tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19173653208218083872024-02-19T12:11:04.651-05:00(In)significant Detailmaking it up as I go since 2004Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger593125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-42700444695242044602022-03-22T16:17:00.001-04:002022-03-22T16:17:38.349-04:00Namaste<p>I'm standing at a surprise birthday party chatting with a dear friend after the big <i>surprise! </i>moment has occurred. </p><p>"Well, this is an above-average Sunday night," she says, as we juggle plates of cake with our cocktails, giggle at the custom balloons with our pal's face smiling out at us.</p><p>"I usually go to yoga on Sunday nights with Annie," I say. "We started going again after Christmas, and now it's been our thing: 5:30 class, and we come home to whatever dinner Jason's made, all glowy and zen for the week ahead. Last week her friend came along with us, and this week she's there right now with two friends --" I pause, mid-realization. "She and I used to go together, a mom-and-Annie thing, and now she's going with her friends; <i>it's a metaphor."</i> I look at my friend with big eyes, and she, one of the most compassionate people I know, looks back. Says nothing. Smiles helplessly.</p><p>On a walk with Jason a couple weeks ago, I told him I was probably going to be a little bit sad all the time for at least the next six months. He looked at me sideways, cautiously.</p><p>"Could you at least . . . wait until she leaves in August or September to get sad?" he asked.</p><p>I thought about it for a second. "I don't think so," I said. "It's already started." It's lurking around the edges of everyday moments. I've started staring at her for longer than necessary when she's doing homework at the dining room table, noticing how the round profile of her cheek is still identical to the curve of her toddler face, smelling her head surreptitiously when I can get close enough to her on her couch (she loves this, as you can imagine). I've gotten sentimental about the stinky socks she leaves on the floor around the house after practice, about the smell of her perfume, about the sound of her footsteps coming up the back stairs before she bursts into the house after a long day. </p><p>Are there still moments, possibly daily, when a skirmish erupts and our voices get louder and louder as we parry and interrupt and raise our eyebrows across the kitchen island? There are.</p><p>Are there others, when we end up talking in the hot tub so long our fingers prune, when I happen to be upstairs when she's getting in bed and I scratch her back until she's almost asleep, when she shows me a TikTok she and her friend made and we laugh so much and watch it three times in a row? There are.</p><p>Same as it ever was, I know, and if I forget, I can read back through the things I wrote when she was three and had to be carried home from a playdate down the street under one arm, when she was five and heartbroken over the last day of kindergarten, when she baked her first cake or spent the whole day building with Legos or set a school record at the state meet or wrote the sweetest thank-you note to me for helping her with her college essays.</p><p>There are days when I'm dazed with gratitude for what we crammed in. I'll see a photo of her, age 10, hiking in the dunes under a resplendent sun, or her, age 13, eating dinner in a Parisian cafe at dusk, or her, playing the piano, or her, reading in bed, or her, chopping vegetables, and I think <i>thank God we did that</i>. Thank goodness those experiences are all tucked inside her, Russian nesting dolls of people and places and stories and skills she can take with her out into the world.</p><p>Other days, I feel panicky, start making mental lists (sometimes actual lists!) of books she has to read or documentaries she needs to watch or little bits of knowledge I suddenly worry she won't have when she needs to call on them. Does she know how to check her bank statement? Should I find her a self-defense course? What have we forgotten to teach her?</p><p>Sunday afternoon, before the party, I semi-accidentally fell asleep in Annie's bed for twenty minutes. She came in from outside, found me, and, in a rare moment of unforced cuddling, laid down next to me on top of the comforter. </p><p>"Awww," I said, half asleep, cognizant even in my drowsy state that moments like this are rare and about to be rarer.</p><p>She held still for a minute, and it was just the sounds of our breathing, in sync, the way it is during class when we begin in child's pose, our mats next to each other. Sometimes I sneak a look to my left and marvel at the strong, lithe, sinewy body, give thanks for the strength and poise and inner knowing she's cultivated over seventeen years of practice in the real world, plus a few dozen classes next to me.</p><p>She held still for a minute, and it was just her long, blond hair in my face and my arm slung around her side. Then: "You're going to miss me so much when I'm gone!" She popped up and laughed. "I'm leaving for yoga," she said. "Can one of my friends use your mat?"</p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-49601197971690375752021-03-17T15:35:00.001-04:002021-03-17T15:35:05.327-04:00Pandemic Spring Deux<p>Last week marked the one-year anniversary of the date the world as we knew it screeched to a stop, so now we're doing things for the second time around, slightly differently: masks, always; grocery lines, still; family time, all the time. The crocuses are coming up in our yard, and it's St. Patrick's Day again, and I'm thinking about how to celebrate Easter for the second time during this strange season. </p><p>Most every day of this last year, I've walked like it was my job. Excepting a break in January and February when winter kicked in and I stuck to the spin bike and treadmill in our <strike>basement</strike> Luxurious Home Gym, I've logged well over 10,000 steps a day, even getting obsessive enough about it to occasionally realize I'm short at 9pm and start doing laps inside my house to reach my goal. I'm on my third pair of Nikes. I've fallen hard for podcasts, and for a couple favorite walking buddies.</p><p>This morning was no different. I headed out, the sun slanting through the bare trees, noticed the first spring flowers poking up. Anna Quindlen's voice was in my ears and the geese returned noisily to the lake as I walked around it. There was a Gatorade bottle and a granola bar on a bench, nestled together with a note taped to them that said "Danny." </p><p>I thought about the people I know who are sick right now, the big and little griefs of this year, Annie's college applications, what to cook for dinner. I thought about my faraway friends and how much I want to see them. I gave thanks for the little things that shine a light out of this mess for all of us: vaccinated dinners with my parents, soccer games with masks and elbow bumps, scientists and doctors and teachers and administrators who have crafted a good, hard path forward. I've felt stuck this year -- I'm sure I'm not the only one -- both literally (at home except for a lucky summer up north and one glorious week in a rented house on Anna Maria Island at New Year's) and figuratively, creatively. Like I'm not sure what to do with myself much of the time: walk, read, clean, get groceries, cook dinner, repeat. </p><p>Meanwhile, the sun is returning, getting stronger every day. And I'm hoping for a little more light to see by as we chart a path forward.</p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-36375362458448304142020-04-29T14:11:00.000-04:002020-04-29T14:11:11.418-04:00Quarantine, Day 47<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
It's me on the side porch, still in workout clothes from my daily epic walk, grateful for the sunshine, the warmth, and the salad I just ate straight from the bowl while Annie did her math beside me. I am <i>guiltily</i> grateful, though, which is my one of my new normals: guiltily grateful for this Great Pause, for the lazy mornings and my family close and the lack of hustle that this situation has bequeathed. Since we’re healthy, and so far our savings is holding up, this pandemic has meant homemade bread and no alarm clocks and lots of podcasts and family dinner and Office marathons and naps and books and so much time it’s hard to describe. We’re rich with time: to create art, to let cinnamon rolls rise, to start each day with coffee together, to practice yoga for a full hour, to mix a cocktail before a phone call with a friend, to soak in the hot tub on the chilly nights and then come inside to play games and make sweet little peanut butter cups. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not always – not often – sunshiney side porch, happy hours, laughter, and ease. It’s just as often teenage angst, a family bickering over burps and loud chewing noises and wet towels on the floor and whose turn it is to clean up the cat barf. It’s everyone trying to be in the kitchen at once, it's someone constantly making tea and leaving the honey on the counter, it’s flour on the floor and loud phone-talking and no privacy ever and arguments about nail polish and Boggle words. It's another of my new normals: <i>This is never going to end. </i>We're trying to give grace and second chances, to be gentler with each other. When the wheels come off every 9th day or so, I remind our little quarantine pod that nobody is being their best self right now. <i>Why do you keep saying that, Mom? </i></div>
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It’s a gnawing anxiety about when normal will return, and what normal will even look like when it does. It’s one grieving a soccer season while still doing her ball work in the front yard, the other missing the buzz of a track meet but still lacing up her shoes every morning. It’s knowing without exactly knowing that we won’t, actually, be getting on a flight to Switzerland in June. It’s wondering when we’ll ever fly again. It’s my heart breaking when I think about the lives lost, the lives scraping by at the margins, the systems and the individuals who are suffering in all the ways we’ve been mostly able to ignore until now. It’s mainlining news first thing in the morning and last thing before bed even though all the podcasts say not to, and it’s the small bits of wisdom that keep popping up in different places, over and over, until I notice them and squirrel them away on a scrap of paper or share them in a conversation with a friend, ten feet apart in her front lawn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s what’s saving me right now: yoga teachers who keep sharing their online classes with absolutely everyone, the resilience of my girls, the generous spirit and culinary creativity of a husband who’s suddenly always around, the text threads with dear friends and occasionally their faces on a screen, the way people walking and running are keeping their distance but almost always saying hello and smiling when I meet them on the path, the spontaneous little acts of generosity in our community and our world, the smart scientists thinking so hard to create a way forward for everyone, Kelly Corrigan’s BYOB happy hours, an almond thingy from a friend for no reason, the fresh flowers I add to my cart whenever I brave the system for the Trader Joe’s run, French jazz during family dinner, sunshine, books, hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-6517126009754610832014-10-27T21:16:00.000-04:002014-10-27T21:16:32.738-04:00Behind the ScenesI haven't written about this at all, but since September I've been involved in a unique leadership class in my city, where I get together monthly with thirty-some other local leaders and we learn about the challenges and opportunities in our area from a systems perspective. Each month has a focus (city history, diversity and inclusion, education, health, etc.), and the goal is that by the end of the year, we'll come away with a network of smart, connected people and some good information about the needs of our city, and that we'll each be better equipped to figure out how and where we can make a difference in the future.<br />
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All of this to say, I found myself in the passenger seat of a cop car on Thursday night as part of a fascinating shadowing experience before our November class on public safety. I'm not going to try to summarize lessons learned, but I wanted to write down some moments and memories, and this is the best place I can think of to do that. I've changed or abbreviated names and any identifying details.<br />
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*****<br />
<br />
I've arrived at the station at 6:15 p.m., donned a bullet-proof vest, met Officer W and the K-9 companion B, who barks his head off at me each time I enter and exit "his" squad car, and we're off to our first stop, a house on the west side where a search warrant has already been used to enter a home where someone was dealing drugs. Before we get there, a team has already been inside, served the search warrant, secured the house, arrested the dealer, found most of the drugs -- and, somehow in the chaos, shot and killed a dog that was living in the home.<br />
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W and I make small talk on the way there. He's married, a dad, been a cop for 14 years. Calm, good sense of humor, tells me I can literally ask him anything I want for the whole night, stay as long as I want up until his shift is over at 6:30 a.m., stay in the car or get out, whatever. He warns me not to try to touch dog B, who will quite literally try to bite my fingers off if I reach through the screen that divides us from him. I try to act unfazed by this.<br />
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Officer W has me wait on the sidewalk with the supervising officer while he takes B inside to sniff out any remaining contraband. I make small talk with him. How long has he been on the force? Twenty-nine years. Where are the people who were inside? In the back of that SUV, handcuffed. Who's that woman across the street, pacing back and forth? The owner of the home, who wasn't there when the search warrant was executed. She's not the dealer, but the people who were dealing were living in her house, and now she'll lose her home. She's section 8, he says, and she knew what was going on. What happened to the dog? He tried to attack the SWAT team. He says he loves dogs, has one at home. In his 29 years on the force, he's only shot a dog once. Hated to do it, but the dog was coming right for him; even the dog's owner agreed it had to be done.<br />
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Officer W comes back out, puts B back in the back of the car, says there was a lot of blood in there. Let's go.<br />
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*****<br />
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We're poking around the southeast side when the next call comes in. It's another drug bust, this one just a mile or two from my house. It's dark now, and Officer W uses his spotlight to find the address, but I see the house with its door off its hinges and all the lights on before I see the house number. We park, get B out and put his harness on, and Officer W tells me to wait on the porch while he searches a car, then heads inside.<br />
