tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76436960876779029712024-03-12T18:24:22.234-07:00Rachel Writes HereI like to write. I try to make time for it.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.comBlogger184125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-38131072779933062182023-06-13T07:25:00.005-07:002023-06-13T07:26:03.208-07:00Aruba, 1991<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;">Picture it, Aruba, 1991. My mother happened to find the only historical landmark on the 70 square mile island, and by God, we were going to that landmark. My mother finding the local history on any given vacation was like her own personal shot glass collection. </span><span style="font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"> <br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As much as we hated to leave the pool, our walkmans and the virgin daiquiris, my mom made us all pile into one of Aruba’s finest rental cars (which isn’t saying much) and forced us to make the drive to the “other side” of the island. This was the side of the island with no resort hotels, no fruity drinks, no casinos, no one to hear our screams. It might have been the outer ring of hell. There was nothing. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is important to mention that our trip to Aruba was at the very beginning of the island building up its tourist business. There were not very many hotels to begin with and next to nobody was visiting. I have no idea what is on the other side of the island now, but then, it was nothing. It was just desert with a wind that constantly blew. In fact, everything about the other side of the island blew.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My mother insisted on taking us to a cave with ancient hieroglyphics carved in the side that were created by the first people to come to the island. I, for one, didn’t care. I think my dad, for two, and definitely my sister, for three, didn’t care either. My mother cared…which meant, we cared by force. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZU2r3YyGBLEr1bkYMpRCBTFCGOEYbe6C5_Z-THQ17vSs0BK0iuFcz7nylHPkYdgguAS5sBRkF40Lo0YaglmhbpzAUw6g1pNk9YsWYqCv2mAc2pgsm93VD0Xa8YQoPbxDwMzHNVBw1MJhbW3f_37kPDwrrcKB7etxgWvWz_2W8Kf1MYfDJabWm1EJ0A/s7832/david-troeger-t_dfcMDZ4T8-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5224" data-original-width="7832" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZU2r3YyGBLEr1bkYMpRCBTFCGOEYbe6C5_Z-THQ17vSs0BK0iuFcz7nylHPkYdgguAS5sBRkF40Lo0YaglmhbpzAUw6g1pNk9YsWYqCv2mAc2pgsm93VD0Xa8YQoPbxDwMzHNVBw1MJhbW3f_37kPDwrrcKB7etxgWvWz_2W8Kf1MYfDJabWm1EJ0A/s320/david-troeger-t_dfcMDZ4T8-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Photo by </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/@jetlag?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="text-align: start;">David Troeger</a><span style="text-align: start;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/aruba?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="text-align: start;">Unsplash</a><span style="text-align: start;"></span></td></tr></tbody></table>My mother was always interested in educating us. As my dad drove our luxury rental car, which I’m pretty sure was made up of old paddle boat parts, my mom kept one eye on the map and one eye on the road. Which was pretty unnecessary. It’s not like we were searching for a highway exit to our destination. I am convinced the “road” we were on was the result of a bunch of animals just fleeing in one direction one day during a fire. Somehow consulting a map seemed like overkill when all we were doing was driving until we saw “the” sign and if we ended up in the ocean, clearly we had gone too far.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Finally, we saw a piece of plywood leaning up against some desert shrub with the words, “Tunnel O’ Love” spray-painted in red. Blood red. The sign had clearly been put up while still wet as it seemed more fitting a haunted house than a family tourist attraction. Our American spirit of adventure, however, forced us onward. In other words, my mom screamed, “THERE IT IS, WAYNE. TURN HERE!” <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">“That?” We were all three thinking the same thing. My dad turned the car down a path in the direction indicated by the arrow on the sign. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">“Maybe it gets more legitimate looking the closer we get,” my sister whispered to me in the backseat. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It didn’t. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What we saw next, can only be described as a movie set. If the movie was about stupid American tourists who pull off the road and stumble upon the last place people are ever seen alive. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There was a tiki hut, a VW wagon that looked like the after shots of a car bomb on the Gaza Strip and two men who were staring at us like we were there biggest rush of the day. I can’t be sure, but I think one of them blinked dollar signs like in a cartoon. We saw two other people. It looked like a young American couple…honeymooning perhaps, walking toward us with dazed looks on their faces. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">“How was it?” My mom asked the Stepford honeymooners. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />“It was interesting.” The woman replied as she stared straight forward and walked to her car. She said nothing else and we never saw them again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Before we could run for our lives, we were ushered to the tiki hut by one of the two men and my dad paid for us. We were then given 3 hard hats and 2 pocket flashlights between the four of us and introduced to our expert guide, David (pronounced DAH VEED) who told us he hadn’t been to Georgia but he’d been close when he visited family in New York one time. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The one thing I should probably mention at this time is that we had still not seen a cave. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Cue creepy music.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We were to soon find out that the cave we were going to see was, in fact, underground. As a child, you think your parents have all of their decisions under control. I trusted that my parents would not pay money to have us get lost forever in a cave in Aruba. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As a parent, now, I see how well thought out a lot of our ideas are not. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once we were several stories underground in the cave and trying to share a few pocket flashlight beams of light, David and my sister Anna seemed to disappear ahead of us in a matter of minutes. That left my father, my mother and me alone to find our own way through the winding underground labyrinth. Being lost in a cave with my family is pretty much like putting your life in the hands of all the people who were ever picked last in kickball. I love them dearly, but the Ingalls we are not. We would have died on the Oregon Trail when we realized there was no Hyatt. In fact, we might still be down in that cave if it weren’t for a rope on the ground leading the way that we clung to for dear life.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Meanwhile, my father was repeating over and over again, “watch your head. Don’t slip. Don’t slip. Don’t….ahhh” He slipped. This was not a fun, relaxing day of checking out local history. We were spelunking. I felt like a coal miner after an explosion. It was dark, dangerous and I was not cut out for this kind of extreme sightseeing. Plus, I really felt like we were inadequately geared up as we passed our hard hats back and forth on a 90 second rotation that we developed.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We managed to catch up to my sister and our tour guide long enough to catch the one hieroglyphic drawn on one of the walls. I’m pretty sure it was in the same blood red spray paint that was featured on their plywood sign. As we were admiring the historically significant wall, since that is what we paid to see, my sister and David raced ahead as if trying to ditch us again. I was really beginning to dislike them both. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">By the time we caught up to them, they were talking to us from a hole in the ground above us. I guess I assumed that since our descent into the cave was a gradual stair stepping, climb down, that our climb out would be similar. Truthfully, I had imagined an elevator, but this wasn’t the high-class setup that Ruby Falls was. It was not similar to the climb in. It was like looking up from the bottom of a well. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our only way out of the hallowed halls of vacation hell was a two-story climb straight up the side of the cave wall. There were no harnesses, no spotters and there was no safety equipment unless you again count the hard hats and flashlights we were rotating. As previously stated, we were not equipped for this. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My dad managed, through a clever strategy of praying and cursing, to climb out. I tearfully followed. Looking back, I’m not really sure how I got out since I’ve never even been able to register an actual time doing the flex arm hang in gym class, but I’m guessing adrenaline played a part. That left my mother. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We all looked back down the hole. She started explaining that she loved us all, never meant to take us on a dangerous educational excursion and tearfully explained that she would make the best of her new life in the cave. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She willed her jade ring to me, and her emerald necklace to my sister. She requested we hire someone to drop food down the hole every so often and that we never ever forget her. She also mumbled something about the single choir ladies ready to pounce on my widowed father and how she better not catch any of them in any of her jewelry. Yep, this definitely hadn’t been in her travel brochure. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My father finally coaxed her up the side of the rock wall by promising her everything under the sun and reminding her that we were missing the French Open. Once we were all out, every Webb in our clan ran as fast as they could to the car. We never looked back. We were free.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We had driven only a few minutes when we caught sight of another sign. It was a very professional looking sign with graphics and lights. Next we saw a paved parking lot full of cars and tourists and a big cave that you walked straight into. It was a glorious sight.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My mom pointed at the parking lot full of people and said, “Wait, that’s the cave we were supposed to go to.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than my father slammed his foot down on the gas peddle and passed the legitimate attraction as fast as that little car made of old paddle boat parts would take us. We had had our fill of historical significance.</div><div class="post-footer" style="color: #c53f40; font-family: Montserrat, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 50px 0px 0px;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1" style="line-height: 2.3;"><div class="byline post-share-buttons goog-inline-block" style="display: inline-block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 0px; position: relative;"></div></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-36219078116355364282023-05-20T20:19:00.014-07:002023-05-20T21:29:47.431-07:00Just some Updates.<p>Hi everyone. I have to dust off this blog every now and then and leave some kind of something on it. I keep giving the site out to people and use it a bit professionally, so it's sad when I haven't had the time to leave anything recent on it. </p><p>But, I just submitted a new bio with an article I wrote and included a line that said, "for updates to current projects go to...." then I put in this blog site that contains absolutely zero updates. So here we are...</p><p>Okay...updates...I'll use headers. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><u>Family</u></b></h2><p>Everyone is doing great. The boys are 10 and 15 and they get more interesting everyday. Sam completed his first year of high school. He's playing football still and in the stands is where I have the greatest of religious experiences as I pray for zero injuries. He's a great kid and I love watching him on the field. He's calm and very patient (when not gaming). He puts himself to bed. Gets himself up. The other day I got the rare experience to sleep in on a school day (that's past 5:30) and I panic woke up at 8, texting to see if he was up...he texted back from the bus. IDK how we scored a kid like that, but I'm not questioning it. I'll take detail deficient text messages for a kid that I don't have to beg to go to school. He's very, very funny and he and I are working our way through 90's horror movies together. </p><p>Wesley is finishing up 4th grade. No kid has worked harder this year. He is a superstar. He had a decently grueling schedule this year but he's rocked everything we've asked of him. He's killing it in subjects like math - which I'm so thankful as I'm lacking in my math skills. He's into drawing, codebreaking and Pokemon. He is creative and outgoing. Loves playing games. He even decided to teach himself cursive from a book this year. I'm hoping to get him involved in art club or something creative next school year when he has some free time. </p><p>Andy and I are just about 19 years married. We watch storm coverage of other states, yell at Wheel of Fortune and check our 401K balances daily. We are a riot - you should be our friend. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><u>Writing and Canton Abbey</u></b></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjosBlIjlThf_bYpFope5jJ9t3HKPjMs31grkoTirGCf6V4jJCVX0yP2wH09_4KCdl4Euf_o_chvAJKSd0kP8IcyrJ7MmyL8amBWCaLNYAC28vIL4i-_mPl_tAOiRaE4XAfiJnVXlqh0yIMT4KDfk4QeMIySp7NHe78DI2N75_oZbpbW-Dnpo8CNhJuLw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjosBlIjlThf_bYpFope5jJ9t3HKPjMs31grkoTirGCf6V4jJCVX0yP2wH09_4KCdl4Euf_o_chvAJKSd0kP8IcyrJ7MmyL8amBWCaLNYAC28vIL4i-_mPl_tAOiRaE4XAfiJnVXlqh0yIMT4KDfk4QeMIySp7NHe78DI2N75_oZbpbW-Dnpo8CNhJuLw" width="320" /></a></div>I write as a side hustle...always have. I have a 9 to 5 job, I'm a mom and so writing has always been the thing I filled in around the big stuff. Last year, I gave up my column at NW Georgia Living and took a year off from murder mystery parties. I was overwhelmed and needed a break. Around that time, some friends approached me to help them write an entire season for a television show that they created called Canton Abbey. <p></p><p>I laughed inside, politely declined and told them I was not qualified. </p><p>They refused to accept my answer and essentially stared at me while I explained I had no experience in this medium, no idea how writing for cameras worked, how I hated to ruin their idea, how I was old, not as funny as I used to be and a really bad choice for the job. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEishRh_DfX85_70OtJORo62aagHvveKFTVBKyLv2zpNz0tYj8jYn-SDPk_skWZovWVt0NKdNWx0LagwtQVeBH0EaKuqueht6TXz81Y1pRsrRgnQ59ruVvGSRaE2WLF8lftCoHvMrfT9zsRU99O4ZeGjuBaK2_gcoX_YxD1gDy3VFzXtl9l1K1-yuCKA5g" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEishRh_DfX85_70OtJORo62aagHvveKFTVBKyLv2zpNz0tYj8jYn-SDPk_skWZovWVt0NKdNWx0LagwtQVeBH0EaKuqueht6TXz81Y1pRsrRgnQ59ruVvGSRaE2WLF8lftCoHvMrfT9zsRU99O4ZeGjuBaK2_gcoX_YxD1gDy3VFzXtl9l1K1-yuCKA5g" width="320" /></a></div>They gave me the run down of the show, basically downloaded Final Draft on my computer and waited for me to figure out how to write for television. Staying true to my writing "process" I procrastinated, gave them a deadline, then cry wrote it two days before they wanted to see the pilot episode. <p></p><p>I've never been more nervous to submit something in my life. What was I thinking? </p><p>But...they actually liked it. When I tell you the level of euphoria...can't be described. There were even a few favorable comments from some industry people in their circles which was very validating. </p><p>These wonderful folks I'm working with are actively working in the business and I'm grateful they took a chance on me, even when I told them no, because I've been able to work in a very exciting medium that I would have otherwise never tried. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIaekpRjZc-X0JblFg9XjJ3Oo_W2f7ywbwbvyvJoSfuTkabCVHvNG5ja1BO-K9tsNlnaXjxOzwL7cp851d4Pw7Ce9VDYcDOzlWLHj7GNUiNvF2B5evPoC5K9j-gWMsdQF3wKgGg0_ncj5TjxhTtuZo9RH8Sac1XNUQkUt7cybWJ24LNRuNQU8O4TVpmQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIaekpRjZc-X0JblFg9XjJ3Oo_W2f7ywbwbvyvJoSfuTkabCVHvNG5ja1BO-K9tsNlnaXjxOzwL7cp851d4Pw7Ce9VDYcDOzlWLHj7GNUiNvF2B5evPoC5K9j-gWMsdQF3wKgGg0_ncj5TjxhTtuZo9RH8Sac1XNUQkUt7cybWJ24LNRuNQU8O4TVpmQ" width="320" /></a></div>So many sweet people, friends and family, are wondering about this project. How they can support it, see it, etc. So I wanted to explain where we are essentially. We are almost done writing the first season. Canton Abbey is in the midst of being entered into film festivals, pitched and they are mulling over which way they want it to be produced. <p></p><p>So is it a fully filmed tv show? Not yet. </p><p>It is in development and it requires time, patience, fearlessness and networking to move into the next level. Along the way, showing well in various film festivals helps us move forward. So does gaining support from our loved ones. So I thank you for your congrats, your love and your excitement for Canton Abbey. I will keep you posted along the way. </p><p>Let me also share something that I have learned in life - and it's taken me oh, so long to learn it. I feel like I'm at an advice giving stage in my life...</p><p>I have always taken a ridiculously long time breaking into different writing mediums because I assumed I needed to learn the skill, perfect the skill and prove myself BEFORE trying. The amount of time I spend mulling over what I shouldn't be doing because I can't do it perfectly...I wish I could get those years back.</p><p>Here's the lesson I have learned over and over again specifically in my writing life. </p><p><b><span style="color: #800180;">NOBODY KNOWS THE RIGHT WAY TO DO ANYTHING</span>. </b></p><p>"But what about?" </p><p>No...they do not know. You know why? </p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY. </b></span> </p><p>Just do it. You don't know how?</p><p>Seriously, it's fine. </p><p><span style="color: #ffa400;"><b>NOBODY KNOWS HOW. </b></span></p><p>Don't let anyone intimidate you. </p><p>You'll figure it out or you'll invent a better way. </p><p>Just. do. the. thing. </p><p>Life is just too short. </p><p>Got it? </p><p>Okay, now that that is done...please follow us on our socials - I would so appreciate it! </p><p><a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100083699645002">Facebook</a></p><p><a href="https://www.instagram.com/canton_abbey/">Instagram</a></p><h2><b><u>Upcoming Murder Mystery Parties</u></b></h2><p>I'll be hosting a murder mystery in a North Georgia vineyard this fall for a wine tasting dinner. I'll share more details when it comes together, but I'm looking forward to this venue! </p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-29916641833683436772023-02-27T18:36:00.006-08:002023-02-27T19:06:04.259-08:00Virginia and the Airbnb<p><i><b> Just an excerpt from a short story I've been working on...</b></i></p><p><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0rH5OZ7u2KXwGnQ9HQMTILOql5XNUhJgnFKfkqdqmdKKFRfqr23e7WazMH03bVWkW5NXKEtLnjgPAx2rqehKu2OfFXPXxyyt-0hXEQeIVWTSSP6rAwgzRP4jdAaUew4Qx32ShiXP2xu7udOFBk9pTweGNQ23N1hszAv3X5yLsoORq96TLT2JPo3yZQ/s5965/britt-gaiser-t18UOu8lzos-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5965" data-original-width="3977" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0rH5OZ7u2KXwGnQ9HQMTILOql5XNUhJgnFKfkqdqmdKKFRfqr23e7WazMH03bVWkW5NXKEtLnjgPAx2rqehKu2OfFXPXxyyt-0hXEQeIVWTSSP6rAwgzRP4jdAaUew4Qx32ShiXP2xu7udOFBk9pTweGNQ23N1hszAv3X5yLsoORq96TLT2JPo3yZQ/w266-h400/britt-gaiser-t18UOu8lzos-unsplash.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Photo by </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/@brittgaiser?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="text-align: left;">britt gaiser</a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">on</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/old-home?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="text-align: left;">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sound of demolition woke Virginia up from her coveted sleep. She knew what it was instantly because it was the same noise that had disrupted her sleep the day before that. And the day before that, for that matter. The culprits were the power couple who recently bought the house next door. The old Moon house was a beautiful relic of a bygone era that had fallen into disrepair since Virginia’s neighbor, Claude had passed on and his wife, her longtime friend, Gertie had been moved to assisted living by their kids. The house had been initially purchased, then foreclosed on and finally auctioned off to prevent the neighborhood from going too much further downhill. </span><p></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-470cc5cf-7fff-4ea3-c645-0cc3db2ee43a" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">That’s where the couple currently bulldozing Virginia’s sound sleep came into the picture. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yanda and Mitchell bought the Moon House at auction. That’s right. Yanda. Not Manda. Yanda. The couple bought the declining old home, feigning love of the character and raving about its “good bones”, only to begin knocking things down with reckless abandon to create clean lines and to add shiplap, no doubt. Lucy at the bank had told Virginia that Yanda was documenting the carnage on her Instagram page and YouTube channel. What those were, Virginia was only vaguely aware. She was certainly not going to watch it. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Why hadn’t they just been honest, they wanted a completely different house. They did not want to preserve the neighborhood. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The couple had come over shortly after the purchase to introduce themselves. They caught Virginia completely off guard, bearing gifts of seed packets and a necklace with leaves crammed into the pendant. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was called a terrarium necklace. </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Yanda made terrarium necklaces. She did this in the free time she </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">had when she wasn't extracting character out of perfectly lovely homes.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Teeny tiny plants in teeny tiny jars, hung around necks. It appalled her almost as much as when the funeral director asked her if she would like to put some of her beloved husband, Charles’s ashes in a small vial and wear it around her neck. Tiny plants. Dead husband’s ashes. Neither appealed to her as jewelry. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yanda and Mitchell had explained they were remodeling the Moon House to serve as a destination vacation for families. They were going to rent it out to visitors and plant gardens so the families could have a real vacation experience in nature and experience self-sustainability. It was called agritourism or something. Funny, when Virginia was growing up on her family farm, such activities were called, ‘not dying’ and now people pay to experience it apparently.