses <i>me</i> out, too. And one of those cavities will most likely be a root canal. <i>Ugh</i>, FML.<br />
<br />
And on top of that? My wisdom teeth--the ones my old dentist (he's probably dead by now) told me I'd never have to worry about since they were coming in straight up? Well, they didn't. One of them is coming in straight to the side, gunning right for my molar. Who knew?<br />
<br />
Not me. I've never had pain from it or anything. But regardless, I have to get it removed. And while I'm getting it removed, why not get all of them out? (Dentist's words, not mine)<br />
<br />
Seriously. I'm almost twenty-nine and I'll be getting my wisdom teeth out. Ugh. Again, FML.<br />
<br />
Did I mention I hate dental work?<br />
<br />
But it's my fault. No more missing my daily flossing, or even my nighttime brushing. No more treating the dentist like the plague.<br />
<br />
<i>It's often those who have healthy teeth that think they're in the clear and don't care for them like they should.</i><br />
<br />
Ah, thanks, Dentist. I should make that into a cute vinyl saying and put it on my living room wall.<br />
<br />
I guess I should have just listened to my husband when he got on my ass about flossing every night. I bet you can't guess what his words were when I got home?<br />
<br />
<i>See, I told you so.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%E2%80%9Dhttp://www.alittlesomethingforme.com%E2%80%9D" target="”_blank”"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i323.photobucket.com/albums/nn464/kstottlemyer/confessionbooth1.jpg" /></a></center>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-66052987487260370802011-08-25T20:15:00.000-07:002011-08-25T20:15:39.221-07:00A Night at the ERWe had an eventful night on Sunday. I was making dinner, our dinner guests had just arrived, and out the window I hear Josh crying. He falls a lot outside, so I didn't think anything of it at first. After all, I was busy. But after about thirty seconds, he didn't stop, so I looked out the window and my heart twisted inside my stomach.<br />
<br />
Blood was pouring down his face and onto the ground (though Zeus did a good job of cleaning it up), and I immediately called for Dave. He's so much better at handling stuff like that. I kind of freak out inside and get queasy and wonder if my baby is going to live. But Dave is calm and knows what to look for and how to handle blood and injuries.<br />
<br />
Turns out Josh had face-planted on the cement and cut his lip wide open on a rock.<br />
<br />
Long story short, I ended up driving him to Prescott to get stitches, while Dave stayed to entertain our other kids and the dinner guests. As you can imagine, I panicked inside a little, seeing how Prescott is an hour and a half away.<br />
<br />
But I held it together, for Josh. And geez, I didn't even need to. If anyone was holding together anything for anyone, it was him being strong for <i>me</i>. He was so good and brave. Of course we had to wait in the ER for 2+ hours, and that whole time he was his chatty, normal self, though his talking was impaired from his swollen lip (yes became "yesh").<br />
<br />
The stitching process was a bit harsh, though. They had to wrap him in a sheet and while I held down his feet, one nurse held down his upper half, and the PA stitched him up.<br />
<br />
And he screamed the whole time. Screamed and cried. And I soothed. While tilting my head in the other direction.<br />
<br />
But as soon as it was over and they unwrapped him, he stood on the hospital bed--still sweaty, still semi-crying, and exhausted--and while doing the hand sign, said, "All done!"<br />
<br />
And I have to say that other than the stitching-it-up part, me and Josh actually enjoyed our time together that night. Kind of like a little six-hour date to the ER, topping it off with an-almost-midnight run to Walgreen's.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V9NNH5n1kOk/Tlb0V-c-6sI/AAAAAAAAB8o/IRrenrxSZIQ/s1600/IMG_2810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V9NNH5n1kOk/Tlb0V-c-6sI/AAAAAAAAB8o/IRrenrxSZIQ/s400/IMG_2810.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few minutes after it happened. The blood is covering it, but he had a deep slice at the bottom of his top lip, from the inside of his mouth to the outside.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nGsRlyrA1Ug/Tlb0UocYG4I/AAAAAAAAB8g/_R0y-MGJp0Q/s1600/325930_10150271947446283_550791282_8261605_6331726_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nGsRlyrA1Ug/Tlb0UocYG4I/AAAAAAAAB8g/_R0y-MGJp0Q/s400/325930_10150271947446283_550791282_8261605_6331726_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting in the ER for someone to look at it. But the three old women smokers in wheelchairs with oxygen got first priority.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROjkV4FDGWY/Tlb0Wh1LcGI/AAAAAAAAB8s/8y9LSlU91Sw/s1600/IMG_2822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROjkV4FDGWY/Tlb0Wh1LcGI/AAAAAAAAB8s/8y9LSlU91Sw/s400/IMG_2822.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That night when we got home, cuddling with Daddy. With a swollen, stitched up lip. Still, he was as happy as ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79eb1r4P3ls/Tlb0VR3He4I/AAAAAAAAB8k/y1EexTiRWTo/s1600/336546_10150272722681283_550791282_8270529_4284751_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79eb1r4P3ls/Tlb0VR3He4I/AAAAAAAAB8k/y1EexTiRWTo/s400/336546_10150272722681283_550791282_8270529_4284751_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The next day, on the way to the park. And wearing Daddy's hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y5XR6JzjEYw/Tlb0XUlPFCI/AAAAAAAAB8w/IflI3yTsj2o/s1600/IMG_2848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y5XR6JzjEYw/Tlb0XUlPFCI/AAAAAAAAB8w/IflI3yTsj2o/s400/IMG_2848.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today, day 4. When he woke up from his nap, the scab was gone! Stitches are still in tact and everything is looking good! <br />
Except that scab I found in his bed. Ew. I still get the chills just thinking about it.<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The injuries seem to keep piling up with my kids, and while each of them have had their fair shares <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(Sam: two surgeries before the age of 1, stitches on his ear at age two. Josh: the scorpion sting, other minor injuries, and this. Luke: upcoming surgery September 2)</span>, I feel like Josh is the most accident-prone. That kid is always having bad things happen to him.<br />
<br />
And maybe it's because he's more daring than Sam and takes more risks, but he gets the brunt of it all. Last summer it seemed to be at its worst. The day after his scorpion sting, he'd gotten bit by a friend's hamster, then two nights later, he'd almost suffocated while sleeping, and three weeks later, he'd gotten his whole big toenail knocked off by a heavy door.<br />
<br />
<i>That</i> was gruesome.<br />
<br />
But still, no stitches.<br />
<br />
And I thought we were safe this summer.<br />
<br />
Lesson: <i>Never</i> think you're safe.<br />
<br />
Yes, I do get overwhelmed sometimes from all the things that happen to my kids, but really, I feel like this is normal stuff every little kid goes through.<br />
<br />
Then I have moms tell me they can't believe all I go through with my kids--moms with two kids, and even some moms with five kids, who've never had a bad thing happen to them. So, what's normal? <i>That</i>, or stitches, accidents, and surgeries?<br />
<br />
Or is there even a <i>normal</i>?<br />
<br />
Oh, and <i>how</i> do those parents with piece-of-cake kids <i>not</i> have things like that happen to them? What are they doing? Or is it just luck?<br />
<br />
Anyway, regardless, I feel extremely blessed. While it's hard being a mommy and having to hold down your child in the hospital as they stitch up his lip/ear, while <strike>trying not to vomit from the queasy feeling in your stomach</strike> trying not to look, yet speak soothing words at the same time, and your heart's breaking for what they have to go through...I think I have it pretty dang good.<br />
<br />
My kids are healthy. They have all their fingers, toes, and other limbs, and everything is fully functional (as far as I know). So I have no right to complain. I feel like the luckiest gal in the world.<br />
<br />
And I'm sure I will have to endure many more stitches in the coming years. Maybe even some broken bones.<br />
<br />
In fact, <i>for sure</i> some broken bones. Because they <i>are</i> boys.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-88650678851674537632011-08-23T15:55:00.000-07:002011-08-23T15:55:48.140-07:00Worst Memory<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by the <a href="http://writeonedge.com/">Write on Edge</a> RemembeRED prompt, "Your Worst Memory."</span></i><br />
<br />
<i>I had to copy and paste from an <a href="http://jenniedavenport.blogspot.com/2011/06/affection.html">old RemembeRED post</a> for this, one about affection, because by far, this experience is the worst memory of my life: when Josh got stung by a scorpion last summer. And rather than rewrite the same story, I'll just paste my same words here:</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">Never had physical touch meant more to me. What if I never got the chance to touch my baby again, while life still flowed through his veins and his soul still resided in his new, perfect, cherub-like body?<br />
<br />
The last hour had been Hell. The worst Hell I'd ever experienced as a mom, and I could only pray I'd never experience worse. We do all in our power to protect our children from the millions of threats in this scary, uncertain world, and all it took was five minutes without my attention. Five minutes for that little intruder to make its way into our kitchen and attack my baby as though <i>he</i> was the one trespassing.<br />
<br />
They call them "bark" scorpions, and they are everywhere in Bagdad, Arizona. We usually spray on a monthly basis, but sometimes we go longer. Sometimes we miss a month because, really, what could go wrong?<br />
<br />
Well, everything went wrong. And I will never miss a month again.<br />
<br />
It stung my child on his finger, and when he first started screaming, I knew what it was, even though I couldn't see it. And there it was, hiding under his toys. I was worried, but because I'd heard scorpion stings weren't much worse than a wasp sting, I let him cry. And cry.<br />
<br />
But he wouldn't stop, and I grew <i>extremely</i> worried.<br />
<br />
Especially when he started trembling. He started seizing as soon as we got him to the Bagdad clinic--the last place equipped for this. His tiny, eighteen-month-old body jolted around in my arms, and I didn't understand how it could be so bad. But I later learned that the poison attacks the nervous system in bodies so small, and would attack it for over twenty-four hours if we let it.<br />