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The glass from the door frame shattered when the police took the doors off its hinges to enter and it's all over the front porch and the entry. It was a beautiful old door, very much like what's on the front of my 1930s bungalow at home. Inside I can see an older black woman with gray hair in her housedress, sitting on the couch, crying quietly. The house is modest but clean and well-decorated, with candles on the coffee table and houseplants, and it actually looks a lot like my grandparents' house except for the framed pictures of Martin Luther King, Jr. that decorate the living room walls.<br />
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One of the SWAT officers, a woman with a mask covering all of her face except her eyes, asks the woman kindly if she has any tissues around. The woman shakes her head no, so the officer returns with a roll of toilet paper, which she sets on the coffee table after offering it to the woman. The old woman continues to cry silently while six or seven officers root through her belongings. They open every drawer, take out each box, look inside the cupboards and under the couch cushions while the dog goes methodically from room to room. The cops chat with each other quietly, jovially while they search and the woman just keeps crying and I stand there feeling helpless (who will fix that door? Will they just leave the broken glass? How can this grandmother possibly be a drug dealer? Why did they break down the door?), feeling like something is vaguely, awfully wrong. I try to silently telepath genuine empathy to the woman as she cries, find myself praying one of the Anne Lamott prayers, <i>Help, Help</i>, until Officer W reappears. I never see the older black man, who's back in the kitchen, but as we drive away W tells me that an undercover officer bought crack from him just yesterday.<br />
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*****<br />
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A CPS/DFS employee has requested back-up at an apartment complex; the employee is going to try to talk to "mom" about the violent incident between mom and dad earlier in the day that landed both of them -- and their four-year-old daughter -- in the hospital with injuries. We're waiting to meet her in the apartment parking lot and W is telling me there was a homicide here last year, that this is also the place where the woman stabbed her boyfriend to death a few months ago: "Did you hear about that on the news?" I shake my head no, say I don't really watch the news. I can see televisions flickering in each of the apartment windows, and I ask whether it's safe to assume that behind each of these doors is a weapon, and W says yes, probably. He says these are the calls that can take a turn, situations that start out calm but then you're talking about removing a child from the home, or maybe the dad is back in the apartment and still angry that the mom called the cops in the first place, and you never know how things are going to turn out. It's the first and only time I feel afraid that night.<br />
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The CPS employee arrives, and we knock on the door for the mom to let us in. She's expecting us, it seems, and I stand around the corner as W ascertains that it's just mom, four-year-old, and one other woman in the apartment. No dad. The CPS worker seems sufficiently comfortable with the situation that she says we can leave, but W says we'll wait outside in case she needs us. We stand outside in the dark and the cold, and he says it's too bad, the cycle of poverty that's happening in these places. He wonders if maybe Michigan should start making assistance contingent on recipients passing a clean drug test, like they do in Florida, and I say that the main problem with that is how many recipients are minor children. He concedes. I say, what do you think the chances of this four-year-old girl are? He says, sadly, slim to none.<br />
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*****<br />
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We're cruising Eastern and we see a lone woman turn on her heel and walk back toward the shadows as soon as she sees the car. W turns right, turns right again, and circles around to get another look. "We don't usually get much prostitution around here, but . . . " he trails off, and we see her again, standing on the sidewalk, and again she spins around and starts walking in the other direction as soon as she sees our car. W drives straight to her and parks, gets out of the car to start asking her questions.<br />
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I get out (B barks his head off at me, as usual, every time he re-remembers I'm in his car) and listen as W quizzes her politely: What's she doing out here? Where's she going? Does she have any ID on her? I feel sorry for the girl. She looks maybe 20, 22, and she says she's just trying to figure out which bus will get her home. She was visiting her family and she worked all day and she can't figure out if the number 4 has already come for the last time or not.<br />
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W asks for her name, which she gives, and then for her birthdate, which causes her to hesitate for just a few beats too long. He takes it down, along with her address and phone number, and we get back in the car so he can get on the radio to the dispatcher. "I know she's lying to me, I just don't know why," he says, as he has the dispatch run her information.<br />
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"Why would she lie to you about her name?" I ask, clueless law-abiding mom of two who's never so much as been pulled over for speeding. He says most likely there's a warrant for her arrest. A few minutes later, the dispatcher responds: There is a woman of that name living at that address, but the birthdate is off by two years and the last name spelling has two letters transposed. Aha, says W. I knew it. I'm still looking at her, standing bravely in the cold dark night, trying to get home from work while this officer questions her just for walking away. She wasn't doing anything illegal, I think. She's tired. She's afraid. She's just nervous. But then again, she did hesitate strangely before giving her birthdate.<br />
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Meanwhile, W asks the dispatch to find out who else lives at that address. "That's her," he says, and writes down another name, which, when he runs it, he finds has three warrants for arrest. My eyes get big. He gets back out of the car, tells her calmly he knows who she really is and she can save herself a charge if she tells him outright. She breaks down, admits her real name, and he cuffs her and neatly puts the contents of her purse on the hood of the car while he waits for another squad car to come take her to jail.<br />
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*****<br />
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No sooner has W put away his notepad than another call comes in, a request for B's tracking abilities on the west side, where five people stole a car, took it for a Dukes-of-Hazard joyride, crashed it after being pursued, and all made a run for it when the car came to a stop. "You have your seatbelt on?" W asks, and when I say yes he guns it down Burton, sirens on and lights flashing, and we start going so fast once we get on 131 that at one point I'm smiling in spite of myself. (It's fun.)<br />
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When we get to the scene, there's a purple car with a front so twisted and wrecked, all the doors wide open, police officers milling around waiting for B to come sniff out what he can.<br />
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"People really do that?" I ask, as W puts B's harness on, "People really run from the scene? I thought that was just in the movies," I say. "All the time," says W. In fact, it happens one more time that night.<br />
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*****<br />
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Amazingly, that is not all I witnessed over the course of one evening riding shotgun with Officer W. I'm leaving out the second "driver-made-a-run-for-it" abandoned car, two routine traffic stops (he lets both drivers go with warnings), and a multi-car stakeout to look for three attempted burglars (as far as I know, no luck finding them). Around 2 a.m. I tell W I've seen more than I ever imagined and I'm ready to head home to bed. He drives me back to my car, where I remove my bullet-proof vest, shake his hand, and thank him -- but not before we've talked candidly about the new police chief, what it's like to live with a K9 dog at home, the pros and cons of dashboard cameras and voice recorders, whether or not the average citizen should carry a gun or keep one in their home, where to get good coffee, and which of our kids are the biggest pains to wake up and get off to school in the morning.<br />
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I drive home marveling at the things happening behind the scenes in the mid-sized Midwestern town I call home on a regular Thursday night in October. I drive home with the strong sense that W is one of the good guys, but that even if most of them are one of the good guys, they're ultimately engaged in a nightly losing battle of Whack-a-Mole: seize the drugs from this house, sure, and then watch the same dealer pop up two blocks over a few months later; hope the CPS worker trying to resolve an abusive situation can protect a four-year-old girl, but know the accident of her birth makes a bright future pretty unlikely; maybe get lucky and track the drivers of that stolen purple car, but know someone else is going to steal another car tomorrow night. I don't know how they do it. I also don't know what it feels like to be the old woman crying on her couch as her home is searched so casually, or to be the 22-year-old woman arrested on a street corner for three outstanding warrants, or the four-year-old girl whose parents hurt her during their fight. And I definitely don't know what the long-term, sustainable, system-wide solutions are for any of these people or their problems. But I'm grateful for the glimpse into this world, and to Officer W for keeping me safe last Thursday night.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-80740841044348544742014-08-08T11:05:00.000-04:002014-08-08T11:05:41.144-04:00Read Elsewhere: OverwhelmedFrom the book <i>Blue Mind</i> by Wallace J. Nichols:<br />
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Too many of us live overwhelmed -- suffocated by work, personal conflicts, the intrusion of technology and media. Trying to do everything, we end up stressed about almost anything. We check our voice mail at midnight, our e-mail at dawn, and spend the time in between bouncing from website to website, viral video to viral video. Perpetually exhausted, we make bad decisions at work, at home, on the playing field, and behind the wheel. We get flabby because we decide we don't have the time to take care of ourselves, a decision ratified by the fact that those "extra" hours are filled with e-mailing, doing reports, attending meetings, updating systems to stay current, repairing what's broken. We're constantly trying to quit one habit just to start another. We say the wrong things to people we love, and love the wrong things because expediency and proximity make it easier to embrace what's passing right in front of us. We make excuses about making excuses, but we still can't seem to stop the avalanche. All of this has a significant economic cost as "stress and its related comorbid diseases are responsible for a large proportion of disability worldwide."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-30292473230591713072014-08-07T22:51:00.001-04:002014-08-07T22:51:33.265-04:00Read Elsewhere: Anna QuindlenFrom<i> Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake</i> by Anna Quindlen:<br />
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"Sometimes I tell my children - well, actually, frequently I tell my children - that the single most important decision they will make is not where to live, or what to do for a living, it's who they will marry. Part of this is the grandchild factor; I want mine to have two great parents if at all possible. But part is because the span of their years will be so marked by the life they build, day by day, in tandem with another."<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-18216655854272636252014-08-06T14:18:00.001-04:002014-08-06T14:18:39.608-04:00On Not Eating Corned Beef and CabbageWe've been quietly going to another church since January. People, I know, switch churches all the time for all kinds of reasons. But we'd been going to the same Catholic church since we moved here in late 2006: both girls in Sunday School, me volunteering, Jason cantoring, a fair amount of familiar faces. And Jason and I have been going to a Catholic church in one form or another since we were married, after a few months of struggling to figure out how, exactly, we were going to meld our different ideas about God and communion and worship into something that would work for our entire future family. He grew up Catholic, I didn't, and a bunch of factors (some more legitimate than others) swayed us to choose his tradition.<br />
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The new church isn't Catholic.<br />
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I love the new church so much I could almost cry just thinking about it.<br />
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*****<br />
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You know how some people make a very big deal out of eating corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick's Day? Well, maybe you don't, but I do, because I live with one. Jason has little - if any - Irish blood in his background, but he loves to buy a giant corned beef sometime mid-March, get his hands on a can of cabbage or two, and boil up a big, stinky Irish dinner for the holiday, even if he's the only person in our family who will eat it. He genuinely loves the taste, and he's adopted the tradition as his own. There's something joyful and meaningful to him about celebrating the holiday that way. He likes to have a few guys over, carve the beef into slices for reubens, and watch March Madness basketball. He likes the way the meal reminds him that spring is just around the corner. He likes how it smells and how it tastes.<br />
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In other, more Irish parts of the country, I imagine there are whole Irish families who annually celebrate in much the same way. It's part of their culture, and their grandmother or dad has been cooking this meal on March 17 for as long as they can remember. There are probably people in those families who don't necessarily love the taste of the beef or the smell of the cabbage, but they look forward to the holiday because of the tradition it represents and because it's a tie to their heritage. They eat the dinner. And even if the specific food is not their favorite, they likely enjoy the familiar celebration.<br />
