tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9749423063263129972024-03-19T03:42:55.926-07:00My Crazy LifeScraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-74337482710194342362013-06-21T15:24:00.003-07:002013-06-21T15:24:30.741-07:00Have I Told You About My Daughter?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If you know my family, then you know we are the parents of four children. Each unique in their own way. Sometimes it is the kind of uniqueness that makes me want to pull my hair out. Other times it is the kind of uniqueness that qualifies as take my breathe away and melt my heart kind of stuff. One thing is for sure, in my 24 years of parenting so far if I was keeping a running total, I am pretty sure the pull my hair out count would be astronomical in comparison to those melt my heart moments. Yet, as any parent would tell you, the specifics of crazy moments fade away but details of the good stay in your heart forever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So today, I want to tell you about just one of my children. Brooke. Because I am realizing more and more that Brooke, possibly more than my other children, symbolizes my evolution as a parent. Why just Brooke? Well, I won't lie, Brooke and I have always had a contentious relationship. She can be, for lack of a better word, complicated. Because of that I think sometimes it is easy to overlook the fact that she is exactly what I have hoped my children would be....I just wasn't seeing it. I wasn't giving her credit where credit was due. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Just a little while ago, Brooke came upstairs after she had been helping her Papa. Turns out she was helping him of all things, trim nose hair and ear hair. Yes, you read that correctly. Most thirteen year old children would run screaming from this sort of thing, but not Brooke. He can't see to do those kinds of personal tasks anymore, so she doesn't hesitate to help him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This type of helpfulness isn't just reserved for her grandparents. A few days ago we were in Walmart. I was busy thinking about my grocery list and passed a lady in one of the motorized carts. I remember wishing she would get out of the way. I went around her. About that time I hear a familiar voice say, "Can I help you find something?" I turn around and watch as Brooke helps the lady look for crackers. I had to swallow hard to not cry. Most kids would have walked on just like I did. Not Brooke. This happens all of the time and isn't reserved for elderly people. Children, elderly, and all in between. Doesn't matter to Brooke. She has the most compassion for people I have ever seen in one so young. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I said that Brooke was a symbol of my evolution as a parent. Trust me, I know I can't take full credit for her heart. That is who she is...how God made her. Yet as a parent, I have always taught my children that it won't matter how pretty or successful you are in life, what is on the inside is what counts. Don't be afraid to take chances, but understand that means you have to accept your mistakes. Be honest with others, but start by being honest with yourself. If you make a fool out of yourself, laugh and go on...don't let it define you. I am more worried about how they will be as human beings in this world than I am academic or financial success. Truthfully though, there are times I have wondered if I was giving the wrong advice. What if I am wrong and should have pushed them towards more "popular" definitions of success. Maybe I haven't been a good enough parent. Scary thought for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have been spouting my wisdom nuggets for so long, I was pretty sure they were being completely ignored. Turns out, I was the one who wasn't paying close enough attention. They were listening. Brooke especially was listening. For all of her frustrating moments she is precisely what I wanted my children to be. She makes me proud and I just wanted everyone to know it! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">****Ashley, Anna, and Ben... you know I love you all more than life. I know what you all are thinking as I go on and on about Brooke. Just so you know, I see these qualities in all of you. You are all what I hope for! The way Ben will give his last dime to a person on the street or the coin collection boxes wherever we go. Anna, your love of all creatures and your trusting soul. Ashley, your gentle spirit and big heart even if you try to be cool and collected all the time! </span><br />
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<br />Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-68505124815991700742013-03-21T18:06:00.001-07:002013-03-21T18:06:57.404-07:00Pattern Play<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A card I made for an online card class--Pattern Play. Lil' Inker Designs balloon stamps and dies, Paper Smooches sentiment stamp, Birthday Sampler.<br />
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Please excuse this blog....I normally only write here, not post cards! Made more sense to just use this than make a new blog!</div>
Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-50423472757900159152013-01-08T14:17:00.000-08:002013-01-08T16:39:33.519-08:00I Am The Greatest<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/aqRjbeSuHi8" width="420"></iframe>
Stop. Don't read another word until you watch the video above. Trust me on this, it is important to the story and not just a chance to share my strange love of Kenny Rogers. Yes. You read that right. Kenny Rogers. When you grow up in a house where your parents were convinced that all modern music would lead to drug abuse, you learn to like Kenny Rogers, The Statler Brothers, and the Oakridge Boys. That, however, is another story.<br />
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"I Am The Greatest". Remember that song...it is important to my story.