<br />
I held him tight, my tears wetting his white-blond hair, while he moaned and his limbs moved about uncontrollably. They told me to hold his arms down, keep him tight, and I was in shock. In shock that I had to do such a preposterous thing.<br />
<br />
<i>Please, God</i>, I prayed. <i>Please heal my baby</i>. I passed my love--strong enough to move a mountain--into him, telling the universe to make him better.<br />
<br />
But it didn't.<br />
<br />
An hour later the helicopter finally came to fly him to Phoenix Children's, because they were the best equipped for the situation. His seizing was worse, his eyes in the back of his head, and they took him from my arms. They burned, and so did my chest, and my round, pregnant belly felt more sick than it ever had. They told me his daddy should ride in the helicopter with him because it wasn't safe for a pregnant mother.<br />
<br />
So I sobbed again, my soul in anguish and my heart throbbing.<br />
<br />
And the 2.5 hour drive to Phoenix was the most painful 2.5 hours in all my life.<br />
<br />
<i>Please</i>, I cried out loud, <i>I will never complain about having to hold him again, I swear. I will never complain that he needs me too much</i>. My arms were empty and I craved--more than I'd ever craved anything--his affection. His arms snug around my neck, his laugh in my ear.<br />
<br />
<i>Please, give me at least one more opportunity to see him again. Please, please, please. Please don't take him from me.</i><br />
<br />
His song--the song I sing to all my children--came on the radio, track eleven's turn, and my trembling hands turned it off. Prematurely mourning, yet fighting with all of me to will him to live. But in the silence I heard the helicopter overhead, reminding me my baby was way too far away, in the sky with his father...too close to living with his other Father.<br />
<br />
And, many tears later, his Father heard my prayers, knew I simply could not survive without my Joshua. The Children's hospital was the only hospital in the state that had any vials of scorpion anti-venom--four, to be precise.<br />
<br />
And four just happened to be the exact amount he needed.<br />
<br />
Coincidence?<br />
<br />
I think not. A miracle, in its fullest.<br />
<br />
And within two hours, his muscles relaxed, and I held that lethargic, perfect baby as long as I could. And even all night wasn't enough.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/remembered/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/remembeRedButton.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-59154082124371978472011-08-19T08:56:00.000-07:002011-08-19T08:56:12.303-07:00"Not Me!"Ah, the "Not Me!" Ghost.<br />
<br />
I always love when it comes to visit.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_14J2dEsfIG0/S__L6CkNDFI/AAAAAAAAECQ/ZOdEVaKjO0Y/s1600/Family_Circus+5-28-10.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_14J2dEsfIG0/S__L6CkNDFI/AAAAAAAAECQ/ZOdEVaKjO0Y/s400/Family_Circus+5-28-10.gif" width="360" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I grew up on <i>Family Circus</i> comics. And the "Not Me!" ghost was always one of my favs, even as a little kid. And until I was a mom, I never realized just how true to life it was.<br />
<br />
And you think the "Not Me!" ghost is sneaky with just one kid? Well, it's even more cunning with two.<br />
<br />
When I was cooking dinner last night, the three kids were in the family room watching a <i>Brainy Baby</i> video, being quiet and wonderful in the process. Then, all the sudden, Luke started crying out of nowhere. He's teething and, well...he's Luke, so I thought nothing of it. He cries like that quite often if I'm not holding him.<br />
<br />
So, with my hands all slicked up in raw hamburger, I continued to <strike>labor away</strike> stuff the manicotti shells, quickening my pace so I could <strike>silence the piercing, damaging-to-your-eardrum screaming</strike> come to his rescue.<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes went by, and he was still crying. Of course. I felt bad, but it's Luke. And I had to make dinner. I have to earn my way around here <i>somehow</i>.<br />
<br />
When I finally had dinner in the oven, the counter washed off, and my hands washed, I rushed into the family room.<br />
<br />
And I felt horrible.<br />
<br />
Luke was covered in water, from head to toes, drenching everything and even running down his back. And he'd been sitting that way in his bouncer seat for the past fifteen minutes.<br />
<br />
Immediately, I looked to Sam and Josh with narrow eyes, the both of them standing back with arms behind their backs and pleasant looks on their faces. That was when I noticed empty sippy cups. Then water all over the couch, and floor, too.<br />
<br />
Luke was still screaming during my assessment, so I picked up my soaking baby, dried him off a little, and snuggled him (feeling bad for not coming to his rescue sooner), and then the questioning started.<br />
<i><b><br />
</b></i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> Who did this?</i><br />
<i><b>Sam:</b></i><i> Josh. Josh did it!</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> Josh, did you do it?</i><br />
<i><b>Josh</b></i><i> (shaking his head): No!</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> Did you pour water on your baby brother, and all over the family room?</i><br />
<i><b>Josh</b></i><i> (shaking his head): No.</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> Sam, no lying. Tell me the truth. Did you do this?</i><br />
<i><b>Sam:</b></i><i> No, Mom, it wasn't me. It was Josh. He did it.</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> So am I to believe it was some mysterious ghost? I'm not stupid. There's water everywhere and you two are the only ones in here. One of you did it. I'm giving you both one last chance to tell the truth. One. Last. Chance. Sam, did you do it?</i><br />
<i><b>Sam:</b></i><i> No.</i><br />
<i><b>Me:</b></i><i> Josh, did you do it?</i><br />
<i><b>Josh:</b></i><i> No, Mommy. No pour water, baby.</i><br />
<i><b>Me</b> (looking around for the "Not Me!" ghost, shrugging his shoulders and running from the room): Fine. Then you will BOTH go to time out.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Damn that "Not Me!" ghost. He got me again. And those <i>poor</i> kids had to suffer for it.<br />
<br />
Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-92155802586655192442011-08-18T13:51:00.000-07:002011-08-18T13:51:11.021-07:00Defy Gravity<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/">Mama Kat's</a> writer's workshop prompt, "Write a short story prompted by your favorite song."</span></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Though I have way too many favorite songs, all for different reasons, my all-time favorite is <u>Defying Gravity</u>, from the Broadway musical, <u>Wicked</u></i>.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Do it: call me a theater geek. I dare you.</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Click <a href="http://pl.st/s/1696894993">here</a> to listen to the song.</span></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I've heard it my whole life. I've heard it from everyone.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And now, I've heard it enough.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The same words resounded inside me, thrown from my mind and into my heart at every turn. Every wrong choice, every action that only expressed my individuality. But individuality is wrong, they told me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I believed them. I had to be like the rest, be perfect. I had to love the boy who pretended to be perfect, too, but on the inside was deteriorating. Being worn to nothing because his mistakes had made him worthless. His mistakes that he vowed to forever hide.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But that boy would marry someday. Not me, since I didn't measure up. Instead he would marry a girl who is naive and perfect, just as they push <i>me</i> to be. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And that boy will be a man, a man who no longer can hide his mistakes. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And that girl will be a woman, crushed by the opening of her eyes, by the reality that this man was never in fact perfect like she, and so many others, were lead to believe. The reality that no man ever was. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And <i>he</i> will become "not good enough."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">No righteousness, no straight behavior, no obedience could ever make him that way.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And that woman will sob. She will cry every night, wondering how she was fooled. Wondering if she could find someone better. A better man, with a cleaner past.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But <i>I</i> know she will be wrong. And that their marriage will fail.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">So I consider myself lucky. I consider myself saved from such repression. I see it now, see the way they are. See them for <i>what</i> they are: the imperfect people, quite beautiful in their self-acceptance, and the facade of those who think they <i>are</i> perfect.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And no longer do I feel the guilt that destroys so many others. No longer do I let their standards repress me. No longer do I think I'm unworthy and ugly, because of past mistakes, or even things I love.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Because those things make me me. Those things make me the beautiful individual I was always told to avoid. The one everyone shunned. The one I was told would never <i>truly</i> be happy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">And to them I say <i>you're wrong</i>. Away from them I fly, high and far away, where judgmental eyes no longer penetrate and self-righteous words no longer scar.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am free.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I am me.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u><i>Defying Gravity</i></u></b><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Something has changed within me</i><br />
<i>Something is not the same</i><br />
<i>I'm through with playing by the rules</i><br />
<i>Of someone else's game</i><br />
<i>Too late for second guessing</i><br />
<i>Too late to go back to sleep</i><br />
<i>It's time to trust my instincts</i><br />
<i>Close my eyes...and leap!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>It's time to try</i><br />
<i>Defying gravity</i><br />
<i>I think I'll try</i><br />
<i>Defying gravity</i><br />
<i>And you can't pull me down!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I'm through accepting limits</i><br />
