tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41810335628124130442024-02-07T13:58:49.416-05:00this beautiful messwelcome to my life in the beautiful upper connecticut river valley of vermont and new hampshire.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-30828009032310217262013-12-26T23:53:00.001-05:002013-12-27T00:24:18.839-05:00Hallelujah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/8326887842/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Untitled by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="Untitled" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8361/8326887842_75af44e080.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week, I heard <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E-9Z8sFyRs" target="_blank">a version</a> of a Christmas song that I normally wouldn't pick as a traditional favorite. I love the way it tells the story of what is important to me this time of year. As I press my cheek against the face of my own baby boy this Christmas, I wonder what feelings Mary was having as she cradled her baby boy--so warm and tiny as he was swaddled in her arms. I cry thinking about it. I'm such a sap. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I've heard about this baby boy</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Who's come to earth to bring us joy</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">And I just want to sing this song to you</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The minor fall, the major lift</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">With every breath I'm singing Hallelujah</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A couple came to Bethlehem</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Expecting child, they searched the inn</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">To find a place for You were coming soon</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">There was no room for them to stay</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So in a manger filled with hay</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">God's only Son was born, oh Hallelujah</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The shepherds left their flocks by night</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">To see this baby wrapped in light</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A host of angels led them all to You</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It was just as the angels said</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">You'll find Him in a manger bed</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Emmanuel and Savior, Hallelujah</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A star shown bright up in the east</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">To Bethlehem, the wisemen three</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Came many miles and journeyed long for You</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">And to the place at which You were</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Their frankincense and gold and myrrh</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">They gave to You and cried out Hallelujah</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I know You came to rescue me</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This baby boy would grow to be</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A man and one day die for me and you</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">My sins would drive the nails in You</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">That rugged cross was my cross, too</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Still every breath You drew was Hallelujah</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Hallelujah</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><br />
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<i>"A Hallelujah Christmas" original music by Leonard Cohen, lyrics by Cloverton</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/61941964@N08/11577413705/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="IMG_2214 by abcbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_2214" height="640" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3734/11577413705_f35a6554b0.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-77390881520564931542013-11-12T23:22:00.001-05:002013-11-17T20:47:41.221-05:00Last Fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The great storyteller Rudyard Kipling, who lived in southern Vermont for a time, penned some lovely words about the transformation of a Vermont fall: </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">"A little </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maple" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Maple">maple</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"> began it, flaming blood-red of a sudden where he stood against the dark green of a pine-belt. Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sumac" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Sumac">sumacs</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"> grow. Three days later, the hill-sides as fast as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold. Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army; and the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oak" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Oak">oaks</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">, who had held themselves in reserve, buckled on their dull and bronzed </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuirass" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Cuirass">cuirasses</a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;"> and stood it out stiffly to the last blown leaf, till nothing remained but pencil-shadings of bare boughs, and one could see into the most private heart of the woods."</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large; line-height: 13.328125px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">Rudyard Kipling, </span><i style="line-height: 15px;">Letters of Travel (1892–1920).</i></span></span></h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whitingham, VT, birthplace of Brigham Young</td></tr>
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This, and more, will be what I look back on about living here in the Upper Valley. Fall here is perfection. This final year in northern New England has brought us down to our lasts: our last beach trip to Maine, our last blueberry picking in Lyme, and now our last fall harvest season surrounded by high-definition warm-colored leaves shimmering across the mountainsides and trickling through the river valley.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baker Library, Dartmouth campus</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Billings Farm, Woodstock, VT</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire Station in Grafton, VT</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIoXVicc6OnWobt1usJkJiyMzD55mEC0lldgk2AUD7CnYUWkbwn9OmFKq6da0WjLf2ppsJ6jpqef7iB83Ly_1MYH0hMav0fwKYubeTNdWWaDWL0dSRKEbBzdfrlhVLuXupRWD9QpLW0-g/s1600/killdeerfarmvt2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIoXVicc6OnWobt1usJkJiyMzD55mEC0lldgk2AUD7CnYUWkbwn9OmFKq6da0WjLf2ppsJ6jpqef7iB83Ly_1MYH0hMav0fwKYubeTNdWWaDWL0dSRKEbBzdfrlhVLuXupRWD9QpLW0-g/s640/killdeerfarmvt2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Killdeer Farm, Norwich, VT</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view of Hartford, VT and into New Hampshire</td></tr>
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But has this been our final Fall? Returning as a leaf peeper doesn't feel right. Not too long ago on a family drive through the back roads, Boy and I sat stunned at the charming and unpretentious scene in front of us. There were leaves that sparkled as they fluttered on the tops of trees. There were dairy cows roaming on pastures of grass that were at least seven different gradients of green. There were wise old barns that stood tall and strong despite worn doors and peeling paint. Covered bridges, meandering rivers, jaunty farm stands, and white steepled churches. We looked at each other and asked, "Why are we leaving?" It was then that we made a solemn pinky swear that we'd return in retirement <i>or </i>after our brood of kids leave the nest. So perhaps this won't be our last. Until the golden years are upon us, that question will linger around for now.<br />
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Colors are not around for very long. And it breaks my heart to leave this wonderful place filled with wonderful people. Farewell, Fall of my dreams. For now.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">"Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay," <i>New Hampshire</i>, 1923. </span></span></h3>
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-80989117806150068382013-09-07T22:37:00.001-04:002013-09-07T22:37:36.448-04:00Golden GirlMy golden-haired girl turned three on the third. Golden birthday.<br />
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She has a Hello Kitty fetish. Thanks, McDonalds.<br />
She sounds like Oprah on her Favorite Things giveaway when she announces what's on her mind, "It's myyyyyy BIRTHDAY!" "These are myyyyyyyy SPARKLE SHOES!"<br />