As far back as I can remember, I liked to be doing something. I really don't think it mattered what I did, but I was always doing something. I couldn't sit still. This often included crazy things like dragging everything out of my closets and drawers and reorganizing it. Today we call that ADD or OCD or something with a D on the end of it. To me then, as it remains today, I thought it was fun to be busy.<br />
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Mostly though, a large part of my childhood years were spent making things. I learned to sew and did a lot of cross stitch and embroidery that my mom would then have framed. A couple of those things are still hanging in this house. I colored, painted and glued my way through my childhood. Oh and I can't forget latch hook and string art. I say can't forget because if you have ever nailed 500 tiny nails into a pattern and then spent countless hours winding thread around those nails until you form a picture, you don't forget it. Ever. That particular project won a grand champion ribbon at the state fair and for all of that work, I deserved it! The strings formed a picture of two mallards flying over cattails. It was beautiful and hung in my parent's den for years.<br />
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My desire to make things didn't stop at crafts. I loved cooking just as much. That was a bit more complicated though since the kitchen was my mother's domain. Trust me on this, if my mother was busy in the kitchen, your best bet was to stay out of the way. Don't ask questions and certainly don't get under her feet. There was important stuff going on there. So I learned to sit quietly in the chair and watch. I watched and I learned.<br />
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Are you wondering yet how this relates to the Kenny Rogers song? I Am The Greatest.
That is how I felt as a child. Everything I made was absolutely gorgeous because I thought it was. When my mother finally caved in and let me cook in her kitchen, everything I made tasted so good my Dad would ask for seconds.<br />
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Well, not exactly. If I am being honest here, then I have to tell you I wasn't always very good at what I was doing. At all.
I was allowed to cook mostly if my Mom wasn't going to be home. Even though my Mom was a teacher, she had to work several weeks into the summer on home projects with her students. Those were the weeks when the kitchen was mine. I would find elaborate recipes and get to work. Problem is, a lot of those recipes would flop. My solution. I would dump the food in the garbage can and start all over again. Sometimes I would spend all day working on a simple meal and dessert. On those days when my Mom came home, she developed a habit of checking the garbage can. Sometimes she would laugh, but mostly she would grumble about the waste, then add all of the ingredients I had used to her grocery list.<br />
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Singing, dancing, playing the piano. Sewing, drawing, painting, string art and latch hook. Growing vegetables. Cooking. A childhood full of things to do and learn. A childhood full of blunders, successes, and garbage cans full of wasted food. Gosh, it was terrific.
Fast forward 30 years and I find that I am still that child. Always busy. Making things. Trying new recipes. Although I do find that since I am now paying for the ingredients, I tend to make sure they don't end up in the garbage can.<br />
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Just like the boy in the song, there are days when I start out in the kitchen thinking I am greatest chef that ever lived. Then I realize it is just a pot roast, but still it is the greatest pot roast ever made in a crock pot. Then crafting, well lets just say I am a bit obsessed. I envision myself as an artist at the start of every project but the truth is, sometimes it looks like one of the kids did it. Still, "I Am The Greatest" plays in my head.<br />
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I hope my children learn from me that everything they try in life will not result in greatness. We may not always live up to our own visions of ourselves. That, more so than what others think of us, is what will keep us moving forward or standing still. They will have plenty of failures, but even more successes. The key is to never quit trying. To look at what you have accomplished and be proud, even if it isn't perfect. Even if you throw it in the garbage can, try it again.<br />
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Jason was standing watching me make a card the other night. I was carefully applying ink in a variety of colors. He just stared. I said, "What?" He said, "I am just trying to figure out what you are doing." I was kind of irritated. "Can't you see I am making something here?" "Oh. OK." Truthfully, he is catching on. I used to take everything I made to show him. I would ask him what he thought. He would say, "It's a card." UGH. He caught on, and now he says "Yeah, that's a great card!" (Emphasis on exclamation point) Even he knows I am the greatest. Ha! Ok. Not really, but he knows I am close!
Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-64823462411309932972012-06-18T08:52:00.000-07:002012-06-18T13:08:29.171-07:00BULLYING<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/FVjbo8dW9c8" width="560"></iframe>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I like to write. For me, it is cathartic. I ramble on and on when something is on my mind and I have to get it out. Today is one of those days. A subject matter that I have had battles with for the past several years. Bullying. So today, as the saying goes, I have a bee in my bonnet...and it has to come out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I slept with the TV on last night. That happens many nights if I forget to set the sleep timer to turn it off once I have fallen asleep. So this morning the first thing I heard as I was in between asleep and awake was a story on Good Morning America. The gist of the story was that a teacher has lost her job over how she decided to handle a bullying situation in her classroom. She apparently lined her kindergartners up and allowed each of them to hit the bully. I imagine most people would react with disgust at the teacher. What I am about to say may finally verify that I am crazy, but my first thought was more along the lines of "bless her heart". Yes, I feel sorry for the teacher. Maybe I should clarify before anyone signs off on my insanity paperwork...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As far back as I can remember in my life, I have known bullies. I feel fairly certain we can all say that. Growing up it was the kids who seemed to get pleasure out of doing things that would get another kid laughed at. Kids who picked on weaker kids until they had them in tears. Although it is hard for me to say, I can also admit now there were times I was the bully. Back then we didn't we didn't call it bullying. In fact, I can't remember it having a specific name at all. What I do remember though is if you bullied or were a bully and you got in trouble for it, you would REALLY be in trouble for it. Getting in trouble meant something totally different 35 years ago. I didn't want to get spanked or grounded and I was afraid of disappointing my parents. That was the worst...disappointing my parents. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now we have given bullying a platform. We hear about it on the news, there are laws, beautiful anti-bullying posters hanging in schools, school boards and law makers who spend hours developing and debating policies which will deal with the "issue" of bullying. </span>Yet for all of that does anyone actually know what happens to a child who is found to be a bully to others at school? What exactly are the consequences? Are there consequences for repeat offenders? In fact how do schools define which behaviors are considered bullying behaviors? As a parent of children who have been bullied and having taught and seen bullying in the classroom and how it was handled by the school, I can tell you it is ambiguous at best. This is why my first reaction to the story this morning was bless her heart. As with most things in life, we arrive at the feelings and opinions we have because of our own life experiences. For me, bullying, and especially how bullying is handled in the schools, touches a chord because of the pain I have watched my own children go through. </div>
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When Ashley was around 2, she had a friend that bit her ALL OF THE TIME. This went on for over a year. There was no reason for it. In fact, she would smile when she did it. Now you might think the solution was simple....keep her away from that child. The problem was I was good friends with her mother. We spent a lot of time together. Beyond the biting, the girls actually played together really well. I began to notice that it mostly happened when her mother wasn't watching and one particular day, I had enough. We were eating outside and her mom went in the house for something and she reached over and bit Ashley. No reason. I snapped and told Ashley to bite her back. Ashley wouldn't do it, so I did. I didn't bite down hard, but enough that she looked at me with huge eyes. She didn't cry. Of course my next thought was I have probably just lost my friend and Ashley has probably lost hers. Funny thing though...when her mom came back out, the little girl didn't say a thing. It was as if nothing had happened. She never bit Ashley again. Was I right in what I did? No. I was a bully. To this day though, I can't tell you what a solution would have been other than severing the friendship and I didn't want that. </div>
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Fast forward about 15 years and Ashley is a senior at Danville High School. We had moved here halfway through Ashley's junior year. Not the best time to move a teenager. Can be difficult to fit into a new school at any age, but doing the move during the turbulent teenage years and at this particular school proved to be really emotionally difficult for Ashley. It wasn't that Ashley was picked on, it just that ever lingering feeling that she didn't fit into this group of kids who for the most part had been together all of their school years. The time for prom came and Ashley didn't have a date yet. One day, a couple of boys got a really brilliant idea. They would make a flyer to get her a prom date. The flyer stated something to the effect of "Ashley Arms will put out for a date to the prom". As I said, brilliant idea. These boys then, with the permission of the teacher, went to make copies. I would like to think the teacher didn't look at what was being copied, instead just trusted that these fine young men weren't up to no good and gave them the code to use the copier. After the copies were made, they distributed them by throwing them over the balcony into the lobby of the school at about the time school was letting out. </div>