<i>'Cause someone says there're so</i><br />
<i>Some things I cannot change</i><br />
<i>But 'til I try, I'll never know</i><br />
<i>Too long I've been afraid of</i><br />
<i>Losing love I guess I've lost</i><br />
<i>Well, if that's love</i><br />
<i>It comes at much too high a cost!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I'd sooner buy</i><br />
<i>Defying gravity</i><br />
<i>Kiss me goodbye</i><br />
<i>I'm defying gravity</i><br />
<i>And you can't pull me down!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>...</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>So if you care to find me</i><br />
<i>Look to western sky!</i><br />
<i>As someone told me lately:</i><br />
<i>"Everyone deserves the chance to fly!"</i><br />
<i>And if I'm flying solo</i><br />
<i>At least I'm flying free</i><br />
<i>To those who'd ground me</i><br />
<i>Take a message back from me</i><br />
<i>Tell them how I am</i><br />
<i>Defying gravity</i><br />
<i>I'm flying high</i><br />
<i>Defying gravity</i><br />
<i>And soon I'll match them in renown</i><br />
<i>And nobody in all of Oz</i><br />
<i>No wizard that there is or was</i><br />
<i>Is ever gonna bring me down!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>(Glinda)</i><br />
<i>I hope you're happy!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>(Citizens of Oz)</i><br />
<i>Look at her, she's wicked!</i><br />
<i>Get her!</i><br />
<br />
<br />
What a powerful message about rising above the people who bring us down--the people who judge us and try to steer us in a certain direction. What a powerful message about being yourself and staying true, no matter what it brands you as!<br />
<br />
I've always gotten the chills from the power of this song, but as I watched it for the first time last summer, it brought tears to my eyes. What a moving experience to watch Elphaba literally rise in the air, cape nearly covering the entire stage, and sing those final notes of the song with such a power that even her enemies could no longer pull her down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CV_GJieypvY/TSJQefWblrI/AAAAAAAAEe0/acPhaskyAvo/s1600/Defying_Gravity_Wallpaper_by_englishfreckle.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CV_GJieypvY/TSJQefWblrI/AAAAAAAAEe0/acPhaskyAvo/s400/Defying_Gravity_Wallpaper_by_englishfreckle.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It was moving in more ways than just great theatrics. It was moving because of the message it portrayed.<br />
<br />
Though the above "story" I wrote comes from a fictional place (mostly), I think we've all experienced some kind of "rising above the pressure." Maybe some more than others. But in one way or another, we can all relate.<br />
<br />
In fact, I could have dedicated this post to a certain loved one of mine, because she has experienced this to the fullest. Finally, as a full-grown adult, she came into her own. And she's happy. And I love her for that.<br />
<br />
That's why this song is my favorite. Not just because it's beautiful, that Elphaba's story is inspiring, or even that it's fun to sing to, but because of the message. <i><b>Defy gravity.</b></i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank"><img <="" a="" alt="Mama’s Losin’ It" src="http://i913.photobucket.com/albums/ac331/mamakatslosinit/workshop-button-1.png" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-41839100338297877492011-08-17T11:34:00.000-07:002011-08-17T11:34:04.311-07:00A New Tooth!Here's what we've been up to the past couple weeks:<br />
<br />
Lots of playing outside...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z1OJUGIlC8Y/TkwFP-W1u_I/AAAAAAAAB8E/0JHTZUExkJQ/s1600/mms_picture+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z1OJUGIlC8Y/TkwFP-W1u_I/AAAAAAAAB8E/0JHTZUExkJQ/s400/mms_picture+%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pxApd-_PL-E/TkwFRNOA-AI/AAAAAAAAB8M/Nv0ArHAVLA0/s1600/mms_picture+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pxApd-_PL-E/TkwFRNOA-AI/AAAAAAAAB8M/Nv0ArHAVLA0/s400/mms_picture+%25285%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And watching from the <i>inside</i>...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bD7telggjlE/TkwFRv_ofoI/AAAAAAAAB8Q/fzKvJSptGhA/s1600/mms_picture+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bD7telggjlE/TkwFRv_ofoI/AAAAAAAAB8Q/fzKvJSptGhA/s400/mms_picture+%25286%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
"Building campfires" (in Sam's words)...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6m4XIUJev4/TkwFR3CxI7I/AAAAAAAAB8U/_bBhKWyxyDw/s1600/mms_picture+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6m4XIUJev4/TkwFR3CxI7I/AAAAAAAAB8U/_bBhKWyxyDw/s400/mms_picture+%25287%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Growing...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E-6NnkC4bKA/TkwFPYXhjDI/AAAAAAAAB8A/a1PPZ11bjYE/s1600/mms_picture+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E-6NnkC4bKA/TkwFPYXhjDI/AAAAAAAAB8A/a1PPZ11bjYE/s400/mms_picture+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Zeusers is getting bigger every day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Revising...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vjcwNiUZfHY/TkwFQTWnZ-I/AAAAAAAAB8I/qdLfKQUrtjc/s1600/mms_picture+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vjcwNiUZfHY/TkwFQTWnZ-I/AAAAAAAAB8I/qdLfKQUrtjc/s400/mms_picture+%25284%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppkKiscoAwA/TkwFSRkh5yI/AAAAAAAAB8Y/WzMNroTJcTc/s1600/mms_picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppkKiscoAwA/TkwFSRkh5yI/AAAAAAAAB8Y/WzMNroTJcTc/s400/mms_picture.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I had some pretty flowers to look at while doing it last night, thanks to the hubs. :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Being beautiful and cute...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YcUluWhK66c/TkwFMgDLLYI/AAAAAAAAB7w/fWRuyjVxPOI/s1600/IMG_2795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YcUluWhK66c/TkwFMgDLLYI/AAAAAAAAB7w/fWRuyjVxPOI/s400/IMG_2795.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-21GNSsc6GOg/TkwFNDjbddI/AAAAAAAAB70/mDDwHpSNrIs/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-21GNSsc6GOg/TkwFNDjbddI/AAAAAAAAB70/mDDwHpSNrIs/s400/IMG_2797.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m1gxakrjhps/TkwFO8k0fXI/AAAAAAAAB78/-acZwOp4Oco/s1600/IMG_2803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m1gxakrjhps/TkwFO8k0fXI/AAAAAAAAB78/-acZwOp4Oco/s400/IMG_2803.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And lastly: getting teeth!<br />
<br />
Or, tooth, I should say. Yesterday I finally noticed Luke's first tooth coming through. I was surprised because he's getting them much sooner than Sam and Josh did, but I'm <i>not</i> surprised because that explains his grumpy behavior and why he hasn't been sleeping.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D_Y6uOxXMvw/TkwFOLeLmcI/AAAAAAAAB74/uhJMTbhlA-4/s1600/IMG_2801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D_Y6uOxXMvw/TkwFOLeLmcI/AAAAAAAAB74/uhJMTbhlA-4/s400/IMG_2801.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know it's <i>really</i> hard to see, but it's coming up on his left side.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Hooray! I will miss those baby gums though. There's something about toothless baby gums that just makes me grind my teeth (because they're so cute, of course).<br />
<br />
Link up with <a href="http://parentingbydummies.com/">Amanda</a> and <a href="http://sevenclowncircus.com/">Angie</a> for your Wordful Wednesday!Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-13828518934870079842011-08-17T10:59:00.001-07:002011-08-17T11:01:43.831-07:00"Paging Doctor House"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.deviantart.com/download/93660708/Dr_House_Wallpaper_by_mimizz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.deviantart.com/download/93660708/Dr_House_Wallpaper_by_mimizz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I've lost faith in doctors over the years. The more I watch dramatized doctor or hospital TV shows, and the more I experience the doctors in real life, the more I realize how most of them actually couldn't care less about their patients. They make their money the moment we walk in the door, so why try? <i>Move along so I can get to my next <strike>number</strike> patient who'll fork out the dough.</i><br />
<br />
I'm not discounting anyone who's had great experiences with doctors, or who've been saved by a doctor. My husband was one of them. Nor am I trying to offend anyone who <i>is</i> a doctor or knows one personally. I just hope, for their patients' sake, they're good at it. That they care.<br />
<br />
I'm just saying there needs to be more of the caring. A <i>LOT</i> more. The way it works is messed up. But it's always been this way. And it works for them because as mortal human beings, we need doctors. And we will always come back. Even though <i>we</i> are paying <i>them</i>.<br />
<br />
I hear amazing stories from people who've had doctors find things wrong with them, or cure them, and it makes me grateful for modern medicine. I really am. And I'm glad for those miracles in people's lives. Like I said, my hubby was one of those people. Thanks to a doctor's "hunch"--a doctor who wasn't just mindlessly going along with the motions and actually cared--my husband's cancer as a teenager was caught early enough to eliminate it. I will forever be grateful for that.<br />
<br />
So why does it seems near impossible to find a doctor that still goes by "hunches"? Is it too much to ask that a doctor actually take careful consideration of his patients' problems, instead of viewing them as just another number?<br />
<br />
Again, <i>we</i> are paying <i>them</i>. So why does it feel like <strike>they are robbing us</strike> <i>we</i> are wasting <i>their</i> precious time?<br />
<br />
It's absolutely maddening, and quite effed up.<br />
<br />
Did they really go through the hell of medical school, just to blow off a patient's issues? Just to forget about them and their problem the moment that patient walks out the door, not even giving them another thought until the <i>next</i> time they walk in that door? And then, when they know the patient is miserable and desperate for an answer, not even call with certain test results?<br />
<br />
"Hey, receptionist, let's mail the results instead, make him/her wait a little longer, and then when he/she calls to get more information, tell him/her I won't talk to him/her unless he/she makes an appointment to see me and pays me another $100...just so I can tell him/her I don't have a clue what's wrong!" <i>Evil, evil laugh.</i><br />
<br />
As exaggerated as that seems, I don't think it's too far from the truth.<br />
<br />