</span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“Why am I not dead yet?” This was a question Virginia often asked herself when confronted with the ridiculousness of anything new. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The couple were going to live in a 400 square foot tiny home in the back of the property. The hilarity of them buying a 3000 square foot home only to live in 400 square feet in what could only be described as a shed. “Maybe the shed would fit inside one of Yanda’s terrarium necklaces,” Virginia thought. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Virginia knew right away that so much about her life was offensive to the young couple. They came over, tried to engage her in conversation...it didn’t take long for the long, judgemental pauses to happen after almost everything Virginia said. She wasn’t sure what it was she had first said that made Yanda draw in a dramatic gulp of air, but rather than tempering her thoughts, Virginia made a game out of trying to shock Yanda. She’d made a jar in her kitchen and would award herself one dollar for every time she shocked the young couple. She was making a small fortune for herself with that jar. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Mitchell and Yanda were crunchy and she had no interest in recycling or saving the planet or being self-sustaining in any way. They were Vegans. Vegans were not to be trusted. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Recently Virginia had grabbed a Sharpie and written the word “meat” on the side of her paper bags from the grocery store before slow-walking them into her house, label side facing the Moon house. Once she got into the house, she awarded herself $5 to the ‘shock Yanda’ jar. </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">With the demolition noises making going back to sleep impossible, Virginia reluctantly got out of bed and got dressed. She would make the walk over to their house again today to see why they had to start working so early. This was becoming a daily occurrence? Did they not understand how precious sleep was to an aging woman? </span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Virginia took 20 minutes to apply her makeup and fix her hair. She changed out of her house coat and into a smart looking pair of summer pants and button up floral shirt. She grabbed a big floppy hat to keep the sun off of her scalp. She was leaving her room, when the black bag that held her mother’s beloved Swears and Wells fur coat caught her eye. On an evil whim, she unzipped the bag, grabbed the politically incorrect garment made of muskrats and marched defiantly out to speak with her neighbors.</span></span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yanda’ eyes bugged out of her head the moment she caught sight of Virginia making a beeline for their backyard in her fur coat. Maybe it was because it was 87 degrees outside. Or maybe because it was made of real animals. Regardless = creating a reaction was exactly what Virginia was going for. Crazy old lady or heartless old biddy - whatever Yanda thought exactly was fine, it established the fact that they were not going to be friends. </span></span></p><p><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-5782695703860229532021-05-11T06:59:00.005-07:002021-05-11T07:15:14.128-07:00Capitalizing on Enthusiasm<p>I am constantly thinking of ways to build skills in my kids. We're always told to find our children's cash and use that as a motivator. For my middle schooler, the cash is often and quite literally, cash (thanks YouTube and TikTok). No shocker there. For most of us cash <i>is </i>the ultimate. There are so many things to buy and a never ending list of wants make it the motivator of all motivators. </p><p>For my son who is on the spectrum, cash takes on different forms. When he was first diagnosed with autism, they ran a test to tell me possible barriers to treatment. This test has a name. I do not remember what it is, but there are essentially around sixteen barriers to therapy. A barrier would be something that hinders therapy. For example, a sensory sensitive child could have environmental barriers such as bright lights or loud noises. Anything that might prevent successful therapy. All autistic children have a social/communication barrier, since that's essentially what autism is. In our case, the main barrier was "weakened motivators." When I first saw the feedback, I was like "What is a weakened motivator?" It was wisely described to me using cake as an example, and because of this, I've literally never forgotten what it means...</p><p>An example of a weakened motivator is if someone offered you cake, you would (obviously) want the cake, right? RIGHT!? </p><p>But now suppose the person offering you the cake made it conditional. And let's say the condition was you had to run five miles before you could have it. Would you still want the cake? </p><p>If you said, "no," then you just experienced a weakened motivator. If you said, "yes," then...we can't be friends, but I might eat your cake while you are out for that run. </p><p>So if we put this in terms of autism, and to quote a developmental pediatrician we once met with, "your ability to build skills in your child is contingent on always understanding what deeply motivates him...and those motivations constantly change." </p><p>And like all people who are given the gift of wisdom handed to them on a silver platter, I still managed to only learn this the hard way...by doing it wrong over and over again. I struggled for years as plastic treasure box toys and social incentives all fell short time and time again. Threats of punishment were consistent disasters and late night worrying sessions became the norm. I didn't yet understand how to get into my son's head and <u>capitalize on his enthusiasm</u>. </p><p>I WILL cut Andy and I some slack by saying that some of this comes with development of your child and their understanding of incentives, but I still managed to have plenty of "how did we get here," moments when things didn't go according to plan. It can drive you mad. </p><p>And just to let you in on what you probably already know, <span style="color: #2b00fe;">Autism </span><span style="color: red;">moms</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><span style="color: #e69138;">be</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">crazy</span><span style="color: #04ff00;">.</span> No seriously, it's fine, we are. We wear our nuttiness like the badge of honor that it is and I'm fine with it. </p><p>But let me tell you why so you understand. </p><p>On the day that our kids were diagnosed, right after dropping the A-word on us, someone said directly or indicated in a round about way, one terrifying piece of information, and that was that - <i><b>time was of the essence</b></i>. Therapy is always beneficial, but when it comes to therapies for kids newly diagnosed with autism, <i style="font-weight: bold;">the earlier the better </i>is drilled into us. Here you are - digesting a diagnosis you don't understand, you are wondering how you will afford to help your child and now...you have to do it all fast....and that is when your heart starts to race... and in that moment, just like in Poe's, <i>Tell Tale Heart,</i> the sound of the ticking clock begins...and it slowly drives us into insanity (except it's nothing like that story because that was actually a heart beating...but you get the picture - minus the murder). We bring that stress into our strategy meetings, to the playground, on our vacations and into our IEP meetings. It may look like we are a bunch of hostile, abrasive and emotional crazies, but the root of what we are...is worried. We can all relate to worry. </p><p>So with that in mind, we become out of the box thinking experts on our children in record time. And that, my friends, four hundred paragraphs into this blog post, is why I'm writing this. I have developed a keen sense of how to capitalize on my son's interests to get what I want from him...whether it is behavioral or communicative. It must be interesting to him or he won't bother. </p><p><b>I must find his enthusiasm and capitalize on it. </b></p><p>For example, if I can code language with numbers, his absolute love, then language becomes interesting to him and he's more inclined to use it. So I don't ask him to find words for his day, instead, <i><b>I ask him to give it a ranking</b></i>. From 1 to 10, from 1 to 1,000, he has no problem identifying what number his day was...so we start here. Then I can ask him why he assigned his day a specific number and he usually wants to then assign descriptive words to his ranking. And voila - he's just told me about his day. But to just simply ask him about his day though...BORING. He has no time for descriptive words alone. And as you can see, that cost me nothing. I didn't have to reward him for his answer...I just made it interesting to him, but challenging at the same time. THIS is one of the many things that makes autism beautiful in my opinion, their fascinating little minds. </p><p>Another thing that works to my advantage is the use of regiments. Sometimes by just creating a process that he can regiment for himself will ensure he follows through with things. In one of his earliest IEP meetings in preschool, he was not meeting his goal of hanging up his bag. So the IEP team and I discussed what happens after he hangs up his bag. Was it motivating enough to make him want to hang his bag up quickly and move on to the next thing. At the time, once his bag was hung up, he could go socialize with friends. We quickly realized our mistake. Socialization was not necessarily a motivator for a child who struggles with social development - so we created a regiment instead. This time the teacher told him to hang up his bag, then he could go sit on the orange dot with the number 8 (his spot in the room). To me, that sounds like a punishment...why can't I go talk to people? But to him, it was the regiment he needed to his morning routine Right after we setup that sequence, he mastered the goal. </p><p>Social motivators. I have been seeing an awesome social motivator for him in recent days. Humor. He. loves. jokes. He loves to make people laugh and I can see him trying out jokes and asking me to rank how funny it was. He wants to understand what makes a joke funny. What makes other people laugh. He has an amazing set of teachers this year who have picked up on this too and <i>they use it.</i> They let him tell a joke a day. They have brought in joke books to expand his repertoire. He's even made up a few jokes of his own (some still need to be workshopped a bit more), but what a beautiful tool this is to help him tune into his surroundings and read other people's reactions. </p><p>Lastly, I have used incentive-type motivators as well - but these are tricky. The minute you offer a reward for doing something undesirable or unnatural, it better be good. Because if it's not something that they want that bad, you've lost them. (I wanted the chocolate cake until you told me to run five miles for it). </p><p>I now do a much better job of watching and latching onto things he consistently talks about. A few months ago we went to a birthday party where we played laser tag - he loved it! He would not stop talking about coming back and playing again. BAM - a solid incentive! I was giddy! I came up with a quick point system and emailed his teachers to get them onboard. Great teachers will LOVE your incentives and ideas. They want your child to be motivated too, but may not understand his "cash" like you do. Also, collaborate on those goals - that's why you've got a team! </p><p>Within a few weeks, we were playing our victory game of laser tag for earning points. Now, it is important to note that I was very specific about what behavior we were incentivizing. In our case, simply having a good day is too broad. We want him to work. Pick a troublesome area of opportunity. For us, it is usually in the processing and handling of frustration. Let your child help you come up with ideas of "do's and dont's". I have told our son that frustration is fine...we all get frustrated, but let's come up with positive ways to handle it. This narrowing of the focus has been extremely effective as it relates to building awareness and coping skills. </p><p>Look, I am just a parent - I'm not an expert on autism, but I've learned over the years that we make the MOST headway and accomplish the MOST goals by capitalizing on our son's enthusiasm! </p><p>I'm attaching our most recent incentive - Disney Bucks. Wesley and I collaborated on this so he fully understood what was expected and so he could identify the positive and negative responses on his own. </p><p>What things have worked for you? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12HXAbSIhQef4sVAr-jCBoybfnRdo1A39IIQwjwP5dqjdrhlD6tssc3eWffmtwiA13KiorG7xktBGM4GXpVmQZqEjunXre_1-Kjr9hTTcPq62HaHMpdtp_cuj7eBRQ9nNCzuh4_IBNhAk/s2030/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.35.46+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1150" data-original-width="2030" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12HXAbSIhQef4sVAr-jCBoybfnRdo1A39IIQwjwP5dqjdrhlD6tssc3eWffmtwiA13KiorG7xktBGM4GXpVmQZqEjunXre_1-Kjr9hTTcPq62HaHMpdtp_cuj7eBRQ9nNCzuh4_IBNhAk/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.35.46+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqt5e5RfTlT_jyfyABylZ_H3AYims0pSlEG8fZsLqp6stjYZWkVhgXXs380xhLORDwsbr7LL0VNaJ-KoZ-odwPHhFJteGIQ74191BJc116qT0jGIqBrP7RfPMRpZIr_7nbUwz31zhoDF3-/s2048/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.35.53+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqt5e5RfTlT_jyfyABylZ_H3AYims0pSlEG8fZsLqp6stjYZWkVhgXXs380xhLORDwsbr7LL0VNaJ-KoZ-odwPHhFJteGIQ74191BJc116qT0jGIqBrP7RfPMRpZIr_7nbUwz31zhoDF3-/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.35.53+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsw0Pkxl6ARinMlyRA5laqnkogf8u1hVd_fF32AUJXLQSaVkqLAWyEX7LcdgsPEpc3e90S2fNzpgrtDHpYgwEl5W8QpSMaJSMrNQl4i2c_GdvZ604IrptqEKlu1g4KSoJMo5omxhCXqNh/s2048/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.36.02+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsw0Pkxl6ARinMlyRA5laqnkogf8u1hVd_fF32AUJXLQSaVkqLAWyEX7LcdgsPEpc3e90S2fNzpgrtDHpYgwEl5W8QpSMaJSMrNQl4i2c_GdvZ604IrptqEKlu1g4KSoJMo5omxhCXqNh/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.36.02+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5S6vFz-Z_Tm2iThAmvElQka7e5Hk_JIjC4ARNe6dLwiuZfH50NgvjHqsxCo_srUR9d3IgIatPCTRjIKlJ0_W9RrGNR9DEx7Oq6vQAb_LA1ffA22dXmvbr_zFwDsKpo2xZLrdognahJywO/s2048/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.36.19+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1089" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5S6vFz-Z_Tm2iThAmvElQka7e5Hk_JIjC4ARNe6dLwiuZfH50NgvjHqsxCo_srUR9d3IgIatPCTRjIKlJ0_W9RrGNR9DEx7Oq6vQAb_LA1ffA22dXmvbr_zFwDsKpo2xZLrdognahJywO/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-11+at+9.36.19+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Respectfully,</p><p>Rachel</p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-21193997963176587372020-12-01T06:33:00.009-08:002023-05-20T21:27:29.115-07:00A Christmas Movie Murder - New Murder Mystery Party Script<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Make it a Mystery proudly presents...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>A Christmas Movie Murder </b></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Brixany</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">is trying to become a partner at her big city firm which doesn't seem to do anything other than acquire tiny companies in small towns and close them down at Christmas.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">With her red carry-on, big city scarf and non-sensible boots,</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Brixany</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">heads to Christmas Angel Mistletoe Town to spend Christmas. She has one objective while she’s there.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Shut down the tinsel factory</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span> </span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3l67Mi-ACQ1XN9SeTRtJlS16uYA4DqBuXWoTzZAfh2szgsYdMDyrH_sC6Cc1K5ce0DUDquZf_4fqogkL7bitLsoqREl81NDJ7gMAKNrnyyMsmBI992ACK1j0laEI72Wu5fGpAAn5VlQn/s2000/A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3l67Mi-ACQ1XN9SeTRtJlS16uYA4DqBuXWoTzZAfh2szgsYdMDyrH_sC6Cc1K5ce0DUDquZf_4fqogkL7bitLsoqREl81NDJ7gMAKNrnyyMsmBI992ACK1j0laEI72Wu5fGpAAn5VlQn/w278-h278/A.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><p></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The tinsel factory is headquartered in an old barn, which is dilapidated on the outside yet stunning on the inside, and employees a handful of minimum wagers., and technically only produces one product, yet is somehow single-handedly destroying all the profits for Brixany's nameless big city firm. </span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><b>But wait right there</b></i>...because before you can say romantic lead with no red flags, Brixany walks right into a murder scene. Suddenly she and the other townspeople are suspects in a tinsel factory murder. This was not the happy ending Brixany had been hoping for as she dodged all those phone calls from her workaholic city boyfriend, but can she and the others prove their innocence? </span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Will the murderer come forward and learn the true meaning of Christmas before we have to sit through Brixany’s not-at-all traumatic backstory? Will we have to endure one more snowball fight before we find out, who did it?</span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Find out in this exciting new Zoom Murder Mystery Party Game, A Christmas Movie Mystery!</span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><br /></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">_______________________________________</span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">****DETAILS*****</span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">email me: justpeachy1123@gmail.com</span></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><br /></p><p style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; unicode-bidi: embed; word-break: normal;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>8 Characters (at least 2 males, at least 2 females, the rest are changeable)*</b></span></p></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hi everyone! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm excited to offer a ZOOM holiday party! I am NOW booking A Christmas Movie Murder. You have two options: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A. HOSTED - I set up the zoom call, I send out the characters and I facilitate the entire game. This option takes up to 2 hours and is offered at a flat rate of $125. Date availability varies, I can work with you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">B. SELF-HOSTED - I supply you with all the materials needed to host, play and solve the mystery for your family and friends. $40</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">C. ADD-ON - For an additional $25, I can customize to incorporate inside jokes, personal details, etc. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>* you can have more than 8 people on the call, that is just how many characters there are, you can have unlimited watchers.</b> </span></p>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-65959285108724396632020-06-30T13:40:00.002-07:002020-06-30T13:44:18.725-07:00The Turner Christmas NewsletterDear Everyone,<div><br /></div><div>I'm sending out my annual Christmas newsletter in June. We are in week i-don't-even-know-anymore of quarantine. Well, honestly, not all of us are in quarantine. By the looks of things, I think several people apparently finished quarantine early. I just tell my kids that some people are naturally gifted and finish things quicker than others. </div><div><br /></div><div>But us? We are still trying to pretend like we don't "need" to go to Target several times a week, all willy nilly (okay, that's just me, I miss willy nilly). But did Target do anything to help make this easier, NO. They kept their perfectly curated target whimsy and their dollar bins and then just sat there and watched us TRY to not need them. Meanwhile, my Target Red Card sadly collecting dust while my Cartwheel app uninstalled from my iPhone. I'm surprised there's been no wellness check. </div><div><br /></div><div>To quote mostly Joan Jett, "I hate myself for loving you, Target." </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl422qrams5a-ThTn3EFS6y5xUZZrhGRTcbu73NNuB73DzruhxeZWXEBG_5tWWFKi03CCrHhY96bWrmNY14CqE1cRv_lJCNH81ySxBrM1TZi4V5V07m6JKQE_O-sHPXNIGLFyYz0trqngZ/s5848/jeshoots-com-7VOyZ0-iO0o-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3899" data-original-width="5848" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl422qrams5a-ThTn3EFS6y5xUZZrhGRTcbu73NNuB73DzruhxeZWXEBG_5tWWFKi03CCrHhY96bWrmNY14CqE1cRv_lJCNH81ySxBrM1TZi4V5V07m6JKQE_O-sHPXNIGLFyYz0trqngZ/w320-h213/jeshoots-com-7VOyZ0-iO0o-unsplash.jpg" title="<span>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jeshoots?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">JESHOOTS.COM</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/christmas?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span>" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jeshoots?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">JESHOOTS.COM</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/christmas?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway, in my copious amounts of free time, I'm getting our Christmas newsletter out early this year. Also, I've never actually sent a Christmas newsletter out and likely never will. </div><div><br /></div><div>Soooo...this is basically just a letter. </div><div><br /></div><div>First time letter. In a blog. With Christmas pictures. </div><div><br /></div><div>...So it's just like a blog post or whatever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone got something to say? Good. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So...here's how we've been doing. Let's begin with my <i>standards.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>I no longer have any. </div><div><br /></div><div>*unscrews cap to giant barrel of cheeseballs I promised I would buy over my dead body and begins to stress eat*</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I could kick it old school for a bit. I approached quarantine like a fun reality show experiment. I can sit at home. I can teach my kids school. We can be "off the grid" for a time, making our own fun and planting freedom gardens. I'll stock up on dry goods and we'll play board games and watch movies together. I'm the mother, I'm in control of the ambiance of this house - plus I've watched an obscene amount of homesteading YouTube videos. It can't be hard. So I bought a pair of clippers and some hairdresser scissors, a bug-out bag for four and 54 gallons of water. </div><div><br /></div><div>Was I ready? I dunno. I was reading a lot of random prepper blogs at the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, as it turns out, my kids won't actually eat dry goods. *hears your comments regarding starvation and being a short order cook, keeps shaking head no, grabs more cheeseballs*. They won't. You don't get it. They are fine with starvation. They don't want to get to that level of the apocalypse where beans and rice are their only option. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, no one wants me to cut their hair. It doesn't matter how many instructional videos I've watched. They don't believe I can do a "fade" or whatever. They'd rather fling it out of their face forever. I have no reasonable explanation as to why I now own a bug out bag. I was panicky when I didn't have one...and now I'm not. I can handle buyers remorse way better. It's a skill I've been developing for YEARS. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least we've made a decent dent in the 54 gallons of water that I'm never going to live down. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank God for Amazon Prime. It's been the Pony Express for middle-aged women. No less than three times a day, a brave Amazon driver faces the dangers of EVERYONE OUT DRIVING BECAUSE WHAT'S A QUARANTINE to drop off something at my door. They are bringing much needed supplies to get us through the long quarantine. Literally, one package at a time. Some of the quarantine necessities include: more phone chargers, colorful paperclips and post its (so pretty), organic plant based protein powder (y'all I don't know), and the man-sized barrel of cheeseballs I am currently spending time with. </div><div><br /></div><div>So with supplies at hand, and a complete fluke buy that lead me to be fine in the toilet paper department, the only thing I had to worry about was teaching my kids at home. Is that all? </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not gonna lie, distance learning started off rough. It got rougher from there, and that's when, through the tears, I decided that book smarts were overrated and just taught my kids how to play Blackjack instead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pardon? </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, the whole idea behind homesteading is passing down useful family skills to the up and coming generation, right? Then I stand by the unit titled "Antes and Bankrolls". Maybe my kid doesn't know his Teddy Roosevelt facts, maybe he doesn't know or care about how hurricanes damage ecosystems and economies and just MAYBE the only handwriting practice he's getting is by writing "Deez Nuts" on every piece of paper he finds... but if things get rougher and he has to troll towns scrounging a living a la Kevin Costner in the Postman, he'll at least know how to bluff. </div><div><br /></div><div>What's your kid gonna accomplish armed only with the Pythagorean theorem? </div><div><br /></div><div>My oldest son has not lost one single beat in his social life. He plays Playstation like it's his job. I finally decided to come clean with the fact that I didn't care. When he isn't playing video games, he's asking what we're eating for the next meal. During this quarantine, he's lost six teeth. I had to google if he was supposed to be losing them since I stopped milestone counting either child in 2014. Now that his voice is deeper, I have no idea if he's talking to his local school friends or like a 55 year old in Cleveland. I don't even care. A bunch of 12 year olds can form teams, coordinate skins, make decisions, have arguments, decide they need better gear, get $10 from their parents in one collective fundraiser, apologize for the fight and beat the game way better than a country full of over qualified experts can agree on whether or not to wear a mask...my money is on him. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's see, what else. Oh, I stand firm in the fact that inherent, wild dog instincts are completely bred out of <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtwC1UCLIk0o-SXBJNYclQxAlzyQMyibgTNFVJ2i0EADEu3EPRH-vpjQLV35QE2ERa_IzFGNVxkh5OdU3FHNht82EtywEvPH_sgmNxnQR6OT2NiyORsX7Ma3taf_FqrEn_Hic1cd6HUEX/s5472/freestocks--Qf9JKLysUg-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJtwC1UCLIk0o-SXBJNYclQxAlzyQMyibgTNFVJ2i0EADEu3EPRH-vpjQLV35QE2ERa_IzFGNVxkh5OdU3FHNht82EtywEvPH_sgmNxnQR6OT2NiyORsX7Ma3taf_FqrEn_Hic1cd6HUEX/w400-h266/freestocks--Qf9JKLysUg-unsplash.jpg" title="<span>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@freestocks?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">freestocks</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/christmas?utm_source=unsplash&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span>" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@freestocks?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">freestocks</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/christmas?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table>a dog once they are a Doodle of any kind. I mean, lay on your chest when you are having a bad day, yes. Cuddle with you on the couch while you binge New Girl and drink Rose in a can with a bendy straw- yup. But...forage for food or even indicate a bug crawling on the carpet right in front of their nose...negative Ghost Rider. What an utterly useless breed to have in the apocalypse. I should have known. There are no wandering Doodles in The Walking Dead. </div><div><br /></div><div>My husband was furloughed from his restaurant for three months. That was three months of staring at each other suspiciously from across the room and assuming we were in trouble for something. He might be in trouble for parading in three roofers on quarantine week 2 to inspect a leak on the ceiling that was so small it COULDN'T BE SEEN WITH THE HUMAN EYE and I might be in bigger trouble for allowing my son to order spray cheese off the internet. Sixteen years of marriage folks, the success of which is somewhat contingent on both of us having something else to do for the majority of most days.</div><div><br /></div><div>He's back at work now and we feel no further along than we were three months ago. Cheers to us all that we get through whatever this is, and when we do, let's lock it in, seal the portal and sacrifice whatever so it stays away. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and what not. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Turners</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-24970182918629808092020-06-28T20:20:00.004-07:002023-05-20T21:30:39.549-07:00That time I wrote an article for Guideposts and they came to shoot a video! <div>Here is our video spot for Guideposts. My article can be found under Portfolio.</div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4o0mrshI930" width="320" youtube-src-id="4o0mrshI930"></iframe></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-10875156926776445542019-02-07T20:53:00.002-08:002019-02-07T21:25:49.103-08:00Chicken Salad Relationship Status: It’s Complicated<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0cFKIEskFz8-o17dKR2NOWLRSUTBFV_MGHwC8N0ZqvhyphenhyphenHp1s9bcd8lZpA8VBdv1f6LNvxNDPoEgqundKOdr8UqrM5CY69AmgijpqJDPxmPAXi4uqa0J6-FbkXyiy7bUxtPyNjy1WQbms/s1600/jordan-arnold-612264-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0cFKIEskFz8-o17dKR2NOWLRSUTBFV_MGHwC8N0ZqvhyphenhyphenHp1s9bcd8lZpA8VBdv1f6LNvxNDPoEgqundKOdr8UqrM5CY69AmgijpqJDPxmPAXi4uqa0J6-FbkXyiy7bUxtPyNjy1WQbms/s320/jordan-arnold-612264-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/Ul07QK2AR-0?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Jordan Arnold</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/dinner-table?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">From an early age, I was taught to eat the food that was put in front of me. No matter what it was. My mother was determined to raise polite girls who showed appreciation as dinner guests. We would roll up to a friend or relative's house only to be gently reminded by my mother that, “Even if you are served dog food, eat it, smile and ask for seconds.” <br /><br />My mother was not someone I wanted to challenge. So for years, I ate whatever was served without questioning it, my mom, or the person serving it...no one. <br /><br />Until one day, I met chicken salad. <br /><br />Chicken salad would become my lifelong nemesis. As far as I was concerned, and with the deviled egg running a distant second, chicken salad was the very worst thing to have to put into my mouth and feign flavor bliss. It was the official food of my very worst nightmares and if I was going to stay in the South, I needed an avoidance plan.<br /><br />Many of you have likely gasped at me mentioning my distaste for not one, but two traditional southern dishes. I get it. It’s a shock to find out that the people you thought you knew have dark secrets. What’s next, you might be thinking? Sweet tea? Fried chicken? GRITS!!!??? <br /><br />I swear on the Bill Gaither choir that I mostly don’t have any more southern confessions. Mostly.<br /><br />Why do I have a lifelong dislike of chicken salad? Of course, it must be some offensive ingredient.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Was it the chicken? </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Her grandma probably didn’t know how to season it. Gotta season the chicken.”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The mayonnaise? </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Shaking head, “Didn’t use Dukes.”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other random (and always different) ingredients?</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Well, she hasn’t tried my chicken salad yet.” </span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />The answer is...I don’t know why I don’t like it. It smells funny. Also, there is something about the combination of cold meat, mixed with an ever-changing combination of other things swirled together and doled out with an ICE CREAM SCOOP (desecration) and then sculpted (Jesus take the wheel, they sculpted it). Plus, people that like chicken salad, LOVE chicken salad. I’m sorry, but it’s a cult. I love you, but. you. are. in. a. cult. (and Molly, you in danger, girl).<br /><br />And even though my great grandmother Anna Mae is probably turning over in her grave as we speak, I just could never bring myself to fake liking chicken salad. Stick it in a thousand pastry swans, I will never like it. Go away, Sam I Am...I'm not your project.<br /><br />When I was young, it wasn’t the most difficult thing to get around. Chicken salad was a ladies lunch type of food or it made its appearance on the potluck table among a cast of thousands. The southern food competition was fierce and with the main ingredient being mayonnaise, everyone understood you avoiding it if you even hinted at a war story involving room temperature mayonnaise and your insides. <br /><br />But as I got older and my friends were all getting married, it became very clear where chicken salad chose to make its mark in our civilized society. Chicken salad craftily played itself to the adult female crowd. All this time, I thought I was dodging these to-add-grapes-or-not-to-add-grapes landmines so that I could hit adulthood and declare my disgust for the food openly. And live authentically for once - unless living authentically was bad manners.<br /><br />But she was waiting. On the table of every graduation party, every bridesmaid luncheon,<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV_RylTwEyIelH_kOKBvLOh7rT7umfFCePCsqnhKVmLzTSSHBb6etH2czjgUj8nFqKn_bfKCfQS4IwdV83a6BR-5Y8HTsm2RxFo883By9eFFSMoih3vlufwKvsOOv7jwxqOsMNk-7LiGz/s1600/andre-hunter-263233-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV_RylTwEyIelH_kOKBvLOh7rT7umfFCePCsqnhKVmLzTSSHBb6etH2czjgUj8nFqKn_bfKCfQS4IwdV83a6BR-5Y8HTsm2RxFo883By9eFFSMoih3vlufwKvsOOv7jwxqOsMNk-7LiGz/s320/andre-hunter-263233-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/AmSSPYrLriQ?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Andre Hunter</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/bridesmaid?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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every time someone busted out pastel streamers, chicken salad was there, making her promises about being universally loved by all women. She clung to her self-proclaimed “crowd pleaser” title and became the food anti-mascot of my twenties. <br /><br />I truly believe I was the skinniest I’ve ever been in my twenties because I spent an impressive portion of the decade side stepping chicken salad. <br /><br />No disrespect to our fair maiden, Atlanta’s Swan House. She is majestic and regal, but when you are anti-chicken salad, there are only so many lunches where you can sustain yourself on a frozen fruit salad and two cheese straws. I attended every single event, searching for an ally plate to slip my chicken salad timbales fashioned into a swan onto. It was always a covert operation that could only be done with very specific, and forgiving friends. Or even better, if I was sat among a group of strangers, I could build a quick rapport and guiltlessly offload the item with the knowledge I’d never see these people again, and if it was the black sheep aunt from Wisconsin who was chicken salad neutral, even better. <br /><br />If I found the crowd to be particularly pro-chicken salad, those hostiles who perceived negative chicken salad sentiments as blasphemous, my tactics would have to be taken up a notch. <br /><br />I’d have to stage my plate. <br /><br />Moving food around a plate in an attempt to make it look “enjoyed” is a fine art. Southern kids raised in the world of “eat what you are served,” have this skill as fine-tuned as our ability to play in trace amounts of snow every 2-3 years. <br /><br />First, you have to show that you enjoyed the food. Your plate scene can’t be viewed as someone who “tried” the chicken salad and did not like it. No, it is much more complicated than that. It must look like you very much “enjoyed” the scrumptious ladies luncheon staple (lies), but are such a wispy girl with a dainty appetite that you simply couldn’t finish it all (still more lies). <br /><br />Such intricate plate staging, while never allowing for a conversation lull, is a fine art. The talent for which is sharpened through motivation by the deeply rooted and, oh by the way, irrational southern fear of sharing with someone that you actually don’t like something. Wait a minute, to their face?<br /><br />Feigning one’s love for chicken salad while never allowing it to pass your lips is so much harder than avoiding something like deviled eggs...and here are some reasons for this - all rooted in science.<br /><br />Deviled eggs are a side item. Different rules apply entirely. Most notably, never in the history of a potluck has someone managed to get every offered dish on their Dixie Paper Plate. You can skip it with promises to add it to your “second round” and no one will ever know. <br /><br />Also, if you skip side items, you are once again seen as a dainty, wispy girl with a bird-like appetite. <br /><br />An early coven of Southern grandma witches (all named Mildred) decided a long time ago to classify chicken salad as a main dish. Chicken salad is the centerpiece and you can’t have a plate with no centerpiece - even I know that that’s problematic as the side dishes would clearly be lost. <br /><br />Side dishes are meant to surround the main dish and sort of do jazz hands around it, blessing its faultlessness. With no focal point for the side dishes to do jazz hands, chaos ensues. <br /><br />The congealed salad would jiggle aimlessly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The coleslaw already suffering from a crippling inferiority complex would think it needed to rise up to the centerpiece occasion but would ultimately crack under the pressure - coleslaw will never be as great as potato salad, after all, much less match the fame of this southern icon.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwL_MYhlqJQtq3Lva8dmsQCO13LYwk7kgj6B_0fwgUiJsMebLz-Lf8sAfuyNPokip8m5jhg0WxwGQiOExwnuultXywWB-nvMP_gxGzrU7xDvLUz1peATFZrVRirAz9L92agqQTz4KQVFM/s1600/thought-catalog-743576-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwL_MYhlqJQtq3Lva8dmsQCO13LYwk7kgj6B_0fwgUiJsMebLz-Lf8sAfuyNPokip8m5jhg0WxwGQiOExwnuultXywWB-nvMP_gxGzrU7xDvLUz1peATFZrVRirAz9L92agqQTz4KQVFM/s320/thought-catalog-743576-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />The random cheese cubes would wander the perimeter of the floral plate with no purpose <br /><br />Don’t get me started on the morale of the deviled eggs I’d have to put on my plate to throw off suspicion - after all, they already know I don’t like them. <br /><br />Even the sweet tea would pucker and lose its flavor. Oh sure, we’d all take polite sips and try to act like it was sweet enough, but we’d secretly be blaming the failure on that one lady from joy club who always waits to add sugar once the tea is cooled. <br /><br />See. It’s a dilemma. A delicate balance. The balance of the entire ladies luncheon gets thrown off when one person can’t handle the chicken salad. It would be a blessed hot mess.<br /><br />So why don't I just have the courage to proudly declare my personal distaste when asked instead of this complicated long con I'm playing? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wasn't drug up. That would be rude.<br /><br />So, for now, I’ll continue scooping the offending salad-you-can-sculpt onto my plate and comment on how wonderful it is while I secretly stage my plate accordingly. Side note: don’t look my way while gifts are being opened. <br /><br />No balance to restore, I won’t rock the boat, but my relationship to chicken salad will remain, for now and forevermore, complicated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Respectfully,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Rachel</span></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-14412576365038835312019-01-12T19:30:00.005-08:002023-05-20T21:20:08.353-07:00Hometown BluesI've never really left the area where I grew up. So many people I meet are geographically nowhere near where they started. Sometimes I envy their new adventures. I never intentionally decided to stay, but I guess I just never really left - there was never a reason to go, so I didn't. I spent one year of college in Tennessee (my first freshman year - there were 2.5 freshman years if you're counting - my parents were). Also, I'm technically raising my family in an adjacent county.<br />
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But for the most part, I still navigate the same curves, hills, and streets where I learned to drive. I didn't leave and yet sometimes, it <i>feels</i> like a completely different place. A few of those curves have been improved. One bridge in particular that used to terrify my mother has now been made safer and easier to navigate and I do miss the adrenaline I would get taking that curve in the dark woods, over the creek at night. Kids these days - they'll never know.<br />
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When my parents and grandparents would talk about the changing landscape of their hometowns, it was because land and trees and forests were overtaken by suburban sprawl. Perfectly good green spaces were sacrificed for businesses and tract homes. My own family built our home in a brand new development, sacrificing "family land" for stucco, fancy brick designs and incredibly clever mailboxes that totally lacked functionality, not to mention they would fall over even if you BARELY touched it with the car. It was 1988 and the Atlanta suburbs were beginning to burst. Homes were being designed and built everywhere it seems. Homesteads and farms were sold off to developers for homes left and right...and why not...the Baby Boomers were raising families - times were good.<br />
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But the wave of change that crashed over my childhood and teenage years was on land already developed. Now as I drive the same path that I used to take to my best friend Jenny's house in my mom's old Audi 5000, I strain to remember the original houses that existed before they were torn down and small mansions erected in their stead. As the homes are being upgraded, the businesses for which buildings were built are long gone and have since either fallen too far from code or have been five other "concepts" since the 90's. The family-owned video store I used to work at is a restaurant, but it was three other things in between. I vaguely remember the gas station that is now a Zaxby's and an old Blockbuster became a gold exchange before settling on a dental practice. Only, one of the three dry cleaners we owned is still a dry cleaners. One is a sub sandwich chain that I recently went into and bored the teenager behind the counter to tears with my stories of the "good old days."<br />
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Even the old skating rink where I spent MANY weekends turning circles to pop music, wearing blue eye shadow, a Forenza shirt with rolled sleeves and Exclamation! perfume in the hopes that some boy would notice me...even that place has had a few iterations, one as a restaurant, before becoming a Goodwill. To me, it will always be Sparkles.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUepVt5L3Zo-8Lhm0V0Ac3xMY0Pqua0guSKLEHPI-HC4NLvrt0yhSNFQcz7_rAGaSIE8TF0bjlTDRw00gKSttrTQSQYBjKSp5FgVOceBkfUTv69uTj0XyB8rTyyUx3W52lQulphS9qFFFhV2QcyOvRBk1oVFbBggn8uVwduw2Zi0oq7jtt7xAgyJ8vw/s3941/skyler-smith-IqPbydw2rZk-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo by Skyler Smith on Unsplash" border="0" data-original-height="3941" data-original-width="2960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUepVt5L3Zo-8Lhm0V0Ac3xMY0Pqua0guSKLEHPI-HC4NLvrt0yhSNFQcz7_rAGaSIE8TF0bjlTDRw00gKSttrTQSQYBjKSp5FgVOceBkfUTv69uTj0XyB8rTyyUx3W52lQulphS9qFFFhV2QcyOvRBk1oVFbBggn8uVwduw2Zi0oq7jtt7xAgyJ8vw/w300-h400/skyler-smith-IqPbydw2rZk-unsplash.jpg" title="Photo by Skyler Smith on Unsplash" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">Photo by </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/@skyler_tv?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #767676; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Skyler Smith</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/marietta?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #767676; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />
Most days I don't really think about how much the "old town" has changed. It definitely feels more crowded. Less people that grew up here going about their day with no appreciation for it's past - and why should they care really? Most days I am too busy to look up and be nostalgic. I'm in that time in my life where full days fly by. I follow children, keep a house, a job and crawl into bed a little later than I should each night with nothing significant to show for my day except the fact that we made it. But other days, I notice it. I try to remember what everything looked like. I try to remember being 16 (minus the horrible bangs and angst) and heading out with $20 that would more than cover an entire evening of fun which might include an arcade (you see, kids, an arcade is when your screentime was managed by quarters and whether or not you had a ride).<br />
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Today we cleaned out my dad's closet. We took a lot of his things to MUST Ministries, but we took other bags down the street to Goodwill. It was overwhelming to think that almost 30 years ago, a carefree pre-teen zipped around in that very building with big dreams, bigger hair and so many ideas...and today, that woman left a piece of her dad there in that very same place. It was a sad full circle moment that I've been trying to shake all night. Maybe it was the collision of the happiest times with one of the saddest. I think my dad would have gotten a kick out of it actually - there was a moment when the building was sort of the new Houcks - and my dad loved Houcks.<br />