She has a big vo<span style="font-family: inherit;">ice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She screams and it gives me headaches. It doesn't matter if they're happy or sad screams. They are so astonishingly loud.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She loves pink. I didn't encourage it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She still calls her black stretchy leggings her 'Cat Girl pants.' She has not yet put in a request for this year's Halloween costume.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She was devastated when <i>Go, Diego, Go!</i> was removed from Netflix. She may have a thing for Latin boys. I think there's a famous Celine Dion song that put it best--her heart will go on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She finishes her apples when they're whole and untouched.</span> If I slice them into pieces, she'll only take some nibbles on its white flesh.</span><br />
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She's her father's daughter. I've told Boy that if he were born female he'd look just like her. And his name would have been Heather.<br />
S<span style="font-family: inherit;">he runs like he<span style="font-family: inherit;">r dad.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She is a klutz. Always running into things. Just like her dad?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She is very smart--Dad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She likes people--Dad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She imposes conversatio</span>ns with strangers when we're out: the grocery, the library, her brother's school, the farm, the ladies' room. Um, yeah. It's obvious where she gets that from.<br />
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She loves animals. Like people, she imposes conversations with them too.<br />
She was fearless with dogs until a few weeks ago. She used to stick her face right up to a dog and talk to it. Now, she belts out a blood-cur<span style="font-family: inherit;">dling scream when she sees them move toward her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She sleeps with an entourage of stuffed animals.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She climbs into her brother's bed for nap time while he's away at school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She loves her brother, but she knows how to set that kid off: She'll talk while he is <span style="font-family: inherit;">praying--takes his monkey George as if it belonged to her--knocks his building blocks down--and whaddya know? What goes around comes around.</span></span><br />
She's kind of a punk.<br />
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She's happy when she has Pink Blanket and her left thumb. She asked for PB one day because she loved the way it smelled. I don't think she realizes that PB smells like dried up saliva. Again, I don't encourage it.<br />
She calls her dad 'Daddy' in a squeaky high voice only when she wants something.<br />
She has climbed into her baby brother's crib a handful of times, to my everlasting dismay. She and Teej make each other laugh, so I suppose it's okay?<br />
She is not afraid of singing in public.<br />
She has knows Primary songs better than most eight-year-olds at church.<br />
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She is oh, so different than I am. I find it curious that someone as explosive as she came from someone like me. She has inspired me more than she will ever know.<br />
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Happy Birthday, my Indy girl.<br />
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-31117163248950672702013-08-16T07:03:00.000-04:002013-08-16T09:32:56.901-04:00Two Becomes Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was an early Sunday evening when I discovered the gentleness between my eldest and his little not-so-much-a-baby-anymore sister. I was about six months pregnant and the three of us had returned home from church (Boy at the hospital working call shift—so typical). I was worn out—again, typical—so I plopped them on the couch for some TV time as I scurried away in the kitchen to prepare something simple enough for us to eat. A short while later, or at least it felt that way to me, I called for them to come as I was placing dishes onto the table. No answer. I looked across the kitchen and my eyes met with those of my little boy, still sitting on the couch with a blonde wispy head resting on his shoulder, who calmly whispered, "Shhh, Mom. Be quiet. Indy's sleeping." He had his left arm curved around her, while the other tenderly held her sleepy hand. I watched him lovingly stroke it as she breathed deeply into dreamland. For a then three-year-old who was known in our family for his sibling bossiness and an excited boyish aggression that cannot be tamed, my heart swelled up at the unexpected.<br />
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Nine months was not enough time to capture the last moments of their sweet twosome-ness.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Summer...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Fall...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Winter...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Spring...</span><br />
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Three months later, our spring Easter chick came. Two kids turned into three and we became a party of five. Gentle fingers are not very common around the Tot because baby-sized body parts are just too scrumptious not to squeeze and excitement takes over—I get it. Still, their baby brother gets plenty of loving touches and a whole lot of inclusiveness.<br />
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The transition to another little person in the house was welcomed with open arms. For me, it got better. And it is still.<br />
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It's a good thing three is not a crowd. I think we'll keep him.<br />
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-87202823294800559972013-07-31T23:56:00.003-04:002013-07-31T23:58:17.116-04:00Stepping out of a Mess<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/AVvXsEgrXm-BlooOMoIUngrFc-mmsHafYZyZHP9rZwAor-Cdt_j7LraxTKQgjObQPhehBhEeruPtck2iNQ-Rq4RQa6PxRvRxWihKjVSx_LxKwSJxo_4SLLAMUmM9GcTJtUyz1y83KFf2ksKs-f8/s1600/starsquote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXm-BlooOMoIUngrFc-mmsHafYZyZHP9rZwAor-Cdt_j7LraxTKQgjObQPhehBhEeruPtck2iNQ-Rq4RQa6PxRvRxWihKjVSx_LxKwSJxo_4SLLAMUmM9GcTJtUyz1y83KFf2ksKs-f8/s640/starsquote.jpg" width="476" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[via <a href="http://pinterest.com/pin/91620173642621351/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a>]</td></tr>
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<br />
The stars seem brighter to me these days. I think it's time to start writing again. <br />
<br />
For myself.<br />
<br />
Soon.<br />
<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-2846126116992864262012-12-31T22:46:00.000-05:002013-12-26T23:27:53.715-05:00Well, the World Didn't End in 2012...<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">"It's been a long December and there's reason to believe</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Maybe this year will be better than the last.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">To hold on to these moments as they pass."</span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">--lyrics of "A Long December" by Counting Crows</span></i><br />
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And so go the words sung by a beloved band from my teenage years. Decembers are long 'round here. The sun sets by 4:30 p.m. The sun begins to glint after 7 a.m. A few weeks ago after watching <i>White Christmas</i>, I wondered if we'd get a Christmas miracle of a cold white wonderland. It trickled into the upper valley on Christmas Eve and a few days later, BAM! I'm now living in a Vermont Christmas card.<br />
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It's been another year. It started high and ended...well, my feelings are mixed. I choose to live with faith and optimism, but the longer I live, I am exposed to more tragedy that frightens me for the innocent ones living under my protective wings. But, we all carry on. Life is still a beautiful gift. It must be cherished until the last grains of sand slip through that hour glass called mortality.<br />
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So that is where my mind is right now: I'm trying to hold and appreciate all of life's little moments as much as I can. With this being the eve of a brand new year, I feel internal strings pulling me towards the keyboard--must be coming from the reflections from the past six or so weeks. Or it comes from the inquiries from family and friends who are concerned about whether I am still alive.<br />