Are there any doctors out there that still care about the patient, and that when the patient says he/she is going through hell, they actually believe them--even though it's a problem they've never heard of?<br />
<br />
After so much evidence to the contrary, I say no. If there are ones who do, we've yet to find them. Just because they've "never seen that issue" in all their thirty years of experience doesn't mean it's not legit. Figure it out. Diagnose. Care, just a <i>little</i>.<br />
<br />
Hell, I'd take Dr. House's horrible bedside manner any day if it meant having a doctor who would <strike>obsess over the problem until he figured it out</strike> actually try to solve the medical problem instead of forgetting about it just because it was something he didn't normally deal with.<br />
<br />
YOU'RE A DOCTOR. DO YOUR EFFING JOB.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i904.photobucket.com/albums/ac246/shellthings/pouryourheartout.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-26789013147317661602011-08-16T07:28:00.000-07:002011-08-16T07:28:05.410-07:00Happy Eight Years<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XrBqSSazU/Tkp9miItJ1I/AAAAAAAAB7o/5aUuafRCGVo/s1600/189706_4994031282_550791282_52354_8834_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XrBqSSazU/Tkp9miItJ1I/AAAAAAAAB7o/5aUuafRCGVo/s320/189706_4994031282_550791282_52354_8834_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="260" /></a>It's that time of year again, where I'm nearly thrown on my back by just how fast time has gone by. Our anniversary. It seems like just yesterday we met at the church, went through a rocky, but cherished, relationship, got married, spent precious time together, just me and him, and realized we were expecting our first child. After three years of late nights, late mornings, and only worrying about ourselves.<br />
<br />
Now, all the sudden, we have three kids and eight years have flown by. It's <i>CRAZY</i>, I tell you. We aren't even the same people we were back then.<br />
<br />
We are better now, more seasoned (<i>ha!</i> I'll be saying to myself ten or twenty years in the future as I read this). Our marriage doesn't go without its hiccups, and things definitely aren't <i>easy</i> anymore.<br />
<br />
But I love Dave more everyday, and I am so grateful for the man, husband, and father that he is. I mean it when I say that I really, truly could not picture anyone better for me than him. I am the luckiest gal alive. I'm so grateful for the eight years of marriage we've had to grow as individuals, a couple, and as parents, and that we could build such a perfect little family.<br />
<strike><br />
</strike><br />
Eight down, the rest of eternity to go. I love you, babe. MORE.Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-83509662442794291152011-08-15T14:47:00.000-07:002011-08-15T14:47:46.831-07:00What I Miss Most<b>1. My family.</b> On both sides: mine, in Utah (my parents soon-to-be), and Dave's in Colorado. And no, I'm not just saying that to avoid offense. I actually happen to love my in-laws, for realsies.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UG8Af14YeOk/TkmMPxA8qGI/AAAAAAAAB7M/OGAAvbA6CHk/s1600/44420_428792111282_550791282_5541958_6328833_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UG8Af14YeOk/TkmMPxA8qGI/AAAAAAAAB7M/OGAAvbA6CHk/s400/44420_428792111282_550791282_5541958_6328833_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Coltharp Clan (my fam) last summer. Dave, Me, Josh, Sam, Cindi, Braxton, Aaron, Heather, Mike, Reagan, Jonah, Jordan, Mom, Dad, John (his wife and kids were missing that day), Brian, Leslie, Alexa, Ayla, and Brigham.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Sx4pmFfY600/TkmMTP8bwoI/AAAAAAAAB7k/REkyUNkA5x4/s1600/267088_10150240034926283_550791282_7930353_1691796_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Sx4pmFfY600/TkmMTP8bwoI/AAAAAAAAB7k/REkyUNkA5x4/s400/267088_10150240034926283_550791282_7930353_1691796_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Meyers girls: Jen, Mary, Mom, and Jess (Dave's sisters and mom), and us. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<b>2. My bestie.</b> Am I allowed to use that word even though I'm not a teenager? Doesn't matter, because I just did. I haven't seen her in four years, minus the one hour I got to spend with her last month--an hour of chasing after and disciplining our kids instead of deep, meaningful conversation.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1yaOIvaNpTk/TkmMOomVmhI/AAAAAAAAB7E/0Ph6XJDxfl0/s1600/5572_122844656282_550791282_2849968_6885853_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1yaOIvaNpTk/TkmMOomVmhI/AAAAAAAAB7E/0Ph6XJDxfl0/s320/5572_122844656282_550791282_2849968_6885853_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother, John, and Chloe, when she lived with us our senior year of high school. No, it's wasn't Halloween. That's just another example of the craziness that is my family. And I love it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b>3. Colorado.</b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dEcuBs2q2eQ/TkmMSVPBlMI/AAAAAAAAB7g/G-6L38CbSHo/s1600/229386_4994606282_550791282_209800_2550_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dEcuBs2q2eQ/TkmMSVPBlMI/AAAAAAAAB7g/G-6L38CbSHo/s400/229386_4994606282_550791282_209800_2550_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castlewood Canyon, one of Dave and I's favorite spots when we were dating. We even carved our name at the base of a rock under the little waterfall. It's hard to see the waterfall, but it's there. And I know it looks tiny here, but it's really not. We had to repel down the canyon side to get to it, and the waterfall itself is actually about fifteen feet tall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><b><br />
4. My body.</b> Oh, gosh, how I miss my pre-baby body. Before my boobs deflated, my stomach stretched, and my hips widened.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--slAvH9znsQ/TkmMQ_lA5JI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/V_EyDKWkASE/s1600/199264_4994081282_550791282_52364_1934_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--slAvH9znsQ/TkmMQ_lA5JI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/V_EyDKWkASE/s320/199264_4994081282_550791282_52364_1934_n.jpg" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a climbing wall harness around my waist.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<b>5. When Friday night actually meant something.</b> Like a date, a late night, and a late morning of sleeping in the next day. Sometimes naked. Yes, I said it.<br />
<b>6. Living close to civilization.</b> Like doctors or a mall or normal restaurants or fast-food, or even Walmart.<br />
<b>7. My pre-baby hair.</b> When it didn't fall out just from running my hand through it. When I wasn't worried I might go bald. When it wasn't horrid.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FHTlWk9BAAU/TkmMQNgBcGI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/PzCp_0EsmP0/s1600/196580_4993986282_550791282_52345_6367_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FHTlWk9BAAU/TkmMQNgBcGI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/PzCp_0EsmP0/s1600/196580_4993986282_550791282_52345_6367_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From blond and pretty, to dingy and flabby (I'm talking about me, by the way, not Dave). Man, we were young.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<b>8. Bauer.</b> My cat <i>and</i> Jack. </div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QelqWBZqTs8/TkmMPOjJ2UI/AAAAAAAAB7I/1sJ-PnZrxkU/s1600/28507_393629871282_550791282_4595469_2547966_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QelqWBZqTs8/TkmMPOjJ2UI/AAAAAAAAB7I/1sJ-PnZrxkU/s400/28507_393629871282_550791282_4595469_2547966_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in the day, during season five of <i>24</i>, when the Holidays and us would have "<i>24</i> night." And I'm comfortable showing a picture of me stuffing my face with popcorn here, because I know I'm not the only one who loves to stuff her face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1h19lFNHy4A/TkmMR2aQ3CI/AAAAAAAAB7c/HpvJkLBr4UQ/s1600/204414_10150170489411283_550791282_7328494_2792126_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1h19lFNHy4A/TkmMR2aQ3CI/AAAAAAAAB7c/HpvJkLBr4UQ/s320/204414_10150170489411283_550791282_7328494_2792126_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bauer, on Easter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
<b>9. Me time. </b>Having time to myself that isn't at eleven o'clock at night.<br />
<b>10. This. </b>I know I already said my family, but this is separate than that. I miss the crazy, wacky, silliness that is me and my siblings.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4AjTzJr2WfM/TkmMQuAQKzI/AAAAAAAAB7U/vxrENPmAEEA/s1600/199204_4994076282_550791282_52363_1663_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4AjTzJr2WfM/TkmMQuAQKzI/AAAAAAAAB7U/vxrENPmAEEA/s400/199204_4994076282_550791282_52363_1663_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cindi, John, Me, Brian, and Heather.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://wwww.northwestmommy.com/category/monday-listicles.com" target="_blank"><img <="" p="" src="http://www.northwestmommy.com/home/Listicle3.jpg" /></a></div></div></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-32319960606044659572011-08-13T08:00:00.000-07:002011-08-13T08:00:13.321-07:00The Battle of POV...along with some music.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by the <a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/">Lightning and the Lightning-bug</a> Dare to Share prompt, "Music."</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>We’d like you to share a post, new or old, that focuses on music in some way. You can post a poem, fiction, memory, or essay. Dare to Share is anything goes link up…as long as you stick to theme.</i></span></span></div><br />
This is the first installment I'm posting to my second novel, <i>November Rain</i>. No, I didn't steal that title from Guns N' Roses.<br />
<br />
The reason I'm posting this is not only because it fits with the music theme, but <i>November Rain</i> needs more work than any of my other manuscripts. I'm struggling with a POV issue and I could really <i>really</i> use some help.<br />
<br />
I keep going back and forth on the issue. I originally wrote this novel in omniscient POV--back when I was even more of a rookie than I am now and I thought omni was actually an accepted POV in modern fiction. Turns out it's not, except for very rarely, or if it's done very well.<br />
<br />
And though sometimes, when reading through the novel, it feels choppy, sometimes it feels to flow pretty well, so I think if I can work out the parts that don't flow, it just <i>might</i> work.<br />
<br />