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The old town has changed a lot. That girl has changed a lot. The sadness I feel is because those times were good ones. The heartbreak I have is because my dad was SO amazing. On these days when I feel the weight of grief crashing in on me, I force myself to stop looking back...instead I look down, at the two children I am eternally grateful to be able to raise. It feels like a circle, because life <i><b>is</b></i> a circle.<br />
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I hope, now that it's my turn to be the parent, that I'm doing a good job. I hope I'm creating a life in a place that they are not hurried to escape. I hope they feel the freedom to leave if they must, and though the landscape will most certainly change, I hope they drive through the streets of their childhood one day smiling about all the good times. And, one day, if they have to leave my things at a Sparkles - I hope they know that it's okay to let go a little - and that THAT is where I'd want to be anyway.<br />
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Just don't forget to bring my blue eye shadow and hair crimper.<br />
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Respectfully,<br />
RachelRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-52384043354973240232018-10-20T19:40:00.003-07:002023-05-20T21:22:08.340-07:00Healthy Living for Six-Year-Olds<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"></span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am having the most difficult time trying to keep my six-year-old on a diet.</span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"> </span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know this is for his own good and I have tried to explain this to him several times, but he refuses to adhere to the aforementioned (and simple) eating plan that I have laid out for him for this particular weekend. It's absolutely the most frustrating journey to healthy living I've ever been on. This includes the healthy living journeys I start every Monday.</span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"> </span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You see, for two days, my son has been up sick all night only to then stay awake all day sneaking food out of my pantry with the stealth and skill that would school Oliver Twist. He’s a food stealing prodigy and he has absolutely no concern whatsoever for his current lack of gastrointestinal fortitude.</span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"> </span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seemed Simple. Bananas. Rice. Applesauce. Toast. I’ve seen worse diets. I’ve been on worse diets. You know what I would give for someone to insist I eat a pile of toast? With gluten? Without all seven grains sprouting? Bread that looks like Tom Sawyer whitewashed it to the color that God our Lord and Savior MEANT for bread to have. A couple of slices of America’s favorite Wonder Bread and an exercise regime that includes deep diving into a pile of blankets on the sofa with complete clicker control? That is some cardio I can get behind.</span></span><br />
<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"> </span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-eb13916d-7fff-9c4a-3b83-7cd55a5ef6ef"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If that were a real diet, cheat days begone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the reaction around here has made me realize one thing. Hell hath no fury like a kid foodie on the BRAT Diet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All weekend he’s looked from me to his plate of yellow and white to me again. He starts to cry and tell me how hungry he is. Tells me he’s not sick anymore. Tells me he’s a good boy. Promises to clean his room. Asks if it’s because he’s too young (because in addition to torturing my children with traumatic diets, I’m also a raging ageist) Makes me feel like pretty much the worst.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLO1ODvFmHazPCKw6gJCKcaIa1Guc7kOLOcyIg1ybYeSCgk64Yg3m1usqEfGc0G9gQSTph6mkcmT4nPiJK_tqXU5b3p74_l1kTJiC6ZjhZVYYeoBXkayTj11ReD31CzcdncACz6aVLRBaQm1LvbXGonr59QRei9Qx5UJ5P_JfW5_4zMsA4ppB4w4vILA/s4248/vitolda-klein-FFx2dgdyc4w-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2824" data-original-width="4248" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLO1ODvFmHazPCKw6gJCKcaIa1Guc7kOLOcyIg1ybYeSCgk64Yg3m1usqEfGc0G9gQSTph6mkcmT4nPiJK_tqXU5b3p74_l1kTJiC6ZjhZVYYeoBXkayTj11ReD31CzcdncACz6aVLRBaQm1LvbXGonr59QRei9Qx5UJ5P_JfW5_4zMsA4ppB4w4vILA/s320/vitolda-klein-FFx2dgdyc4w-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">Photo by </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/@little_klein?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #767676; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Vitolda Klein</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/healthy-kids?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #767676; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Excuse me while I pause </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mommy Dearest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m doing this for your own good,” I lie to him. Easing his gastro fussiness is my main concern I testify because that’s part of the long con I’m playing. Parenthood is nothing more than strategic maneuvers to see the long con play out to our advantage. It’s not for his own good...he’d EVENTUALLY stop throwing up whether he’s on this diet or not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m doing it for me. The BRAT Diet is my luxury. I’ve done enough laundry to last me a lifetime. I have hit my disinfecting limit. This is why I keep Zofran tucked in strategic locations on my property like a prepper would keep firearms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t do vomit for long. You can lay on my couch for two months with a cold. I’ll suction your nostrils like I’m in training for the upper respiratory olympics. But vomit? Don’t bring that mess in here. I rebuke you in the name of Urgent Care and Tide Pods. Get thee behind me Rotavirus also E. coli, Salmonella, Shigella, Campylobacter, Clostridium, Norwalk agent, and all the major parasites.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If paint came with an antibacterial finish option, I’d be at Home Depot tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">God gave me one kid with a dietary conscience who will listen to my advice and heed it, and the other...THAT kid got the propensity for gastro infections. I mean on a healthy day, I have to hide the six pecan swirls in six secret locations so the pack will last longer than it takes me to unpack the groceries. He eats and he eats. He’ll polish off a bag of chips during a fifteen minute Peppa Pig show, and his body responds by staying in the 50% for weight - because apparently, I’m not resentful enough as a person. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve pulled empty packages of goldfish out of his closet. I’ve surrendered the second 1/2 of whatever I’ve been enjoying because he’s standing so close to my plate that I’m afraid I’ll pass out from only breathing in his carbon dioxide. This kid’s passion is food. I shouldn’t complain. He eats everything. He has a wonderful palate but also, a tremendous case of hollow leg.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So when the puking flu hits the house and we have to do a palate pullback on all the foods we typically eat in the day (which is all of them), I get some objections from this perpetually starving boy. Already today, though I’ve hired armed guards to watch the pantry, I’ve managed to rescue the Halloween Candy from a serious hostage situation (I did have to shoot the hostage, or in this case, eat the Almond Joys - parenting is about the hard choices) and we’ve had to have a fairly ugly Teddy Graham intervention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So after a long day of being on sick kid patrol, that did include a few decadent snuggles, I decided to salute all the Pedialyte forcing parents who have to surrender 48-72 hours to the BRAT diet. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cheers from me, a mom perpetually on the wine diet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Respectfully,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rachel</span></div>
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</span>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-91830803861761077932018-09-23T20:05:00.000-07:002018-09-23T20:50:34.337-07:00Is It Too Much?Not too long ago I was chaperoning a field trip for my son's class. We went to a museum that had this authentic living exhibit about everyday life in Colonial days. For those people who aren't history buffs, this is a time before Cheez-its. People didn't have cars. Couples didn't get in fights over the thermostat because you either had a fire or you didn't. Also, dinner was whatever had been killed alongside whatever was in the spooky root cellar with the spiders and possibly snakes. It was a dark, dark period. One plus, kids ate everything because they literally didn't know when they would eat again.<br />
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I love history. I'm fascinated by how people lived in different time periods, what they wore, how they cooked. It's all very interesting to me. I wish I had a Bill and Ted's phone booth just to go back and see how people lived...and then jump back in and get home in time for <i>The Walking Dead</i>. Just a glimpse now...I don't want to actually do any hard labor. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/X8agSHaHsjA?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Nicola Tolin</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/school-house?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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Knowing how rough people had it though, makes me feel a little useless to be honest. As a kid, Laura Ingalls books were magical - but as an adult, the fact that Ma Ingalls never sat down unless she was darning socks, produces a little Stouffer's Lasagna guilt. I make myself feel less guilty by believing that Ma Ingalls would have made a frozen pizza at least once a week if she had had the option. </div>
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On this field trip, I was pretty mesmerized by the authentic cabins we toured and the different stations where they showed us a blacksmith shop, how to wash clothes with no Tide and how to make Pumpkin Spice Lattes from their garden. </div>
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What really stood out was the description of what kids my son's age (roughly 8 at the time) did to help around the house - excuse me, homestead. Things like staying up all night to keep the fire lit, predator lookout (this involved unsupervised rifle handling), intensive field labor and lastly, let's not forget the 10-mile marches, sometimes in the dark, to retrieve fire from the closest neighbor in the event that the family let theirs die out (also involved unsupervised rifle handling - in the dark). </div>
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And I'm standing there taking all of this in while holding a giant bottle of filtered spring water and a can of SPF 155 sunblock spray in the event that my own 8-year-old began to show signs of dehydration or was unintentionally confronted by the sun while on an overly chaperoned field trip. I have to admit, as a mother, I felt like a failure. What would my foremothers say about the fact that my little family is equipped to do nothing?<br />
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Our society just isn't about survival anymore. We don't have a lot of natural predators in these parts.</div>
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It's true though. A few years ago, parents were arrested for letting their kids walk to a park, unsupervised, in broad daylight. It's called free-range parenting and it's apparently illegal? Not that long ago, it was called, "you're 3 and 1/2 Phineas, time to go get a job three towns over, here's a lunch pail with a half a sandwich and a still twitching hog tail. You'll find some water along the way."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/sjaNnAX0UBM?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Alan Emery</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/coyotes?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out 0s; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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I mean, let's put all the life-risking stuff aside. I was born in the 1970's and I don't remember ANYONE caring about my water intake as a kid. My mother didn't know the signs of dehydration. If she had, she probably would have handed me a Tab. I would hit the door at 8am on a summer day in Georgia, play all day, never take a sip of anything except a half a glass of Five Alive at my friend's house midday out of her Smurf glasses courtesy of McDonald's' Happy Meals. </div>
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Nobody cared if I had had enough water. There was a garden hose, everyone assumed the kids would drink something BEFORE they passed out. And if you didn't - well - that's what you get. I had large water bottle for tennis matches, but other than that, I was the Phineas of the 1980's...except without a rifle...or imminent life danger. </div>
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And yet, I feel like, we are supposed to be SO cautious of everything these days with our own children: </div>
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Dear Colonial Parents,</div>
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Coyotes have surrounded the school, please send your kids to class with their loaded rifles to help protect our building. </div>
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Dear 2018 Parents</div>
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Tomorrow, Mrs. Smith's class will be heading to lunch via Hallway B instead of the usual Hallway A. This will route us past a fairly large window. We'd like you to make sure your child is prepared for all possibilities by making sure he/she has:</div>
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1. Light-colored breathable clothing as the window lets in a lot of light and heat</div>
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2. Layers in case it's chilly</div>
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3. A light jacket in case it's windy</div>
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4. A heavy jacket in case there's an ice storm</div>
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5. An umbrella and rain boots in case the window is leaking</div>
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6. A comfort item for emotional support during the change in route</div>
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7. A snack for hallway congestion which would keep us there longer than expected</div>
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8. Two forms of ID</div>
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9. Sunblock to avoid skin cancer.</div>
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10. A bottle of filtered spring water so no one DEHYDRATES</div>
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11. Will be sending a sign-up list for volunteers to chaperone the hallway change. </div>
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Now hear me well - I am NOT making fun of teachers. Most teachers are parents and EVERY parent I know wants to turn to their own kid at least once a week and say FIGURE OUT HOW TO DEAL WITH IT YOURSELF. So I KNOW that when someone else's child is whining about how they can't figure out how to tie their shoe, they are NOT coddling them.<br />
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But two years ago a well-meaning nurse scared my son into a summer of water terror with her drowning statistics. </div>
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This is just the life we live in. I think it's ridiculous but I'm STILL worried about my son's electrolytes and his back-to-school ability to communicate with the three-dimensional people after a summer of video games. I still don't like for him to walk to our mailbox in the middle of the day. I tell him to not talk to ANYONE he knows or doesn't know that's in a car or a van, talking about puppies, offering candy, AND YET I also tell him to look new people in the eye and give a firm handshake. I want him to eat more carrots. I'm sometimes afraid he'll get scurvy, even though I've never actually Googled how you get scurvy. You know...all the normal mom stuff.<br />
<br />
But it STILL seems ridiculous sometimes.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I just think there has to be a middle ground. A place where we continue to encourage kids to be brave and independent but with...like fewer black bears and dysentery. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Respectfully,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Rachel</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-7379017621797788952018-06-24T09:54:00.002-07:002018-06-24T10:29:09.331-07:00Kiefer, Sorry We Keep Missing Each Other. Call Me. Is this a midlife crisis? It feels like a midlife crisis.<br />
<br />
I keep realizing over and over again that I'm four decades into this life and there are so many things I have not accomplished.<br />
<br />
I thought I was working to get somewhere, but I think I passed it. And therefore totally missed it (whatever it was).<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23JTEddvcxtU2vBgivFomxRkr4vEPL4ZZn-pCY3KoqGhRe1qkEyZ5JOpR0PsSvPtjP4qMqjb0GBd0KHiVQ1bD8ouI8zR4bj_ZM-8ezw-V57E3cifqToBvGmPqNeb3nVbKACRDEuucT-oS/s1600/rawpixel-676881-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23JTEddvcxtU2vBgivFomxRkr4vEPL4ZZn-pCY3KoqGhRe1qkEyZ5JOpR0PsSvPtjP4qMqjb0GBd0KHiVQ1bD8ouI8zR4bj_ZM-8ezw-V57E3cifqToBvGmPqNeb3nVbKACRDEuucT-oS/s200/rawpixel-676881-unsplash.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/Ha4LzrcnjYE?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">rawpixel</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/glamour?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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It was probably because I was talking. I miss a lot of things due to talking. Or maybe I mistook it for another stat update from my Fortnite obsessed 10 year old and did that thing where I zone out and say "that's great" as he recaps his skin collection and dance move arsenal. Ahhh Summer.<br />
<br />
What started out as two months of hopeful structure, learning opportunities and chore lists has quickly melted down into 1 AM bedtimes and I-don't-care-what-you-do-just-do-it-quietly orders. Year round school, you say? *checking the "maybe" box*<br />
<br />
So anyway...as it turns out, I've had some time to contemplate, you know on those nights I'm sitting in the upstairs hallway policing room escapes and going over all the numbers for the week with my math-y five-year-old, and I've decided that I'm a complete and utter failure, which is a day ruin-er. Let's analyze all the things I planned for my life that I have thus far failed to do.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I am not an oceanographer. </li>
<li>I cannot hula hoop.</li>
<li>I am not a veterinarian with my best childhood friend, Katie and we don't live in a mansion with dozens of wild animals that run free. </li>
<li>Likewise, we didn't become best friend actresses with our own t.v. show. </li>
<li>I didn't become a Black Eyed Pea, which means...</li>
<li>I haven't won an MTV Music Award</li>
<li>I didn't meet a vampire on a pier in Santa Carla that looked a lot like Kiefer Sutherland</li>
<li>I didn't meet a cowboy who rode in a gang with Billy the Kid and who also looked a lot like Kiefer Sutherland. </li>
<li>I did not win the dance-off to become the new DTV regular much to my strict military father's disapproval. </li>
<li>I never accidentally randomly encountered a New Kid on the Block where I impressed him with my singing, acting, beauty, CPR skills, car maintenance knowledge or by saving him from a rattlesnake.</li>
<li>I was never featured on the cover of seventeen magazine on a surfboard with the caption "Surfing the World Wide Webb" with a feature story on the inside where they ask me questions and I give them disinterested bada$$ answers because I'm too famous to care. - (yes, I gave my fake media trajectory some real thought.)</li>
<li>Kiefer Sutherland, due to the unfortunate missteps listed above, has not fallen in love with me, which is really his loss and it's too late for him because I am QUITE married (I mean like, we JUST bought our second set of furniture together so...it's serious). </li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
</ul>
<div>
Hold on. I've had to pour some wine to cope with my downward spiral.<br />
<br />
I spent a LOT of the last few years feeling like I missed some boat that everyone else got on *waves from the shore while muttering resentful comments* Wasn't I supposed to have accomplished...something? I mean, like a GRAND goal of some sort that everyone could see and that would some how justify my entire existence? Was I standing at the $1 bins at Target with my $6 coffee when opportunity knocked on my door?<br />
<br />
I've recently realized though that one of the gifts you get when you lose someone close is perspective. I didn't ask for it and would give it back in a nano-second, but since I didn't get the choice, I look at it as one of God's jewels for the brokenhearted and hurting. Perspective. Sometimes you need something or someone to flip the lens of your perspective so you can really get a better look at all you seem to be dissatisfied with.<br />
<br />
And my perspective shifted to see all the things I've done in my life that no one would ever really <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0fBjPiDfiVkWQgxjcBFzxnbk1BhV2lv3uO932NyJPIU3OExIM3efmkIMpi4Pebw0Qh7Iu_VayeykB3tpqmMcfeY6K2zG2D-Zf6J3p9zkzo95qhuO8z406bmpwv-yJiI8SEeiTsSPpM5x/s1600/joshua-ness-97203-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0fBjPiDfiVkWQgxjcBFzxnbk1BhV2lv3uO932NyJPIU3OExIM3efmkIMpi4Pebw0Qh7Iu_VayeykB3tpqmMcfeY6K2zG2D-Zf6J3p9zkzo95qhuO8z406bmpwv-yJiI8SEeiTsSPpM5x/s320/joshua-ness-97203-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/Fd1YZE641t8?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Joshua Ness</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/mountain-top?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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notice. The things that I've always wanted and I've gotten. There was no mountaintop experience for the things I value most. And thank goodness - because though amazing to behold, a mountaintop moment is fleeting and once-in-a-lifetime-ish. It's all those little moments in my day and week when I was experiencing deep, exhaling joy and satisfaction. I think it's just a general appreciation of the journey...yes even though Kiefer and I have chosen different paths.<br />
<br />
Here is what I've come to value about my life recently.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>When my boys are laughing and playing together - I mean, like really laughing - not fighting, not arguing, not manipulating - but really and truly enjoying the brother relationship. I feel such deep joy watching my kids that it makes me want to burst. </li>