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*****<br />
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The Catholic Church had become like corned beef and cabbage to me. After over a decade of practicing the faith, it had never come to feel familiar. I had never been able to embrace the tradition it represents or connect with its culture. In addition, I had not been able to embrace it as an outsider, either; I don't genuinely like how it tastes and smells, it's not joyful or meaningful to me, and I wouldn't want to adopt it as my own.<br />
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Here's the thing: because I didn't genuinely enjoy it, and because I wasn't connecting with it out of familiar tradition, I had stopped eating it at all. I'd forgotten that there was a time in my life when I looked forward to going to church, when I genuinely enjoyed the traditions and connections, when I left church feeling like I'd been gathered around the table at my grandparents' house and was going back out to the world, fortified for the week and reminded of how loved I was. So I didn't want to go, ever, at all, period.<br />
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*****<br />
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I have plenty of friends and family who find joy and meaning in the Catholic church, either because they genuinely appreciate the doctrine and worship style or because it's been a big part of their cultural and familial tradition for years. It's their home, or it's their adopted home, and they find joy and meaning and delicious sustenance there, and I am so very happy for them about that. But as our girls grew older and as Jason and I thought more about the messages we want them to hear and see, the Catholic church wasn't working for us.<br />
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So a few months ago we went to not-a-Catholic church again for the first time in ages. We've been going pretty regularly. And we never leave without a deep sense of gratitude that we spent an hour there. I remember the first time we were there for communion and the minister gave a little spiel that went something like, <i>We don't presume you to be Christian in a certain way; it is simply our hope to be Christian to you. And that means that absolutely everyone is welcome here, and that anyone with any shred of belief is welcome to join us around this table</i>, and I could have wept on the spot with relief. The rules and dogma and doctrinal scoldings at our old church left me feeling resentful, beaten down, and defeated. The Catholic church, when asked, "What are you sure of?" replies: "Everything. Fall in line." But here - here! right in our city - was a church that, when asked the same question, replies: Barely anything. But come figure it out with us.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong; I like rules: speed limits, bedtimes, ask-to-be-excused-before-you-leave-the-table, pay your taxes, wait in line, be a good neighbor. But when it comes to God, I've long gone on record as being a little suspicious of anyone who seems to be too sure about anything. It is a MYSTERY. Who among us can really know much for sure beyond the Greatest Commandment (Love God) and the second, "like unto it," (Love one another)? Why raise our girls in a church where they, no matter how holy or wise or effective a leader, can't lead because of their gender? Why endure doctrinal scoldings during sermons about things that we never agreed with in the first place? Why remain a part of a church that wants to silence dissension, keep people away from the table, and offer communion based on a set of narrow parameters?<br />
<br />
From now on, we'll be over here, eating at a table that nourishes us, celebrating the hol(y)days in a way that makes better sense to us, creating our own little family traditions.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-78369888676713440562014-06-17T17:06:00.003-04:002014-06-17T17:06:32.701-04:00Notes From CampShe finished 4th grade, finished another soccer season, performed in the end-of-the-year piano recital. She's nine going on ten going on seventeen and we're technically required to call her a fifth-grader now. She has braces. She was awarded the "Fantastic Friend" award by her teacher at school, and "Best Technical Skills" award by her soccer coach, whatever that means. She's had an iPod touch for a year or so, for music and a camera and silly games, and she lobbied us for months to enable the texting feature, which we finally did this week on a trial basis with much trepidation and after multiple conversations about Responsibility and Trust and The Internet is Forever, so now she and her friend can use all the emoji while they text about which headband they'll wear the following day.<br />
<br />
Also, she's at camp.<br />
<br />
Camp, as in sleepaway, as in we dropped her off on Sunday and haven't spoken a word to her since. I didn't think this would be a big deal for me, since I've definitely been away from her for much longer periods of time (I pick her up tomorrow), and I know she's with three of her bestest friends, and I loved camp myself at exactly her age. But the complete lack of communication has thrown me -- can't I get a 60-second phone call: "Everything good? You're having fun? I love you!" -- and the house is so very quiet without her in it.<br />
<br />
Not that the absence is all bad. Because in spite of the fact that she can still pass time by coloring, possibly still believes in fairies and Santa, and spent a big chunk of her first day of summer vacation playing an invented game with Jemma involving scooters, maple seeds, a sidewalk-chalk-drawn map on the driveway, and bad guys, she's moving into the teen-ish years more quickly than I can believe. The last week of school, she had an honest-to-goodness fit about her hair, which looked exactly the same as it has looked every other day of the last year, and declared it "square" and ripped her headband out and threw it on the ground. For the first time this school year, she actually got a little worked up about tests ("Quiz me on the state capitals one last time, Mom!") and she started faux-complaining about a boy or two in her class. I brought her to one of Ben's lacrosse games and after the game was over the two of them had a few moments of painful awkwardness, complete with strange voices and total lack of eye contact, before they remembered that they're friends who have known one another since they were born and went on talking and laughing as usual. She's moody and talks back and stomps off and is 100 percent a tween.<br />
<br />
Before she left on Sunday, Jason and I tucked a few notes into the clothes she had packed in her duffel bag for her to find later. It was Father's Day, and as I was hiding a little blue note among her t-shirts, I was remembering the way my dad used to do the same thing for me each year. I don't remember what a single one of his notes said -- I wish I had one still now -- but I can easily envision his spidery, all-caps handwriting and the little smiley face he always drew.<br />
<br />
On Sunday, I had talked to him on the phone earlier that day, and he told Annie to have a great time at camp, and I wish I had remembered to talk about the notes with him when I wished him happy Father's Day. I always loved finding them, always felt loved and treasured when I thought about my dad remembering to tuck them in. As Annie grows up and away from us (grades and boys and camp and texts), more and more I think our role is to step back and watch her learn (and try, and fail, and try again) while we coach and encourage from the sidelines. I kind of can't believe I'm the person tucking the notes into the camp duffel, but I'm hoping she remembers it on a day next week or next year when she "hates" us, and maybe again in 20 or 30 years, when she's doing it for her kids.<br />
<br />
And I can't wait to go get her tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-89922562279127112712014-02-10T11:48:00.001-05:002014-02-10T11:48:49.965-05:00BeatriceMy grandma passed away yesterday. She was my mom's mom, the grandma I was closest to growing up. The one who had us over for sleepovers and let us shoot BB guns off the back porch at leftover utility line flags. The one with a huge backyard with a clothesline and a basement with spare bedrooms where my brother and I slept. The one who loved crossword puzzles and spoke German and Dutch and wrote me long letters from Florida in the winter, with spidery handwriting and drawings of the layout of their condo and maybe five or ten dollars inside. The one who was always doing dishes or wiping the counter. The one who served Ritz crackers and Schuler's bar cheese on Sundays when we went for coffee after church, who poured me iced tea out of a brown Tupperware pitcher. The one who came to all my birthday parties, hosted our Christmas Eve gatherings, went on our annual summer camping trip, cooked me the best fried potatoes ever with the container of bacon grease she kept under the sink. The one who came to the hospital to hold baby Annie on her first day of life. The one who canned peaches and pears and made strawberry jam and drove a school bus for disabled kids.<br />
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She was smart, stubborn, fastidious, faithful, and serious, though I remember her laughing a lot too. She drank coffee from morning to night. She smelled like lipstick and lotion. She had Alzheimer's, like her own mother did, and she hasn't been the same grandma to me for at least five years now. I brought her flowers and ate cake with her on her birthday in October. I saw her last weekend and I was stunned. She was less like my grandmother and more like a baby bird, lying in bed, unable to talk, unable to eat, opening her eyes off and on when we spoke to her or held her hand. For the last week, the image has been with me as I go about all the things I go about. As I was falling asleep, I was thinking <i>My grandma is dying</i>. As I stretched my hamstrings in downward dog, I was thinking <i>My grandma is dying</i>. As I hugged and kissed the girls when they got home from school, I was thinking <i>My grandma is dying</i>. As I took a bite of food, laughed with a friend, wrote an article, drove my car, shoveled snow, talked to my mom on the phone, read to my daughter before bed: <i>My grandma is dying</i>.<br />
<br />
And now she's gone. She leaves behind my grandpa, her husband of 64 years, a number that is incomprehensible to me, and her four children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. I am at once guiltily relieved that she is no longer suffering in that bed and incredibly sad that she is no longer in the world with me. I'll never hold her hand again. I'll never smell her smell. Two months ago, I still had both my grandmas; now I have neither.<br />
<br />
I have friends who have lost parents, siblings, unborn children. This -- me losing my grandparents in their 80s and 90s -- is not particularly tragic, I know. It's simply sad. So for today, I'm trying to get down the good memories as best I can before they fade. I'm trying to find the threads of these two beautiful, smart, funny, strong, stubborn women in myself and in my girls. I'm trying to remember that, in the word of a favorite, Ray Bradbury, "no person ever died that had a family."<br />
<br />
"Important thing is not the me that's lying here, but the me that's sitting on the edge of the bed looking back at me, and the me that's downstairs cooking supper, or out in the garage under the car, or in the library reading. All the new parts, they count. I'm not really dying today. No person ever died that had a family. I'll be around a long time. A thousand years from now a whole township of my offspring will be biting sour apples in the gumwood shade." - Ray Bradbury, <i>Dandelion Wine</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-47909301834809722312013-12-31T17:47:00.002-05:002013-12-31T17:54:24.406-05:00Year End, 2013It seems like, after <strike>weeks</strike> months of being absent from this space, I'd be bursting with things to report: lessons learned, moments savored, anecdotes recorded, adventures had. Instead, I find myself in the last hours of 2013 with not much to say. Not much to add, really, to a very busy season that went by in a blur.<br />
<br />
Since I started working in an actual job at the end of the summer, my weeks have flown by in a new rhythm of life: Mondays are for cleaning, getting groceries, and running errands, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are all about writing, editing, and publishing a weekly issue, Thursdays are largely for meetings and various planning and management issues, and Fridays are a catch-all before the weekend appears. Email, once a fun link to the outside world, has become a whack-a-mole nemesis, something to be checked constantly and responded to multiple times a day. Writing, once a creative outlet for a brain that was subsumed with the details of mothering, has become a paid part of my existence. I'm responsible for a website that thousands of people read. I've met heads of foundations and city government and companies. A staff reports to me. I hired an intern. All these things sound like things someone else would do, and yet they are things I have done in 2013. I mostly love it.<br />
<br />
Last week, Jemma lost her second front tooth, turned seven, and got her ears pierced in quick succession. She went from being a snaggle-toothed little one to a Big Kid in the blink of an eye, her new earrings glinting in her lobes, her new quiet confidence obvious in the photos I took on the 27th as she opened her presents. She's ripping into new piano songs daily, eager to practice and quickly catching up to her big sister. She has not lost her love for the Boxcar Children books, but she's branching out, too: Magic Treehouse, Nate the Great, Cam Jansen, and plenty of animal-related non-fiction, too. She had an All About Me week at school during December. I went into her classroom to bake with her, and I sent in photos for the bulletin board. She had to answer some standard questions (favorite book, favorite place, etc.) and under "I am special because . . . " she wrote, "I am special because I have a kind heart." Truer words never written.<br />
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Annie is blossoming into a curious, thoughtful, creative person. She notices everything. She has gobbled up fourth grade, and has been learning some good lessons about time management, studying, friendship, and responsibility. Her fall was full of soccer, and she was named captain of her team as much for her work ethic at practice as for her scrappy play during games. She's fast, smart, and tough, and I love to watch her figure life out. She'll spend hours at a time designing Lego houses (not from the books, but from her own brain), playing the piano, creating "training" courses for the kitties, and crafting bracelets and folders and god-knows-what from various materials she hoards in her bedroom. She's reading Harry Potter, singing in the school choir for the first time, and just learned to breathe to the side while swimming freestyle.<br />