And this piece below is one of those scenes that feels a little choppy to me. So having some outside eyes looking it over would help a lot. The opinions I've gotten from others, who've read the piece as a whole, are that it works, and they feel, as I do, that it would take away some of the depth if changed to third person.<br />
<br />
And that's my dilemma. The subject matter of this novel is grave (not so much here, however), and both main characters have equal part in the emotion and story. So, unlike my other novels, this one feels impossible to convert to third person without losing some of that emotion. So I struggle.<br />
<br />
Okay, enough rambling. I need some feedback. I know this is only a small segment, and a very raw one at that, but I'm not sure my omniscient POV works, and I need you to tell me if this small bit feels disconnected or choppy, because that might give me an idea for the rest of it.<br />
<br />
And be <strike>nice and tell me it's perfect</strike> truthful. I wouldn't be asking if I couldn't take it.<br />
<br />
Just a <i>little</i> background: Lucas and Raegan have both experienced some harsh losses in their lives and, through the deaths of certain loved ones, have built a strong friendship, to say the least. But certain complications prevent them from exploring beyond that.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Raegan stood at the bar with a Grey Goose martini as her friends danced to the slow rhythm of the band.<span> </span>She tried ignoring the man from her peripheral vision that had been steeling glances at her all night, his eyes mysterious over the rim of his glass.<span> </span>She tried ignoring Lucas and Hannah.<span> </span>She tried ignoring the ping of disappointment that betrayed her once firm desire to remain single the rest of her life.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> <div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Instead, she lingered on the moment, her atmosphere.<span> </span>She lingered on the overwhelming excitement that she would be published.<span> </span>She lingered on Russell, how extremely unfitting, but attractive, he’d look in this club as they bore it together.<span> </span>She let her mind imagine him there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The end of the song easily segued into the next, the band barely pausing to change the tempo.<span> </span>Only a short second passed before Raegan recognized the tune and she immediately looked to Lucas, her heart sinking. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As if connected once again, he stopped dancing with Hannah and turned to meet Raegan’s gaze.<span> </span>The vocalist started the evocative lyrics to <i>Come Rain or Come Shine</i>, her voice oddly similar to Billie Holiday’s, and a whirlwind of emotions hit the both of them.<span> </span>Raegan smiled feebly, trying to read the intensity of the storm in his sapphire eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lucas looked down in thought, hardly aware of Hannah inquiring of his sudden concern.<span> </span>He brought his eyes back to Raegan at the same time that a man removed himself from the bar and offered his hand to her, smoothly speaking unheard words.<span> </span>Raegan shook her head ruefully and turned away from the stranger, her back now facing Lucas.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was no question in his mind, no doubts or reservations as he approached her.<span> </span>Sensing him, she turned.<span> </span>“Rae?” he asked, raising his hand.<span> </span>“Dance with me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Of course,” she murmured, somewhat reluctantly.<span> </span>As she took it, his heat thawed her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Neither of them noticed her admirer gritting his teeth as he turned away in disappointment, or Hannah standing on the sidelines with cross moisture in her eyes.<span> </span>Lucas softly pulled her into him, only aware of the spell she put him in, the power of his parents’ song as it became theirs, and the memory of them dancing to it with the same level of adoration his eyes now held.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It didn’t matter how much he tried to bury his love, or that he used his desire for her to fuel his moments with Hannah.<span> </span>Raegan was the first and only woman that, since Adele, would hold his heart, and she was here in his arms—a vision in canary satin. …<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He could almost taste her as he brushed his lips against her cheek and buried his face in her hair, the locks falling onto her bare shoulders in a wave.<span> </span>He consumed himself in her energy as he held her close, let it flow through her back and into his palm, then through his other hand and into hers—a cycle of renewal.<span> </span>In response, he tightened his fingers through hers and held her hand close to his heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Closing her eyes, Raegan slightly angled her head, willing the warmth of his breath against her neck as it weakened her knees.<span> </span>Fused together, she melted into him, forgetting in that much too brief a moment that he was merely her best friend friend. <span> </span>He was Lucas, the man that held her heart in a way she didn’t understand.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Both were speechless, communicating through the lyrics of the music and the simultaneous rhythm of their hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span></div><i>As the amazing writers you all are, what is your opinion on omniscient POV? And to those of you who are just readers, do you notice the head-hopping enough to break you away from the story? If this isn't working, what might make it better? Thanks everyone for the feedback!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://img3.imageshack.us/img3/9083/daretoshare.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-27958980908265317162011-08-12T21:31:00.000-07:002011-08-12T21:31:37.860-07:00Wanting the Forbidden<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*Post inspired by the <a href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/">TRDC</a> Red Writing Hood prompt, "Sex."</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: black;">Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act... There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them. Limit is 600 words.</i></span></span></div><br />
For the first time, I am going to post an excerpt from the very first novel I've written, <i>In the Family</i>. It's one I would probably never try to publish (one reason being that it's <i>long</i>), but it's one I love nonetheless.<br />
<br />
There isn't much explaining to do, since you can kinda get the gist of the character's conflict from this segment. Enjoy (I hope), and remember, criticism is welcome!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Michael woke to a glaring ray of sunlight. He squinted, moving his head away from the window, and realized that all that had happened in the dark hours of the morning hadn’t been a dream. It was very real, and the fact that Anna still slept in his arms confirmed that. He still had his arms around her, but now her arms were wrapped snuggly around him as well, instead of at his chest, gripping his shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sensation caught his heart ablaze, hotter than it’d ever been, and he instinctively constricted his arms around her. He could tell by her steady, slow breathing that she was still sleeping, and deeply. He didn’t know what time it was, but didn’t care. Hell, he’d stay this way forever if he could. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, he felt guilty. Perhaps more shameful than he’d ever felt in his entire life. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet here he was, on cloud nine with his brother’s fiancé in his arms. And the worst thing about it was that the guilt only seemed to add meaning to this new life of his. He’d never felt so alive, and though the shame was disheartening, it woke a part of him he didn’t know existed. A part he thought was dead. His emotions were raw, stripped, and he felt more vulnerable than ever before. And the negative emotions seemed to infuse him as strongly as the positive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But there was nothing he could do, nothing he <i>would</i> do. If ever there was a time to make a play for his brother’s future wife, now would be the time. But everything inside him, all that made up who he was, would never allow it. So, instead, he soaked this moment in, along with the guilt at wondering how Mitch would feel if he knew what Michael was doing at this very moment…what he was thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Placing his lips delicately against her hair, he inhaled, becoming swallowed in her intoxicating scent. He closed his eyes as he was thrown deeper down the spiral that had the potential of destroying his brother’s life, and his own. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But since the concept of releasing her was impossible, he continued to breathe her in, a tinge of lilac and citrus, and as the deepest pit in his stomach quivered and his chest caught fire, he again tightened his arms around her. And at the same time that he was grateful for the clothing between them, he cursed it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She stirred, murmuring in satisfaction, and moved her mouth to his neck, where his eyes closed in torment. She lightly stretched against him, arching her back and constricting her arms around his torso as she breathed into his neck, and he realized if he didn’t pull himself away soon, he might do something he would always regret.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And as though his heart wasn’t speeding fast enough, she sighed his name, in a way that told him she wasn’t quite awake. It was the best sound he’d ever heard. Damn his brother and their situation. Damn the fact that he couldn’t throw everything away and lose himself in that moment like he knew he could. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He used all his focus to control himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then she murmured his name again, louder, and he swore under his breath. “Anna…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Michael?” she replied, and he knew she was coming to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then she stiffened and he was sure she’d just realized the predicament they were in. She pulled her face away from the crook of his neck, where they met each other’s eyes, and hers were wide. His lips were close to hers now, and with the heat of their bodies together, tangled beneath the warm blankets, he knew if he was any weaker a man, his open mouth would have found hers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-19456444697262687162011-08-10T23:05:00.000-07:002011-08-10T23:06:33.332-07:00Not an easy thing, nursing.Today I don't want to <a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/">pour my heart out </a>about the economy falling apart, even though I fear for the future of my family. I don't even want to pour my heart out about Luke's upcoming surgery that we just scheduled for September 2, and how I'm dreading it every day that it gets closer.<br />