<li>When I start to miss being younger but then I remember how full of angst and doubt and fear I really was and I realize that from this point on, I get to enjoy life confidently and with the deep contentment that only those with war wounds (and a few wrinkles) get to experience. </li>
<li>That first cup of coffee in the morning - it's the BEST. </li>
<li>When your spouse catches you off guard with a joke and you find yourself laughing as hard as you did when you were first dating. </li>
<li>Quality time with my sister and mother. Mom has always said, "You get one turn on this earth." She and my dad squeezed every drop of experience out of their years together and true to form, she's continuing to pursue life even when it's emotionally hard. </li>
<li>Girlfriends - I think in your 30's you are in this underground bunker of child rearing and it's rare to have the trifecta of time, energy and money to spend on quality friendships, but when your kids get a little older, you begin to see the possibilities again and I LOVE the support and laughter and reality checks I get when I spend an evening with girlfriends.</li>
</ul>
<br />
All in all, I think the most exciting thing about life is always the possibility ahead.<br />
<br />
So maybe we'll look different,<br />
a little older,<br />
a little worn.<br />
Maybe we'll feel a little stiffer,<br />
resent the 20 year old on the elliptical next to us at the gym,<br />
go up a size or three,<br />
start eating for fiber, instead of taste,<br />
pick a smaller beverage on a road trip because when did I start having to pee so much?<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRjzOuvXeHFJ0bi8M1qIlXrEquh6rcrYyTmRngVV5dTwGg2znlS2JXLmkY2r1aMZjnJzhRgIEsb1NX88rLeltuR_1rN0lW4j7yMfI_8c-d3ggN3WMsJCT6wfSTl80I5MoQGNQL5ONrBze/s1600/simon-matzinger-633741-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRjzOuvXeHFJ0bi8M1qIlXrEquh6rcrYyTmRngVV5dTwGg2znlS2JXLmkY2r1aMZjnJzhRgIEsb1NX88rLeltuR_1rN0lW4j7yMfI_8c-d3ggN3WMsJCT6wfSTl80I5MoQGNQL5ONrBze/s200/simon-matzinger-633741-unsplash.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/HSy0QXIRafg?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Simon Matzinger</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/moments?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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But all that means is we have no more excuses to see life for what it really is...these amazing, heart-<br />
singing moments that sometimes catch us off guard and give us incredible emotional experiences that are the direct result from our desire to create a life of connection rather than just accomplishment. It isn't groundbreaking but we all fail to see the beauty in front of us sometimes because we have heaped a disproportionate amount of expectations about what life should look like instead of enjoying what it actually does look like.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Respectfully,<br />
Rachel </div>
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-90826994142646884792018-04-15T11:38:00.004-07:002018-04-15T11:55:17.711-07:00Make it a Mystery!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ1fvSAhEtTFjhsN7l5nlwOJhyphenhyphenjT5NObN9RMG4MP_V1-US18xcbb0xnZ9VwQv9E1j3iZi_tzvbgGrZnT__FruLEAI2CZ-1oMjwyAz8PKOAgH-dXgl0ON3PJT5wxNiRd2t8xgkSteZuiOS/s1600/makeitamystery_final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="1600" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ1fvSAhEtTFjhsN7l5nlwOJhyphenhyphenjT5NObN9RMG4MP_V1-US18xcbb0xnZ9VwQv9E1j3iZi_tzvbgGrZnT__FruLEAI2CZ-1oMjwyAz8PKOAgH-dXgl0ON3PJT5wxNiRd2t8xgkSteZuiOS/s400/makeitamystery_final.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Since firing back up the murder mystery party business, I have had several inquiries into it. I thought I'd just do a quick post and let you know what they are and you can see if it's a good fit for your event.<br />
<br />
<b><u>A little history as to why I travel around with a portable crime scene in my car</u></b><br />
In high school, I was very involved in the drama club and I was also just very involved in any kind of drama in general. I love performing and I really miss walking into an empty theater, making my way back to the dressing room and putting my train case full of makeup in front of a large mirror. I miss the nerves. I miss the energy of the audience. I am totally getting off track, but I wanted to throw a warm fuzzy reunion in this paragraph for all of my former and current theater nerds out there. The theater is magic. Being a part of it is special and it has given so many of us some sense of satisfaction in the uncertain and stressful formative years of high school.<br />
<br />
The theater is where I fell in love with creating experiences for people. This is what I love about hosting murder mystery parties. Creating experiences.<br />
<br />
Before I belt out a show tune, let me move on. When I was 19, my church singles group wanted to host a murder mystery party for like 30 or 40 people. The boxed games that you could buy were made for 8 people. The internet and all it's wonderment was not really around as it is now so everyone was trying to figure out how to pull it off. I volunteered myself as tribute. I believe my exact words were, "I can write one of those."<br />
<br />
And everyone believed me.<br />
<br />
And actually I had no idea how to write "one of those."<br />
<br />
I wrote that first murder mystery party, a 1940's themed Hollywood party called "What Happened to Roxy Lamour?" I, of course, procrastinated and cried through about 10 hours straight of sitting at the computer at my job on a Saturday while my family kept calling me asking if I was going to come home in time for the party.<br />
<br />
Somehow I pulled it off. But it was NOT pretty.<br />
<br />
Over the years I tested different themes and party sizes. Some performances were hits and some just weren't. It's how it goes. Experiencing both success and failure, while a rollercoaster, was really the only way to learn. I did all kinds of events from church functions to corporate retreats, private parties to team building events. I've had a lot of amazing people who believed in me and supported me and didn't question the roll of crime scene tape or the rolled up chalk body outline when getting in my car.<br />
<br />
Those are good friends to have.<br />
<br />
And then I had kids. And kids are a commitment (they like eat EVERY day) and I put it away entirely to start writing a blog - because I didn't have to get a babysitter to write a blog.<br />
<br />
Over the last three years, much to my surprise, I have begun to host them once again. My current niche is the civic groups and women's organizations who need monthly programming at their luncheons. I have had an amazing time working with these organizations to bring them a fun event.<br />
<br />
I have recently been requested for "take-a-long" versions of my game and those are also available.<br />
<br />
So to FINALLY get to the point.<br />
<br />
I customize murder mystery parties for any event. I work with most sizes, themes and venues. If you are interested, then let's talk. No strings.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Pricing?</u></b><br />
My prices for events where I attend as the facilitator start at $250. I can work with you at times because I love what I do, but babysitters are expensive and I don't own my own Starbucks yet. To buy a take home version that needs no alterations - as is, it is $50. To customize a take home game, I charge between $100-$200 depending on the group size and request.<br />
<br />
<b><u>How does it work?</u></b><br />
A certain number of guests at your event will become suspects in a crime. They will get their character info, event theme and costume suggestions in advance. Everything else will be given to them the night of the event. No line preparation is required. You just show up and perform. They are really fun and people tend to really enjoy themselves. I have a lot of repeat customers.<br />
<br />
If you are interested, please email me at justpeachy1123@gmail.com and I will send over an introductory client letter that lays it all out. We can set-up an initial call to discuss your event where we can talk details at no obligation.<br />
<br />
So that's it. Let me know if you have any specific questions!<br />
<br />
Respectfully,<br />
Rachel<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-67814206436939732122018-04-10T06:42:00.000-07:002018-04-10T06:48:31.749-07:00Liquids and SolidsMy grandfather used to say that there were two kinds of people in the world. Liquids and Solids.<br />
<br />
Solids are who they are. They are defined and strong. They are the type of people that you make room for because they know who they are and they aren't afraid to show it. These people are decisive. They KNOW where they want to go for dinner.<br />
<br />
Liquids...well liquids take the shape of their containers. Liquids are people who let their circumstances and relationships define who they are a little more than they should. I don't know why THEY do this. Perhaps liquids are a little too afraid of hurting other people's feelings and so they tell people what they want to hear a lot. I mean. I'm guessing this is what they do. I don't know. Me being all solid and such.<br />
<br />
I like these descriptors. It has always bothered me that I'm not a true solid. I'm a solid in certain areas, but a liquid in a whole lot of others.<br />
<br />
Stealing (Solid) - Absolutely not.<br />
Cheating (Solid) - Heck No.<br />
Cilantro (Solid) - Get thee behind me Satan.<br />
Lying About Not Wanting to Go Out (Liquid) - "Gosh Jackie, I would love to go - but I have this old war injury that prevents me from eating tapas *mutes phone to open Cheez-Its* "<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYjVMa7oapbdOYS6qJM4XM9GdbgX6ZNFI_ssQJ6OBsfy4n-XkWfIjSY-uZxPIHkVVYDfqff-j_UWk_I47VExVvbMWUniqvz26sreoN5Qys_1GiHXLPsPOhyphenhyphenTm87S2UJlcG1RMHvZI5Coy/s1600/david-clode-410073-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1600" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYjVMa7oapbdOYS6qJM4XM9GdbgX6ZNFI_ssQJ6OBsfy4n-XkWfIjSY-uZxPIHkVVYDfqff-j_UWk_I47VExVvbMWUniqvz26sreoN5Qys_1GiHXLPsPOhyphenhyphenTm87S2UJlcG1RMHvZI5Coy/s320/david-clode-410073-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/wdDFuDf9EoQ?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">David Clode</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/rock?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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As I get older, I feel like I get more solid in some areas, but there are a lot of areas in my life that I think I'm just flat out waiting for other people to come tell me who I am.<br />
<br />
But I'm 41 so...I feel like those people aren't coming.<br />
<br />
But then I got to thinking. When my grandfather spoke of liquids and solids, he was talking about people who are strong versus people who are weak. But he was from a generation without much gray area. There wasn't time for gray area. There were wars to fight and shirts to starch.<br />
<br />
But in my pontificate-life-whilst-playing-candy-crush, walmart-grocery-now-delivers-to-my-freaking-house generation, liquids and solids don't describe a full person, in my opinion they describe aspects of people. Thank God for gray area.<br />
<br />
We all have deal breakers. Things we can't fathom changing our stance on.<br />
<br />
For example, Target is pretty solid on a $.05 discount deeming something a clearance item, yet pretty liquid on the amount of open checkout lines to customer ratio. *side eyeing Target with my $5 coffee*<br />
<br />
I was just thinking the other day while I was organizing all of my secret dieting Pinterest Boards (I felt like it was a bit disrespectful to have 'Pontificating Paleo' next to 'Goin' Vegan' so I put 'Weight Watchers' - Smartpoints not freestyle - in between to keep it respectful) that there are so many things I still don't have together.<br />
<br />
Now I'm not at all proposing that we are all solids all the time, because someone else should get to pick the movie from time to time. But wait...what movie were you thinking?<br />
<br />
I guess my point is that this indecisive side of me for so long has been troubling. Like, why don't I have a solid stance on everything? Why don't I know who I definitively am at this point? Why do I not have a solid system for everything in my life?<br />
<br />
And it dawns on me...isn't a little liquid just room for growth?<br />
<br />
When I was a little girl, I wanted my grandfather to see me as a solid. And I think that I am in the way he was viewing it, but as I get older, I see the beauty in some liquid in all of our lives.<br />
<br />
Sometimes being solid means being closed off. For example, there is no speech, facebook post or 20/20 episode that will convince me that I should eat cilantro. I don't like it. Period. End of discussion.<br />
<br />
But who am I to close myself off to issues and discussions that are personal to other people? When do my feelings on something outrank another person's.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmLKsJgxUoYp-_q53wUUCUkJyPF91d5Q5KYKWeZFxqP9xKsJsyjD-a8ElTwEDm2E1PI44adptLfmctU1GpDkJkkTXMbB6V9QWcSaZqtLQGn_eLKAyrBOc4j-5zGQiCnK_b12viu2suR3C/s1600/samara-doole-380287-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmLKsJgxUoYp-_q53wUUCUkJyPF91d5Q5KYKWeZFxqP9xKsJsyjD-a8ElTwEDm2E1PI44adptLfmctU1GpDkJkkTXMbB6V9QWcSaZqtLQGn_eLKAyrBOc4j-5zGQiCnK_b12viu2suR3C/s320/samara-doole-380287-unsplash.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/ou64YSrnl4U?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Samara Doole</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/search/photos/liquid?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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People are pretty much made up of DNA and life experiences.<br />
<br />
And both of those things are very real.<br />
<br />
It makes me realize that age isn't making me more solid, it's making me more liquid because life can be hard. And the longer you are in the game, the more your heart softens. The more experiences you used to judge then happen to you and you realize you had no idea what you were talking about before.<br />
<br />
Enter motherhood.<br />
Enter a child diagnosed with something.<br />
Enter profound personal loss and grief.<br />
<br />
I'm not advocating that we become a wishy washy group of non-decision makers (sorry Congress, you do you, Boo), but we can all stand to forego a little judgement.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's hard to see the bright side of getting older. Seems like a silly process at times because our current culture celebrates youth...but then I remember my dad telling me that the thing he valued the most as an older man was kindness.<br />
<br />
And I think of all the ridiculous things that I value. And how they really don't mean much.<br />
<br />
Fluidity and kindness. The ability to mold and grow as a person coupled with caring about my fellow man.<br />
<br />
With all due respect to my grandfather, I think I won't resist those gushy parts of who I am anymore.<br />
<br />
Respectfully,<br />
Rachel<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-62950278160185777072018-03-29T20:39:00.002-07:002018-03-29T21:07:49.483-07:00Hi *waves weakly*So. Grief is kind of a monster and I resent it.<br />
<br />
I get it. It's necessary. It's part of healing.<br />
<br />
But I can't help but feel like my dad was taken and grief was what got substituted. And I don't want grief. I want my dad. My kids want my dad. Everyone wants my dad.<br />
<br />
A few nights ago, Wesley started crying because he was sad about his grandpa. It was gut wrenchingly sad but also touching to see my five year old on the autism spectrum connect the absence of my dad with his own grief. It was cool. Crazy sad, but cool. We all had a good cry. Crying is a step forward. A painful one, but a step none the less.<br />
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Afterward, I told the boys to go get in my bed so we could watch Ferdinand the Bull even though it was a school night and I wanted to watch The Fall on Netflix. What can I say, I'm a giver. Besides, they would have asked way too many plot questions if we had watched The Fall.<br />
<br />
So we popped popcorn, put on our happy faces and started watching Ferdinand. And like fifteen minutes into the movie they took Ferdinand away from his owner, a little girl who got sad. I get it, rising action and such, but Wesley started crying again, saying he didn't want Ferdinand to go because it made his friend very very sad...and he dropped his popcorn and ran out of the room.<br />
<br />
Sam looked at me and said, "Great movie choice, mom. Way to cheer us up." He's just bitter because we didn't watch Die Hard.<br />
<br />
And we laughed about it. And I realized something. Grief is consuming sometimes, but it's not going to win. We will get through this intensely sad and life jarring time and we will figure out where to go from here. <br />
<br />
My husband asked me how I was doing this week. I told him that the constant sadness is gone. The sadness now hits in odd moments at weird times, but it feels more powerful than when you are in that state of constant sadness. It's almost like your subconscious wants to put any random happiness you have in its place. Like you almost forget how the landscape of your life has changed so drastically in a very short amount of time and then you are folding a shirt your dad bought your son that he's outgrown and it sucker punches you in the stomach. And the sadness that hits now is suffocating.<br />
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<br />
So I'm not going to spend a lot of time writing about how I'm processing my feelings about my dad, but I feel weird moving onto other subjects and digging out my humor without a gut check.<br />
<br />
In January, I was talking to dad about my writing projects. I do a lot of ghostwriting. Ghostwriting is basically throwing yourself into another person's subject matter, reading enough of their current work to understand their voice and then writing things for them. I really enjoy it but it's easy to hide behind it. It's easy to trick yourself into thinking you are fully enjoying your hobby just because you are doing it...but you have to be really careful to find your terms and spend a little time doing things you simply enjoy.<br />
<br />
One of the last things dad said to me that was 'fatherly' was in this conversation in January. He said, "Do me a favor. Don't spend all your time writing other people's words. Write some more of your own."<br />
<br />
I think about that a lot. It might seem silly. But I think that if you have a passion for something, which I think a lot of us do, it's not silly. It's the thing that keeps you company throughout your entire life. Insert your own thing. It doesn't have to be writing. It can be painting, teaching, healing, educating....wine. No judgement. This is a safe space.<br />
<br />
At least twice a month I am convinced that my passion is Cheez-Its.<br />
<br />
Though this year has not started in the manner I expected nor want it to. I can't help but have that Morgan Freeman line from Shawshank Redemption go through my head these days, "get busy living, or get busy dying."<br />
<br />
I think whenever life takes an unexpected turn where mortality is involved, we realize that there is no better time to get going. If you've been meaning to do something and I can help encourage you to finally do it, I'd love the chance.<br />
<br />
So that's a small gut check from me. The May issue of NW Georgia Magazine will have a tribute to dad. The magazine was awesome about reaching out and offering me this beautiful space to honor my dad. I hope when it comes out, that you will read it. I was supposed to go Yurt camping...thank you baby Jesus in a manger I can put off camping for a few more months (is that technically camping)? Can you DoorDash to a Yurt?<br />
<br />
My entire family has been moved by how much our beloved community has loved us. Our biggest wish is to be able to reciprocate or pay it forward some day.<br />
<br />
Respectfully,<br />
Rachel<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-64123763127431786562017-12-17T20:18:00.000-08:002017-12-17T20:42:10.580-08:00Good Instead of Evil...There is something about entering a room where my youngest has been that is distinct. It doesn't matter where he is in the house currently - when he's been in a room and I walk into it, the same feeling washes over me every time.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoapkV16zzPGF5qdLAEkWMKDKb_z9GUiUIL3tvlb9VJPt4HjDKfJ8umxVWzpkv0znLoHQK5matIFNiAdoJvsjRufkRzMT-3vO8ZhxjLYus9gkP2irMJNEPdJuN4fHWegEgsg4g1aY-1Ux6/s1600/25311385_10213081025171530_5043169324784618950_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="998" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoapkV16zzPGF5qdLAEkWMKDKb_z9GUiUIL3tvlb9VJPt4HjDKfJ8umxVWzpkv0znLoHQK5matIFNiAdoJvsjRufkRzMT-3vO8ZhxjLYus9gkP2irMJNEPdJuN4fHWegEgsg4g1aY-1Ux6/s320/25311385_10213081025171530_5043169324784618950_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Eric McDuffie Photography</td></tr>
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You can call it my incredible mommy instinct or credit our unbreakable mother/son bond if you like (and I hope you will), but whatever the reason, it conjures up feelings and sensations that have no comparison.<br />
<br />
As I write this I'm trying to find the right words to describe what it's like to come into a room when a precious child born from your womb (or grew from your heart) has recently bestowed sweet hands and curious minds to an unsupervised area for even the most shockingly short snippet of time.<br />
<br />
It reminds me of something...what is it?<br />
<br />
Oh. Ha. That's right.<br />
<br />
A <i>Crime Scene</i>.<br />
<br />
The room reminds me of a crime scene. And that feeling that washes over? It's the dread you feel when you simultaneously don't want to look at something yet you literally can't turn away.<br />
<br />
<i>A room in shambles.</i><br />
<i>A cabinet door swinging on it's hinges, making a creaking noise for like the first time ever.</i><br />
<i>A chandelier spinning from a mysterious wind gust even though all the doors are closed. </i><br />
<i>Some empty container with no idea where the subsequent "spill" is until you step in it. </i><br />
<i>A worried dog with a look in her eyes as if posing the silent question, "Does this reflect badly on all of us?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It's a room full of terrifying clues and a mystery crime. One I can't figure out. I undoubtedly stand in the doorway for a few minutes like Angela Lansbury in an episode of <i>Murder, She Wrote</i>, taking in the scenery, listening to sounds and trying to figure out WHAT has taken place in this room.<br />
<br />
Where is the dead body?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/3XnE_C6pHRo?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">The Creative Exchange</a><span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #111111; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "san francisco" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "ubuntu" , "roboto" , "noto" , "segoe ui" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: nowrap;"> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="background-color: whitesmoke; box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip: ink; transition: color 0.2s ease-in-out, opacity 0.2s ease-in-out; white-space: nowrap;">Unsplash</a></td></tr>
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Usually it's the kitchen. And usually it's in pursuit of food.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