<br />
Jason and I fall onto the couch (or the porch furniture, or the hot tub) at the end of the day, just barely able to speak clearly about bank balances and car maintenance, holiday plans and vacation reservations. We've loved the last week: plenty of time to sit and watch the fire (truly plenty on the three separate times our power went out!), plenty of guitar and conversations and eating fudge and seafoam and watching Arrested Development. Six months ago, we were just getting back from Paris. I'm so very grateful we got to go there this year, and I actually dream about being there very occasionally and daydream about being there even more often. There is a small part of me that wants to live there, and you never know: it might prevail.<br />
<br />
This fall, my annual college girls' weekend trip took us to Charleston, SC, a city I've now decided I'd be happy to retire to, and for some reason, this year was an extra-good dose of togetherness and excellent conversation, perspective, and eating. At a time when things were a little confusing here at home in the social realm, it was a solid reminder of the value of old friends and a lovely little getaway from the weekly responsibilities of being a working mom.<br />
<br />
My grandma passed away a few weeks ago. She was 99 years old and had been begging, "Lord, take me now!" for several years, off and on. She was tough and beautiful and had a hilarious sense of humor along with a serious commitment to faith and family, and our Annie is her namesake. She was quite old when I came along since my dad was her youngest, so I never knew her quite the way my oldest cousins on that side did. At her funeral, though, I got a glimpse of a woman who, widowed young, found the courage to find love again; who, at age 65, took up golf; who, after having five kids in eight years, still managed to be a hearty and healthy mother and matriarch. I wished Annie (and Jemma) could have been there to hear some of her wisdom (we didn't take them to the funeral, just the visitation), but luckily my dad and I are still around to pass those traits on, and my grandma left behind a much-written-in Bible and many journals that give glimpses into how to be a strong and wise woman.<br />
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This Christmas, we surprised the girls with a little "clubhouse" of their own: an attic space that's been unfinished, now paneled with beadboard and wired with a little sconce and filled with beanbags. They've been holed up there for a few days with their Rainbow Looms and crayons and CD players and Legos, being lazy and cozy on their school vacation. Jason got me a Vitamix, which I've used daily and already wonder how I lived without, and I got him tickets to an upcoming concert in Ann Arbor, where we'll spend two nights sleeping in and eating out and enjoying good music together. There were, of course, other presents, but the clubhouse and the time with family were by far the biggest gifts.<br />
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I haven't been in this space much in the last few months, and I'm not going to promise to be here all that much in the future, either. Next week, we'll all dive back in to our crazy schedule and I'll dive into a much-needed detox from alcohol and red meat and sugar, and before I know it we'll be hauling out the porch furniture again and sleeping with the windows open. But I do hope 2014 holds more of the same (professional challenges, family time, travel, music, great food) and a few new opportunities, too. I hope for lots of small-but-wonderful moments. I hope for balance, and more vegetables, and spontaneous adventures, and meaningful service, and deepening friendships, and a better handle on my DSLR, and better posture. I hope we find a church that makes our whole family feel at home. I hope I remember that I only have this one wild and precious life and to seize the day with as much grace and good humor as I can muster.<br />
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No resolutions for me. Just pointing my compass in the right direction, fortifying myself with some green smoothies and hot yoga, and jotting down a list every night before I go to bed.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-42672310174627232102013-09-02T21:42:00.000-04:002013-09-02T21:42:01.250-04:00August and Everything AfterIt's the night before school starts, and I'm sitting in my office in the dark. Windows open, crickets chirping, my camera charging next to me. I'm sad to see summer go and fairly befuddled to see it go so soon. Maybe it was the two-weeks-in-Europe or the sort-of-crappy weather, but I never felt like we got into a groove this summer. I don't remember many hot, lazy expanses of time that we could fill any way we pleased. (There were some, I'm sure, and I was probably annoyed by them and tried to fill them when they occurred.)<br />
<br />
So all weekend, I've been feeling a little stunned. A little emotional. A little desperate for the girls to leave tomorrow so I can finally think a thought or write a sentence without being interrupted -- "Mom! Mom? Moooooommmm?!?" -- every thirty seconds. A little panicky about how long it will be before they burst back into the house in the late afternoon. Their little outfits are lying on their bedroom floors, their new lunch bags and water bottles are waiting on the counter, their backpacks are hanging on the hooks in the mudroom. They're ready, even if I'm not.<br />
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This weekend, though, I've been replaying all the good things that we crammed into this past month. We jumped big waves with my parents at the beach. We spent a long weekend in a tent on the Leelanau Penninsula at a campground with a yoga instructor and got to soak in the sun at our favorite sandy spots. We ate at House of Flavors in Ludington, swung at the lake in Manistee, hiked through the Nordhouse Dunes to water, cozied into a booth at Harmony, ate Pronto Pups with cousins in Grand Haven, biked to Jersey Junction, made peach and blueberry crisp a half-dozen times. We spent a weekend at the cabin, playing cornhole and fishing off the dock and eating Pop Tarts for breakfast and reading in camp chairs. We went to the block party, had lemonade stands, hosted cousin sleepovers. We ate breakfast and drank coffee on the side porch. We played frisbee and baseball in the front yard. We tried to spend every possible minute outside.<br />
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This weekend, we stuck close to home: did laundry, mowed the yard, went running at the track a couple times, had friends over to watch Michigan football. We went to the home football game on Thursday night. Jason smoked a brisket and played guitar one afternoon, and we gobbled up the new downtown market two different days (tonight: filet, potatoes, cauliflower, and fresh tomatoes with goat cheese plus Love's ice cream on our crisp - all from the market. Swoon.). We picked peaches at Crane's yesterday, then spent the rest of the day at Pier Cove beach, where Annie made an elaborate castle and Jemma swam and swam until she was completely worn out. It was hard to walk back up the steps to the car and brush the sand off my feet; who knows the next time my toes will be in Lake Michigan?<br />
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Tonight we ate outside, and the girls donned sweaters (and Jemma, a hat), and I couldn't help but feel like it was the end of the season, and the end of an era. Tomorrow, when I leave them at school, I have plenty of work to come home to. I have meetings on the calendar and deadlines to meet and content to assign. I have a new computer system to master and a desk full of papers that need to be dealt with. Next summer, most likely, I'll be a "working mom," with some childcare juggling and at least a few days of the girls heading off to something sunny and fun while I edit articles or talk on the phone. I'm excited about my new gig - it's challenging and interesting work that matters in at least some small way to this community - but I feel a little wistful about "the good old days," when the girls were so small and the days unfurled at such a slow pace that I thought kindergarten would never, ever come. Tomorrow: first and fourth grade. Locker decorations. People who want to borrow my earrings and bring purses to school.<br />
<br />
Ten years ago, I was starting my last fall as a teacher. I was training for the Chicago marathon and thinking (but only just) about becoming a mother. Tonight, I'm so glad for this strange, not-quite-normal summer (older kids, new job, PARIS), and my photos show a riot of color and joy these past few months. I wish I could slow it down, and I'm sure going to miss it.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-40447808285467904422013-07-31T23:56:00.001-04:002013-07-31T23:56:11.820-04:00Good Things, July 2013I . . . what . . . where . . . . what happened to this month? I'm just sneaking this edition of "Good Things" in under the wire, and feeling sad that another summer month is over so soon. I'm stiff-arming any mentions of school supplies, soccer practice schedules, or fall clothing and hoping for a solid month of sunshine, adventures, and sleeping in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I MUST stop making these (I blame Smitten Kitchen, of course).</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A festive 4th of July!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Michigan love</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jemma playing "Cuckoo" after a shower</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhJxUTaKVL8l6cSHCj8GbQ0pkuqgkhT5QSfT0PhxODHZLVmM_ZOAHS2usE3CcR-aSqav6k2qu4XCvDmxEHQPOBKPw_lHF_Of9qfPsEApnLfOYEXQ-vSJOF8brwdmqRTBeOiPhTOtVLbFZ/s1600/IMG_6702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhJxUTaKVL8l6cSHCj8GbQ0pkuqgkhT5QSfT0PhxODHZLVmM_ZOAHS2usE3CcR-aSqav6k2qu4XCvDmxEHQPOBKPw_lHF_Of9qfPsEApnLfOYEXQ-vSJOF8brwdmqRTBeOiPhTOtVLbFZ/s320/IMG_6702.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> . . . and burning through The Boxcar Children series.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzfbEDdwLCkRA2nhbYY-4wS4zUvS-EhSKJ3ayq6fEB3DSTWZryBvce_ghhO21yZVt93b5tmpQ0V8ggb5tyhH_M5-6vSIPNViyVtqn_n-5nxeAB0W49is7oSWnClB4zhbC14lom37U0DN4/s1600/IMG_6712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzfbEDdwLCkRA2nhbYY-4wS4zUvS-EhSKJ3ayq6fEB3DSTWZryBvce_ghhO21yZVt93b5tmpQ0V8ggb5tyhH_M5-6vSIPNViyVtqn_n-5nxeAB0W49is7oSWnClB4zhbC14lom37U0DN4/s320/IMG_6712.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green beans from my grandpa's garden (also: bacon).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39OSvWQuLyOiazY8nQYUtnd8u7M5EuvC0FP-1qhqaaB-jkhT-u7LM9pH8wn1JiG2RImJPa4kDFfB-LvP1AjIDA2a2hmaKL-8oqqOzshksd6KbWQQao86GdZEoMSuLRDbf9I1HieRBR8ii/s1600/IMG_6774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39OSvWQuLyOiazY8nQYUtnd8u7M5EuvC0FP-1qhqaaB-jkhT-u7LM9pH8wn1JiG2RImJPa4kDFfB-LvP1AjIDA2a2hmaKL-8oqqOzshksd6KbWQQao86GdZEoMSuLRDbf9I1HieRBR8ii/s320/IMG_6774.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memory out on the side porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-GqUWFx2_GJH7e4lJM258mO8PYUd2ihThhPEyvSmJS1jpHmsbJ-nGNNexr0iridaucYqNBeDk8Re6gasmX4O3fo-qShb_wAj8uuwebraGQTKIiJf9v8IljADqYZeiL4OijwkXjDnWYNCz/s1600/IMG_6777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-GqUWFx2_GJH7e4lJM258mO8PYUd2ihThhPEyvSmJS1jpHmsbJ-nGNNexr0iridaucYqNBeDk8Re6gasmX4O3fo-qShb_wAj8uuwebraGQTKIiJf9v8IljADqYZeiL4OijwkXjDnWYNCz/s320/IMG_6777.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The way the play room has become the music room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJPDEBYCKeYH5683-nn1ntXXdFbKmWQLZnyeA7J8rOMskT3i0yaI86Jkwnz22QiRIXJOF704bz_Xn05BFBSw16mILmMqF1gMQlTLNRsoa6UClxmKwVCZlEqjKO5q2pI6xoaNaFQiPm8GY/s1600/IMG_6800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJPDEBYCKeYH5683-nn1ntXXdFbKmWQLZnyeA7J8rOMskT3i0yaI86Jkwnz22QiRIXJOF704bz_Xn05BFBSw16mILmMqF1gMQlTLNRsoa6UClxmKwVCZlEqjKO5q2pI6xoaNaFQiPm8GY/s320/IMG_6800.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silliness</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwUFYTfOItiwJ1x-MQYUwSqox1E2yyNnpyfsQASnL9k2AFrv0QBzcLOJ0hg_vB8TpcMSxZ9nEHIDzQgU2jozIRGQ3IJYqmkPgb2h95CEuno44-pbv4dRQKZuR8DcMgK5Ruppzl4ISHZrx/s1600/IMG_6869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwUFYTfOItiwJ1x-MQYUwSqox1E2yyNnpyfsQASnL9k2AFrv0QBzcLOJ0hg_vB8TpcMSxZ9nEHIDzQgU2jozIRGQ3IJYqmkPgb2h95CEuno44-pbv4dRQKZuR8DcMgK5Ruppzl4ISHZrx/s320/IMG_6869.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset/moonrise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SW455rlUmOgZqhOQC42HZTcTAl5Sif0rpmxpQ3IriDkQv2S9i8QO3WsBHecnzn2x-uZ24jnf7hkoVhqB1ifVTINJfyDo4uiBM-Rm80iM0McQDI82q1Ud85z4x9BCS_BfxHxnY0FGDSxa/s1600/IMG_6878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SW455rlUmOgZqhOQC42HZTcTAl5Sif0rpmxpQ3IriDkQv2S9i8QO3WsBHecnzn2x-uZ24jnf7hkoVhqB1ifVTINJfyDo4uiBM-Rm80iM0McQDI82q1Ud85z4x9BCS_BfxHxnY0FGDSxa/s320/IMG_6878.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More (healthier?) Smitten Kitchen: The Wedge Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCBOqwx0rPuD7iOqTEnDpWmga9Oro_CKQ4F1vL0NyH06eVxaCvlTPz7f2q3oP2-rxgao13PFuznJWIlG3eSNM9bCuAmbuRKe_IoTDt0x662QcJ29jHnff-7hovAM6kJAiGrZRO2dAkvnoe/s1600/IMG_6894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCBOqwx0rPuD7iOqTEnDpWmga9Oro_CKQ4F1vL0NyH06eVxaCvlTPz7f2q3oP2-rxgao13PFuznJWIlG3eSNM9bCuAmbuRKe_IoTDt0x662QcJ29jHnff-7hovAM6kJAiGrZRO2dAkvnoe/s320/IMG_6894.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scorcher of a day, spent at the pool</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA52eESLkWZE2qmRmOb2EC5OYTFB7cDXBqTVYneSSs8KHjjq3MNA-77iWf4-IDx_7GzHHdqnd7tb7FtUdHlY22c4RRuDxBDgkMwoZJIDlqB-Lujx9LRah9KzfUhngVpJNaHobpOIZKBWQE/s1600/IMG_6900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA52eESLkWZE2qmRmOb2EC5OYTFB7cDXBqTVYneSSs8KHjjq3MNA-77iWf4-IDx_7GzHHdqnd7tb7FtUdHlY22c4RRuDxBDgkMwoZJIDlqB-Lujx9LRah9KzfUhngVpJNaHobpOIZKBWQE/s320/IMG_6900.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching crickets at nature camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofymncbghgs1gheGT0HifMUOa2RzycD4n0LUC438XbsCQDX5Cr3CgWQxEAOaxFIN-uXQDIdq9wCCFswA1eLBo37u7UncEvVpadRpY9r1tfsqg7aDjy5zGv3j4aNU9Aq595govRmwnKs5m/s1600/IMG_6912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofymncbghgs1gheGT0HifMUOa2RzycD4n0LUC438XbsCQDX5Cr3CgWQxEAOaxFIN-uXQDIdq9wCCFswA1eLBo37u7UncEvVpadRpY9r1tfsqg7aDjy5zGv3j4aNU9Aq595govRmwnKs5m/s320/IMG_6912.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late-night sushi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnRHeLYAax2XUHS3zkCJCXSsClar_2ow_GNUIsFOu2yBsIO_GfBV7YYnwbmi-Pg6m7ZxKgwrqhWxV5rZ4nHGUopdtCSJarcWQpaMDKOOi4XXR1hokYWR-VxXLFnUWlUPFXZTlvUptLDzK/s1600/IMG_6926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnRHeLYAax2XUHS3zkCJCXSsClar_2ow_GNUIsFOu2yBsIO_GfBV7YYnwbmi-Pg6m7ZxKgwrqhWxV5rZ4nHGUopdtCSJarcWQpaMDKOOi4XXR1hokYWR-VxXLFnUWlUPFXZTlvUptLDzK/s320/IMG_6926.