<br />
Today I want to pour my heart out about something dear to me, that probably won't be to others. I want to rant about how my baby is becoming less and less of my baby. Every day.<br />
<br />
Any avid followers of my blog probably know of the difficulties I have had with nursing my children (overactive letdown, etc.), but that I stick with it because I'm a huge breastfeeding supporter. However, I'm not the one who will stop you in the grocery store if you're giving your baby formula and try to give you a lesson on why that's so bad for your little one (yes, that actually happened to me with my first). I have been on both ends and don't judge anyone for how they decide to feed their baby, but for me, personally, nursing is all I wanted.<br />
<br />
When I was pregnant with my first child, I was <i>determined</i>, but I had <i>no</i> idea that anything could go wrong or that it would be such Hell. But it was. And I started making all the wrong decisions from hour one of his life, and it snowballed. I tried everything to make it happen. <i>Everything</i>. Everything that I knew, anyway. But I was naive, and even the experts I had helping me seemed to be, too. No one--not even the six lactation consultants--could figure out my problem. They said it was <i>him</i>, that he was just too stubborn. They said he had colic. They said nursing just wasn't for some babies.<br />
<br />
I found out years later that they were wrong, about everything. But, in that time, I trusted them. After all, they were the experts. And I was just a first time mom. So we continued to try, trying every little gadget and technique in "the book," and the process was torturous.<br />
<br />
By the age of six weeks, Sam gave up completely. No more staying up hours in the night trying to get him to suck while he screamed bloody murder. Because he just. wouldn't. do. it. Because he was too miserable--and so was I.<br />
<br />
And because I didn't know <i>I</i> was the one with the problem, I didn't know how to help him. I felt helpless. I felt like a failure as a mother. And there was nothing (that I knew of at the time) I could do to change it. And when I knew I wouldn't get to nurse my baby like I'd always dreamed, I cried. For days, I sobbed. So I did the next best thing: pumped until he was six months old, so that even though we couldn't have the bonding that comes along with nursing, he could get the nutrients. (And, man, that was a pain in the ass.)<br />
<br />
Then I was pregnant with Josh, and the whole subject of nursing scared me because I was worried the same thing would happen with him that happened with Sam. I wanted to nurse him <i>so</i> badly, and I wanted it to actually be a good experience. Then a very dear friend of mine was an answer to my prayers. She revealed to me that she used to be a La Leche League leader, and when I told her the problems I'd had, I actually saw the light-bulb above her head turn on. Because she had had the same problem with <i>both</i> her kids. And so do thousands of other women, come to find out. Finally, I didn't feel alone! Finally, I knew it hadn't been colic that made Sam cry all the time.<br />
<br />
She gave me information and a website so I could arm myself with knowledge and learn how to work around the issue. (If anyone wants it, let me know. It's literally a lifesaver. Whether you have nursing problems or just want to know more about nursing in general.)<br />
<br />
And I spent hours and countless hours on that website, finding answers to every single question I ever had about nursing and why, no matter what I'd tried, it hadn't worked for me.<br />
<br />
And I became an "expert" of sorts (quiz me, I dare you). And when I had Josh it was <i>difficult</i>, as I knew it would be (a woman with overactive letdown will have it with every child), but I was actually able to manage it. I worked around it, and it was a <i>miracle</i>. And I was able to live the dream I had of nursing my baby and sharing that special bond. He was a five-minute nurser, which made having a life difficult, especially since he ate that way until the time he was 13 months, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything. Because I was a mom, and my baby was my priority. Nursing him <i>was</i> my life.<br />
<br />
Then I had Luke, and again I spent hours on the website, re-arming myself with knowledge. And just like with Josh, it was extremely difficult those first three months. He was miserable all the time, and just like Josh, he was a five-minute eater. Five minutes, with only an hour and a half between each feeding. Because that's all his poor, tiny tummy could handle.<br />
<br />
But then he grew up and his tummy could handle more. And<i> unlike</i> Josh, it began to be insufficient. Five minutes wasn't enough. But because that's what my body was used to, that's all I would produce. I tried letting him eat on both sides then (usually, I'd only nurse on one side at a time, with both Luke and Josh), and that worked for a few months. He'd eat for five minutes on one side and five on the other.<br />
<br />
Then by six months, that wasn't enough. And he would struggle and fight, and cry, cry, cry. But not in the same way he did as a newborn. This time there <i>wasn't</i> enough. And last month, the first time I realized this was a problem, I cried. I stayed up late at night in the rocker and cried with him--him because of hunger and me because of my failure to again provide for my baby.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to give up. I kept offering him the breast, but he didn't want to work for it. He didn't want to wait for that letdown that wasn't coming, even after five minutes of sucking--that same letdown that only four months ago came too forcefully and too frequently. I don't know how it happened, and why it didn't happen this way with Josh, but for some reason, I was losing my supply. Probably because he didn't want to keep working so hard for something that was so lacking.<br />
<br />
So I gave in and gave him his first bottle of formula. <i>(Because regardless of the opinion of some people, babies will <b>not</b> eventually get hungry enough to give in and nurse. Instead they will give up. Instead they will cry themselves to sleep and starve. I know this because this is what I experienced with my first, and what a good friend of mine (who is a nurse at a NICU) experiences at work on a regular basis. And my baby's health is more important than hanging onto the hope of nursing.)</i><br />
<br />
And Luke <i>loved</i> it. He loved that it flowed so easily and never stopped coming unless <i>he</i> stopped sucking. And for the first time in weeks, he was actually satisfied, actually happy.<br />
<br />
So over the last month I have had to supplement, mostly before bed at night (as well as give him solid food 3 times a day, because he <i>loves</i> to eat). And it's been hard for me, but I've dealt with it.<br />
<br />
And then over the last week, it's become an every-feeding thing. I nurse him first, let him get all the breast milk he can, and then, since he'll only nurse for about 3 minutes before he gets too upset to finish, I'll give him formula. And it's been this way at every feeding for the last week, with the exception of the feeding in the middle of the night, every night. At least I still have that.<br />
<br />
But now he is drinking way more formula than he is breast milk, and I know it won't be long before he won't be nursing at all. And I'll lose my milk completely.<br />
<br />
He is only<i> seven months</i>, and I'm so not ready for this to be over. I feel like he is pulling away from his baby-hood. <i>Way</i> sooner than I'd like.<br />
<br />
But this time is different than my first. Even though I mourn that connection to him, I'm also knowledgeable and experienced enough now to know I'm not a failure as a mother. That I can still have just as good a bond with him if I cradle him as he sucks on that bottle and his little blue eyes are looking into mine. I'm not going to go into a depression over it, or cry for days over it. I know that formula isn't evil (I never thought it was). I know that just because I don't breastfeed doesn't mean I'm a horrible mother. At all. I don't think <i>anyone</i> who decides not to nurse is a bad mother. <i>At all</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm just saying that for<i> me</i>, it's all I wanted to do. And it's hard that I can't.<br />
<br />
But I have tried my best, and either way, I know Luke's still my baby, and I'm still his mother. And even though the only thing that makes my bond with him different than the one with his daddy, or anyone else, will be taken from me, <i>no one</i> can take my place as his mother.<br />
<br />
And I'll remember that at least I was blessed enough to have that special, precious bond with him for these first seven months, and with Josh for thirteen.<br />
<br />
So for now, I'll hold onto those middle-of-the-night feedings with all my heart. And I will never complain about waking up to feed him in the night again.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i904.photobucket.com/albums/ac246/shellthings/pouryourheartout.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-3157982893974373112011-08-09T08:57:00.000-07:002011-08-09T08:57:35.178-07:00Summer Fun Show-off!Unfortunately, we didn't get to a beach this summer. Instead we went to Idaho and hung out around here: in the desert. We might not have done anything summery, like the beach, but we still had fun and it's been going by so fast!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFdeqBIuMe0/TkFV_7GooAI/AAAAAAAAB6o/yIxwTgQmWHw/s1600/243749_10150187404231283_550791282_7455574_5613418_o+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFdeqBIuMe0/TkFV_7GooAI/AAAAAAAAB6o/yIxwTgQmWHw/s400/243749_10150187404231283_550791282_7455574_5613418_o+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Josh, Sam, and cousin Aaron at the riverbed in the beginning of the summer. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rl_4LqrzNmM/TkFWA0b9dOI/AAAAAAAAB6s/EGJVKGQ0Q0s/s1600/265280_10150240018431283_550791282_7930100_8326023_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rl_4LqrzNmM/TkFWA0b9dOI/AAAAAAAAB6s/EGJVKGQ0Q0s/s400/265280_10150240018431283_550791282_7930100_8326023_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the ranch in Idaho. And me being hot and tired after walking five miles uphill through the wheat. Maybe it wasn't five miles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F07X2jL6cQA/TkFWBKKS5lI/AAAAAAAAB6w/zK5_zkEVAj8/s1600/265468_10150240018701283_550791282_7930107_3243874_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F07X2jL6cQA/TkFWBKKS5lI/AAAAAAAAB6w/zK5_zkEVAj8/s400/265468_10150240018701283_550791282_7930107_3243874_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Sam on the lake.