He'd rather rip open and eat shredded mexican cheese off the floor than ask me for a string cheese.<br />
<br />
He'd rather scale the pantry shelves for a sleeve of stale Saltines (because you only buy them when you're sick and never finish the package - hence the staleness) than ask me for some goldfish.<br />
<br />
He'd rather fill a decorative canister with water (with decorative holes that allow the water to spill out) than ask me for a juice box.<br />
<br />
On the one hand, I get frustrated that he is capable of such grand scale destruction. On the other hand, I get a tinge of excitement at the problem solving and independence he shows. I mean, really, WHY ask mom for something when you can stack five chairs on top of each other?<br />
<br />
Drop him in the wild and I'm convinced that he'll be fine.<br />
<br />
I think what I like about it is the show of what his powers are going to look like when he's older. You know, when he uses them for <i><b>good</b> instead of <b>evil</b>. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It's fun to watch the different strengths of your children shine through while they are young. They are taking their talent baby steps and practicing their sets on the best cheerleaders they know.<br />
<br />
Parents.<br />
<br />
And it's exhausting.<br />
<br />
I love that my oldest son, like my sister, just needs a clipboard and a small country to run - that'll work in his favor when he's older and we are short on dictators. (If you need one now, he'll be looking for some summer work).<br />
<br />
I love that he can negotiate my cell phone out of my posession using only 4 or 5 words and no visual aids - that'll be fantastic when he's a crisis negotiator one day.<br />
<br />
I can't wait until my youngest grows up and is somewhere when food needs to be located - maybe that'll be a job one day.<br />
<br />
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And don't even get me started on my son and his number obsessions...cooking times and departure estimates are hotly debated by this literal boy. Don't tell him something will happen in 10 minutes unless you mean it...he'll grab your phone and set the timer.<br />
<br />
Math guru in the making? Maybe. It makes for stressful dinner preparation now - that's for sure.<br />
<br />
I think it's amazing how we have all been uniquely gifted. It's fun to see the stuff bubble up in your kids that you KNOW you did not teach them and are qualities you don't even have. It just shows how remarkable we all are. It shows how many different kinds of people it takes to make such a beautiful world. And despite what the news says, it IS a beautiful world.<br />
<br />
So today, at Christmastime, I'm celebrating the host of gifts that our kids bring to the table. Things that make us proud. The things that exasperate us.<br />
<br />
And mostly the things that while we are reprimanding them for doing them, we are simultaneously thinking, "I cannot WAIT to see you grow up and use that skill for good instead of evil."<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'll keep my ears open, a broom nearby and some crime scene tape at the ready.<br />
<br />
What strengths in your children excite you?<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-91437383216555883812017-11-02T23:58:00.004-07:002017-11-03T00:18:45.110-07:00I'm Just Gonna Let This HappenThe older I get, the more selective I become about what parenting hills I'm going to die for. Some might think that's because I've grown and matured as a parent and I want my kids to learn about life through their own choices and experiences.<br />
<br />
And that answer sounds pretty good so I'll go with that.<br />
<br />
I am pretty sure I envisioned that I would be able to rein in my kids a lot more than I actually do.<br />
<br />
In my early years of parenting, I was motivated to control my children based on three things: 1.) their potential for germs, 2.) preventing harm to themselves, and most importantly 3.) what others would think about me as a parent.<br />
<br />
At this point in the game I pretty much just aim to keep them alive. The rest is completely negotiable.<br />
<br />
Sam spent a good amount of his childhood telling everyone about the time he spent living in the orphanage. Except he called it the "orphan image" which would have been really cute if I hadn't been slightly offended that he invented such an outlandish backstory. I spent a lot of time trying to psychologically understand why he insisted he had lived in an orphanage. Did he use a pacifier too long? Should I have co-slept? Did he need more Kale? It was finally brought to my attention that every good superhero was orphaned.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I thought about explaining that he could be a super hero AND have parents, but, really...why? Fine...be a fake orphan.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm just gonna let this happen.</i><br />
<br />
Besides, I started to enjoy the confused looks on people's faces when he would tell the story about the "orphan images" annual rock day - where all the kids were gifted rocks. Plus, it was apparent the more he talked about it - that we were a definite upgrade in the living conditions department.<br />
<br />
Sam has almost exclusively gone to bed with a stuffed animal and a blanket since birth. I monitored his sleeping conditions constantly.<br />
<br />
Last Tuesday Wesley refused to go to bed unless I tucked him in with 8 AA batteries. He kept telling me he was making a "perquit" with them. Honestly, I don't know what that is and I'm embarrassed to ask him because I'm not ready for him to know he's smarter than I am yet.<br />
<br />
Anyway, no Paw Patrol book or stuffed animal could rival the comfort that those "perquit" makers were giving him. So fine. Whatever. Sleep with batteries.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm just gonna let this happen. </i><br />
<br />
After he fell asleep I confiscated them because, well, we had remote controls to fill.<br />
<br />
Sam's first Halloween, I dressed him up as David from the Bible, complete with sheep and sling shot.<br />
<br />
<i>This year...</i><br />
<br />
Me: Sam, you aren't going to be a killer for Halloween. End of story.<br />
Sam: I want the Jason mask and the Freddy Krueger sweater...and I want some hatchets.<br />
Me: That's ridiculous. You can't mix Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. It won't make any sense.<br />
Sam: Don't you see, mom. It will make perfect sense.<br />
Me: *at checkout paying for the killer costume* Fine. Be a killer for Halloween. But if anyone under the age of seven asks, you are a clumsy hockey player...got it?<br />
<br />
<i>I'm just gonna let this happen. </i><br />
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<br />
In all fairness, David was also a killer.<br />
<br />
Look, I'm not proud that my standards have nose dived. I want my kids to be kind and respectful human beings. I want them to be happy. I will die for that hill. I want my kids to understand some important things about life.<br />
<br />
Don't be a bully.<br />
Don't believe a bully.<br />
Remember there are consequences for everything you do.<br />
Think about them.<br />
Be kind.<br />
Work hard.<br />
Be the one who is inclusive.<br />
Congratulate the winners.<br />
Congratulate the losers.<br />
Try hard.<br />
Don't quit.<br />
Not everything is personal.<br />
Listen at least as much as you talk.<br />
God is always there, talk to Him.<br />
Kill bugs so your mother doesn't have to.<br />
<br />
But so many other things, just won't matter later and if the last two years with my youngest have taught me nothing else, I've learned that it's impossible to catch, cover and control everything.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you have to say...<br />
<br />
<i>I'm just gonna let this happen</i><br />
<br />
So dress up as something scary for Halloween.<br />
Be a fake orphan.<br />
Sleep with batteries.<br />
<br />
<i>Just let it happen. It will be fine. </i><br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-54865177678414515422017-07-22T22:18:00.001-07:002017-07-22T22:40:25.687-07:00Truth over Tea<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">For over nine years, I woke up early in the morning, got dressed, kissed my kids (or sent them off to school) and left my house to go to work. I was a work outside of the house mom. I have never really minded it. My husband's schedule has always been in the evening and we've managed to juggle child-raising fairly well over the last decade of parenting. Some days it looks prettier than others.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUXvG-2HbQu6FU-nA-dcno9kmWT8EbijS2-4AjldODqcJ6ExC6J5Ezp3FRsCeIcXhWwe5hfSH_bOPcUDCnQXVyrea2tboY6Ruh9-z9uwfJAch9iA5roYAXb20Tpz33AUAqUSNi53WwE92/s1600/tea-party-1001654_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; clear: right; color: #8acace; float: right; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; max-width: calc(800px); outline: none; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.2s ease 0s;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUXvG-2HbQu6FU-nA-dcno9kmWT8EbijS2-4AjldODqcJ6ExC6J5Ezp3FRsCeIcXhWwe5hfSH_bOPcUDCnQXVyrea2tboY6Ruh9-z9uwfJAch9iA5roYAXb20Tpz33AUAqUSNi53WwE92/s400/tea-party-1001654_640.jpg" style="border: none; height: auto; max-width: 100%; position: relative;" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">Around six months ago, working outside of the home started to get really hard.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I have always had great, understanding, family-oriented employers, but I remember feeling tired, behind and stressed - even more than usual.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">Now, I have a great, cut through the crap friend named Esther. Everyone should have an Esther. We worked together at my last job and one day she came into my office to fix her daily cup of tea, and as she dipped the tea bag in and out of the hot water, she looked at me as I frantically texted some instructions to my husband and said, "You feel like you are running a household from your phone don't you?"</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I stopped. My eyes welled up with tears. She had gut punched me with an undeniable truth. She had </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">perfectly encapsulated months of stress and worry in one tea steeping sentence.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I was feeling like I needed to be home, but I couldn't be, and that was breaking me.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I had been spending months beating myself up because I was tired and stressed and cranking out a daily life that was just not a reflection of my full potential. My life wasn't working but as far as I could tell, it was my fault.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">When in reality, at that moment, life </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;">was</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;"> too much and I wasn't acknowledging it. My youngest son needed a lot of consistency that I wasn't there to give him, my dad was sick, our childcare situation was different everyday, Andy and I were barely ever in the same room together and I just felt like I wasn't giving anyone my best. I was spreading myself out in a thin, unsatisfying layer over every obligation I had, and it felt terrible.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">And I wasn't where I was needed the most. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">And all I could do was tell myself to try harder. To do better. To be more.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">After that encounter, I began to squeeze my eyes shut on a regular basis and admit to God that life was just too overwhelming. I didn't know what else to pray other than, "Something's gotta give, Lord...and it can't be my 15 year old car or my lower back."</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I didn't know how or when or in what capacity the seas were going to part and I was going to see some relief, I just clung to the belief that my motives were pure and my prayers were sincere and God was listening.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: right;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;"></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhdU5_VCt30qP59xf7eYqfSi1qu7xU4V0t8UfCDtGuGkTCsPvMPaQLqjKHR5iCZPKfA5BvKPTmZHPoy5vQ007bK0R1syi-Z8gSE4enCsyUWL9NvCpNh2N-5FnBvjzl1pLZUinrrLAwI3Z/s1600/valentine-1953779_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #8acace; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; max-width: calc(800px); outline: none; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.2s ease 0s;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="640" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhdU5_VCt30qP59xf7eYqfSi1qu7xU4V0t8UfCDtGuGkTCsPvMPaQLqjKHR5iCZPKfA5BvKPTmZHPoy5vQ007bK0R1syi-Z8gSE4enCsyUWL9NvCpNh2N-5FnBvjzl1pLZUinrrLAwI3Z/s400/valentine-1953779_640.jpg" style="border: none; height: auto; max-width: 100%; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: right;">In a very short amount of time, my life drastically changed. I got an unbelievable opportunity to work from home that came with the flexibility to focus my attention on my home and my family.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">And after a week of being a work at home mom, my house was spotless, my kids had the Bible memorized and I began making all of our furniture and clothes by hand.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">OR perhaps...</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I spent the first three months perched on the end of my couch in my pajamas with a laptop while my kids circled me like cats studying a new piece of furniture. No one knew what to do when I was home. My k-cup consumption was out of control and I think by week three I heard my husband mutter under his breath, "Is she going to get dressed today?"</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">My potty training child was indicating his accidents by simply walking into the room and screaming DAMMIT at the top of his lungs before heading to the bathroom. My nine year old didn't know what to do so he just talked to me about You Tubers for most of the day.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I did start going to the gym again but when my trainer asked me my fitness goals I told him I just wanted to be able to evacuate my house at 3 in the morning if there was a fire without getting stuck in that my-lower-back-is-hurting and I can't move pose that was a hallmark of my mornings. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">So, as it was, the transition was not magic. It took several months to train everyone on how to have mommy at home all the time. Oh, and I had to get off the couch to give the cushion a chance to recover from my butt print and I had to vow to brush my teeth. (whatevs)</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">This weird world of being a worker bee and being at home was a whole new animal that I wasn't at all sure I would do well. And honestly, at first, I really didn't.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">Yet - somewhere in the midst of working out our routines, I noticed that the pit in my stomach was gone. That I wasn't feeling frantic anymore. That I knew in the course of the day, no matter what happened, I was exactly where I needed to be.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I wish I could tell you that the calm in my house is a result of everyone </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;">knowing</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;"> that mom is home, but in reality,</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;"> I have become calmer</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;"> and that has permeated throughout our home and been just what we needed. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I will always be grateful for the truth Esther spoke to me that day over tea.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">In other news, you may have noticed my blog has undergone a face lift. I am working to fulfill my "when I turn 40," goal of writing my fingers off. I am ghostwriting a lot, freelancing a lot and trying to figure out what original words, if any, that I might have to say and in what genre I would like to say them in.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">I had a magazine recently accept an essay I wrote, which was very exciting and they wanted to know my twitter handle - I don't tweet. I have way more words to say than they will allow. But in the meantime, make a note of my new blog address - www.rachelwriteshere.com and pardon the mess.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 15px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">Thanks for reading.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #5f5f5f; font-family: "lora" , serif; font-size: 15px;">Rachel</span>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-36878482122402170182017-06-27T18:13:00.002-07:002017-06-27T18:52:54.709-07:00Cleaning Out the Garage or New Life ChaptersThe thing is - you get married and you just sort of climb into that big pot of water, next to the frog and you sit down and just hang out. And the water boils...and time moves on...quickly. You are blissfully unaware of the passing of time save for the occasional size clean out of your kids clothes. You wipe a tear when you find last years school picture or an old toy, but you overall keep working to get somewhere.<br />
<br />
It's the anticipation of the top of the first drop in a roller coaster that keeps you distracted. Life is a roller coaster. There is a top, a jumping off point. You are working to get to that crest, where you can look out with satisfaction over the horizon and hang on for the awesome ride down...<br />
<br />
Only you KNOW when you are at the top of a roller coaster. Life's top is elusive. It is the "yonder" of living. A generality that draws a slightly out of focus picture.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I used to ask my grandmother where something was, she would always gesture her hand in a direction and say, "Oh that's down yonder." I could be asking where the towels were or where the video store was and it would always be yonder. <br />
<br />
For those not southern, yonder basically means, "Look I don't feel like explaining where it is, but it isn't right here in my hand." It's yonder *flails hand in a direction* which in the case of the towels meant you just needed to shut up and go find them.<br />
<br />
The halfway point of life isn't here, it's yonder. *flails hand in a direction*<br />
<br />
You don't get there. You don't linger. You don't look around and savor that you "got somewhere" You just sort of end up racing downhill thinking, "Oh geez when did that happen?"<br />
<br />
When did my music become oldies?<br />
<br />
When did I become ma'am?<br />
<br />
When did I get to this weird space where I'm older than everyone but I actually fully believe I'm the younger one?<br />
<br />
Today we cleaned out the garage. I'm fine with it. Really.<br />
<br />
Yes, we can get rid of the crib...no problem. It got recalled like two weeks after my oldest was born anyway. Plus. Babies. Done. Check.<br />
<br />
The wagon we used one time? Okay? I was still holding out hope that we'd use it a few more times but we can't even get to it where it has been wedged in between the Christmas decorations and the Recycling bin. So fine, toss it. <br />
<br />
But then at some point I came across a bin with my name on it, and when I opened it, I came face to face with myself from ages 16-27. It was full of photo albums and notes and awards and wedding invitations and graduation paraphernalia. It was over a decade of me. Who I was. Who my friends were. What I thought. What I wanted out of life.<br />
<br />
It wasn't really about the stuff in the box, okay a little bit it was. After all, I had a fascinating hair evolution. But it was more about what that box represented.<br />
<br />
It was like getting reacquainted with an old friend. One I liked. Yes, she was a tad melodramatic and had unbelievable amounts of free time that she squandered, but she had great taste in music and most importantly she had big dreams.<br />
<br />
Somewhere over the last several years, I had simply lost track of this fiery dreamer. <br />
<br />
I honestly don't know what happened in that garage today. One moment I'm a steel magnolia of emotional memory tossing and the next I'm sifting through my sweet sixteen birthday party pictures, tearing up while hearing <i>See You at the Crossroads </i>playing on a loop in my head.<br />
<br />
Yes by Bone Thugs-n-Harmony...the battle cry of my youthful angst (perceived).<br />
<br />
It's hard to think, but my stuff is memories. And like - some are kind of distant ones. I now describe things that were 25 or 30 years ago and my kids look at me incredulously when I talk about days of no internet and no cell phones or what the heck a pager was even useful for. A question, by the way, that I CANNOT answer. <br />
<br />
Me talking to my kids about the days of yore: <i>You sent a page to tell someone to call you. Yes, that meant they had to go find a phone. Why didn't they just have a phone? Look, no more questions, okay. </i><br />
<br />
I give up in frustration as my kids stare at me in honest confusion. I recognize the looks. It's the same way I looked at my parents when they talked about four t.v. channels and a test pattern that indicated that the t.v. was off for the night or when my dad calls detergent, soap powders.<br />
<br />
They look at me like I'm a dinosaur.<br />
<br />
I am roughly 7 months into my 40's. I have two boys who are developmentally getting more independent everyday. I have fully climbed out of the storm shelter that is babyhood - where you hand yourself over at the door so you can bring babies in to the world. <br />
<br />
And although being a work from home mom means I still sometimes take a conference call while simultaneously jumping up and down on a towel to clean up the urine on the floor, (is it the dog, is it the kid? Does it even matter anymore?) I know I am staring ahead at a new chapter in my life. <br />
<br />
And I'm not at all saying that chapter is bad. I'm SO looking forward to peeing alone. I hear it's amazing. <br />
<br />
It's just strange. And these nostalgic, emotional feelings hit me when I'm not expecting it.<br />
<br />
Like when we're trying to clean out the garage and my husband is asking me if I want to keep the Christmas tree skirt and I'm clutching a picture of myself with freshly crimped hair and big hoop earrings wondering what happened to my Caboodles. <br />
<br />
So I guess...here's to new chapters, Salt and Pepa being oldies and clean garages.<br />
<br />
Cheers, Gen X-ers, we can rock this half of our lives too. Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-64479250612951246712015-12-27T22:10:00.000-08:002016-06-20T10:16:12.393-07:00Josie<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">The afternoon of March 18,
2015, we were driving home from the Marcus Autism Center. My brain was
pulsating with a stress migraine so severe I could hear the pounding in my
temples and at the same time my thoughts were racing as it dawned on me that
the future hinged heavily on what decisions we made immediately for our son. I
wasn't even sure what those decisions were. I was plagued with doubts.