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Hanging by a thread over here, but yes, she has a pulse!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: I haven't blogged since November.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: Oh, nobody has noticed? Figures.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: I'm growing a little human being.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: This human being is a boy. And he ain't little. Past experience has taught me that he will be born the size of a newborn elephant.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: Most people didn't know this until after I was 20 weeks along.<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Reality</span></b>: This leads me to wonder if others think it's normal to see me walking around with my three chins. Am I really that chubby and frumpy when I'm not pregnant? Ouch. I'll ponder on that.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: To improve my repertoire in the kitchen, I took two more baking classes from King Arthur Flour.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: Baking beautiful things ends when I leave the doors of KAF. I won't be posting pictures from the pie crust I made for our Thanksgiving banana cream pie--grade F for presentation, but an A+ for taste.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: My little Indy had her first trip to the ED for four stitches.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: She had her second trip to the ED three days later for croup.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: She wanted her pink blanket to comfort her through the pain.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: Pink Blanket took a back seat when Dad met up with her at the hospital.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Bonus</b></span>: Emergency personnel showered her with new furry bears; the names are as follows: Baby Stitches, Fuzzy Bear, and Doctor Bear.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: Dora the Explorer and Go Diego Go! are sensationally annoying.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: But nothing puts a smile to my face when Finn shouts jubilantly, "Swiper no swiping! Swiper no swiping! Swiper NO swiping!" and his sister's chipmunk voice answers, "Oh, maaan!"<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fact</span></b>: My two are best friends.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: But they fight like siblings.<br />
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<b>Fact</b>: I love the season of Christmas with children.<br />
<b>Reality</b>: Christmas with children is a lot of work. I was sweating like a hog anticipating any tiny sleight of hand while the kids and I admired the Hanover Inn's delicate gingerbread display.<br />
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<b>Fact</b>: I participated in a holiday boutique again--baby leggings, baby hats, tree ornaments, fabric notebooks, glass pebble magnets, jewelry...<br />
<b>Reality</b>: I'm not cut out for this type of stuff. It's a low blow to my self esteem when passers by don't even give a sniff to my hard work. I think to myself, "not cute enough? is it junk? too pricey? fine, I'll use it myself." After so many hours spent crafting, I now appreciate people who do this type of thing for a living.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: Christmas isn't Christmas without Pomegranate 7up, Pear Cinnamon Cider, and Candy Cane Joe Joe's.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: For the third year in a row, I was deeply irritated to be unable to locate a trace of Pom 7up. Found a decent replacement in the Polar brand. Took care of the last two items after finding a new TJ location while Christmas shopping near the NH/MA border.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: I made a fascinator hat to wear to Boy's Christmas party with his department. Good thing I can count on my stretchy LBD for these types of outings. I even went <i>all out</i> and bought a $4 bling ring to fancy it out. Mama looked hot.<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Reality</span></b>: My dressy ensemble was overshadowed by Boy's mustache that he worked so hard to grow out for two months.<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Bonus</span></b>: No, neither of us won the contest for "best hat" nor "best 'stache".<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Extra bonu</b></span>s: He's clean shaven once again. Hallelujah.<br />
<i>[No bonus: No photo of said mustache included. I refuse. I refuse. I refuse.] </i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Fact</b></span>: My favorite part of Christmas were the lights and nativity in Sharon, Vermont.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Reality</b></span>: While my kids made friends a Palestinian donkey named Annie and admire baby Jesus for a moment, they would rather play with their new trains and doll stroller on Christmas morning.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Bonus</b></span>: I realize my kids are still young to understand the meaning of Christmas...passing up my oven-baked quiche lorraine and hot butterscotch rolls to play with toys? What blasphemy!<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fact</span></b>: Over the weekend, our local airport (hint: <i>small</i>) had tickets to fly to Boston or New York City for $12 per person. Dost my ears deceive me? Twelve? My heart fluttered for the Big Apple.<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Reality</span></b>: By the time we heard about this scream of a deal, all the flights were full unless you were flying solo. New Year's weekend down in Times Square wasn't meant to be.<br />
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This lengthy post doesn't guarantee a quick return to blogging, but to everyone I love--a very happy new year!<br />
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May 2013 be a good year...<br />
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-89419773066841777972012-11-05T22:04:00.000-05:002012-11-05T22:04:10.296-05:00Stuff<br />
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<li>My children's disobedience to Daylight Savings nearly killed me. Why didn't I unscrew the lightbulb in their bedroom and lock them inside? Maybe I should have used duck tape to strap them into bed.</li>
<li>It is no longer effective to say, "Don't get out of bed until the sun is up." Naughty children. Especially that not-so-sweet Indy punk who has a way of persuading her brother how to disobey authority.</li>
<li>I wish I could survive off 4 hours of sleep or less. Alas, it is not so. </li>
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<li>If no miracle occurs tomorrow on election night, at least I witnessed one tonight at dinner when Finn the Finicky Food Eater declared, "Good job, Mom," after gingerly tasting a bite from his plate. One experimental spoonful turned into two, and so on...[silent fist bump from me].</li>
<li>I still can't get used to Peyton Manning wearing an orange jersey. It's so wrong. Soooo wrong. And to think that I didn't care one iota about NFL football.</li>
<li>I like the name Peyton. On the list.</li>
<li>Boy still hasn't gotten rid of our Indianapolis Colts decal on our car window. Call it love. I've been waiting for some die-hard Patriots fan to blow up our car.</li>
<li>As for blowing up cars, I recently forgot to turn my engine off when I filled my gas tank. No, we didn't blow up, but the thought crossed my mind. </li>
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<li>I'm relishing rare naps with my Indy girl. Her fuzzy golden hair tickles my chin and her warm skin still smells of Heaven. She reminds me that she's no longer a baby, but it's in that moment that it feels right to be sending her off to grow up while I prepare for another baby. </li>
<li>I wish that somebody would put Halloween candy out of my reach. Sometimes having to be a responsible adult really bites.</li>
<li>I am a Neti Pot convert. Overcome your stubborn fears like I did, and breathe happily. </li>
<li>I love it when Boy comes home with a paper bag from Panera: hot cheddar and broccoli soup in a sourdough bread bowl.</li>
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<li>Eating ice cream outside during this time of year qualifies us for some kind of prize. When it comes to ice cream, we are no wimps.</li>
<li>What's better than ice cream? Homemade smoothies. And smoothie mustaches.</li>
<li>We drink so much apple cider a week that we think it's starting to replace the blood in our veins. </li>
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Which cider is better: Vermont or New Hampshire?<br />
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It all tastes the same.<br />
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For the record, local tastes best. Grocery store imported brands taste rotten.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-1981337777098521422012-10-31T21:09:00.002-04:002012-10-31T21:09:17.013-04:00A Haunting We Will Go...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3Nj8Wwx1ZHKemsU0vR5LQ29duWnwL4M5Z_ik4wGonWJUuCSKNz_PPKNglsGJfY_xCcuYnXGBQZu6QQju4rEe_DQ15NOf8ig4_wYDaL2Y_FnmlWjJmITfZbVb4ew3-_N15HrZ_tRXKvU/s1600/IMG_6750A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe3Nj8Wwx1ZHKemsU0vR5LQ29duWnwL4M5Z_ik4wGonWJUuCSKNz_PPKNglsGJfY_xCcuYnXGBQZu6QQju4rEe_DQ15NOf8ig4_wYDaL2Y_FnmlWjJmITfZbVb4ew3-_N15HrZ_tRXKvU/s640/IMG_6750A.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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These days, the enjoyment of blogging has slumped into a vast abyss of nothingness. I'm a moody writer/journal keeper/blogger/human being/slave driver/mother/wife. How did all the fun drain out? I rarely turn on my desktop--that has been collecting dust as of late. I slap on photo files to my external hard drive and never look at them again. I read political campaign news on the iPad until I get heartburn. I don't even read blogs as much as I used to--I'd rather watch reruns of <i>Everybody Loves Raymond</i> on Netflix because it takes zero mental effort and as a bonus, I burn all the calories from the 60 donuts I ate for dinner because I'm laughing out loud <b>so freaking hard</b>. Pure lethargic bliss. Fancy that. I don't know how or <i>where </i>to get a sensible mojo back. Either pregnant hormones are shutting out my happiness neurons or I need to find something else that prompts ambition in my spare time.<br />
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Eh, spare time? That's when my sacrosanct nap hour begins. I can never get enough.<br />