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy girl at family happy hour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBfDmd-FYQpQ-8GHuePrUcbtIt4lsCt-V4uMd2cAcJgsbgKijW4a-ohcLEQVLDN0xBnxgRmgANgZ2SJeTU87WyQrI5Mp25WSiSHIzH_EXyU_Rnx2wSMHoI4EaRbHElFsGdBzovkEK-8mG/s1600/IMG_6927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBfDmd-FYQpQ-8GHuePrUcbtIt4lsCt-V4uMd2cAcJgsbgKijW4a-ohcLEQVLDN0xBnxgRmgANgZ2SJeTU87WyQrI5Mp25WSiSHIzH_EXyU_Rnx2wSMHoI4EaRbHElFsGdBzovkEK-8mG/s320/IMG_6927.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ditto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39q0hBA6C2q_n-TwVdWF7CScvKMSOVNavnmXDer9gy-8soFWWCD7DfF0rbhTbzmm-Qqchayzxq3RVaZqIrtyaQHkukkyh3wLu-CGTEVX41dUcqCQ7R6QuEO6ej4FKsSlcwAiLYch2kLXx/s1600/IMG_6933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39q0hBA6C2q_n-TwVdWF7CScvKMSOVNavnmXDer9gy-8soFWWCD7DfF0rbhTbzmm-Qqchayzxq3RVaZqIrtyaQHkukkyh3wLu-CGTEVX41dUcqCQ7R6QuEO6ej4FKsSlcwAiLYch2kLXx/s320/IMG_6933.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jemma-made peach-blueberry crisp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5sdpsMVuz-ERdelKA0ARU7XUWxjReYEODWsIqMchiQ0-ycudzunjiNxMT3thipACXIC1ZqMhmgfFGWci0AFF3dV2XrW1BMDDKq_DMRF-PGmmCV2PmHryI_PTX0E36x3wWRK6IcNRAqAn/s1600/IMG_6944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5sdpsMVuz-ERdelKA0ARU7XUWxjReYEODWsIqMchiQ0-ycudzunjiNxMT3thipACXIC1ZqMhmgfFGWci0AFF3dV2XrW1BMDDKq_DMRF-PGmmCV2PmHryI_PTX0E36x3wWRK6IcNRAqAn/s320/IMG_6944.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">an afternoon at the park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8L-9IlK-PobL3r6rRbdhID1idzopfyupIZ-TeTHXhoE_vPw3Smotw1bq7LFfx751LCewfkbzW9qk246RfYOnO2rMoDS1lvuu_xckpkiY96ReqsJL_LkSPTy6sKuHaagNEcVCNPkvUYwje/s1600/IMG_6946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8L-9IlK-PobL3r6rRbdhID1idzopfyupIZ-TeTHXhoE_vPw3Smotw1bq7LFfx751LCewfkbzW9qk246RfYOnO2rMoDS1lvuu_xckpkiY96ReqsJL_LkSPTy6sKuHaagNEcVCNPkvUYwje/s320/IMG_6946.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">underwater "talking"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrzPVzv2jBEdPFp2Ters8lVIVUYc3aQiwXf9bUlaoLFOONzaB7_527UL4f_HZ4NyPwShvzZ4smN1OFUeW5Qq8r6Q2tfA62l_UNGPtOXJ327eZA2x5HFdKiFi9vty_GzoXvzFxoBNvyCJe/s1600/IMG_6958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrzPVzv2jBEdPFp2Ters8lVIVUYc3aQiwXf9bUlaoLFOONzaB7_527UL4f_HZ4NyPwShvzZ4smN1OFUeW5Qq8r6Q2tfA62l_UNGPtOXJ327eZA2x5HFdKiFi9vty_GzoXvzFxoBNvyCJe/s320/IMG_6958.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My talented pianist with her fabulous teacher</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZff1IYU4dhFHMLMMu1UcP8xOhh1kgtWLyrU1VDQ8ogQ0Vn_XnfWumB0tuquEAcr81DiiJkPosu8E7yhU5EzC_b727B37ek1mUBi2GqIMESBXmGNMovnMnra9TDASxbmNIt3ldM2HF0h5/s1600/IMG_6960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZff1IYU4dhFHMLMMu1UcP8xOhh1kgtWLyrU1VDQ8ogQ0Vn_XnfWumB0tuquEAcr81DiiJkPosu8E7yhU5EzC_b727B37ek1mUBi2GqIMESBXmGNMovnMnra9TDASxbmNIt3ldM2HF0h5/s320/IMG_6960.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An incredible concert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6DE4WLwqaAMXdLQdeCy2uYIEznPXkUyJue0tE1GYSDj1XbkIUkoMTCcQGB-NNz0ouyeljh_nQg4WvQnXeWaxvgISM6p5smoKpyvOQQ5B7cqEqLaxde1Qol7IrZhfKGNn3BRkydCM46SS/s1600/IMG_6962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6DE4WLwqaAMXdLQdeCy2uYIEznPXkUyJue0tE1GYSDj1XbkIUkoMTCcQGB-NNz0ouyeljh_nQg4WvQnXeWaxvgISM6p5smoKpyvOQQ5B7cqEqLaxde1Qol7IrZhfKGNn3BRkydCM46SS/s320/IMG_6962.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning faces like these</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBzckdDTbj-CWW52ZgISbUAQEHh9uUdxd-MCOF2mjh1rCdz6DJhw_zHSNguMdhKJQplke2Rk6fEmqDmDBfAfTEJ5chzjh438Hy_L8oTVbASexzAeu8Kf2SBdEXo4oAre9uvrfDJ6u1JGy/s1600/IMG_6966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBzckdDTbj-CWW52ZgISbUAQEHh9uUdxd-MCOF2mjh1rCdz6DJhw_zHSNguMdhKJQplke2Rk6fEmqDmDBfAfTEJ5chzjh438Hy_L8oTVbASexzAeu8Kf2SBdEXo4oAre9uvrfDJ6u1JGy/s320/IMG_6966.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Funny Steve Martin at Meijer Gardens</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-36988559193327390202013-07-22T21:53:00.001-04:002013-07-22T21:53:53.156-04:00For KatieWe had a good weekend: my sister-in-law's 30th birthday, which merited a cozy dinner at The Chop House; my brother and sister-in-law's backyard wedding reception, which involved two big white tents and lots of casual, yummy food with family; blueberry pancakes; a family bike ride and playground stop; hot tub baths last night before the thunderstorm; farmers' market; morning runs; burgers on the grill; a quick visit to Lake Michigan on Sunday afternoon.<br />
<br />
And then today was back to normal: dentist appointments, groceries, errands, laundry. (Am I the only one who feels like a hero when I wash all the sheets and re-make the beds? I feel like that implies that I don't do it that often, which I'll neither confirm nor deny.) Tonight, Jason and Annie were taping a segment about the <a href="https://www.grcmc.org/event/pianocottage">upcoming piano concert</a> at a local TV station (I'll try to say that casually, as though my eight-year-old being on TV is no big deal). Jemma and I decided to bake something (I voted for <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2013/07/peach-cherry-lambic-charlotte">this</a>; she overruled me with <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/peach-and-blueberry-crumbles-recipe/index.html">this</a>), so we were in the kitchen together - aprons on, little chair pulled up to the counter by the sink, flour and butter and measuring cups everywhere.<br />
<br />
As I was peeling peaches, she stuck her little face close to the bowl to smell them and I could see the sun-freckles on her nose. I fed her a slice of peach and we talked about getting more tomorrow from the market, then putting on old clothes and eating them outside, letting the juice run down our chins and get all over our shirts.<br />
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"Did you ever do that?" she asked.<br />
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"Yep," I said. "Peaches only taste like this for a few weeks. You have to eat them as much as you can."<br />
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I sunk the paring knife into the skin of the last peach and slowly pulled the skin off the flesh in a big chunk. I was thinking about how some moments are extraordinary, like watching the moon rise over the Swiss Alps or under the Eiffel Tower, and some are ordinary, like teaching your daughter how to peel a peach. I showed her how I tugged the skin away slowly, pulling off a wide swath before starting again at the top. I told her how, in a few years, I'd let her practice doing it herself with the knife, and a few years after that, she'd be doing it all by herself.<br />
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"And someday, maybe you'll have a little boy or girl, and you'll teach them how to peel peaches in your kitchen," I said, thinking about baking with my mom and feeling all Circle of Life about this cinnamon-scented baking moment. "Who do you think taught me how to peel peaches?" I asked.<br />
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"I don't know," said Jemma.<br />
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"Guess," I said.<br />
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And she said, "Mrs. McIntosh?" Her kindergarten teacher.<br />
<br />
And though my friend Katie did not, in fact, teach me how to peel peaches, I love that Jemma thought she might have. Because in Jemma's little almost-first-grade mind, her beloved kindergarten teacher can teach us all anything she wants to. Because in reality, that idea is actually pretty true in its own special way, especially this summer. This summer, Mrs. McIntosh is teaching me to treasure the moments - both extraordinary and ordinary - that make up a life, including a Monday night making peach and blueberry crumbles with my Jemma.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-75475410716972294502013-07-18T23:39:00.001-04:002013-07-18T23:39:49.804-04:00Nightly NewsIt's the third or fourth ninety-something-degree day in a row this morning, so I quit trying to do anything productive (press releases, piano concert promotion, articles due, email) and declare that we're going to the pool. On the way there, Annie, per usual, is both looking at a library book and chatting up a storm.<br />
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" . . . And then in book 22 of Cam Jansen, the teacher gets arrested!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Hmmm."<br />
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Annie: "But then I bet they find out that someone else is the thief."<br />
<br />
Me: "Mmmmm-hmmmmmm."<br />
<br />
Annie: "Because a teacher wouldn't ever do anything bad like that, right?"<br />
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Me, stalling: "Hmmm?"<br />
<br />
Annie: "RIGHT?"<br />
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Me, brightly: "Not any teacher that I've ever known!"<br />
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*****<br />
<br />
When Jason and I were gone last month, I left behind a four-page, single-spaced Microsoft Word document to instruct the grandparents on how to live our life at our house. It included exciting details such as how much to feed the cats, library card pin numbers, pediatrician phone numbers, when to put out the trash, how to get to tennis camp, how to leave the washing machine door ajar so as to avoid mildew on the seal, and where to find spare toilet paper (in the "Costco pantry" in the basement, obviously). It also included a paragraph that went something like:<br />
<br />
"The girls may watch cartoons on PBS or Nick Jr. on demand, usually for no more than an hour at a time. They both know how to get to math and typing games on the computer, but no computers in bedrooms. Please don't have the news on while they're awake or around; we don't watch the news around them."<br />
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My parents came over for the afternoon a week or so before we were scheduled to leave, so they could look over the instructions and get familiar with the various machines and procedures, and my mom stopped abruptly when she read this section of the document.<br />
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"You don't let them see the news?" she asked.<br />
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"Nope. Not really," I said.<br />
<br />
"Well, why not?" she said.<br />
<br />
"Well, we actually don't watch it, anyway - never really have - and there's a lot of stuff on there that we don't especially want to explain to them yet, at ages six and eight," I said.<br />
<br />
My mom made a face. "Well, they have to learn about the world eventually," she said, and it was clear that she disagreed with our policy.<br />
<br />
The reason I gave her is partially true: Jason and I really don't watch the news, nightly, cable, morning or otherwise. I remember watching CNN in college during the Clinton scandal, and I actually like to catch the occasional "Meet the Press" or newsy roundtable on the treadmill from time to time, but most news these days seems like sensationalistic fear-mongering and incomplete sound-bytes. It raises my anxiety level and makes me feel helpless and depressed, and we don't turn it on. So our television-news-free house would probably be television-news-free even if we were also child-free.<br />
<br />
I do, however, consume news. I read it online, and I listen to it on NPR. I like the longer, nuanced, in-depth perspectives that those formats provide, and sometimes I'll even take the time to read the comments on an article (though never, ever on MLive, where the commenters make you lose your faith in humanity), because they can poke holes in or confirm the conclusion of an article. And even when I do those things, I still shield the kids from it. I minimize the website when they come in the room. I turn off NPR when they're in the car on the way to the pool, asking their mostly-innocent questions about teachers and morality.<br />
<br />
Why? I suppose I want to tell them the truth ("No teacher I've ever known!") but not the whole truth ("Some teachers would."). I suppose I want them to just BE KIDS for a bit longer, to let them make fairy houses and read mysteries and cannonball into the pool without letting them worry about a Florida teenager shot by a neighborhood watch patrol, without explaining bankruptcy or celebrity drug use or armed robbery or protests in Egypt.<br />
<br />
Later, after we returned from our trip, I surveyed a few friends: Did they let their kids watch the news? The answer, resoundingly, was no. They didn't. Why, asked one mom, give them information that they can't do anything about? Why, asked another, fuel an anxiety-prone child by providing video footage of real-life nightmares? I decidedly don't want to shelter my girls from the reality of the world. But I don't want to push them too quickly into it, either, and I don't think I'm alone.<br />
<br />
I can't remember, exactly, when I learned about the world and all the events on the nightly news. Based on my mom's reaction, I think I'm correct in remembering that the 6:00 news was always on in our living room after dinner, though I don't have any concrete memories of it beyond being shushed during the weather report. I remember watching The Challenger explode at takeoff in third or fourth grade, and then I remember watching the first Gulf War begin at some point during middle school. Between those two events, it's static, nothing.<br />
<br />
Rationally, I know that there's a time, just around the proverbial corner, when Annie - and, later, Jemma - will deserve to know what's happening, and will need my help in interpreting it all. I just can't quite find the conviction that it needs to happen yet. Maybe next year, I think as we pull into the pool parking lot. Or the next.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-9317022329063390542013-07-15T22:36:00.000-04:002013-07-15T22:36:31.848-04:00Instagram Feed: Returned to NormalOne thing about being gone for much of June is that it took forever for me to feel like it was really, truly summer. In Paris, it was cool and cloudy, and the Michigan spring had been so cold and gloomy before we left. Up until last weekend, our family hadn't spent any time at Lake Michigan, hadn't been covered in sunscreen and sand, hadn't eaten inappropriate amounts of ice cream or stayed up to watch the sun set over the water or fallen asleep in the car, exhausted from a day of swimming in a pool with a diving board.<br />
<br />