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Ashley came home in tears. I went to the school and talked to the assistant principal. Here is the point in the story where I formed my opinion that there are no clear cut rules on how to deal with bullying behaviors in the schools no matter how much lip service they give to the anti-bullying platforms. He actually said to me "Oh, that is what those flyers were. I saw them on the floor but didn't read them." I knew who had done this but when I told him his response was "Really. I can't believe those boys would do that. They are good kids." He said he would TALK to them about it. Nothing ever happened. No consequence. What happened that day was the very heart of why bullying is wrong. No one should ever feel the way she did that day. As parents we are falsely led to believe that sending our child to a school with an anti-bullying platform provides some form of protection. I thought that. I walked out that day thinking the boys would have a consequence. What I actually ended up feeling was that they are providing lip service to a cause for which they have no plan of action. My daughter was humiliated in a way that no child should be humiliated. My heart broke with hers. To this day, it hurts me to think about it and I know it still bothers her. The one positive that may have come from that day actually came from the boy who did the deed. He called Ashley before I even knew what had happened and apologized. He did that on his own when he realized, a little to late to take it back, how much he had hurt her. I believe that what the assistant principal said about him was correct. He probably was a good kid. That didn't mean there shouldn't have been a consequence for his actions. </div>
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Same school system...different child. When Brooke was in the 3rd grade there was a girl who picked on Brooke. I think I should preface this story with a little info about Brooke herself. My tender hearted girl, whom I love more than life, can't take a joke. A little teasing between sisters or friends can send her into a tantrum. I believe this is how the problem began. Another girl, who was picking at her because she knew that she could get Brooke going. There was this back and forth of her picking and Brooke reacting. Frustrating to me and to her teacher. I also spoke to the principal about it and I believe her teacher did as well. Still though, Brooke would come home crying and as usual I would ask her what she was doing to exasperate the problem. I would talk to her about not reacting. I was in a sense, discounting her feelings....blaming the victim basically. I now, several years later, realize that this is one of the cores of bullying that make it so hard to clearly define for many people. The "she's asking for it" way of thinking. Nothing changed and I was feeling the frustration of wanting the school to stop the girl from picking on Brooke. Problem was, I was a teacher in the school. I couldn't say with 100% certainty that was the reason nothing was done, but it sure felt that way. So, in my usual not thinking sort of way, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Brooke came up to me in the lunchroom one day crying. Same story different day. I walked over to the girl who was standing in line with her class and told her that I had had enough. That I wanted her to stop picking on Brooke. Although I was acting like a parent, I didn't say anything to her I wouldn't have said to my own students if they were picking on a classmate. I wasn't yelling or even being any louder than usual. I am sure you can guess what happened next. I got reprimanded. Even though this had gone on for a couple of months with no resolution, I was in trouble for acting like a parent during school hours. Did I make the wrong decision, and again, like with the biting story, was I being a bully? Probably. Did the behavior stop. Yes. I didn't hear about any problems from Brooke and the little girl for the rest of the year. Why though, was nothing done at the school level? Why did I feel the need to wear the parent hat that day? Well, that takes me back to school policy. Do they clearly know what constitutes bullying? Yes, maybe I have a child who seems to ask for it with some of her behaviors but isn't the essence of bullying based on how the person being bullied feels and not our perception of how they feel? Again,consequences. Are they applied across the board no matter who you are or who your parents are? Very similar to Ashley's situation in that who the child was played a role in how it was handled. Who I was played a role in how it was handled for Brooke. I should also add in an interesting twist that just last year Brooke came to me and said that the girl had "friended" her on Facebook and she had accepted. I had a split second of "that's probably not a good idea" run through my head, and then dismissed it. Well, it was only a few days later that Brooke came back to me and said the girl was being mean on Facebook for no reason. I looked at what had been posted and checked Brooke's messages to make sure she hadn't provoked or anything and she hadn't. I felt a bit vindicated....the girl is a bully plain and simple. She always was. This time I could act like a parent with no repercussions. I made Brooke delete her. <br />
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I had other bad experiences in the classroom where I realized sending them to the office was getting me nowhere. I had a known bully push a child that was standing at the urinal. It scared him and he soaked the front of his pants. He didn't come out of the bathroom but my bully was already out and back in line. I called in for him and when he got to where I could see him he was crying and completely embarrassed. I asked him if he had an accident and that is when he told me his version of what happened. I got the kids back in the classroom and then talked to my bully. By now he had figured out that being truthful with me was his best bet and he gave me the same version of the story. When I asked him why he said he thought it was funny. I sent him to the office thinking he would have a consequence....he was a repeat, repeat, repeat offender after all. When he came back I asked him what the principal wanted him to do. Nothing he said. He didn't have a consequence. Surprising? Not really. It wasn't even recorded in the electronic system where behavior problems are recorded. My own children have lost recess for things less offensive.<br />