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Tonight, as the kids were trick-or-treating with their dad, I poked my head out of the front door window to see them galloping from house to house in our neighborhood. Man, I love watching childhood. Being in the thick of it is rough, but watching it from afar is sweeter than Halloween candy. Awww. I don't think I've seen more precious looking superheroes. Captain America and <strike>Catwoman </strike>Cat girl played their parts well--neither would dare shrug off their secret identities. It was as if their masks transformed them into the real deal. Indy insisted to be called Cat Girl at all times and wouldn't leave that rhinestone blinged-out black cat mask alone. I guess that leaves me with needing to start accumulating various dress-ups for these two.<br />
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Fortunately for us in northern New England, we escaped the wrath of Hurricane Sandy this week. The storm was howling in the grim October air, but we were safe and had power all night long. I never thought that I'd ever say this in my <u>ENTIRE </u>life, but I'm so glad to not be residing in New York City right now. The photos I've seen online make me depressed. We were very blessed to avoid the flooding and mess that we had over a year ago when Irene came through.<br />
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Oh, and we had a earthquake out here just last week or so. October hasn't failed in bringing scary surprises to our neck of the woods.<br />
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Happy Halloween.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtt1SMq_pY5DuFD26skv6anGZRRxrG1UfOmgMRIES2Y8KJoFo4RYhyphenhyphenfA3nzlIoNI6izQmnrSwuCOp96L56A7RgoUMX3UFhRDcUGfbut0K0zagOEFB38Zya6EcaVVC2ePj5VdG-Yekd4I/s1600/IMG_6296A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtt1SMq_pY5DuFD26skv6anGZRRxrG1UfOmgMRIES2Y8KJoFo4RYhyphenhyphenfA3nzlIoNI6izQmnrSwuCOp96L56A7RgoUMX3UFhRDcUGfbut0K0zagOEFB38Zya6EcaVVC2ePj5VdG-Yekd4I/s640/IMG_6296A.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">boston lot lake--west lebanon, nh</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">world-famous pumpkin festival in keene, nh</td></tr>
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-33558585586515349352012-10-07T22:41:00.001-04:002012-10-07T22:44:58.982-04:00Living With Trains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzdxCK2F6sx1jFZv3dXHrV-1Ja9sZU_W0h8wwAX6qJBmWjYV0KZc3cvWlRzKF54Z-H-tRXLUSdEoLbBr7gXlkGmiD9lHlCS_bWKDrQPRWCGMnb2L7qq_HBGSPbjbKyhvHuHbPHLXtV24/s1600/IMG_6472A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzdxCK2F6sx1jFZv3dXHrV-1Ja9sZU_W0h8wwAX6qJBmWjYV0KZc3cvWlRzKF54Z-H-tRXLUSdEoLbBr7gXlkGmiD9lHlCS_bWKDrQPRWCGMnb2L7qq_HBGSPbjbKyhvHuHbPHLXtV24/s800/IMG_6472A.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Clickety click! as out of town</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">The engine picks her way;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">In dusty alleys play.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">All the summer early and late,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">And in the summer drear, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">A maiden stands at the orchard gate,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">And waves at the engineer.</span><br />
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<i>(excerpt from "Clickety Clack," Cy Warman)</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I like to see it lap the miles, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And lick the valleys up,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And stop to feed itself at tanks;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And then, prodigious, step</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Around a pile of mountains,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And supercilious, peer</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In shanties by the sides of roads;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And then a quarry pare</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">To fit its sides, and crawl between</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Complaining all the while</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In horrid, hooting stanza;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then chase itself down hill</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And neigh like Boanerges;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then, punctual as a star,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Stop--docile and omnipotent--</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At its own stable door.</span></div>
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<i>("The Railway Train," Emily Dickinson)</i></div>
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Trains are a part of our daily routine. They greet us at the same hour in the morning and they remind us when its time for story books and bed. Not a day goes by that we don't hear those whistles coming from the train tracks near our home. For these two siblings, life couldn't get better.<br />
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-17249205420813207652012-10-04T23:18:00.000-04:002012-10-04T23:46:02.122-04:00I'm All Grown UpAbout a week ago, after I dropped my not-so-little three-year-old off to preschool, I was pondering on a flurry of thoughts as I drove through the parking lot in my car--thoughts of parental pride, excitement, and optimism of my preschooler's experience with his new routine and environment. That day, I explained to him that he would go on a field trip with his classmates.<br />
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"You're going to ride a bus today to visit the apple farm. Won't that be fun?"<br />
"Listen to your teachers, okay? Please follow directions."<br />
"You get to ride a school bus today...isn't that cool?"<br />
"You're gonna love field trips, buddy."<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/8055401000/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="IMG_5016A by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_5016A" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8457/8055401000_026d63948d.jpg" width="357" /></a></div>
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It's hard to say which of us was more excited about the school bus because as I waited at the red light, I heard the low grumble of an engine with a half-sized yellow school bus that followed it. The bus passed me and continued its journey up the hill towards the school. My heart jumped and I immediately felt a thrill like electricity in my bones. Then, without a moment's notice, water started jerking out of my eyes. I wasn't being emotional because "my baby" was now in school and doing the stuff "big boys" do, it had more to do with the fact that I had arrived in that certain niche in adulthood.<br />
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"I am <i>old</i>. Like <i>really old</i>." I thought. An unexpected feeling, that's for sure.<br />
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I don't remember other milestones in adulthood that impressed me as much: living on my own in another state after high school graduation, leaving everything again to serve an LDS mission, getting my first job after college and becoming financially independent from my parents, getting married, having a baby--those events were expected to be life-changing. And I still felt young...young enough to continue feeling inexperienced and incapable as a growing adult. Now, I'm pushing 32 and my child has embarked in school--if you call less than 2 hours a day for three days a week "school". My world has now shifted from a controlled home environment of my constant teaching, disciplining, instruction, and love to a new environment with outsiders who are taking quantitative time to shape my child too. (That proverb of "it takes a village to raise a child" comes up to mind.) It's taking a little bit of bravery on my part to hand my most precious possession to someone else. And from what I've observed so far, I like what I've seen.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/8055400685/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="IMG_4861A by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_4861A" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8453/8055400685_84aee9018e.jpg" width="357" /></a></div>
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And her? Indy thinks she, too, belongs in preschool the way she sets foot into the classroom behaving like a pop star. Everyone there knows her name. From showing the teachers the hat on her head to being stubborn about heading out the door, this girl makes her presence known. School for her is right around the corner.<br />
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She's becoming an independent and vivacious toddler. I love it.<br />
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Maybe I'm oddly unemotional about my kids moving on to bigger things. I get nostalgic for their tininess like any parent, but I am more eager to push them to grow and learn about the big wide world out there. What has surprised me is this new chapter in life. The responsibility for my kids is now newly anchored with the involvement of others; our lives will be getting more complex from here on out. Parent Teacher Conferences are for those old and seasoned parents. Am I really there now? Gosh, I'm old. What next? Will I wake up to teenagers and feel really, really old? I have lines on my face and silver hairs spotting my hairline. I don't need any more reminders. I never knew that becoming aware of myself growing up could be, well, trippy.<br />
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Here's to getting old.<br />