We've remedied that since we've been home, with a family reunion in Grand Haven (pool, lawn games, the same homemade vanilla ice cream we've been having there since I was a little girl), a trip to South Haven and Saugatuck (sandcastles, dinner out at Wally's, frisbee in the sand, and more ice cream), and a Sunday afternoon at the beach in Holland (with a stop for ice cream on the way home). We've caught fireflies, made blueberry pancakes for breakfast, instituted happy hour on the side porch as much as possible, dragged the sprinkler out, and spent at least one night in the hot tub looking at the stars way past our bedtime.<br />
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Then, this past weekend, we had two wonderful nights with good friends at their cottage. It meant paddle boarding, sandy hands reaching for snacks on the beach, hikes in the dunes, morning coffee and nighttime guitar on the deck, five very blond little heads at the dinner table (Luke's prayer: "Dear God, please help everyone to get more and more healthier and awesome, Amen") and reading bedtime stories, grown-up mishaps after the kids were in bed, holding other peoples' babies, water balloon launchers, great food, tons of laughter. Summer is here, indeed, and I've never been more glad and grateful for all the normal things.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-22904121559125054762013-07-12T00:28:00.000-04:002013-07-12T00:28:03.306-04:00Dream a Little Dream: Paris and Other PlacesTwo weeks ago tonight, Jason and I were fresh off a long flight home and mere hours into our abrupt return to normal after two weeks jaunting around Europe together. Both going there and coming home were their own little culture shocks, of course, and these past two weeks at home have been nothing - NOTHING - like the two weeks that preceded them.<br />
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Obviously.<br />
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They've been so much the opposite of a European vacation that I haven't been able to find the time to write about the European vacation. But I also, crazily, haven't wanted to put our trip into words because, in some sort of magical thinking, I felt as though, if I wrote about it, it'd really be over. (Note to self: it is over.) And I think I was avoiding writing about it for another reason, too: namely, who leaves their kids and takes a two-week trip to Europe for no real reason in their mid-thirties? Isn't that what you do when you're retired empty-nesters who join a bus tour of the Netherlands?<br />
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So I'm disoriented and nostalgic and a little sheepish, I guess, is what I'm trying to say. But even though I kept a little journal while we were gone (where we ate, what we saw, what we did, etc.), I want to collect a few memories here, too.<br />
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Here's the thing: back in January of 2011, I published a fun<a href="http://www.insignificantdetail.blogspot.com/2011/01/life-list.html"> Life List</a> on this blog, as a culmination of some of the ideas and goals I'd been toying with as I thought about which direction I wanted my life to take. Maybe this is a normal thing to do in your mid-thirties, maybe not, but somewhere along the line, I had the realization that there was not going to be an infinite amount of time. There might be a lot of years, sure, but there might not, and I became far more aware of how I used my time and far more intentional about going to those places and doing those things that had always been hazy "someday" dreams. (I've since accomplished a bunch of things on that list, some of which I crossed off and some of which I still need to cross off, and I actually hadn't looked at it in quite a while and may want to change it. For example, the six-minute mile is possibly no longer in reach. Which is fine. It's MY list. I can change it.)<br />
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One of those dreams( though it's not exactly on the list) was to return to Vienna, Austria with Jason. We'd both gone during a college summer program, though not the same summer, and on one long road trip to Baltimore when I was pregnant with Annie, we talked about how, someday, we'd establish a scholarship fund for the Vienna Summer School program and we'd go back together. A couple years ago, we started the fund, and last summer we started planning this trip. We hoped to go back while the same dear professor was still running the program, and we weren't sure how much longer he'd be doing it. We met him for dinner. We started reading travel blogs. We checked out books from the library. We talked to grandparents about child care. We hoarded credit card points for flights. Jason spent an inordinate amount of time on Google Earth. And I started dreaming about Paris, not because I'd taken French, or had friends tell me I had to go, or seen a specific movie, but just because I have always sort of felt like I'd be sad if I didn't go to Paris with Jason at some point in my life. Seize the day, and all that.<br />
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Well, we seized it. My Life List should be proud. There was spontaneous stopping to smell the roses in a beautiful garden in Vienna. There was a run through Luxembourg Gardens in the rain in Paris. There was a picnic in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. There was a hike through cows wearing cowbells and fields of wildflowers up to snow-capped mountain peaks (we snuck in a few days in Switzerland between the two cities). There were absurd meals followed by more absurd meals. There was ice cream and croissants and curried prawns and homemade pasta and fondue and gelato and veal and foie gras and croquettes and wine and lobster and cafe creme and cheese and olives and chocolate mousse and duck and champagne and pate and olive oil and truffle salt and caramels. (What I am saying is that we did not lose weight on this trip, despite the hiking and biking and walking miles every day through the cobblestone streets.)<br />
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We had so many wonderful moments, so many unforgettable experiences. We rode bikes along the Danube in the 90-degree heat and sunshine, then finally collapsed at a little Italian cafe and drank all the beverages. We hiked up and down gorgeous mountain paths, then drank Swiss beer on a balcony overlooking a waterfall. We celebrated our fourteenth anniversary with a meal just steps from our hotel, looking out at the garden where the salad lettuce had just been picked and watching the moon rise above the mountains. We spent a night with our old professor and this year's group of Vienna Summer School students, sat in on a fascinating lecture, and toasted the group with schnapps on a picnic table in the Austrian Alps. We got on a train in Vienna, went to sleep, and woke up the next morning in Switzerland. We had dinner at the same outdoor biergarten where Jason loved to go almost twenty years ago. We took the Metro to Montmarte and tried French microbrews at a tiny bar with a bartender named Francois. We saw the Mona Lisa, the Thinker, and so many Van Goghs and Monets and Renoirs and Cezannes that we could hardly keep track. We ate three meals at restaurants where you sat down and ate whatever they brought you (ahem, razor clams, pork rilette . . .), and one meal of incredible Spanish tapas at a standing-room-only zinc bar where the chef stood just a few feet away. We watched the sun set along the Seine.<br />
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We had two weeks to get up every morning, get out the map, and wander around a gorgeous city together - eating, drinking, talking, getting a little lost, being in awe of the architecture or the natural beauty, depending. We had two weeks to miss the girls fiercely and talk about how soon we could bring them back with us. We had two weeks to be outsiders, with Jason's poor French and our train schedules and indecipherable menus and streets that change names every few blocks.<br />
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We took over a thousand pictures. We took a nap almost every day. We took trains and wore backpacks. We took home striped shirts and baby gifts, chocolates and scarves. We took one last look at Paris as our plane rose high in the sky, and I knew that the planning, saving, worrying, and spending had been worth it. It was a literally a dream come true.<br />
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It's like a distant memory now, of course. After two weeks crammed into tiny train compartments and petite hotel rooms, our house felt huge. The girls welcomed us home with cake, hugs, and much smelling of faces and stroking of arms. We piled into our bed together, opened gifts, and read books in a pre-bedtime tangle of arms and legs that night two weeks ago, and it's been non-stop togetherness ever since. The quiet conversations at cafes and the leisurely 9:00 p.m. dinners are a thing of the past, and now it's piano practice and "Mom, look!" and settling arguments and chasing fireflies and bathing suits. Which is good, too, in its own way, but also louder. Less charming. More "real."<br />
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Tucked away, though, I'll always have this trip. This absurd, impractical, romantic, magical, dreamy trip. And I'm so very glad.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-25830953863728101872013-06-30T22:33:00.000-04:002013-06-30T22:33:49.744-04:00Good Things, June 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The annual school Fun Day tradition: last week of school + whole afternoon of outdoor games + getting sprayed by the fire hose at the end = Pure Joy;</div>
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fresh Michigan strawberries, and my <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Strawberry-Shortcakes-with-Mint-and-Whipped-Cream-105324">favorite strawberry shortcake</a> for dessert;<br />
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both girls running with friends and classmates in the LBW race;<br />
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sisters, all smiles on the last day of school;<br />
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silly hot tub time and dinner with cousins;<br />
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lemonade stand and friendship bracelets for sale in the front yard;<br />
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lazy mornings, reading on the side porch after breakfast;<br />
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a magical, lucky, romantic, adventurous trip with my husband to Austria, Switzerland, and France (more on that later);<br />
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a tangle of books and bodies in our bed on the night we got home;</div>
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running with Annie during her first 5K (and her running with a smile on her face the whole time).<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-53649473251771036122013-05-31T09:21:00.003-04:002013-05-31T09:21:44.263-04:00Good Things, May 2013<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_15uEe39ejOl-WJZxIKYpWxK8mmFDzYiiXEfsPv_FuQC0xYTrQq_0tyD2JZuNuqOLR5ENhTBDS_9_PzG6xGXIlBagHzIhYh4LoG31W6ZgUo-x2S87hbBFyJXLOqXHuZtkOncjozZTj4kl/s1600/DSC_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_15uEe39ejOl-WJZxIKYpWxK8mmFDzYiiXEfsPv_FuQC0xYTrQq_0tyD2JZuNuqOLR5ENhTBDS_9_PzG6xGXIlBagHzIhYh4LoG31W6ZgUo-x2S87hbBFyJXLOqXHuZtkOncjozZTj4kl/s320/DSC_0028.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chasing it down</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXamse3_-ZHJnrElOvMjgdPyPwuWOZZ__vU2uiWbACn1Jataiy5k66-IAIu7Kc5nh8znxnvB-yGfu77RJGmS8FsS7si5JY1oAVHCMuF_XlHcH8xpBl3v1DEWtl2vOFBO2zwvOL0QgAOmgH/s1600/DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXamse3_-ZHJnrElOvMjgdPyPwuWOZZ__vU2uiWbACn1Jataiy5k66-IAIu7Kc5nh8znxnvB-yGfu77RJGmS8FsS7si5JY1oAVHCMuF_XlHcH8xpBl3v1DEWtl2vOFBO2zwvOL0QgAOmgH/s320/DSC_0032.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little poet in her classroom</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXiavU8l_eqXZZvA8IRSYM9VBTWFtPfVEAgNvadQ5cfGhDaO2wWLPez4cPirm4JuK53XW_at5msMUMkMvhS85iUp_6QoVZyTZHwcDsXKBfkXHzayOgpp_wraGrNmKg6IGBu3_2FntcNrc/s1600/DSC_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXiavU8l_eqXZZvA8IRSYM9VBTWFtPfVEAgNvadQ5cfGhDaO2wWLPez4cPirm4JuK53XW_at5msMUMkMvhS85iUp_6QoVZyTZHwcDsXKBfkXHzayOgpp_wraGrNmKg6IGBu3_2FntcNrc/s320/DSC_0073.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blowing bubbles with neighbors</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicqrqNGM8oBTopPzA5KTUSEhtQ2FrtJhB_20C93hQp6Mzbx7WjbJxjobmcTjFZF2F0_7V4cxBfdTmHIwaLCzBrIDWfcIJrjOOZpBTDHccTqUnpWp2fYm6E6uFr6i__3QC0_gM6J6OjQMt/s1600/DSC_0093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicqrqNGM8oBTopPzA5KTUSEhtQ2FrtJhB_20C93hQp6Mzbx7WjbJxjobmcTjFZF2F0_7V4cxBfdTmHIwaLCzBrIDWfcIJrjOOZpBTDHccTqUnpWp2fYm6E6uFr6i__3QC0_gM6J6OjQMt/s320/DSC_0093.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piano recital on a lovely grand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-j8w2GLWTP8JfrLSfSaSCF7itzRo88d1bb0Cu0JiDhtzv7nCtAGNCJy_8wyhTr6rzZv2OfE2u4ADGZ-jZhkFFg0o-nIsoFcKpUyhL_-fNP7t8S6gZAnzfQ_KGbru1tcTNC6slq2oInRh/s1600/IMG_3374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-j8w2GLWTP8JfrLSfSaSCF7itzRo88d1bb0Cu0JiDhtzv7nCtAGNCJy_8wyhTr6rzZv2OfE2u4ADGZ-jZhkFFg0o-nIsoFcKpUyhL_-fNP7t8S6gZAnzfQ_KGbru1tcTNC6slq2oInRh/s320/IMG_3374.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camping and fishing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yZI9700lNP15CykPpNH0Ho_fSiGfohBuPlMLan2stg8OSWdRF05RJNPtZliOBGJh9aQk3aUrtGi-v396RmC1TDlxWJMiE-4eClZfX-IZcBnoO0dNoAsTC7l_rbH3GzSHbVzBqOkcvUxH/s1600/IMG_5347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yZI9700lNP15CykPpNH0Ho_fSiGfohBuPlMLan2stg8OSWdRF05RJNPtZliOBGJh9aQk3aUrtGi-v396RmC1TDlxWJMiE-4eClZfX-IZcBnoO0dNoAsTC7l_rbH3GzSHbVzBqOkcvUxH/s320/IMG_5347.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnolia tree blooming</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BbQkB9au3UrpJWibVhSZkxwh7-_1QdWQHTyFjUcreG_GTW8lGPKNNUNJCds8xGbxLJjTIEJrdkSshueyPDXvTBdryElPcZ3-1po4Upau6uqdHdK_hH_nnVv2siKNUB3ntLtAPsejGA1x/s1600/IMG_5348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BbQkB9au3UrpJWibVhSZkxwh7-_1QdWQHTyFjUcreG_GTW8lGPKNNUNJCds8xGbxLJjTIEJrdkSshueyPDXvTBdryElPcZ3-1po4Upau6uqdHdK_hH_nnVv2siKNUB3ntLtAPsejGA1x/s320/IMG_5348.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Date night with my little pianist to see some jazz</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Xpey80qGkpEqiFyFFbybHb5h2Y9h5e9GCCYJd95GkhctpgbmitZO1_lGP9Akjmlw0ZwNIfz4YsjoNwwRVZHPZ9vV3AEtN1OI9kIzB5iRkiJP1A2e6rFP-_TLPFKb8qlSzfe9ru5PBJTG/s1600/IMG_5352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Xpey80qGkpEqiFyFFbybHb5h2Y9h5e9GCCYJd95GkhctpgbmitZO1_lGP9Akjmlw0ZwNIfz4YsjoNwwRVZHPZ9vV3AEtN1OI9kIzB5iRkiJP1A2e6rFP-_TLPFKb8qlSzfe9ru5PBJTG/s320/IMG_5352.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family bike rides</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscbKbBgW8gMHErEtvUO7IErSa53hmbP96Ys-hRCjChL9RwFjWxkN3JVbos1AGXBLX5GxsyHaCqfY3PJJj3oxzOH3qZqLa0dUfAtVgQAsZWVInY-qYT0_QUKLtWEp4scdDM3QT7TntZafK/s1600/IMG_5354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscbKbBgW8gMHErEtvUO7IErSa53hmbP96Ys-hRCjChL9RwFjWxkN3JVbos1AGXBLX5GxsyHaCqfY3PJJj3oxzOH3qZqLa0dUfAtVgQAsZWVInY-qYT0_QUKLtWEp4scdDM3QT7TntZafK/s320/IMG_5354.