Could I do this? Could I be THAT mom? To advocate. To educate myself. To
intervene. "I am not your girl, God," I kept thinking. "Why
would you entrust such a responsibility to me. Wesley deserves someone more
Type A. It's not me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Andy and I were silent, but
I knew we were thinking the same thoughts. In our entire marriage, we have
never had a more silent or more deafening car ride. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I will give you some relief
and say, I haven't felt anywhere near that devastated since that day. In fact,
I refuse to look at any part of our journey with Wesley as devastating. Just so
you know…we're great. He's great. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s our precious Aspie. And he's smarter than
all of you reading this…combined. So there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">But back in March….In the
midst of all I was trying to recollect from the advice we were given that
morning, words like "socialization" and "involvement" kept
popping back into my brain. I was handed pamphlets and told to sign up
for classes that I would never be able to afford or get to since I had a job
and I just didn't know what to think, feel or who to call. I was trying to
recall all the details I was told with no written report in my hands since it
wouldn't arrive for a few weeks. What had they just said to me? I already felt
like I was failing my child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">But I did recall one thing
from that day…it was a big one. I knew I had to create opportunities for
socialization. So during that car ride, I began to make a mental list of all
the things I could do to make our world more social. For Wesley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And that's when the
weirdest, most off-track,
this-will-never-pass-through-the-Andy-level-of-approval,
I-think-I-have-been-drinking, thought came into my mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">We need a dog. </span></i><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I was convinced of this. As
ill-timed as my ludicrous plan was, I imagined all the social scenarios a dog
would create for us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Looking back on that day, I
am highly amused that of the 25 hours of therapy, speech intervention,
preschool classes and play therapy…my one take away was the full conviction
that the Turners needed a dog. Not once did anyone at the Marcus Institute tell
us to leave there and go straight to the pound. But that was indeed what I was
thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">By the time we got to our exit, I'd gotten up the nerve to mention it to Andy. So the very first
thing I say to my husband after the day we had had was my firm belief that what
this situation really needed was a puppy. A chewing, barking, pooping puppy.
That's what I said. To a man who is highly allergic. Well played. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I'm surprised he didn't
drop me off somewhere along the road. I knew my husband wanted no part of a dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Here's a little background
on me and the animal kingdom. I hadn't owned a dog in 25 years. I <i>liked</i> dogs
but I didn't love them. I like petting dogs. I like looking at cute pictures of
puppies. But in our entire marriage, I had never even indicated that I wanted a
dog to my husband. The thought never crossed my mind. Mainly for three
reasons. John Paul, J.J. and Sandy. I had had three dogs in my
lifetime. 1.) John Paul - my mother's poodle who was brilliant and devoted to
her. The dog didn't care anything about me. 2.) J.J. - the psychotic poodle we
got after John Paul died who looked like John Paul but was actually quite
crazy. Also - chased cars. 3.) Sandy. Whenever I would open the door to let
Sandy out, I would run to the left and Sandy would run 47 miles to the right. I
would spend the rest of my life trying to get that dog to come back home. Also
- chased cars AND stole food. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">So…I didn't have much of a
Lassie childhood. Besides, my sister had three dogs. We could always
visit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">In fact, I was so blah
about dogs that if you had told me that your dog had advanced medical issues and
was going to need to be put to sleep, my first thought would have been that
THAT decision was going to save you so much money in the long run. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I know. I'm not proud
of myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Besides, I'm in the midst
of being reformed and I owe the entire dog-owning world a gigantic, humble,
eyes-to-the-floor apology. I am ashamed. So so ashamed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Needless to say, Andy
thought dog therapy was a bit of a crazy first response to our day. I so didn't
blame him. The idea was 50 shades of crazy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I put the thought aside. It
was not a good idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">But in secret, I couldn't
shake it. I wasn't sure if there was a reason for this or if I might be one of
those people cracking under the pressure of recent stress and my only symptom
was hair-brained ideas like complicating our already complicated life with a
dog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Sometime in the next three
weeks, I was outside playing with the boys when a woman walked by with a
medium-sized black curly dog. I am not in the habit of noticing dogs, but
I am in the habit of talking to absolutely every person I see. Always. No
exceptions. Amen. So as I was meeting this new neighbor, I noticed the dog,
Oliver, watching my kids. Oliver's person told me that he was interested in
playing with the kids, would that be okay? I said that it would and I
watched as this rather large dog was released to play. I was amazed as I
watched him dance around my kids wagging his tail and being so gentle I
couldn't take my eyes away. Dogs are supposed to jump on people. Oliver
didn't jump. He was so agile and careful, but completely enamored with the boys
as they played. I was completely taken by this large dog's demeanor. Oliver was
amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I hella NEEDED an Oliver.
STAT<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I found myself asking about
the breed and the breeder. THAT, my friends was when I was told that Oliver was
an Aussiedoodle and was bred by a woman in Blairsville who has three autistic
sons and found this breed to be amazing as service and therapy dogs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I froze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">What? Stop talking to me.
Are you serious? What-you-talking-'bout-Willis?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I didn't say any of these
thoughts to her because…well, crazy shrieking neighbor lady. But see...I
do believe in divine situations and I couldn't see how that wasn't God setting
something amazing up for us Turners (just wait until I tell Andy what God is
doing to try to get us a dog). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">The next day, I called the
breeder and we spoke for an hour. An HOUR. We were new besties. Actually she
was letting me in on the abilities of these dogs to help in stressful
situations. I had no idea that autistics could benefit from service dogs. I had
just been hoping for a source of conversation in our home and a reason to be
running around and interacting…but this…do I even need this? I wasn't
sure, but I was so excited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Surely the path was going
to be made clear in the next few days…we'd come this far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Three weeks after our visit
to Marcus, my son broke his femur. Let me correct myself…I broke his
femur. It was a freak fall. It was, of course, not intentional, but the mommy
guilt train is not interested in details…it only sees the cause and effect of
the injury. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">My son was in a body cast
for seven weeks because of me. He didn't deserve this. What more can we heap on
this precious two year old? I was devastated and I spent many nights reliving
the fall in my mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Kid with broken femur,
guilt-ridden mom trying to keep it together. Dog forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">We spent 7 weeks caring for
a child that couldn't move. Couldn't go to therapy. Couldn't socialize.
Couldn't go to school. Isolation. Isolation. Isolation. This was NOT what
he needed to thrive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Cast eventually came off
and we spent three more weeks getting him to walk again. Then it was time for
IEP meetings and new schedules. Through all of this my son was amazing. My
husband and I grew a lot closer through our recent trials of Marcus Center and
femurgate and we moved ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I began to read up on
Neuro-diversity and how my son's gifts should be celebrated. He had an uneven
skill set and while we worked with him to answer simple yes or no questions, I
would do a double-take every time I walked into a room where he had spelled
words like "lopsided" and "pumpkin" in scrabble tiles.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I struggled a lot
internally as a mom over this last year. Who to tell about Wesley. Who not to
tell. How to handle responses I didn't like from people who didn't understand
or just meant well. How to be proud of my son without attaching a disclaimer or
limitations to him. How to make peace with something that I was also actively
fighting. Where to place any of this neatly on a shelf in my mind...He's
going to be a code breaker for a special government organization one day…who
cares if he gets his pronouns confused. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Life went on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Then, as I feel God does sometimes,
he brought my crazy idea…my insane first thought in a crisis, back into my life
in the last few weeks. I was anticipating that we could swing a dog by
summer...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">When God is ready
though…move over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I'm here to tell you that
within a matter of 4 days…we had our Aussiedoodle. Every obstacle fell away.
Every. single. obstacle. All of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">The breeder had one puppy
left from a litter that was perfect for us. She was a little older so she was
cheaper. We worked out a time to drive to Blairsville to get her. My sister (could NOT have made this happen without my amazing sister) helped outfit us non-dog people to bring home a puppy. We were even able to make her an early gift from Santa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And Andy. My wonderful
husband. The man that along every step of this journey with Wesley was 100% onboard. The
man who trusted my judgement. The man who was not tempted by his own ego to
push away the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind. The man who goes to
work early and stays late. The man whose life was a lot calmer without a dog.
This man…told me to go for it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">The plans I have for this
sweet girl are big. Maybe they are unrealistic. But I prayed for this dog
for nine months. There were nights I would say to God, "I know this is
crazy. I don't see how this can happen. I have a terrible track record with
training dogs…but I want this. I want this for Wesley. For all of us." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And He made a way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And so now we have
Josie…and we are reformed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16.0pt;">We are dog people.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-277100058185294872015-03-01T19:46:00.000-08:002015-03-01T20:24:11.587-08:00The "A-Word" - Part 2I wrote a post with a,"to be continued…," attached to the end of it, and I have been debating on whether to do a formal update. As I've thought about it and also after being SO impatient for subsequent <i>Back to the Future</i> installments, I know the struggle and I need a proper follow up on our visit to The Marcus Institute (for the THRONGS of readers I have). You guys reached out to me in amazing and loving ways and you just simply don't know how much it has meant. We feel so loved. <br />
<br />
How to give this update has been tricky to figure out.<br />
<br />
Because, here's the thing - I don't really have any intentions of blogging about Wesley's journey. I'd rather go back to posting humorous essays twice a year (the rate I'm currently going) about how I can't find my vacuum cleaner and how much I hate Moon Dough (like it's awful).<br />
<br />
There comes a time when your child stops being an extension of you and they have their own secrets and stories to tell. In other words, one day, this ceases to be OUR story and becomes WESLEY'S story. <br />
<br />
And I'm not here to be his spokesman, I'm here to be his advocate. <br />
<br />
Inspiration for writing for me is usually born from a form of frustration and a passionate desire to share my experience in the hopes of connecting with people. It's how I get my random thoughts in order too. Usually that's with humor. But maybe something I'm navigating resonates with someone out there who feels alone. With Wesley in particular, it has been a lot of connecting with people I already know who have walked this journey and have given me critical pieces of information that I honestly don't know I would have had without it. <br />
<br />
- The former coworker who introduced me to Babies Can't Wait.<br />
- The old school friend who's son sounds so similar to mine and offered me paragraphs of information about what I was about to encounter on the path to possible diagnosis.<br />
- The people in the community who have embarked on IEP journeys in the schools systems of their own and have lent me some great advice. <br />
<br />
I like these connections. I find the camaraderie to be comforting and the advice and guidance to have been critical in all the steps we've taken to this point. This year has been emotional and confusing and I have learned a few things along the way with a LOT of help. <br />
<br />
But I also want to be careful about shining a light on a member of my family who will grow up one day and read this on his own. No judgement meant…just personal feelings.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless (is that one word…cuz, I feel like it should be like five), at our appointment, it was determined that Wesley is smart, sweet and perfect (obviously) but that he exhibits a few red flags of ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). We will go for a full day of structured testing in a few weeks where we will receive our special "map of Wesley," a diagnosis (if it applies), a game plan for intervention and a ceramic dalmation (just kidding…there's no dalmation - I know, I was disappointed too).<br />
<br />
This appointment was VALIDATING - They acknowledged that he was a tough case to call. The appointment was REASSURING - I was finally told by an expert that up until this point, I truly HAD been doing everything I could. The appointment was POSITIVE - because whatever we call it, Wesley is and is going to continue to be just fine.<br />
<br />
At first glance it appears that he's so engrossed in his world of letters and numbers and his own play that he tunes out. Not always, but enough to miss out on some important social and cultural learning you pick up in your life (seriously, I'm pretty sure I'm doing this very same thing when I play Candy Crush). <br />
<br />
Then we come to the label. "Autism". We won't know if we claim that word until the 18th of March. I have to be honest that at this point, I don't really care if we do or if we don't. Wesley is a person, the label is merely a means to an intervention. A classification that is incredibly beneficial but fails to adequately describe the extraordinary son we have. If you have an hour or twelve…I'll bore you with the amazing-ness of my boys. <br />
<br />
Still there is that word. Autism. It can mean a lot of things. If we come to own that label, Wesley lies on a seemingly very high-functioning part of that spectrum. That fact is kind of important and kind of irrelevant all at the same time. There are families who have kids who lie on a more challenging place in that spectrum. We could have very easily been one of those . Those kids are just as special and important and unique. And I feel weird celebrating Wesley's placement for any other reason than simply his road in overcoming vulnerabilities might be a little easier.<br />
<br />
There is a very good chance that he could get a diagnosis now and then not meet the criteria for it in a few years. A lot of great research suggests that THAT is due to early intervention. - This is why I beg, plead and implore you to put aside your fears and seek out answers if you see anything that makes you wonder about your own children. The earlier the better. If you need support - I'M HERE - but don't stay paralyzed by fear and don't get discouraged.<br />
<br />
There is also a chance he doesn't meet the the criteria to be on it now. We simply won't know until he gets structured testing.<br />
<br />
The truth is, Wesley now is no different than the Wesley that I held on September 11, 2012 (all 10lbs of him). We've just had the pleasure of getting to know him better. I'm the one that has had to do the changing. I've had to come to terms with a word that, quite frankly, used to scare the hell out of me. I've had to open my hand wider…to not clench so hard because my expectations of my kids are laughable. They are their own people, with their own strengths, with their own weaknesses. They are never going to be a reflection of my plans for them - at least I hope they won't. I am here to merely help them unlock the people they were designed to be. To teach them about life. To lead them to a loving God. To keep them from juggling knives. To BE THERE for them as they grow up in a world that is strange and confusing and cruel and also wonderful. To help them understand that they are a contributor to this world and not a victim of it.<br />
<br />
So while Autism is a spectrum...the love of the parent with a child with Autism…or any other special need - is not a spectrum. The trajectory of all of our children's lives has to be their own. We must help them blaze their own trail…in their own way. That trail may look extraordinary. That trail may look ordinary. That trail may look strange or sad to others. But whatever form it takes, the potential to do great things on that trail is not something that can be measured by anyone.<br />
<br />
In closing, please forgive me if I don't answer the big "Is he or isn't he?" question on the 18th on the blog. It's not that I want to keep it a secret. It's merely that it's no longer the point. One day Wesley can choose to keep that fact to himself or wear the descriptor proudly. If you want to know something and we are Facebook friends, feel free to ask me, as my mother would say, "behind the wall," in a private message. Or email me: justpeachy1123(at)yahoo(dot)com. I am thrilled to share my experiences, hear great advice or know that we are being thought about even a little in your busy lives.<br />
<br />
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-18393448731998390392015-01-29T10:40:00.002-08:002015-01-29T11:00:27.915-08:00The “A-word”<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On February 24<sup>th</sup>, we are taking my youngest son,
Wesley, to the Marcus Autism Institute to see if he needs some further testing.