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-75708938563253036302012-10-02T16:03:00.004-04:002012-10-04T23:50:04.406-04:00Finally FallFall, at last, it's you and me.<br />
I should compose a sonnet about you every year...but I'll have to freshen up on my Shakespeare first.<br />
Because of you, my color of choice year-round is orange. Ooh, and citrus orange season is around the corner. Drool.<br />
<a href="http://ilovethisbeautifulmess.blogspot.com/2011/09/and-so-it-begins.html" target="_blank">I still wish I could celebrate my birthday during leaf changing splendor.</a><br />
I adore you more than those brown paper packages tied up with string.<br />
I need you like apples + cinnamon need a buttery flaky pie crust.<br />
I relish your mornings filled with chilled crisp air that pinken my nose, your afternoons that warm my face while my neck cozies into a soft scarf, and your evenings filled with haunting quiet stillness.<br />
You're all I yearn for during the winter, spring, and summer.<br />
You're <i>the most wonderful time of the year</i>--shouldn't there be a song for that?<br />
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Fall, I love you. Let me count the ways...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the notches/kancamagus highway/white mountain state park white mountains, nh</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">woodstock bridge, vt</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">watching apple ice cream being made at billings farm, woodstock, vt.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">misty morning on the connecticut, dartmouth rowing, nh/vt border</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">norwich, vt</td></tr>
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Fall is no doubt the best season of the year in New England. My home hosted two sets of visitors last month...I'm hoping to entice more. Let me know, and I'll book you on my wide-open calendar.<br />
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Fall, please stay a little while. Christmas can wait.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-12953140668311344912012-09-10T22:54:00.005-04:002012-09-11T07:04:55.722-04:00Adios to Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Summers ago as a child--long before summer became tainted with high school boys and jeep rides--I remember spending the dog days in Utah's dry heat at my community swimming pool. My skin would brown like toast, my stellar underwater handstands (hands up, stands up) would outlast my friends, and I'd snack on a bagel cream cheese shmear from the concession stand and frozen grapes brought from home. Me and my wet friends would dry off in the breeze and hot sun, sitting in the back of my dad's pickup as he drove us all home. By the end of the summer, my swimming suit was saturated with a permanent stench of chlorine no matter how many times it ran through my mother's washing machine cycle.<br />
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Thirty years from now, my kids won't be talking about their cherished memories of the Summer 2012. They're too young to remember much of the life they will have spent here in our little mint green home. As their mother, summoning up those memories for them will be my responsibility. Photographs must do their job to help me tell their stories:<br />
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I will tell them of walks to the duck pond up the street, a sack of dried white sandwich bread in hand, to not only feed a family of ducks, but the catfish and turtles as well.<br />
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I'll describe our backyard--a critter wonderland--and explain how we'd catch and release the frogs jumping in our lawn and when we kept long green caterpillars hostage in mason jars with punctured lids.<br />
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I'll think of all the rows of blueberry bushes growing on the wayside of the Connecticut River; filling our pail and filling their tummies during an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.<br />
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I tell them of all the summer festivals and local events that we were able to attend--while their admission was still free: Quechee Balloon Festival, Norwich Fair, WRJ Glory Days Festival, Lebanon Coop Dairy Days, and the local farmers' market.<br />
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Did I miss anything? Probably. We tried to make Saturdays more enjoyable than a day of mowing the lawn and scouring the house clean.<br />
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And we can't forget our outing to our local theme park that tries very hard to be Disney: Story Land. Deep-friend Oreos and riding the train was enough to make all of our eyes pop out.<br />
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I'll pull out the bright orange Home Depot apron and say, "Hey, can you believe that this used to fit around your waist?" and explain how hard they worked on once-a-month building projects.<br />
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I will tell them of weekly visits to the library story hour. I'll tell them of their fondness for Mrs. Frappier at the "Reading Room" and how she'd always have clever crafts to tie in with the story she read aloud.<br />
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What fun we had meeting up with friends at the park, swimming at the pond or at the dam, canoeing on the Connecticut, feeding fish at the hatchery, petting farm animals, riding bikes in our driveway, counting down the days to reunite with family they barely got to see.<br />
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Our summer was not too full, not too boring...it was just right.<br />
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My heart might be getting sick typing out all these memories. Nostalgia for childhood always gets my nose hurting. I don't like wanting the feeling to chase after the past, yet those dimpled faces, chubby cheeks, sticky hands, girly squeals, and evenly spaced out teeth that appear as miniature chicklets encourage me that they will stay just a wee longer. As long they run downstairs to the master bedroom to climb into bed for early morning cuddles, they're still little ones to me. They won't remember how small they used to be, but I will. Oh, <i>yes</i> I will. I will cling to it like any parent would. In another thirty years, it will seem like another lifetime.<br />
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I'll try not to start thinking about <i>that</i>. Enough nostalgia for one day.</div>
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-38392797083050327102012-08-31T22:33:00.000-04:002012-08-31T22:44:42.221-04:00Family (x2) ReunionI don't know why sitting down at the computer to type a short ditty on summer vacation drains the very life from me--it just happened to be the case this time. Never mind the usual few photos per post--this time I've gone crazy. My kids' grandparents like to be involved in our lives...can I blame them? I might just stop blogging if it were not for them--writing for my own pleasure has woefully taken a backseat these days.<br />
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It was only a short while ago that we sailed away on a plane bound for Utah; the four of us filled a row of seats and quietly sat in anticipation to see loved ones we hadn't seen for 18 months. Seeing the familiar rising mountains of the Wasatch Front made my heart jump. Utah's dry heat had my naturally curly hair shouting for joy. When was the last time I had a good hair day? I can't remember. Two weeks later (ever so quickly because those 14 days were jam-packed with family-bonding goodness), we were back home to the green leafy goodness of the Upper Valley--filling our lungs with wet muggy air and adjusting ourselves back to our muted rural solitude.<br />
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Two weeks seems like plenty of time, but when you divide the time with 26 people on Boy's side of the family and 18 on mine, vacation time turns into an agenda: Lake Powell one week, camping in American Fork canyon the other. Family can be so demanding, you know?<br />
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The kidlets had a blast.<br />
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Their parents nearly keeled over in fatigue.<br />
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But, oh, was it worth it.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><i>WEEK ONE:</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><i>WEEK TWO:</i></span><br />
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<br />
Going to visit our roots is essential and much needed, but it ain't easy (and there's never enough time) to reconnect with all of those we love.<br />
<br />
See ya next year, Utah. When? Who knows. I'll keep ya posted.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-23193548368882747252012-08-18T22:08:00.000-04:002012-08-18T22:08:00.433-04:00It's August Already?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
What I might've spent time doing in a week's time after taking a long 2-week long "vacation":<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Slept in until 8 or 9 a.m. every morning to slowly eek into Eastern Standard Time again. Quarantined my children into their rooms to enforce extra naps.</li>
<li>Blasted the fans at their highest setting in every corner of the house because Utah made us forget about humidity's blanket of death.</li>