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More bubbles . . .</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ouPQPfUEldYBf0WAIDf65Jl33G6uNzaGVc1-CnNwF2bWihhH5wW0jyes5o-PsgtbFdPpu_ixwimZQiBLeQ5whrv06JKqSgOdVEc9E-5MCoxdnfT6hkYnROpLMSrkgcsd1K5IDgdiLWFo/s1600/IMG_5361.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ouPQPfUEldYBf0WAIDf65Jl33G6uNzaGVc1-CnNwF2bWihhH5wW0jyes5o-PsgtbFdPpu_ixwimZQiBLeQ5whrv06JKqSgOdVEc9E-5MCoxdnfT6hkYnROpLMSrkgcsd1K5IDgdiLWFo/s320/IMG_5361.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast with the tadpoles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCb9XUvmHZH4q3t8z2ylCYOAWqGJ74jO3AoaVXZgh87Ro4wGX_wV4wouodzHe4fwf7TLvCqf-BcKk_zFA3S4LOJ_SHphQhASapzyfwPq4WYay8s1bSsbBT-e-BAOkuMrqIu1Y7OwavRAO/s1600/IMG_5365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCb9XUvmHZH4q3t8z2ylCYOAWqGJ74jO3AoaVXZgh87Ro4wGX_wV4wouodzHe4fwf7TLvCqf-BcKk_zFA3S4LOJ_SHphQhASapzyfwPq4WYay8s1bSsbBT-e-BAOkuMrqIu1Y7OwavRAO/s320/IMG_5365.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meijer Gardens with a buddy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWROpeEv7Vjz9AWOS3x_OdW81y4U-UXL52pRbwyer0ZEYH6Qv6rGjcflMEiyjKJGpW3aANbGVTbt9eroDA0FeKpHXqIJVQ2rxCmBFzf1KdJV-5NjRdqVjxMqQ6_5ZqTqDcHS4KC2tp4Cu/s1600/IMG_5380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWROpeEv7Vjz9AWOS3x_OdW81y4U-UXL52pRbwyer0ZEYH6Qv6rGjcflMEiyjKJGpW3aANbGVTbt9eroDA0FeKpHXqIJVQ2rxCmBFzf1KdJV-5NjRdqVjxMqQ6_5ZqTqDcHS4KC2tp4Cu/s320/IMG_5380.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When your butt fits into the hot tub filter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth4RUlZiXAE-oqaB3LnSwY0rsifGP76nSrHdhkrRlivIn5OEiRD1PN_W6wAzaoS8C9L8TAW3Rse2ANmXxj_jb7Z7AuS7AfEkrNiSGpvhJC_pwnHpH6uRbDl2e2O97-H7lQAVm6-6wS4rv/s1600/IMG_5409.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth4RUlZiXAE-oqaB3LnSwY0rsifGP76nSrHdhkrRlivIn5OEiRD1PN_W6wAzaoS8C9L8TAW3Rse2ANmXxj_jb7Z7AuS7AfEkrNiSGpvhJC_pwnHpH6uRbDl2e2O97-H7lQAVm6-6wS4rv/s320/IMG_5409.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One overwhelming, fantastic day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4rW1Qw_dIWtWx7Wryuxs9q0y3OwguGrqwRPe2njFI08rkqiB_qxTeBfBDPbTLZwVILszvXoFVIAM3LXGFMcDcskEb4jn6Zw0iLnpmex6Nyhk-ZQ8fuWQP-bGN5xQ3DS67f0LnshcHIQlW/s1600/IMG_5418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4rW1Qw_dIWtWx7Wryuxs9q0y3OwguGrqwRPe2njFI08rkqiB_qxTeBfBDPbTLZwVILszvXoFVIAM3LXGFMcDcskEb4jn6Zw0iLnpmex6Nyhk-ZQ8fuWQP-bGN5xQ3DS67f0LnshcHIQlW/s320/IMG_5418.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The duck poutine at Winchester with a tiny dark beer</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHSEsGfhD0JX2wH_1RX8RZx9kiJtbvu_F1SjJgcng1nVcTvggKKCcq2WU9I3b6jALDK6OfhsYey4qIzz0Dj8TFxm1piaafcPy8pFGnW7LBcyW54ZJf8wQ1UQD_ApEjm6FgcZ0M0X9wzAp/s1600/IMG_5426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHSEsGfhD0JX2wH_1RX8RZx9kiJtbvu_F1SjJgcng1nVcTvggKKCcq2WU9I3b6jALDK6OfhsYey4qIzz0Dj8TFxm1piaafcPy8pFGnW7LBcyW54ZJf8wQ1UQD_ApEjm6FgcZ0M0X9wzAp/s320/IMG_5426.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running the Riverbank run to raise money for a great cause</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyupZXaGpre-sy8eYOYHIwey4LJcRbVGToaju3bEqldBDpaBr5gIdNKC7Xemx-rudaXY539vKR-ShyphenhyphenRN8DThQYb003hXGH_eygh5dvIKahCF-wsgO2HsAYLwsYUS3wBZI_H7r6tv41E9m/s1600/IMG_5427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyupZXaGpre-sy8eYOYHIwey4LJcRbVGToaju3bEqldBDpaBr5gIdNKC7Xemx-rudaXY539vKR-ShyphenhyphenRN8DThQYb003hXGH_eygh5dvIKahCF-wsgO2HsAYLwsYUS3wBZI_H7r6tv41E9m/s320/IMG_5427.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother's Day means breakfast in bed</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqebWK8RK9WCXAvrJcyStI6d7CklcAsjszpOcywM72lp07XdTUIS22_J8oSENBNIMnq2Z6dwM9rYtA58XUrq8WaWB5Mim_zMqCmD28FZXSVbiErlaIcD2unBCtmCOLCwhwbU2ZmjJqyUPk/s1600/IMG_5428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqebWK8RK9WCXAvrJcyStI6d7CklcAsjszpOcywM72lp07XdTUIS22_J8oSENBNIMnq2Z6dwM9rYtA58XUrq8WaWB5Mim_zMqCmD28FZXSVbiErlaIcD2unBCtmCOLCwhwbU2ZmjJqyUPk/s320/IMG_5428.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilacs (my favorite)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nhJ-vfnkuKFAoJvflf75AgjsP5Q7oCLtYtvaHoER6uALhAGlzOL_klCQL5f9GvrH7DdaSu9vOwBkUcCFuU4jTsV1Jw5UOAGIhAPYtVzJXaBNUzaPJ-9AIJu0AaOS41rnEI3bYHJbuSST/s1600/IMG_5443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nhJ-vfnkuKFAoJvflf75AgjsP5Q7oCLtYtvaHoER6uALhAGlzOL_klCQL5f9GvrH7DdaSu9vOwBkUcCFuU4jTsV1Jw5UOAGIhAPYtVzJXaBNUzaPJ-9AIJu0AaOS41rnEI3bYHJbuSST/s320/IMG_5443.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shaved asparagus pizza from Smitten Kitchen (plus pancetta)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBamfuPRE6OK1Okmi09oHTkJvypdav7w3GpwA-kkNNs2H_fPiSN4czppXDZN1BfzMYqz788alvwd1dGzS6WgHazqn_piXRTLYGpuhUJGCS0MEPWVAbQ_RP70caFrfxawemjtus4rOfEK_/s1600/IMG_5448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBamfuPRE6OK1Okmi09oHTkJvypdav7w3GpwA-kkNNs2H_fPiSN4czppXDZN1BfzMYqz788alvwd1dGzS6WgHazqn_piXRTLYGpuhUJGCS0MEPWVAbQ_RP70caFrfxawemjtus4rOfEK_/s320/IMG_5448.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The moment when they get home from school</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYoAaMqjAjzHMUPar9kice4x6jDm-Gj-nyHQX52EmIHI-UuGAtMayPqj3dNf_vhA7GJGaj9OON2dFyjnN6hD_xqOe62tS7-obTQokknEhUKE-XtqELQQJbGTwJYFy946fOv2w-AxAu5hj/s1600/IMG_5450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYoAaMqjAjzHMUPar9kice4x6jDm-Gj-nyHQX52EmIHI-UuGAtMayPqj3dNf_vhA7GJGaj9OON2dFyjnN6hD_xqOe62tS7-obTQokknEhUKE-XtqELQQJbGTwJYFy946fOv2w-AxAu5hj/s320/IMG_5450.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tulips</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtiGcF8RE8r56wNI43YTOA4ndF534q3Vm5M4zTe36-iAP10tpTyy-0IQt1uCXrqtz-sum9YRbaNmw3Vmm06hC2QH8C6l1p7YALrPl5Tt-rgfsvTps_kqyOqj24fKev-A7bWzzc-gGFAPX/s1600/IMG_5473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtiGcF8RE8r56wNI43YTOA4ndF534q3Vm5M4zTe36-iAP10tpTyy-0IQt1uCXrqtz-sum9YRbaNmw3Vmm06hC2QH8C6l1p7YALrPl5Tt-rgfsvTps_kqyOqj24fKev-A7bWzzc-gGFAPX/s320/IMG_5473.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading Harry Potter on the porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs35jHFn6mZ4aN2sXE8CHTPGrevb1jjoO0m3SaQ1H6QAyCyYx8Y5D1-v9V29vimQh1hBM4sCTa1bMxOywCFYKj0fy7E_7mh66oPYH1zhDdZztJPIfdiHmTi-D12YeYU4KzGURFwFrehPgV/s1600/IMG_5474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs35jHFn6mZ4aN2sXE8CHTPGrevb1jjoO0m3SaQ1H6QAyCyYx8Y5D1-v9V29vimQh1hBM4sCTa1bMxOywCFYKj0fy7E_7mh66oPYH1zhDdZztJPIfdiHmTi-D12YeYU4KzGURFwFrehPgV/s320/IMG_5474.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salmon+asparagus+strawberries=spring</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjfAh84EJRJD55HnkgtaLUQjqyTyd2QpDsksKjLIeP2YQhlzgMLQjVsZM0S-Xzwv3PA-dsqZGzVDpxRHNYN4uiIrKaoTMmpomsYSklqCjN33gft5dII-dIC4he73JAgIcwghnJnfIE0-g/s1600/IMG_5481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjfAh84EJRJD55HnkgtaLUQjqyTyd2QpDsksKjLIeP2YQhlzgMLQjVsZM0S-Xzwv3PA-dsqZGzVDpxRHNYN4uiIrKaoTMmpomsYSklqCjN33gft5dII-dIC4he73JAgIcwghnJnfIE0-g/s320/IMG_5481.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-hot tub s'mores with friends</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADVi8NLAdNu8pfCIOtbyASMOuPmdbyl7aQbFE7aZsDpRzNs7JXl6-SYtVxtY79WZUUh9JoKI0RysgvGVgbM3qNEqVj7SEwhm0572fTkEvlqdirxx25dZSpLP8I8k7Dues71NNv0x_PXui/s1600/IMG_5482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADVi8NLAdNu8pfCIOtbyASMOuPmdbyl7aQbFE7aZsDpRzNs7JXl6-SYtVxtY79WZUUh9JoKI0RysgvGVgbM3qNEqVj7SEwhm0572fTkEvlqdirxx25dZSpLP8I8k7Dues71NNv0x_PXui/s320/IMG_5482.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the new patio furniture in the sunshine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6yNUUAepk0KZHtwmETd7s1kCLoc5DWjT3FU3xaq6_3XVMyxaUFWSN2QSGcKz8fOOXqsasNyF6-Y9AxGYUUsJ05EDoYYlu3FIKIXp0UbbIfiMViM2tXVxbypSw6hW4QAf06j5E1vHFOUK/s1600/IMG_5486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6yNUUAepk0KZHtwmETd7s1kCLoc5DWjT3FU3xaq6_3XVMyxaUFWSN2QSGcKz8fOOXqsasNyF6-Y9AxGYUUsJ05EDoYYlu3FIKIXp0UbbIfiMViM2tXVxbypSw6hW4QAf06j5E1vHFOUK/s320/IMG_5486.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And enjoying the box, too</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfzHG4yvTDJq9fT3GSdsLt07m4A6MpttVV5ODXi45Sp3oZExHxOw6pc75-oo3WdYtmjdAiirPnv20OA52P1d-CZ1SQwNJtey2NIixTOkwAEUnJjyECZD3NfNTyjsWrSlr2glczE9x8ACJ/s1600/IMG_5489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfzHG4yvTDJq9fT3GSdsLt07m4A6MpttVV5ODXi45Sp3oZExHxOw6pc75-oo3WdYtmjdAiirPnv20OA52P1d-CZ1SQwNJtey2NIixTOkwAEUnJjyECZD3NfNTyjsWrSlr2glczE9x8ACJ/s320/IMG_5489.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading while eating a spoonful of frosting</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdN6B2op2nCNpR27TB2RmZbRuI1PifwcYOEZcnkTaffbW2QIX2U8XMQI7FXfW1hVQKm6rzB6ypM1qtTCQ9OUrdubYWKxBLaQZ65j7_0YUWVd0k9eXBkocAuMecij4LgOHU2XhD4MdTEEMb/s1600/IMG_5490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdN6B2op2nCNpR27TB2RmZbRuI1PifwcYOEZcnkTaffbW2QIX2U8XMQI7FXfW1hVQKm6rzB6ypM1qtTCQ9OUrdubYWKxBLaQZ65j7_0YUWVd0k9eXBkocAuMecij4LgOHU2XhD4MdTEEMb/s320/IMG_5490.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate cake for my dad's birthday</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZbrU7m7CusK0x3HH_b1xPT0sXW1d8q0M-iGF4EVyba0jfbFQrFecdgep04RlIYxiDc2PBRCdUoHQB7R32nsVmMDDHnxzYy4vJ3qzXfchbh8ClLO5X9dkrqXLTXW0izj7Ih9YhU_EAiir/s1600/IMG_5491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZbrU7m7CusK0x3HH_b1xPT0sXW1d8q0M-iGF4EVyba0jfbFQrFecdgep04RlIYxiDc2PBRCdUoHQB7R32nsVmMDDHnxzYy4vJ3qzXfchbh8ClLO5X9dkrqXLTXW0izj7Ih9YhU_EAiir/s320/IMG_5491.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brothers playing together</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLaJpf_r27BllsVK18mjIVSqR8cDDC85vXC6XqNDZxtChNDY8OLCfGrb0mJ8qefLr71ZjVMb4HTzhTADWtarT4zPPMZPa1uW5erXvDh6jQFv2sH3rihd2RjrmBkiZ3I97F_dewMafmiwrd/s1600/IMG_5510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLaJpf_r27BllsVK18mjIVSqR8cDDC85vXC6XqNDZxtChNDY8OLCfGrb0mJ8qefLr71ZjVMb4HTzhTADWtarT4zPPMZPa1uW5erXvDh6jQFv2sH3rihd2RjrmBkiZ3I97F_dewMafmiwrd/s320/IMG_5510.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These two sharing a love of music</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCBn0BpJtF6ayo2Oi18fYG6NfhxGnmb2hfgUdwrKmprgcsdAH-U67HHbz1n7_KOBkLmyfFw3vzrik_VT62GVDYnRSTaMSBZlm7nYJ8CCNc2FyInoeVZ9Q_AsIM8_UmDP6usj3bSdYnf-K/s1600/IMG_5511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCBn0BpJtF6ayo2Oi18fYG6NfhxGnmb2hfgUdwrKmprgcsdAH-U67HHbz1n7_KOBkLmyfFw3vzrik_VT62GVDYnRSTaMSBZlm7nYJ8CCNc2FyInoeVZ9Q_AsIM8_UmDP6usj3bSdYnf-K/s320/IMG_5511.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afternoon reading with the cats at her feet</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINnY2LEzhjD03xgzm_jCuw32tHz-5KmtWLgts1BuoaY-H1q6SJfCzTB81YLU5bVyrsi4Ln6ORSHixx11cG6uWMTceoFMgahNUkL_S4_7uZjEdsvzpHB_ZVe_ZMO_XNVI1vQeFPYh9HnYi/s1600/IMG_5518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINnY2LEzhjD03xgzm_jCuw32tHz-5KmtWLgts1BuoaY-H1q6SJfCzTB81YLU5bVyrsi4Ln6ORSHixx11cG6uWMTceoFMgahNUkL_S4_7uZjEdsvzpHB_ZVe_ZMO_XNVI1vQeFPYh9HnYi/s320/IMG_5518.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sneaking in a trip to the pool just before bedtime on a Thursday</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-76470469420327257622013-05-27T22:10:00.001-04:002013-05-27T22:10:24.439-04:00In the MiddleOur Memorial Day weekend was the perfect mix of doing things and not-doing things: biking, having friends over for dinner, celebrating my dad's birthday, going to a graduation open house, gardening, reading, running, lounging in jammies, cooking and baking, relaxing. And though today's chilly rain wasn't the perfect end to the weekend, weather-wise, I think we're all heading into the week relaxed and refreshed.<br />
<br />
At the graduation open house - our babysitter's, the first I've been to in years - I realized while talking with her mom that Annie has lived with us now for about half of the total time she'll likely live with us - a little punch to the gut on a gorgeous spring day. She's right in the middle of her life as a child growing up in our house. I stood in a big backyard near a white tent as I said it, patting Annie's sun-kissed head, but I thought about it off and on for the rest of the weekend, as she and Jemma both did things that seemed both "big-kid" and "little-kid," proving that they really are in that in-between sweet spot of childhood.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, they're still little ones. On Friday afternoon, they walked home from school to find us unpacking some new patio furniture and they immediately seized on the big cardboard box it had come in. Before I knew it, they'd constructed a functional door with a jump rope, cut windows, decorated it with markers, and spent time eating snacks and blowing bubbles in it with friends for the rest of the night. On Sunday morning, Jemma squirmed and whined and laid her body over me like a noodle all throughout church, and on Sunday afternoon my brother hung her upside down by her feet and made her helpless with laughter. Tonight, Annie asked me to paint her toenails before dinner and both girls danced a self-choreographed modern dance for us before their showers, complete with matching costumes, fans, and lighting. Jemma cried over a broken keychain and over gum. Annie threw a fit about going to the garden store and brought a stuffed animal along in the car. They constructed an outdoor fairy garden and can still fully immerse themselves in the world of magic. A million little moments of being little.<br />
<br />
But then sometimes I can hardly believe how big they are. Jemma helped Jason string up patio lights - holding the ladder, fetching tools, genuinely helping instead of "helping" the way a toddler would. She read three Ivy & Bean books this weekend. Annie helped make dinner on Saturday. They clear their plates after a meal, spread cream cheese on their own bagels, put away their own laundry. When we stopped into the brewery for Jason and Trevor to play a couple quick guitar songs together Sunday night, Annie said she wanted to play, too - and she calmly blew the whole place away with Styx while Jason sang along. We can take long family bike rides now - no training wheels, no bike trailer, just the four of us pedaling around town to smell the lilacs and play at the playground and get ice cream.<br />
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They have two weeks left of this school year, and I'm in denial. I'd like for them to stay in third grade and kindergarten for a long time. I'd like for them to live at our house with us for zillions more years, instead of just ten or so. As we kick off this summer, though, I'm going to try to keep them right here in the middle for just a while longer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-32789559307756454602013-05-23T12:31:00.002-04:002013-05-23T12:31:44.726-04:00Read Elsewhere: Benediction"What if we said to our enemies: We are the most powerful nation on earth. We can destroy you. We can kill your children. We can make ruins of your cities and villages and when we're finished you won't even know how to look for the places where they used to be. We have the power to take away your water and to scorch your earth, to rob you of the very fundamentals of life. We can change the actual day into actual night. We can do all of these things to you. And more.<br />