So as you read our story, please know that I don’t know if Wesley is on the
spectrum. I am writing this because I think it’s time. I am writing because
being in Autism limbo is confusing and maddening. I am mostly writing because I
don’t want anyone out there to be afraid to explore a potential diagnosis or
intervention because of fear or because someone tells you they are too young. I
have already begun to see the benefits of early intervention. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In February of last year, I noticed my youngest standing
about an inch away from license plates…a lot.
He was getting to an age where it was becoming apparent that his speech
was delayed, but honestly, that was the least of my worries. It was his fascination with letters, his
constant counting and his tendency to isolate himself that secretly terrified
me and kept me up late Googling. After
failing the 18 month MCHAT (the autism screen), my pediatrician recommended
first addressing his chronic ear infections before jumping to any
neuro-conclusions (totally made that word up).
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So within a week, he had tubes put in, adenoids removed and
allergy testing done. In terms of ear
infections, it was a game changer. To date, he hasn’t had an ear infection in
almost a year. Also, he began to isolate
himself less, he attempted more words, his balance seemed to get a bit better. What remained was his obsession with letters
and numbers and no real interest in communicating. Always sweet, giggly and laid back – I didn’t
see anything that I thought was considered “on the spectrum”. I mean, I have a Masters in Googling and what
not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We began the Babies Can’t Wait process for his speech delay. This is a state offered program that offers a
free evaluation for kids showing delays. If you qualify, the therapy is
affordable. I would recommend it to ANYONE in the state of Georgia. Wesley got evaluated in July, qualified for
the program and we began speech and play therapy in August about a month before
he turned two. At the start of Babies
Can’t Wait he knew 13 words and ten of them were the numbers 1 - 10. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few weeks in he had a language explosion. He went from a few words to all of them. I began to relax. Autism left my mind. An idea that had once terrified me seemed
preposterous now. He was talking like
crazy. But what I would soon realize is that he was doing more repeating than
communicating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went to his follow up ENT appt. When it was over, the doctor looked at me and
asked if I thought my son’s behavior was <i>normal</i>. I felt my heart sink to the floor, but I
tried to play it cool. I knew he had
some quirks. We ALL have quirks. He told
me to make an appointment with the Marcus Institute. Two is a good age to go I
remember him saying as I tried not to cry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did end up crying in a parking lot to my husband as I was
giving Wesley to him to take home so I could go to work. He grabbed my shoulders and said words that I
won’t ever ever forget, “None of this changes who he already is, Rachel. THIS
is not cancer. THIS is not fatal. WE can deal with THIS. Whatever IT is.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
love that man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Later that week, I relayed the ridiculous interaction with
the ENT with his play therapist. I
looked at her and said, “I mean, are YOU watching him for Autism?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She nodded her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She nodded her head?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">OMG I have given my
child Autism. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few weeks later, I took Wesley to an after-hours
pediatrician. He literally wouldn’t talk
about Wesley’s upset stomach because he was too busy commenting on his
toe-walking, on his lack of eye contact. All I wanted was a prescription but he
wanted me to know that Wesley had some characteristics of a child with Autism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wasn’t sure how to process this. It was now October and I
had been afraid of Autism since February. All the people who knew him on a
medical/therapy level, told me he showed characteristics. All the people who
knew him on a personal/educational level told me he was a typical two-year old.
I was exhausted. I was stressed out. I was so done thinking about it. Every
time Wesley did anything, I would think to myself, “Is that an autism thing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When really, it was just a Wesley thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And as my wonderful girlfriends reminded me on a desperate
FB thread I started, Wesley was the happiest kid they knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>He</i> wasn’t a bit
upset about what we all thought HE had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was around that time that I realized he knew the
alphabet. It was the next week that I realized one night he was sitting in his
car seat spelling the word <i>train.</i> He
was barely two. After <i>train</i> came <i>snow, stop, Wesley, frog, lion, dog, dad,
ice, key, </i>etc. It was fascinating. I
soon counted about 40 words that he could spell, identify when spelled and read
off of a page. Trust me when I say that I wasn’t working with him. He was
spelling words my 7 year old struggled through. His play therapist called it Hyperlexia…and it
can be a splinter skill of autism or it can be its own thing. It was the one bright spot “red flag” wedged
in the am-I-doing-what’s-right-for-my-child world I was in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Wesley is a bright, sweet, funny, laid back and happy
kid. He’s goofy and silly in ways that
leave Andy and I in stitches. He cuddles with me where my first, I am in charge
of the world, child never did. He sleeps like an angel, rarely throws tantrums
and is never happier than when we are leaving Target and he can scream out the
numbers on the check out lane signs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We have heard the word “aspergers”, “mild” and “high-functioning”
as it relates to him. The statement that took all my fears away was when I was
wavering on this Marcus appointment and my pediatrician looked at me and said, “Rachel,
do this now. Have him evaluated now. If
he does have Autism, at this age with intervention, I’m not going to tell you
he can be cured of it, <i><u>but he can overcome
it.”</u></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Andy and I are in a good place with this. We have had time
to digest and discuss and agree on what’s best for Wesley. We’ve been doing it for a year. We have
adopted the mission statement that we will do whatever we can to eliminate
frustration and roadblocks for learning long term. If that means Wesley gets a label, then so be
it. We have also discussed the possibility that we will go to Marcus and pay
money for people to tell us that Wesley just doesn’t really have anything to
say to us. Both would be fine and neither would change all the things about
Wesley that we already know. We all have
challenges in our life that we have to overcome. Wesley is no different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have had a wonderful community of people reach out, pray
and simply share their input. In fact, I
have learned the most helpful things from other people who have been there and
done that. That’s why I’m unafraid to
share this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If Wesley is on the spectrum, we will have a lot of things
to learn and decisions to make. I am a
bit overwhelmed at the thought and so I would appreciate good thoughts and
prayers on the 24<sup>th</sup> that we will listen and understand what we are
being told. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And pray for sweet Wesley. His best interest is at the forefront of our minds and hearts. God chose our two boys to be ours and, like all of you, we are in this for life. He is one of two of the biggest blessings we have ever been given. Andy and I would do anything for these precious boys. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Through this process I am learning to allow fear its due
time but let resolve quickly overtake it so you can focus on doing what’s best for your
children and your family. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And in all things, we thank God for his presence in our lives. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rachel </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-44719226156426848272015-01-01T06:48:00.000-08:002015-01-01T11:46:33.619-08:00A Night Without the Kids<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You get back to the house
after dropping your kids off with grandma. New Years in the house by
yourself. You have been looking forward to this for weeks. Tonight
you are going to get caught up with your life, have the quiet to think to
yourself and get really ready for 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Walk into the house, remove
your coat and savor the silence for about 10 minutes. You don’t know what to do
first. You are overwhelmed with options. You have a running bucket list
of things you want to do when you get control of your home again and you
literally don’t know where to begin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">But you are excited…because
the undeniable truth is that at some point tonight you, my friend, will get to
pee alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Tonight you are going to
have the quiet to finally whip the house into shape. Christmas decorations will come down. You will make your
purge, donate, return bins and get a jump on that resolution to declutter your
home for good. It’s going to be heaven. But you’ve got time for that…you
need some downtime too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Maybe you’ll watch some tv
first. Who are you kidding…it’s time for those yoga pants. Go get them on if
you aren’t already wearing them…always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You walk over to the remote
control and hit the “on” button. Dora immediately begins screeching
orders at you. “Not this time, you pint-sized, screeching like
nails-on-a-chalkboard, type A banshee. You have to find your own
crap.” You begin flipping channels. Several hundred channels of
options and you can’t wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Maybe some House Hunters?
There’s a marathon on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Or perhaps you’ll watch a
movie with a lot of profanity…just because you can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You could watch the 24-hour
crime show channel. Ring in the New Year with a little “Momsters: When Moms Go
Bad.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You scroll the
channels for a full 15 minutes looking for something to catch your eye. What the heck
did you used to watch? At one time you had complete clicker control, and
you were an expert at show choosing. But now you act like you just
arrived in this century and you’ve never seen television before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You finally settle on the
evil mom show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You grab your phone because
tonight, is the night. You will play candy crush at full volume. Without
the fear of little feet running up behind you and plucking it out of your hands yelling for the Super Why! game. You settle back in your chair of choice,
put your feet up, half listen to moms going bad while you crush candies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">At some point you’ll get
into the hummus but pace yourself dear…the night is young. It’s only 5pm
and you won’t start getting drowsy for another 45 minutes at least. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Even though you are enjoying
yourself, there is that voice in the back of your head reminding you what a
huge, lame waste of time all of this is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">It’s a good thing we don’t
listen to that hussy. Crush those candies, girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">The next few hours are a
blur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You decide to get going and
go through some of the kids’ toys while they are gone. Got to make room
for the mother load of incoming Legos and V-tech cars and tracks that are
sitting in the hallway from Christmas. You'll throw out toys your kids will never miss and have that playroom looking Pinterest ready in no time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<br /></div>
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you are now just sitting in a bean bag chair in the playroom, playing slots on
your tablet and watching moms go bad…still. Someone ordered Jimmy
Johns. It must have been you. Taking bites in between spins, you
resolve that you are going to get to the next level of Wizard of Oz slots
tonight if it kills you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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art of time suckage. But any minute you’ll get up and start cleaning and
organizing like Martha Stewart and June Cleaver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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are waking up on the couch. There’s a half eaten bag of pita chips, and an open
container of hummus on the floor beside you. It’s 6:30 in the morning on
the first day of 2015 and you are having a super lame, non hangover “Hangover” experience as you try to
piece together your super wild night. Christmas decorations are still up, your butt print is in the kids new beanbag chair and every tv in the house is on the Investigation Discovery channel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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the fact that you had the freedom to stay up late and sleep in doesn't mean you are cable of doing it anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA;">You wonder how the kids are. Gosh, you
miss those little guys. </span><span style="font-size: 9.0pt; mso-fareast-language: JA;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-63789342047342763652014-10-14T19:54:00.001-07:002014-10-14T20:31:36.023-07:00Humans love <div class="MsoNormal">
Ugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lately it feels like I need a serious pair of waders just to
trudge through the bad, the very bad and the devastating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suffering. Pain. Loss. Inexplicable grief. It’s everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A grown son, just starting out in life, lost in a car
accident today. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple, carrying a baby with a devastating prognosis,
still making the most of their pregnancy milestones while praying for a
miracle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A beautiful girl robbed of the future and abilities, with parents
who are determined to make the most of their remaining time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s everywhere. And it physically feels heavy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t need to happen to you for you to feel it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m always moved by the love that immediately shows up and
surrounds a family who are watching something tragic unfold in front of their eyes. Their worst nightmare coming true. It’s
like I get so disenchanted with humans at times but then I see people carrying
pain with their friends. Feeling it with them. They drum up support. They anticipate the needs of
their loved ones and get on the ball to meet them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are in this life together and in times like these, we
have two choices to make. We can conserve our love or we can share it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to say…I see an awful lot of sharing going on around
me right now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a beautiful bright spot in the midst of overwhelming
pain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Humans don’t leave behind their weak. They pick them up and
they stay strong for them. For as long as they have to, they carry burdens
alongside those they love (and if you’re from the South, they bring you chicken
casseroles which is pretty darn nice too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not calling any person weak here. People going through a
difficult time are most definitely not weak…but they are singularly
focused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could you not be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are emotionally spent. And they are
putting the needs of the family member suffering more in front of their own
than they ever have in their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the point of the post – well, I wanted to write out my
feelings (which always helps me sort through them) and I wanted to share an
opportunity to support a family that I know going through something unbelievably hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layla is four. She was given the unbelievable blessing of
being born to a wonderful loving family. Her parents adore her and she has an
amazing big brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After spending an
extended period of time trying to understand Layla’s seizures, they were
punched in the gut with a diagnosis that no parent should ever ever ever have
to get. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like – excuse my bluntness – but this diagnosis can kiss it.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are her parents standing in full armor ready to fight
whatever battle needs to be fought to heal her – but there’s no battle. There’s
no fight. The outcome is out of their hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>I cannot begin to comprehend that level of helplessness.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friends. I’m asking you to help if you can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the thing is…the battle now has to be
this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To make the most of
the time they get. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All those outings we plan to take our kids on one day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Disney trip we are going to wait just a
few more years for. Those plans we make for the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Future. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>They don’t have that. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please visit their website and if you can give, awesome. If
you can’t, maybe there are prayers you can offer up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe, you can look around at the people
in your own life and community who are dealing with a monster that they are struggling
to defeat…and you can share your love and strength with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take their hand and be what I know humans to be…compassionate and loving people who surround the suffering with love and support.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To this sweet family - I want you to know that I am praying for you as often and intentionally as
I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the sweet friends of this family – you guys are
amazing and I am moved by your love and care. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to that sweet little girl bravely fighting a battle very
few people have ever had to face…you are a Warrior Princess and there
are a lot of people who want to help you cram all the life and love possible into these precious years. You have touched so many already. Stay brave, sweet
girl.</div>
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7643696087677902971.post-25498503211790829312014-09-01T18:56:00.001-07:002014-09-01T19:02:48.264-07:00Week One: Short Story SeptemberHappy Labor Day. <br />
<br />
And by the way, this completely feels like day one of filling out a brand new diary. It will be interesting to look back and see if<br />
<br />
1.) I even write four short stories. I mean…I AM. I AM going to write four short stories (I'm using The Secret)<br />
or if<br />
2.) I blog about any of it. <br />
<br />
But I swear to you, people of the blog reading world…I am totally writing. I am NOT watching a Shark Tank marathon.<br />
<br />
But if I WERE watching a Shark Tank marathon (hypothetically speaking) it would be because I've never had any desire to watch any episodes of this show until I sat down to write my story tonight. <br />
<br />
Can you say, "SQUIRREL?!" <br />
<br />
Seriously, I did do a little pre-Short Story September reconnaissance so I know the story line of what I'm going to write about and started writing on Friday so I kind of feel, as I used to say in college at midnight, the night before exams while watching The Carnie Wilson show, I'm WAY ahead of the game. <br />
<br />
So far, my takeaway is this…<br />
<br />
What I have noticed as I take my idea and try to put it in written form is how laborious writing can be. It's been kind of a long time since I wrote a short story. My ideas in my head are AMAZING. They are fast-paced and quippy. Sometimes, thinking of a story line in my car can near bring me to tears…which really confuses the Starbucks baristas in the drive thru…but writing them down? Arranging the details on paper…crafting dialogue…all those quotation marks? Well, I'm finding writing is less of an art and more of a test of endurance.<br />
<br />
When I write a blog post, an article or personal essay…it's really just a quick stream of my own thoughts…there's not a whole lot of editing that goes on there. If you know me in person…you kind of know that I am the person I write about in my blog.<br />
<br />
But this is a different animal. <br />
<br />
It's a mental game. That's why the more I dive into this field, the more I learn and the more I pursue…well, the more forgiving I am when I finish a terrible book because I think…"but they finished it. They actually wrote things down until they were done."<br />
<br />
Who am I to believe that my stories are any better, because, I haven't even taken the time to write them down.<br />
<br />
I guess being a writer in your head is kind of a form of rejection avoidance.<br />
<br />
But I challenge you…even if you don't write…even if it's something else that you want to do but don't. Go out and do it. Don't just pursue things in your mind. Pursue them in person. So you may be terrible. Almost guaranteed you'll be terrible at first. I try to teach my son that he's not going to be great at something the first time he tries it. Chances are, most things we do at first, WE WILL SUCK AT! I tell him to keep trying.<br />
<br />
How can I not also take that advice?<br />
<br />
So this is week one. I am starting to draft my first short story. I am going to try to remember this:<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">"I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so later I can build castles." ~ Shannon Hale</span></span></div>
<br />
I love that quote. Take the stress out of the first draft…write it all, as it flows. Do not stop to edit, keep writing…get all the sand into the box you can…you'll be so glad you did when you go back to edit it.<br />
<br />
I am not going to blog every day…I'm not Doogie Houser. I'm just going to pop in from time to time, as I avoid writing, to tell you how it's going. <br />
<br />
I have two amazing lady writers, Ann and Rachel on this journey with me…it's not too late to join us. No one is posting anything for public view unless they want to. We don't even need to read it…just join us for moral support if you would like to.<br />
<br />
Also, I have a pretty fun <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/rachelwt/writing/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Pinterest Board</span></a> dedicated to writing that you are welcome to check out. <br />
<br />
I'm amazing at hoarding other people's advice. I do go through my board and try to read all the articles so I can weed out the links that go no where, but I'm sure a few have slipped past me. <br />
<br />
Happy writing,<br />
Rachel<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05373471690653816263noreply@blogger.com0