<li>Commenced another round of teaching my three-and-a-freaking-HALF-year-old how toilets are our friend. Also brought in the little missus to join the party because she is fortunately/unfortunately? showing more bodily responsibility than he is. </li>
<li>Read through or deleted two weeks worth of e-mails in three different e-mail accounts. Momentarily interpreted that the number of items in my inbox equaled my soaring popularity...and felt defeat when the truth revealed a whole lotta junk mail. Waah.</li>
<li>Dinked around on Pinterest more than usual: 'repin' + delete someone else's superfluous and corny commentary + remove all forms of exclamation marks + think to myself "is this really something I'll use someday?" + disregard that last thought and do it anyway + 'pin'. Two or three hours later... </li>
<li>Watched a little too much Netflix in the basement because it's the coolest level of the house--just because I'd rather not pursue the game of hide-and-seek with the Jiminy Cricket family who made (and still continue to make) surprise appearances in and out of the cracks in our unfinished walls. </li>
<li>Sweated over making some delicious smoothies only to wish I would've pocketed my sister's enviable blender that can grind rocks into gravel.</li>
<li>Ate bowl after bowl of our hand-picked blueberries at every snack and meal. End results: looking down into the toilet to see a nice bluish hue is fun, isn't it? I love having these types of conversations with kids' innocent minds.</li>
</ol>
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It's not every day that I can be frank with my utter laziness (sigh) but it's a good thing I've now hit my max. In fact, the other day, my kitchen floors were incredulously questioning me, "You let yourself live with a floor like this?" <i>Yeah, sure. I fancy having play dough crumbs in-between my toes and I hardly notice those dried-up ketchup and raspberry jam blobs anymore.</i> Tomorrow, I'm back to productivity. And the day after that, maybe I'll be back to blogging.<br />
<br />
Don't get too excited.<br />
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-61904381891235198752012-07-24T22:27:00.001-04:002013-08-16T09:48:39.234-04:00Best Money EVER Spent on a Movie TicketMovie theaters aren't plentiful around here in the Dartmouth bubble. Nor are they even close to the gargantuan multi-plex theaters that have become the modern way to watch movies on the big screen.<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">In Hanover, there's one adoringly called The Nugget. What I love most about it is the old "since 1916" marquee out front and the gelato shop next door. Other than that, the theater experience is so-so. For a college theater, it's surprisingly small. Boy and I saw the final Harry Potter film over there and the second installment of Sherlock Holmes.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">Over in Lebanon, there's another one: small, cramped, and ever the slightest incline for a viewing audience. I sat in a row of tightly-spaced seats with some friends to watch </span><i style="background-color: white;">The Hunger Games</i><span style="background-color: white;">.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="background-color: white;">So, last month, it was time for another date night. Boy was just itching to see <i>The Avengers</i> and was consistently relentless in asking when we were going to see it. We drove about 25 minutes to try out the Woodstock Town Hall Theater--supposedly the best movie theater experience in the valley.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
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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/AVvXsEiPxGD5RXUo_hZuXFzNX94oplkV0CwXysd77nBFqzHp5d8MH7HlEJ2oRUX3f490WHJ52B4UAzlvfUCLEwsCuZKeeSuExPDgil516yQT8vepMyC2t_gVDPUfZBPbstseCpsrFlyJWjACfkA/s1600/pic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxGD5RXUo_hZuXFzNX94oplkV0CwXysd77nBFqzHp5d8MH7HlEJ2oRUX3f490WHJ52B4UAzlvfUCLEwsCuZKeeSuExPDgil516yQT8vepMyC2t_gVDPUfZBPbstseCpsrFlyJWjACfkA/s640/pic1.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1280&bih=631&tbm=isch&tbnid=bSTxp53AQcJBgM:&imgrefurl=http://www.freefoto.com/preview/1213-12-57/Historic-Town-Hall-Theatre--Woodstock--Vermont--New-England--USA&docid=qKOWDSjBlFmDNM&itg=1&imgurl=http://www.freefoto.com/images/1213/12/1213_12_57---Historic-Town-Hall-Theatre--Woodstock--Vermont--New-England--USA_web.jpg&w=400&h=600&ei=ZlMPUIa_DcGf6AHa4IGYCA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=250&vpy=116&dur=1617&hovh=275&hovw=183&tx=100&ty=134&sig=116879931836579731606&page=1&tbnh=150&tbnw=100&start=0&ndsp=19&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0,i:79" target="_blank">source</a>]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
First, I <b>adore </b>Woodstock. It's charming in every way. The theater is inside of a gorgeous white building right off the town green. Its marquee sits at the base of the stairs with a hand-written movie title--the fact that somebody took time with a black sharpie to etch out <i>The Avengers </i>makes the movie experience that much more epic. Inside, there's a man at the ticket booth who collects your cash and presents you with your green ticket stub. The raffle ticket type--so cute.<br />
<br />
What's a movie without a bowl of freshly popped popcorn? Exactly. We hit the jackpot when it comes to movie theater popcorn. They serve theirs with maple syrup drizzled all over it. Oh. My. Word. For the maple haters, don't you dare diss it. I tell ya, this popcorn experience is the whole kit and caboodle.<br />
<br />
The seating auditorium was spacious and the big screen was positioned on a stage. No giant heads in the way, no crazy smells (just the heavenly maple syrup popcorn), no claustrophobia, no sticky floors...<br />
<br />
We're totally coming back.<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
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<br />
I still miss stadium seating and the extra space to straighten out my legs, but in the meantime, timeless old-time theaters are more than okay with me.<br />
<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comWoodstock, VT, USA43.6242442 -72.51851119999997843.4402537 -72.841234699999973 43.8082347 -72.195787699999983tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-20707481434810543562012-07-23T19:22:00.000-04:002012-07-23T19:22:00.083-04:00Danish DessertI had one of those raw awful days that called for some emotional eating.<br />
<br />
Sometimes crying isn't cathartic enough.<br />
<br />
So, I pulled out a little white and red box.<br />
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I boiled a pot of water...emptied its contents...added berries.<br />
<br />
I poured it atop a freshly baked cake slathered with creamy whipped cream cheese.<br />
<br />
And I ate it.<br />
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Crumb by crumb.<br />
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With some help from a most willing Boy.<br />
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<br />
The calories were worth every bite.<br />
<br />
Even though it took about two days of vigorous running to run off my cake gut.<br />
<br />
But I still have a gut...it's called having children.<br />
<br />
I have dreadful stomach-tightening genetics.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness for the berries though. Antioxidants are like magic.<br />
<br />
The End.<br />
<br />
<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-44709439194746311552012-07-22T20:07:00.000-04:002012-07-22T20:07:00.770-04:00According to Finn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
According to him, shoes are optional.<br />
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According to him, ambulances and fire trucks make completely different sounds.<br />
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According to him, candy is a treat--but donuts are a food.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">According to him, he doesn't eat baby</span><i style="background-color: white;"> </i><span style="background-color: white;">carrots because, well, he's not a baby.</span><br />
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According to him, he gets "tummy bubbles" when he's really hungry.<br />
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According to him, jam is the one and only true condiment for sandwiches.<br />
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According to him, the churches around here have the letter <i>t</i> on top.<br />
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According to him, if somebody asks where he lives, he will answer "Earth."<br />
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According to him, bugs have germs only if they're inside the house.
<br />
<br />
According to him, he's three years old, his sister is almost two, his dad is twenty, and his mom is four.<br />
<br />
According to him, he is pretty darn smart.<br />
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-43569734766003676482012-07-21T21:43:00.001-04:002013-08-16T09:46:10.875-04:00Canoeing the ConnecticutGliding through water.<br />
Floating past strands of lily pads.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Listening to the watery silence of the New England wilderness.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Smelling the dank thickness of verdant trees growing along the banks.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
Cupping my little girl's long, twig-like fingers that lay curled in my hands.
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Watching my son peering over the side of the canoe and tracing the water's edge.</span><br />
Witnessing teenage boys leaping off the old railroad bridge and into the sparkling blue.