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sk6_XkImBYk/TkFWBy8j3PI/AAAAAAAAB60/l_nIkHfgugs/s1600/266560_10150240019966283_550791282_7930145_5302630_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sk6_XkImBYk/TkFWBy8j3PI/AAAAAAAAB60/l_nIkHfgugs/s400/266560_10150240019966283_550791282_7930145_5302630_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the hubs at Davis Creek.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5kPBM5fPZoY/TkFWCc7IvoI/AAAAAAAAB64/FJn1UMKBR_A/s1600/266964_10150240035031283_550791282_7930356_1714005_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5kPBM5fPZoY/TkFWCc7IvoI/AAAAAAAAB64/FJn1UMKBR_A/s400/266964_10150240035031283_550791282_7930356_1714005_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Julie and Josh, tuckered out after a long, hot day at Cherry Hills water park (family reunion).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eQvTWwFv5VA/TkFWC6-M7HI/AAAAAAAAB68/_-NRlfYrEYQ/s1600/267052_10150240018646283_550791282_7930105_2591532_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eQvTWwFv5VA/TkFWC6-M7HI/AAAAAAAAB68/_-NRlfYrEYQ/s400/267052_10150240018646283_550791282_7930105_2591532_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Grandma, and the kiddos at the ranch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-libG9CBU9Vc/TkFWDWZYGnI/AAAAAAAAB7A/DtSDhD7jwzw/s1600/277620_10150240017891283_550791282_7930086_2146604_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-libG9CBU9Vc/TkFWDWZYGnI/AAAAAAAAB7A/DtSDhD7jwzw/s400/277620_10150240017891283_550791282_7930086_2146604_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Luke, the clown-lady, and the pony at the fourth of July carnival. There's a long-standing inside joke about me and ponies between my hubs and his uncle. It's cruel and unfair. And they thought it'd be funny to take a picture of me with a pony. Neither I nor the pony thought it was funny.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Have some awesome summer memories you want to show off? Link up with Shell at <a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/">Things I Can't Say</a> and show off your summer pics! Also, if you link up, you have a chance to win some cool prizes from <a href="http://www.ubi.com/US/default.aspx">Ubisoft</a>!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thingsicantsay.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i904.photobucket.com/albums/ac246/shellthings/SummerFunShowOff-ThingsICantSay.png" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-88404175217625369052011-08-08T09:22:00.000-07:002011-08-08T09:22:13.078-07:00Top Ten FoodI decided to start participating in a new, hot trend. I'm a list person and everything I do is in list form. Because I have the <i>worst</i> memory ever and can't remember a <i>single</i> thing unless I write it down. Plus, being able to cross something off a list is <strike>almost better than sex</strike> a great feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.<br />
<br />
I plot out my novels in list form, I plot out my blog post topics in list form, I plot out my daily to-dos in list form, and I shop in list form.<br />
<br />
I know, who doesn't? But I'm anal about it. I have to rewrite the list before I go to shopping and arrange the items on my list in order of where they are in the store. And then if I remember something else I have to get while I'm at the store, and I have a pen with me (sometimes I forget one, probably because it wasn't on the list), I will add it to the list.<br />
<br />
Okay, enough with my list fetish. Here's my first Monday Listicles post (stop by <a href="http://www.northwestmommy.com/">Stasha's</a> blog). And the fact that it's based around food is even better. Here are ten foods I'd rather die than live without (okay, maybe not <i>die</i>, but it sounded good):<br />
<ol><li><b>Cake.</b> Anyone who knows me well knows that cake is my all-time favorite food. I could eat a whole cake alone. Seriously. I can't even watch <i>Cake Boss</i> or any other cake show because it makes me crave it all day (though I watch them anyway). One time I even ran to the store after an episode of <i>Cake Boss</i> and bought a cake <strike>all for me</strike> to share with my family.</li>
<li><b>Chocolate.</b> Because I'm a stereotypical woman. And I <i>need</i> chocolate.</li>
<li><b>Caramel.</b> Because it makes everything better. Chocolate, ice-cream, apples, salty snacks, vegetables. Just kidding on the vegetables.</li>
<li><b>Bread/rolls. </b>I'm addicted to bread almost worse than I am to chocolate and cake. <i>Almost</i>. I could eat a whole pan of rolls in one night if I let myself. I'd be suffering all night because of it, but I'd do it. I've done it before.</li>
<li><b>Cheese.</b> Oh, cheese. I love cheese. Cheese is another thing that makes everything better.</li>
<li><b>Fruit.</b> I know, something healthy. It's a surprise. But I do love fruit. It's refreshing, sweet...mmm. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it. In fact, when I'm pregnant, it's all I usually want.</li>
<li><b>Meat.</b> All kinds (except liver and other gross body parts that should never be eaten). Chicken, Beef, Pork, Fish. Love it all. I could <i>never</i> be a vegetarian for that reason. Never. Move aside salad. Give me a juicy burger or a big fat steak and I'm good.</li>
<li><b>Other carbs.</b> Pasta and potatoes go great with everything.</li>
<li><b>Oreos.</b> Because...well...they're oreos.</li>
<li><b>Mexican Food.</b> I love me some good Mexican food. In fact, it's one of the perks of living in Arizona (and to me there aren't many). There are some great Mexican restaurants here. An enchilada smothered in cheese...mmm.</li>
</ol><br />
Notice how most of these are junk? Yeah. I guess you could say I'm like a kid in the way I always want sweets. I crave them. And it's not like these are the only foods I eat, <strike>but I stuff my face with junk all day</strike> and I really don't eat them a <i>lot</i>. But I'm working on limiting them from my diet even more.<br />
<br />
Though so far, to no avail.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://wwww.northwestmommy.com/category/monday-listicles.com" target="_blank"><img <="" p="" src="http://www.northwestmommy.com/home/Listicle3.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-64986782570817795102011-08-07T00:28:00.000-07:002011-08-07T00:28:44.127-07:00The LiebsterThanks, Becky (<a href="http://www.thehummingbirdhollow.com/">the Hummingbird Hollow</a>), for nominating me for the Liebster award!<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Blushing.</i><br />
<br />
I always love getting nominated for awards, especially since that last award I won before I started blogging was for singing in a talent show my freshman year of high school, and before that, an Albertson's coloring contest when I was ten <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(I believe the picture was Aladdin and Princess Jasmine on the magic carpet, and my prize was the greatest movie of all time: <i>the Return of Jafar</i>. Haven't seen it? Check it out. The compelling film will move you, I guarantee; a true masterpiece in cinema.).</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HhQFE5EwQe8/Tj0M2il9VNI/AAAAAAAACWI/i1SYO_8kkXM/s1600/liebster_blog_love_blog_award1_thumb4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HhQFE5EwQe8/Tj0M2il9VNI/AAAAAAAACWI/i1SYO_8kkXM/s1600/liebster_blog_love_blog_award1_thumb4.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #535353; font-family: 'Josefin Slab'; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: 'Josefin Slab'; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cccccc;">"The Liebster Blog Award is designed to bring additional recognition to those bloggers with less than 200 followers. If you receive the award, you should link back to the blogger that nominated you and nominate five more blogs. Also, don’t forget to let them know that you nominated them."</span></i></span></div><br />
How fun. In a way, it reminds me of those chain letters in high school, only a lot different.<br />
<br />
Okay, so maybe they're not alike at all, but that's what I thought of. You know, back in the day when kids actually used real paper and pens to write notes. None of this texting hooey.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I admit, I'm actually quite find of the texting hooey, since I absolutely <i>loathe</i> phone conversations.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
Plus, in <strike>staying up until one o'clock in the morning and ruining my chance at a good day tomorrow</strike> participating in something fun, I get to showcase some really awesome chics with some really awesome blogs. Here we go:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Becky, at <a href="http://www.thehummingbirdhollow.com/">the Hummingbird Hollow</a>. Of course I had to start with Becky. Because she is amazing. If ever there was someone who cared about every soul and considered and respected every person's viewpoints and beliefs, it would be Becky. She is amazing in that way. Becky is a great friend, and though our beliefs on some things don't align, we have a mutual love and respect for each other. Because she makes it easy. She is an <i>excellent</i> photographer, and shows her work on her blog, as well as book reviews (she loves literature and reading and learning about everything there is to know) and fun, easy craft ideas. Go check her out!</li>
<li>Jen, at <a href="http://runnermom-jen.blogspot.com/">Runner Mom</a>. Jen and I were made from the same mold. Seriously. When we first came across each other's blogs, it was like we were reading about ourselves (except for the fact that she's actually in shape and I'm sure has killer-smokin legs). She's my bloggy-sister (is that even a word?) and an amazingly great blogger--as in, she will always comment and always reply to your comments on her blog. She is a mom of four cutie-pie kids, a running addict, and so creative with words. If you like me, then you'll love her (I hope you like me. You're reading my blog, so you better.), so stop on by!</li>
<li>The Sarcasm Goddess, at <a href="http://4theluvofwriting.blogspot.com/">For the Love of Writing</a>. Because holy CRAP, can that girl make me laugh. Every single post. She's hilarious, says it like it is, and isn't sarcastic at all, ever. Her topics mostly consist of bacon, sausage, and other things I don't have the guts to blog about, like "bajingos" (They're cute, furry animals, Mom, that's all). But I'm sure she doesn't need this nomination, because she's quickly working her way up to 200 followers. So go make her even more popular.</li>