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But what if we say, Listen: Instead of any of these, we are going to give willingly and generously to you. We are going to spend the great American national treasure and the will and the human lives that we would have spent on destruction, and instead we are going to turn them all toward creation. We'll mend your roads and highways, expand your schools, modernize your wells and water supplies, save your ancient artifacts and art and culture, preserve your temples and mosques. In fact, we are going to love you. And again we say, no matter what has gone before, no matter what you've done: We are going to love you. We have set our hearts to it."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-3317583492767499992013-05-23T10:46:00.000-04:002013-05-23T10:46:01.482-04:00Read Elsewhere: Half a Life From <i>Half a Life</i> by Darin Strauss:<br />
<br />
"I'm surprising myself by grinning now, just recalling this. There's a pleasant, weird vibe you get from remembering a moment of early closeness with someone, in the time before you realized this closeness was going to become your life."<br />
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*****<br />
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"I find it an amazing stroke of luck to be married to (her). To be a parent with (her). That's the meter you come up with, as you approach forty. If your relationship fills you with a sense of luck, you've chosen well."<br />
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*****<br />
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"Things don't go away. They become you. There is no end, as T.S. Eliot somewhere says, but addition: the trailing consequence of further days and hours. No freedom from the past, or from the future.<br />
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But we keep making our way, as we have to. We're all pretty much able to deal even with the worst that life can fire at us, if we simply admit that it is very difficult. I think that's the whole of the answer. We make our way, and effort and time give us cushion and dignity. And as we age, we're riding higher in the saddle, seeing more terrain.<br />
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So it's an epiphany after all. You have it in your hand the whole time."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-65749926338243970022013-05-17T21:41:00.000-04:002013-05-17T21:41:22.982-04:00The Best Moment of My DayAdmired writer Shauna Niequist recently wrote <a href="http://www.shaunaniequist.com/the-best-moment-of-my-day/">a post about the best moment of her day</a> and invited readers to share their own. I'm not sure I've ever really thought about it. I love the first sip of coffee in the morning, my morning run, praying before dinner when all four of us are there together, almost-daily phone calls with a certain friend, kissing Jason when he gets home from work. But if I had to choose a favorite, it'd be this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDCKpq8ajN1HdyCfaTrDFBWaRzafXbKICkh1fKsMXWCbrf8_A-HqbJw6CG2dIHA8N2rKYva9aEfstjsfgfqIAF2QQP53dVk7XM0_XyC7EbiASj9EIHx-OZxY-K2wGv7tpFjVLU5T83txv/s1600/IMG_5436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDCKpq8ajN1HdyCfaTrDFBWaRzafXbKICkh1fKsMXWCbrf8_A-HqbJw6CG2dIHA8N2rKYva9aEfstjsfgfqIAF2QQP53dVk7XM0_XyC7EbiASj9EIHx-OZxY-K2wGv7tpFjVLU5T83txv/s320/IMG_5436.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bedtime stories, Mother's Day 2013</td></tr>
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The girls, freshly showered and be-jammied, snuggled next to me while I read to them before bed. Our family, together again at the end of the day. A book (<i>The Secret Garden,</i> <i>Amelia Bedelia,</i> anything by Kate Di Camillo) holding our attention. The promise of a glass of wine on the couch or the back patio in fifteen minutes. The knowledge that we're all home safe for the night.<br />
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I don't particularly enjoy the lead-up to this moment (hurry, take a shower, brush your teeth, stop petting the cat, brush more, fill your water bottle, choose a book, leave the cat alone), but it's awfully hard to top those few precious minutes when the three (sometimes four) of us are huddled together over a book on that darn couch Jason and I bought from a used furniture store in Ann Arbor in 1999. It's right where I want to be, at least six out of seven nights of the week. It's the best moment of my day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-49000229214417176702013-05-16T16:53:00.000-04:002013-05-16T16:53:02.677-04:00Five Things That Have Happened1. The event I've been working on since November, <a href="http://www.tedxgrandrapids.org/">TEDxGrandRapids</a>, took place last Thursday. I'm feeling incredibly lucky to have been part of such a dedicated and creative team and incredibly proud of the writing I did to give our event a voice. (Virtually all the website copy, blog posts, and audience newsletters - and many of the news releases - were written by me, and it's simultaneously a huge relief to be mostly done with the project and a strange sense of emptiness to not be thinking about it every day.) A few thoughts, post-event:<br />
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<ul>
<li>As the event got close, another team member and I took over the Twitter feed. My job the day of the event was largely to post, re-tweet, monitor, reply, and keep track of an exploding hashtag - and I've really only been on Twitter in a minimal capacity for less than a year. All credit goes to the super-smart college student on my team who very nicely sat down with me, helped me set up TweetDeck, and taught me about RT, MT, hashtags, and all manner of Twitter usage. At one point I actually said, "I'm sorry! I'm thirty-five! I learned to type on a word processor!" but he was patient, and I was reminded that I'm not nearly old enough to stop learning new tricks.</li>
<li>Our speakers were very, very smart people whose talks were challenging, interesting, and inspiring. This is exactly as we had hoped and planned, so - good! And yet, I don't think I'm the only one who found the cumulative effect of all those PhDs doing amazing research/people overcoming obstacles and dreaming big/innovative designers with bold ideas for the future to be the nagging thought, What am I even doing with my life? (And: I remember having that feeling before, after reading <i>Mountains Beyond Mountains</i> by Tracy Kidder, and I remember that it eventually went away, so I'm not too alarmed. I think I'll re-watch the talks when they come online, maybe one at a time so as not to be overwhelmed.)</li>
<li>The night before, at the speaker-sponsor reception, I got to chat one-on-one for about half an hour with one of our speakers, a genomics medicine expert whose talk centered around the efficacy of genetic testing and what individuals might want to do with that information. I got to quiz him about my family history of Alzheimer's, ask about my insurance company suspicions, and get advice about whether and how to be tested. That interaction alone was priceless and gave me a ton to think about regarding my health care.</li>
<li>Over the course of the day, I also saw a high-school classmate that I haven't had contact with since graduation, drank one perfect MadCap cappuccino, discussed vasectomies with the wife of a favorite local business owner I'd just met, used my latent calligraphy skills to prettify the name badges of late-registering attendees, and cried my eyes out at <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/steven_addis_a_father_daughter_bond_one_photo_at_a_time.html">a TED video</a> that was interspersed between the talks. It was a day unlike any other, that's for sure.</li>
</ul>
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2. On Friday, I helped take the event down in the morning (this involved glamorous things like pulling up yards of sidewalk tape in the drizzling rain and washing out multiple water containers), then picked up my Riverbank Run 25K packet in the afternoon. Because WHY NOT RUN 15 MILES TWO DAYS AFTER A 16-HOUR EVENT? Our school principal, for whom a team of us was raising money with the run, generously hosted a pasta dinner for the runners and their families on Friday evening. It was nice to spend a little time with the other runners and their families, and in retrospect, it was nice to have that extra reminder that each of us, sponsored by others, was running for a dear cause. Because, while the first 12 miles of the run on Saturday went beautifully (Sarah and I talking and laughing and downing Gatorade as we always do), the last 3.5 miles did not feel good. At all. And I may or may not have been doing an embarrassing amount of self-talk and sing-song chants to the beat of my feet on the ground about being strong, running for a cause, and making our team proud. In the end, we finished - and within about 20 seconds of the time we've gotten every other time we've done this distance, too. Apparently if you wind me up, I do a nine-minute mile until I can't do any more. I came home, got in the hot tub, and spent much of the rest of the day in bed, thank goodness.</div>
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3. Sunday was Mother's Day. After the girls awakened me early (7:01) to bring me breakfast in bed (yogurt and granola, mango, coffee) and my favorite flowers (lilacs), I had a few moments to reflect on how my Mother's Days have changed so drastically over the years. I so clearly remember those first, blurry ones - crying babies, tantruming toddlers, so much sweating involved either packing us all up to go somewhere or hosting family at our house. I remember ending the day with a defeated sense that, to truly enjoy a day of thanks and relaxation, I'd have to do it WITHOUT my children, and that didn't feel right at all, Plus, my role then was so totally as A MOM that not getting that acknowledgement bothered me more than it probably should have. These days, I truly love (most of) the time I spend with the girls. They're not sleeping sweetly on my shoulder or using adorable three-year-old voices to babble brightly, and I do miss that, but they're legitimately fun to be with. Highlights of the day this year included the way the girls had hung little signs and pictures all around the house for me to find, our family brunch at Trillium Haven (where Annie took down a plate of bacon faster than I've ever seen), seeing both grandmas for a bit in the afternoon, and, of course, the cards the girls made me at school. Jemma's, I want the record to show, proclaimed that I "smell like honey," which is not exactly the message I get from her after I've returned from a run. Next time she backs away from my post-workout kiss, I'm going to yell, "I thought I smelled like honey!" and see what she says. Annie's entire list of "10 Things About My Mom" thrilled me - not just because it's a project I used to do with my second-graders after we'd read Because of Winn-Dixie, too, but mostly because of list item #5, which said, "Whining does not work with her." I'm not sure I'm going to stop celebrating that little tidbit, since it proves that if you say something almost every day for nearly nine years, your child will eventually internalize it. (I'm also not able to stop hearing that phrase in what I call the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWWsWP9bPAg">Wesley Willis</a> voice. Jason agrees.) Anyway, it was a super-special day, and I felt loved and lucky, and I wish I could tell my past self that Mother's Day will eventually a) mean a little less to me in a good way, since I'll have other sources of affirmation in my life and b) get better, as far as the having fun WITH the kids thing goes.</div>
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4. On Monday, the sleeplessness and excitement of last week caught up to me. I got my hair cut, watched DVR'd Mad Men, and took a nap. I was like a college student after finals: only interested in sleeping, and wishing my mom would do my laundry.</div>
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5. Yesterday, I made <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2009/11/salted-brown-butter-crispy-treats/">Smitten Kitchen's salted brown butter rice krispie treats</a>, then promptly ate almost half the pan. I mean, that's not the ONLY thing I did yesterday, it's just all I'm telling you about.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-10306406603451999452013-05-05T15:03:00.000-04:002013-05-05T15:03:01.681-04:00Things They Say: Spring Has Sprung EditionYesterday afternoon, after a day full of biking, squirt-gun fights, bubbles, sidewalk chalk, frozen yogurt, eating outside:<br />
<br />
Jemma: This was a really good day.<br />
Me: It was, wasn't it?<br />
Jemma: I'm mostly happy when it's warm and sunny, and grumpy when it's cold and dark.<br />
Me: You, me, and the rest of the world, babe.<br />
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*****<br />
<br />
This morning, playing at the park after a picnic breakfast, Jason was wearing an unfortunate baseball cap that was too high and made his head look strange. I was teasing him, and he turned it around to wear it backwards, at which point I was trying to figure out who or what he looked like.<br />
<br />
Jemma: A baker?<br />
Me: . . . No . . .<br />
Annie: I know who he looks like! Caillou! Ah ha hah!<br />
<br />
(He took it off.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917365320821808387.post-35777802893320969172013-05-03T12:45:00.002-04:002013-05-03T12:45:50.691-04:00Right Now:: listening to the birds chirping outside the dining room windows.<br />
<br />
:: taking Instagrams of the magnolia trees in full bloom, waning daffodils, and my first tulips in the yard.<br />
<br />
:: coping with the accompanying pollen-related allergy issues.<br />
<br />
:: knowing I'm going to be sore from a tough yoga class this morning.<br />
<br />
:: hydrating for tomorrow's last long run before the 25K.<br />
<br />
:: procrastinating a few little writing assignments that need to get done before <a href="http://tedxgrandrapids.org/">this event</a> next Thursday.<br />
<br />
:: wondering if it would be so wrong to make pineapple mojitos for the third night in a row.<br />
<br />
:: wishing the laundry would fold itself.<br />
<br />
:: feeling proud of my little writer and the great poetry she shared at yesterday's reading.<br />
<br />
:: still giggling at Jemma's television debut this morning, announcing "This is FOX 17 morning news" before her class was featured on air to honor her teacher.<br />
<br />
:: slowly learning just how much you find out by driving carpool.<br />
<br />
:: looking forward to the weekend: soccer game, baking, piano recital, a little surprise date with a certain 8-year-old, gardening, grandparents, and friends.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0