<br />
Smiling at my handsome man deftly paddling our family on a perfectly sunny July morning.<br />
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We ended a perfect morning on the river with a perfect breakfast at Lou's--home of the best buttermilk pancakes in <i>thee </i>universe. Thank you, Ledyard Canoe Club of Dartmouth College. We are hooked. Maybe I'm crazy, but I want a canoe for my next birthday. For Christmas, I want snow shoes. But we'll talk about that another day; I've been bitten by the bug of the Great Outdoors.</div>
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Aside from the greatness of beauty that divides the lands of Vermont and New Hampshire, I do think that I should be a candidate of eyelash implants. Lesson that should have been learned by now: au naturel eyes is a serious transgression for my stubby lashes. Vain and wishful thinking, so be it. <span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comHanover, NH, USA43.7022451 -72.28955259999997943.5186141 -72.612276099999974 43.8858761 -71.966829099999984tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-65009653124324796492012-07-04T14:57:00.002-04:002012-07-04T15:07:30.606-04:00Day of Liberty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KA4OWatCe0G6lPGLN1nfMjZhlh7Ly-rNX_5b-nfoUzhf4pURUyRJ0NOXz7XGw9L94vy1iDF1IdzaQJJqOpv5TXHfDK7m0eg6_CERb5bt1ERsugDw7Mv7u_2TkBgI0aUaGRY5m2nx3X0/s1600/July2012+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KA4OWatCe0G6lPGLN1nfMjZhlh7Ly-rNX_5b-nfoUzhf4pURUyRJ0NOXz7XGw9L94vy1iDF1IdzaQJJqOpv5TXHfDK7m0eg6_CERb5bt1ERsugDw7Mv7u_2TkBgI0aUaGRY5m2nx3X0/s640/July2012+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>chimerical </b></span>/ki-MER-i-kuhl/, adjective:</span><br />
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">unreal, imaginary, visionary.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">wildly fanciful, highly unrealistic.</span></li>
</ol>
<i><span style="font-size: large;">used in a sentence:</span></i><br />
"To suppose that any form of government will secure liberty or happiness <b>without any virtue in the people</b>, is a chimerical idea."<br />
--James Madison<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(speech at the Virginia Convention, June 20, 1788, emphasis added)</span><br />
<br />
Virtue is an attribute--if not <i><b>the </b></i>attribute--that built our nation. It is our moral compass. Every successful society should be measured by it. History has proved that without virtue in the people, civilizations slipped into a decay. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;">virtue </b>/vir-choo/, noun:</span></span><br />
<ol>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">moral excellence; goodness; righteousness </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">conformity of one's life and conduct to moral and ethical principles; uprightness; rectitude.</span></li>
</ol>
<span style="background-color: white;">I know of at least one ancestor of mine who fought in the Revolutionary War--the war that ended with the birth of this free nation. He was born right here in New Hampshire and I remembered him today as well as all other virtuous men and women who have contributed to the pursuit of freedom. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Virtue is a principle I am trying to instill to my children. It requires constant vigilance, no doubt.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7502390238/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="July2012 01 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="July2012 01" height="426" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7111/7502390238_0580d4ea55.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Happy 4th of July.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">God bless America. </span><br />
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<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comHanover, NH, USA43.7022451 -72.289552643.6104116 -72.44748109999999 43.7940786 -72.1316241tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-28361658947722254512012-07-02T10:24:00.000-04:002012-07-02T10:24:05.360-04:00Summer Treats<span style="background-color: white;">Rising summer temperatures summon some of the fine things in life:</span><br />
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toe treats ($2!/Gap Outlet)<br />
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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="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7484225116/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title=". by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="." height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8154/7484225116_02d8c2fd62.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">feet are so ugly...especially mine</td></tr>
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and cold treats.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7484233456/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="June2012 023A by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="June2012 023A" height="426" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7277/7484233456_160cee0c17.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I feel like each of us have already eaten our weight in popsicles and ice cream. The longer the heat stays, the more creative we are in keeping ourselves cool.<br />
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Hello, summer. And hello, July. <span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-7112224110156323912012-06-30T07:29:00.000-04:002013-08-16T09:47:15.673-04:00A New England Way of Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7181297449/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_2625B by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_2625B" height="458" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5120/7181297449_3ecd04d761_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stowe, Vermont. May 2012</td></tr>
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Last June, my family of four left the midwest for the northeast--and this new blog was born. A few weeks ago, Boy and I were discussing how beautiful New England summers were--particularly the graduated shades of green splashed upon infinite miles of trees and mountainsides of the<span style="background-color: white;"> Upper Connecticut River Valley</span><span style="background-color: white;">.</span><br />
<br />
"Was there ever a moment in your lifetime that you thought you'd live in New England?"<br />
<br />
To a girl born in the great American Wild West, the very thought of living on the opposite end of the country was inconceivable. Once I hit college, my mind began to shift open to the possibilities: First came China, somewhere around the middle was Israel, and near the end was my courtship with New York City. None of these places were in the cards for me, but the process of dreaming and planning taught my heart to soar. Somewhere within those years, an independent streak--I didn't know I had--began to take shape.<br />
<br />
But, New England?<br />
<br />
In the fifth grade when studying all fifty states and state capitols, I <i>always </i>transposed New Hampshire and Vermont. How ironic that I ended up living in the twin states; my days in Vermont and New Hampshire are pretty equally spent, if that makes any sense. The amount of times I've crossed the state line over the Connecticut River and back is easily up in the thousands.<br />
<br />
So, what is it like living here? What's that you say? A list? You wanna know what you'd expect if you decided to move into my backyard? (Hey, why don't you?) I've gathered a few things to highlight some things unique to the Vermont/New Hampshire border.<br />
<span style="color: #e06666;">[<i>Disclaimer:</i> My list contains what I've observed in my locale. Any additions to the list are welcome.<b>]</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li>If a person is talking about going to "Mass" over the weekend, he or she is likely traveling to the state directly south, not to a Catholic service.</li>
<li>Hot dog buns are slit on the tops, not on the side. "New England Style," yo.</li>
<li>Signs warn drivers of speed tables, not speed bumps.</li>
<li>Cars don't drive around a roundabout, it's called a rotary.</li>
<li>Moxie: a distinctly flavored soda pop that I don't recommend trying.</li>
<li>Whoopie pies of all flavors and sizes are abundant. </li>
<li>Wearing makeup is optional.</li>
<li>Having a trendy haircut and color is unheard of.</li>
<li>A good bug spray is your best friend.</li>
<li>Checking the heads of your kids for ticks is a normal thing to do at the end of the day.</li>
<li>Built-in air conditioners in homes are rare. You'll only need it for 2-3 months anyway.</li>
<li>The word <i>wicked </i>is everyone's favorite adjective, especially when describing how cold it is.</li>
<li>Rain boots (or <i>wellies </i>if you want to use the cutesy name) are not worn to make a fashion statement--they're a functional shoe needed for what is called mud season.</li>
<li>While at the store to buy cheese, most often your options are limited to sharp or very sharp. Plus, if you want orange cheddar, you're out of luck--all the cheddar you'll ever find is white. </li>
<li>There is a reason why so many blueberries are grown in Maine. They truly and honestly are the best.</li>
<li>People take their maple flavoring seriously. It's kind of a big deal out here.</li>
<li>I've previously mentioned the French-Canadian neighborliness <a href="http://ilovethisbeautifulmess.blogspot.com/2011/08/shut-door.html" target="_blank">in another post</a>. </li>
<li>Although there is no law against plastic bags (yet), bringing your own shopping bags is the popular thing to do--and the only thing to do in some places.</li>
<li>You must have cash and pocket change on hand at all times: farmer's markets, toll fees on the Interstate, local stores that forbid credit card machines, parking meters.</li>
<li>Older homes are still heated with oil; newer homes use propane. </li>
<li>Having a garage is a luxury. A garage hooked the house? More of a luxury. A two-car garage? Utterly impressive. After many winters in Utah and Ohio of having to park my car on the street or in uncovered residential parking lots, I'll never understand why people around here don't have garages.</li>
<li>Tourists who come to New England to see the leaves are called leaf peepers. I still consider myself one and my mouth will always gape wide open as I drive along I-89/I-91.</li>
<li>This is definitely specific to where I live--no lights on the freeway at night. It's freaky. Just you and your headlights driving through complete darkness as you're hoping that those little reflectors from the side of the road don't veer you off the bridge. </li>
<li>Every now and then hippies are seen hitch hiking in White River Junction (where the two freeways intersect). You think it's fascinating to go people watching over in Boston? Chicago? NYC? You ain't seen nuttin' yet. </li>
<li>Speaking of people watching...once in awhile, you'll notice some bearded backpackers around: They're hikers from the famed Appalachian Trail. </li>
<li>Everybody shops at thrift shops. Yard sales? Those too. Every Saturday during the summer, you'll drive past one. </li>
<li>There's an excessive amount of antique shops in any town or village you drive through. It's out of control.</li>
<li>I know I've missed a lot on this list. Fill in the blanks if you're itching to share.</li>
</ul>
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This year has brought a lot of ups and downs. A lot of happiness and tears. A whole lot of humility. And a lot of wonderful discovery. But if there's one thing for certain: The firefly show out here ain't cutting it for me--that part of the midwest I will really miss. </div>