<li>Lori, at <a href="http://immersionblogapy.blogspot.com/">Immersion Blog-apy</a>. Lori is a Christian woman and one of the greatest writers I've "known." I started reading her blog through a writing linky and became hooked on her fiction voice. So vivid and palpable. I was a follower right away. And then, as if her beautiful prose weren't enough, come to find out, Lori can write some killer poems (I'm jealous). She's so talented and works so well with words, that the lines just flow and you can feel the rhythm. Check out her work on her blog.</li>
<li>Mel, at <a href="http://lessthanperfectmel.blogspot.com/">Less Than Perfect</a>. Mel is a wife, mommy, and pet-mommy, and is one of the most supportive bloggers I've "met." She mostly shares stories about her mommy-hood and day-to-day life, which always pull me in and always seem to relate. She's an excellent post writer, and can always infuse authenticity, humor, and even gravity, in all the right places. I've loved getting connected to her, so you should, too!</li>
</ol>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-48760519060750804142011-08-05T23:12:00.000-07:002011-08-05T23:12:45.979-07:00I *do* love pets. I think.It's been a while, I know. I'm sure after four days you're all <strike>realizing you forgot I even existed</strike> wondering if I've fallen off the face of the earth. But I assure you I am alive and <strike>a bit insane</strike> well. I'd like you to meet Zeus, a German Shepherd/Lab mix, and the newest addition to our family:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Nbv-tH19b8/TjyYyri2vjI/AAAAAAAAB6I/ef4hl5pISBA/s1600/279824_10150255870801283_550791282_8088976_4073104_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8Nbv-tH19b8/TjyYyri2vjI/AAAAAAAAB6I/ef4hl5pISBA/s400/279824_10150255870801283_550791282_8088976_4073104_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
But watch your feet and legs and clothing and anything else that moves or dangles. Because he <i>will</i> bite it, I promise you. Unless he's sleeping. Which he actually does a lot of.<br />
<br />
Zeus has been taking a lot of my time lately. Basically, anytime I'm not taking care of my kids, I'm taking care of him. And then some.* Turns out having a puppy is a lot of work. A LOT. Who knew?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*I may have exaggerated. I've also been busy with other stuff, too. And I <i>have</i> actually had some free time (obviously, because I'm typing this right now), but I've been consumed in revisions.</span><br />
<br />
But it's okay that he's a lot of work, because I would have gotten him anyway. He's so snuggly and sweet (when he's not biting). So even though I welcome the passing of this potty-training, nip-at-everything puppy stage, he's a great addition to our family.<br />
<br />
And it couldn't have come at a better time. Our cat, Bauer (yes, <i>she</i> is named after <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Bauer">the best CTU agent this country has ever seen</a>), left a week and a half ago and never came back. And it was really hard for me. Like, I cried and everything. I know, I sound like <strike>one of those annoying people whose lives revolve around their pets</strike> an animal lover. And maybe I am now.<br />
<br />
It took a <i>long</i> time for Bauer to grow on me. I used to loathe her, and I don't use that term lightly. Just ask my sisters how many times I texted them to vent about my annoying cat who used to get under my skin just by looking at me the wrong way.<br />
<br />
Believe me when I say I was not fond of pets. Ever since I had kids, I never wanted a pet. Why would I? I already have to take care of and pick up after four people besides myself, so why would I want something else to watch after, clean up after, and who leaves hair and bad smells on everything?<br />
<br />
But months and a litter of kittens later, she grew on me. Like, really grew on me. I actually fell in love with her, and her kittens. But mostly her.<br />
<br />
I loved it when she was around. When I wanted to be alone, she was the only being I actually wanted in on my personal space. And she cheered me up, every time I needed it. She was so sweet and such a people-lover. She wanted to be with me all the time, even after all the evil eyes and hatred I spewed her way when she was young. She loved us, even the kids. Even Josh, when he'd pull her tail and lay on her. She'd let him. Because she loved us. And we loved her.<br />
<br />
And then we got rid of her kittens. Three days later, she left, probably to go look for them. She always left, but the longest she'd ever been gone was twenty-four hours (no, that's not another <i>24</i> reference). But two days went by, then three. Then a week. And me--the self-proclaimed pet-hater--was sick over it.<br />
<br />
Literally. I couldn't eat. It occupied every thought. I always thought I heard her, and even ran to the door a few times like a fool, picturing her running through the hole in the fence and right into my ex-animal-hating arms.<br />
<br />
I was so depressed and didn't want to do anything. I wanted to go out and find her, but didn't know where to look. And I was scared what I'd find if I did. I sobbed, for a whole day, and my heart literally hurt. (And still does)<br />
<br />
Ridiculous, right? She's just a cat.<br />
<br />
Well, that's what I would have said before. But now I don't care. I admit it:<br />
<br />
My name is Jennie Davenport, and I'm a Bauer-lover. No, scratch that. I'm an animal lover. <i>Deep breath.</i><br />
<br />
<i>(Hi, Jennie.)</i><br />
<br />
I just miss her. And one day, Dave told me straight up that I needed to get over it. I needed to stop holding to the hope that she'd come back. Because, realistically, she wasn't. She was gone, probably lost to a coyote or a mountain lion, or maybe even a havalina.<br />
<br />
And that just made me sicker.<br />
<br />
But then we found the ad on Craigslist for a puppy. And Dave's been begging me for one for forever. And I was broken and needed something to take her place, even though I knew nothing would. But, I thought, maybe in losing myself in this new puppy, I'd get over Bauer's loss quicker.<br />
<br />
And it has.<br />
<br />
And I admit this puppy was hard for me. Because even in the good ol' days of teenage-hood, when I <i>was</i> a <strike>cat</strike> animal-lover, I never was a dog person. I've never owned a dog, didn't really get their appeal, honestly.<br />
<br />
And I'm still not quite there yet. When someone would say, "Look at that cute puppy!" all I'd see is a chore. And an attention whore.<br />
<br />
But I'm coming around. And I have a feeling that I'll get so hooked to this dog, even more than I did to Bauer. And <i>that</i> worries me. Because if I was that distraught over a cat we had for a year, how will I be if we have Zeus into my kids' teenage years and <i>then</i> we lose him?<br />
<br />
Oh well. I can't run from loving him for that reason.<br />
<br />
So, here's to our future, Zeusalicious. You <i>are</i> pretty darn cute and impossible not to love. I really liked walking you yesterday and I love that my kids will have a companion as they get older, one that will most likely be five times their size. Just please get through your annoying stage fast.<br />
<br />
And Bauer, I miss you like crazy still. Your food bowl is still waiting in the garage, still stinging my heart every time I see it. So, if you <i>are</i> out there, we're always here waiting.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tZyP9SpjCRI/TjzVCZLgsFI/AAAAAAAAB6M/BUnMkXgLHsk/s1600/58319_434489316282_550791282_5673820_3017700_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tZyP9SpjCRI/TjzVCZLgsFI/AAAAAAAAB6M/BUnMkXgLHsk/s400/58319_434489316282_550791282_5673820_3017700_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She used to get between me and the computer when I'd write, because she wanted all my attention. Either that or she thought she was human and wanted to type.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<i>If you made it this long in this <strike>sickening, mushy animal love-fest</strike> post, then you're probably an animal-lover. Because if you're not, you probably rolled your eyes at the beginning and stopped reading: the very thing I did when reading <strike>crap</strike> stuff like this a year ago<strike>, and still do</strike>. </i>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7632571198447504695.post-67825703871328954352011-08-01T20:08:00.000-07:002011-08-01T20:08:42.717-07:00Joining the BlogHop!This post is on behalf of the <a href="http://www.themobsociety.com/2011/07/the-first-annual-boy-mom-bloghop-2011/">FIRST annual Boy Mom BlogHop</a>, hosted by the M.O.B. Society (A blog community for moms of boys, BY moms of boys). So here's a little about me, my boys, and this blog.<br />
<br />
I'm Jennie, and I'm a mom to three very blond boys: Sam, who is 4.5 (that .5 is very important to him), Josh, who is 2.5 (and <i>that</i> .5 is very important to <i>me</i>), and Luke, who is seven months old. So between them, my hubby, and our new puppy, Zeus, I'm pretty outnumbered in our house. And one day, when the boys' testosterone levels skyrocket, I'll need some serious help. Seriously.<br />
<br />
I post about everything under the sun on this blog, including funny things my kids do/say, updates on our little family, my own rants (that's a big one, and my bad temper is a common trend), and many writing prompts to fill in the in-betweens.<br />
<br />
Along with being a SAHM, I'm a writer and aspiring author. I <i>love</i> to write, and that's what occupies most of my free time late at night, when the house is asleep and my mind can finally breathe. I've written three novels, two of which are still in the extensive editing process. I hope to get published someday, but I'm not sure where the road is going to take me. And there's a lot about that journey I also share on this blog.<br />
<br />
My kids like any books with letters and numbers, and my oldest loves learning and "writing" on my computer (opens MS Word and types random letters, etc.), as well as any computer game. Even if he doesn't have the slightest clue what it is or how to play. He would be on the computer all day if he could, where as Josh would be at a park all day if <i>he</i> could.<br />
<br />
I love a good book, a great movie, or a well-written TV show, I love the outdoors and spending time with my family, I love chocolate and carbs (or eating general), I love some good, dry humor, I call my kiddos "children of the corn" on a regular basis, and I absolutely LOVE being a M.O.B.<br />
<br />
And I'm always happy to meet other bloggers!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.themobsociety.com/"><img alt="Mothers of Boys" src="http://homewiththeboys.net/img/mobbutton.jpg" /></a></div>Jenniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17484981381069210742noreply@blogger.com7