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Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-21972922823526967672012-06-29T15:33:00.000-04:002012-07-01T22:47:08.604-04:00New York a la Ephron<span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-large;">"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim."</span><br />
<i><span style="color: #b45f06;">--Nora Ephron</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
My fingers have been too lazy to prop themselves onto the computer--and computer time is not conducive to precious husband time either. In fact, my blogging negligence is due to snuggling with my man on the couch and watching the first season of <i>Prison Break</i>. I say there's nothing better to end the day for a confined-at-home mother than by watching other people use desperate means to escape their prison. Wink, wink. <br />
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<table 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/AVvXsEjvyxUbv88wi6dWLZYuii-spiIapbrAnJLEAERlmbojXhllFKEcBx8RZhPpIQP7KL0Dvhn0eytYHntMSDwYkbXM3zY4vDbbn4e8BGqSJ-xdb_3wXjNBPZ49_u4fqTbl58ZgK233bYvP8Fg/s1600/nycprint_riflepaperco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvyxUbv88wi6dWLZYuii-spiIapbrAnJLEAERlmbojXhllFKEcBx8RZhPpIQP7KL0Dvhn0eytYHntMSDwYkbXM3zY4vDbbn4e8BGqSJ-xdb_3wXjNBPZ49_u4fqTbl58ZgK233bYvP8Fg/s640/nycprint_riflepaperco.jpg" width="579" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[<a href="http://riflemade.squarespace.com/blog/2011/10/14/happy-weekend-new-york.html" target="_blank">source</a>]</td></tr>
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<br />
So, I am lagging behind to say a few words about the late Ms. Nora Ephron. I was going to sit down to collect my thoughts on Tuesday night when I first read about it, but my brain was too pooped. It's now Friday and I feel a bit reluctant having to say anything at all because a popular blogger, who I share similarities with, had beat me to the chase<span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span>. It left me feeling unauthentic, again. I may expound upon this another time, but to any of my friends who happen to read both blogs: my writing and ideas are not plagiarized--they are my own. Blogging is a work of my heart, and not a business-like or a notorious agenda. <span style="font-size: x-small;">*If this doesn't make any sense, it's not a big deal. I say it for my own peace of mind.</span><br />
<br />
I have a lot to owe to the reputable Ms. Ephron. After reading many news columns devoted to the memory of this celebrated author and screenwriter, I reflected on what influence her work had on me:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">--It was her who instilled in me the lofty desire to run a little book shop of my own. Yes, I said <i>lofty</i>, but it's never too late.<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">--It was her who modified my perspective of New York City from a crime-infested metropolis to a charming big city filled with flower stands and nonthreatening Brownstones.
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">--It was her memorable one-liners and ideal scenes of life in the Upper West Side that had me watching You've Got Mail more times than she likely had.
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">--It was her romantic representation of NYC that had me striving for years to make it there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">After years of school, meticulous attention to my copy editing portfolio, and money being stowed away into my savings, there came a time that I started the so-called 'spreadin' the news.' The plan was finally in motion: airplane tickets, a publisher job agency meeting, a clean bill of health, and no emotional baggage keeping me in Utah. New York and I would be together at long last. But she and I were not meant to be together. I never imagined that my pair of vagabond shoes would decide to walk in any other direction, but it did. And the course of my life changed forever because of it. Yet, Nora's New York will always be an imprint on who I am. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />I have come to terms that my writing is a pile of sawdust, but if there's any hope for me, her work inspires me to dig deeper. And that's okay. There is always a story to tell about who we are and every thing we do. Write about what makes you happy. If it's not happy, write so you can laugh about it later. Never be the victim. In the next lifetime, I'll be taking a writing class from her and somehow figure out how to be half as clever and entertaining as she was...<br />
<br />
Such as brightening someone's day with a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils. Ah, wouldn't that be nice.</span></span></span></span>Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-1012978085262321162012-06-22T15:35:00.000-04:002012-06-22T15:36:45.585-04:00From One White River to Another<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>2011, Indiana</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">White River</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>2012, Vermont</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">White River</span>
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<br />
<i>2011, Indianapolis Zoo</i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">White River Junction</span><br />
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<br />
<i>2012, Vermont</i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">White River Junction</span><br />
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It's quite amazing how life for us has changed so much in only one year, but these similarities are just uncanny.<br />
<br />Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-66384304084364521842012-06-15T21:29:00.000-04:002012-06-15T21:34:54.599-04:00Face TimeQuality one-one time with Miss Indy happens in little moments. As second born, she doesn't know any differently. Little does she know that when her older brother is off to preschool this Fall, I know she and I will be getting lots more than just those brief moments.<br />
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Man, she's a lot cuter than I was at this age. And her budding personality is as bright as the morning sun. I don't know how this vivacious little person came from someone as boring, serious, and dull as I am. Must come from her father.<br />
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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="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964402/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0102 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0102" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7092/7376964402_6cbfcbc085.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'Aha!' Face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964664/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0104 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0104" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7079/7376964664_ae749991ce.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where's your tongue?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964758/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0099 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0099" height="500" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5346/7376964758_7c9816ed54.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you show me what a puppy dog does?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964590/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0106 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0106" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8002/7376964590_869239ae71.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The smirk. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964468/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0105 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0105" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7226/7376964468_9eb9270c8a.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scowl-turned-oh, no!-face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376964318/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0103 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0103" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7089/7376964318_5ab515de49.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to tongues...a bit obsessed with our tongues, aren't we?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7376961836/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_0100 by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_0100" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7101/7376961836_ec221b2eb3.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My absolute favorite face of all--a tradition started by her brother--<br />
the Monster Face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The words <i>iPod </i>and <i>tongue </i>were two of the first words in her vocabulary. Wow, I can't imagine why.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4181033562812413044.post-54046191907637784942012-06-14T22:26:00.001-04:002012-07-01T22:47:29.582-04:00Good Health<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Six whole years ago in June, I carried a golf-ball sized tumor in my pelvis all the way down into the Grand Canyon and back up again. Red mountains, aqua blue waterfalls, nights sleeping under the stars--it was the best vacation of my life. After conquering those wicked switchbacks like a desert mule, I had convinced myself that I was in good health. That protruding little devil from my abdomen, in my mind, was nothing more than a bubbled-out muscle that stuck out of place for the time being. Denial became my bosom buddy. I laugh now at my ridiculous way of thinking, but when it comes to my health, taking immediate action requires a painful and necessary trip to the Emergency Room. And that, is exactly how it all went down several weeks later. I don't need to fill in all the deets, but two surgeries followed and I had my first encounter with Percocet. Let me state right here that if I were on Percocet for the rest of my life, my storytelling would fall within the genre of Agatha Christie. In my constant drowsiness, I dreamed of thrilling mysteries with elaborate plots that ended with a twist. Kids, don't do drugs.<br />
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After six years and seven post-surgery CT scans, I'm done with this whole shindig. Throughout it all, I've successfully gagged down several liters of contrast fluid and I now don't bat an eyelash when somebody stabs my arm with a needle.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/79022877@N06/7370422924/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title=". by ilovethisbeautifulmess, on Flickr"><img alt="." height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8015/7370422924_53b6ac1560.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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To make matters more celebratory, the large bottle I had to consume this time around was by far the best-tasting contrast I've had. In the past, my puke reflexes have been told to behave themselves, but chugging on this new metal-flavored water was improvement--to say the very least.<br />
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The latest results showed everything clear. It feels good. I wish I didn't have to battle my body the way that I do, but at least this particular one is over. Here's to hoping for more healthy years and no more scary stuff.Brittahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16897054283302781152noreply@blogger.com