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This brings me back to the teacher in Texas who has now lost her job and possibly her teaching career over a bad decision. Of course there is always more to a story than what we know. I said "bless her heart" because I wonder how much support the school had given her with the bully in her classroom. Had she experienced what I had? You ask for and expect help but don't get it. I think you don't have to think too hard to realize this came at the end of the school year and she had probably dealt with it all year. Did the school have a CLEAR policy. Had they implemented that policy? How did she end up in a situation where she made such a disastrous choice? The article mentioned that she was a young teacher. As a young teacher was she given the support and CLEAR answers on how to deal with the situation? I feel for her. I hope it is an opportunity for the school to reflect on what they could have done differently as well and not pretend it was solely her fault. </div>
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I want to make one more point before I go. I am not putting this all on the schools exactly. Parents play a role as well. In fact, parents may just be the roadblock to solving the problem. I know having taught, that teachers often fear parents. We don't quite know how to tell them like it really is without fear of getting our heads bitten off. I have to wonder in the case of Ashley's prom incident if they were afraid of the boy's parents. Maybe we as parents stand in the way of schools implementing clearer consequences for student's actions. It is just as important for parents to have a clear understanding of bullying as it is for schools to have better ways of handling it. I want to be able to teach my children what bullying really is and the correct way to handle it and how to make sure they don't become bullies themselves. How they treat others will be just as important to the development of their moral character as how they are treated. I have started calling it out in my own home and even with their friends. We aren't going to pick at people for our own satisfaction without consequences. </div>
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The bee is out of my bonnet now! </div>
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</div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-67347943108565865332012-05-13T13:12:00.000-07:002012-05-13T13:12:45.729-07:00Mother's Day 2012<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The kids started working on my Mother's Day present several weeks ago. I wasn't allowed to peek and I wasn't supposed to be listening. Of course a mother is always listening. For me the memory of this Mother's Day gift will not be the gift itself but the memories of listening as they talked about each page and laughed together. Oh, and the usual sibling arguments. I hope one day when they are older and going through things from their childhood, they will come across this and remember not what was said on paper, but the time they spent together. That is what I will remember and treasure. They are my greatest gift. </span><br />
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<div style="width: 466px;"> <object width="466" height="375"> <param name="movie" value="http://cdn.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf"/> <param name="FlashVars" value="showCode=XN6Ng6uN&systemConfigUrl=http://cdn.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.0.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=false&muteOnStart=false&useWidgetMaker=false"/> <param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"/> <param name="quality" value="high"/> <embed src="http://cdn.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" FlashVars="showCode=XN6Ng6uN&systemConfigUrl=http://cdn.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.0.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=false&muteOnStart=false&useWidgetMaker=false" allowfullscreen="true" quality="high" width="466" height="375"></embed> </object></div><br />Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-79105636341456744652012-03-30T13:28:00.011-07:002012-04-04T16:56:22.405-07:00God's Grace? Me?<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SE3S7VcyOPU" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">You ever wonder why it seems that some people seem to come out of something ok and others don't. You often hear "Therefore but by the grace of God go I". Is it the grace of God that one life will be blessed and another isn't? Does that mean that God didn't grace that person? </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Truthfully, I had never really put the words "God's grace" and "Laura's life" in the same realm until about a week ago. I was at church to pick Brooke up from youth group and I got to talking to the youth minister and associate pastor. Kristi knows a lot of my life story and so through the course of conversation she was telling me that I should really share my story. She said my life had been touched by God's grace in many ways and it would be a good story to share with youth. She went on to say that youth really struggle with their identity and don't often see the gifts they have. They can get stuck in their uncertainty and miss the doors that God is opening for them. The initial reaction in my head was that I definitely do not need to talk to youth...she must be crazy. I said that I didn't mind sharing my story one on one with people or here in the "privacy" of this blog....but talking in front of a group of people about it would feel odd. Yes, my life has somewhat been a story of survival....born to an unwed mother, given up for adoption, sexual abuse survivor, young unmarried mother, etc. I am hesitant to speak to in a group setting because I don't want people to think my life has been sad. I have never seen my life that way. It doesn't require people to feel sorry for me. Yet, as I drove home I couldn't get what she said to me out of my head. God's grace? I always thought I was just stubborn and unwilling to let life get me down. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As usual, I have spent the last week obsessing over this thought. My mind can't rest until I figure it out. I even googled "God's grace". I mean if you want to understand something you Google it, right? Here is some of what I found:</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grace is God showing His love to you even though you MAY THINK you don't deserve it.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grace isn't a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal. It's a way to live.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue. -Eugene Gladstone O'Neill (1888-1953) </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” -Anne Lamott </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The more I read, the more I understood what Kristi had meant, but it left me with a new set of questions to ponder. Why is it then that my life has been touched by grace, when others with similar stories have not turned out as well? Aren't they touched by grace? </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">To understand what I mean I want to tell you a story about a boy named Sammie. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I never knew there was anyone in my Dad's family line named Sammie. My dad is, and has always been obsessed with family history and geneology...and yet I had never heard that name. Then about 4 or 5 years ago, I was doing research on Ancestry.com. I periodically search in vane for my birth father and also for more of my birth mother's history. This particular day I thought I would look up my dad's census records from the early 1920's. I thought it would be interesting....I got more than I ever bargained for. There it was. The last name listed for the household...Samie Arms. Age 12. Boy Baring. Hum. What does "boy baring" mean? So I asked my dad, not realizing this may be a problem.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Dad, who is Samie Arms?"</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Who?"</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Samie Arms. His name is listed on the census records from 1920 that he lived in your house. He is listed as "boy baring" and I don't know what that means."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh." LONG PAUSE. "Well, I believe my dad was married before my mother and that is his son."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Oh." </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">WHAT? There was another son? I was so shocked I just changed the subject. My head was spinning a bit. Why wasn't he called son on the records? What was with this "boy baring " thing? My entire life all I have heard about is Arms family history. My dad even wrote his memoirs, probably a hundred pages, and not one mention of anyone named Samie. There are stories of the other siblings, cousins, neighbors. Probably everyone in Clay County, Tennessee. Nothing about Samie. No pictures. No memories. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. As if he never existed. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So it doesn't take a genius to figure out that something just didn't add up. Maybe most people would think it isn't so shocking....there is probably a "mysterious birth" story in every family if you go back far enough. Problem is, I am not just any person. I myself am a "mysterious birth" story. No one in my birth mother's family had ever heard of me either. I kind of just "showed up" a few years ago. I immediately connected with Samie in my mind. I knew that some way, some how, I would find out his story. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here is what I know. My grandfather was never married before my grandmother. He had a son with a woman, whose name I still have not found. For whatever reason, Samie (also spelled Sammie and Sammy as I have discovered in my search) ended up with his father. He lived with them until he was around 18 years old. Then no one ever saw him again. Amazingly though, my dad has no memories of him at all. He was 8 years older than my dad. No memories of where he slept, no memories of him at family meals, at church. No memories of him going to school or working with the family on the farm. As if he didn't exist. The picture was becoming clearer to me. An illegitimate child was a shame on the family. He didn't count. He didn't matter. I believe without a doubt this was made very clear to him. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Information about his life is difficult to come by. No birth records. No church bible documentation to look at. Believe me, I have looked. Then finally I came across his death record and found where he was buried. I ordered a copy of his death certificate. He died of a heart attack in the Tompkinsville jail at the age of 45. There is a name for his mother, but I haven't been able to find anything about her, or that a person with this name existed at all. I have also recently discovered through a message board on Ancestry that he never married or had children and that he was an alcoholic. He lived for many years with a lady, 30 years his senior. I do not know the connection between the two, but feel confident I will eventually find out. I do know that although she had been widowed and had children pass away before she died in 1964, ten years after Sammy, she is buried next to him. I take peace in that....for whatever reason, despite his trials, she loved him. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So how is my story similar to Samie's? Even though I too am a child born out of wedlock there are 50 years between our births. That is a lot of time for views to change in the world. Or did they? Did beliefs within the mind change, or just the way these "sort of things" were handled. Remember that memoir my dad wrote? 100 pages. In that one hundred pages, my name is mentioned 1 time. One sentence. I can feel Sammy in myself. He was one line on a census document. I was one line in a book written by my father. A book about his family. When Brooke asks her Papa about memories of me when I was a child, he doesn't have any even though he can recant word for word conversations from 1945. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nothing for me though can connect me to Sammy any better than something that happened here a few months ago. Christine, a cousin of my father's a daughter of a lady my dad had known in his young years came to visit with my parents. When they got up to go, my dad asked Brooke to go get him "that box". This box had belonged to my great (or great-great) grandfather and carried with him during the civil war. Brooke brought him the box and he handed it to Christine. He asked her to take that box and give it to someone in the Arms family. He mentioned something about someone's children taking it. I had never heard of these people. Talk about an elephant in the room kind of moment. Christine looked at me and at Brooke. She asked Dad if he didn't want to give that to me or one of the grandchildren. He adamantly said again that he wanted it to stay in the Arms family. Christine looked at me again and I quietly told her not to worry, it was alright. They left and a piece of Arms family history left with them. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was so angry. I thought of Sammy again. Wondered how much of his life had been spent hearing stories of the family history. He even carried the family blood, but it wasn't enough. That night I decided I would have to say something. I told Dad what he had done had hurt me. He looked surprised and went on to explain that he had a problem because he was the end of the Arms line and he didn't know what to do about the Arms "stuff". I pointed out that in his misplaced loyalty to the Arms name he had given "Arms" stuff to total strangers. Strangers who have never heard the stories. To them it might be just a box. Then, not so nicely, I told him to look around. I asked him who he sees. I said "Dad, I may not carry your blood, but I am here. I have always been here. I know all of YOUR stories. Brooke knows all of your stories." I think I was a little harsh because he teared up. Then he said he had loved me just like I was his. Just like I was his. Wow. "Dad, I am yours. I have been yours since March 6th, 1969 when you signed papers that gave me your name. It is what goes on between us, not what flows through us Dad." </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So different, yet so similar, Sammy and I. This brings me back to God's grace.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sammy's story is what was bothering me about the whole idea of God's grace. Despite trials and tribulation, I have a really great life. Why me and not him? So many similarities and yet our lives had turned out so differently. There was one more qoute that I had found as I googled that brought it all together for me. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">God supplies all we need, <b>but we must choose to accept His gifts, or to reject them</b>. We have the option of refusing to eat or drink. We have the option of closing ourselves up in an air tight, waterproof and darkened room, but it will kill us.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You know something.....I was back to what I have thought about myself all along....I am stubborn and refuse to let life get me down. Translation in Laura's terms means the best gift God may have given me was that stubbornness to not let life get me down. I have wholeheartedly accepted that gift and many others. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It isn't that God's grace touched one and not the other. It is that one could see it and the other could not. I believe God lays it all out there for us. Our gifts, our shortcomings and trials. The ability to handle both the trials and the gifts is inside us always. Grace is almost like a secret until we figure out that it was there all along. I believe without maybe being able to put the words to it....I recognized God's grace was within me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will never count the same as an Arms in my parents eyes. Sammy never counted as an Arms in his father's eyes. In the end, all pf that is ok because we both counted in God's eyes. I just wish Sammy could have recognized the gifts God was offering him....he could have recognized it within himself. There but for the grace of God go I. </span><br />
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</div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-78019958461748235712012-03-17T16:08:00.000-07:002012-03-17T16:08:24.669-07:00A Dog's Purpose<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This was posted on my Facebook page, but it really touched me so I thought I would share it here as well. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Dog's Purpose?<br />
(from a 6-year-old).<br />
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Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife Lisa , and their little </span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show">boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.<br />
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I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.<br />
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As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.<br />
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The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker 's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.<br />
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The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.<br />
Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, ''I know why.''<br />
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Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. It has changed the way I try and live.<br />
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He said,''People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?'' The Six-year-old continued, <br />
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''Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long.''<br />
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Live simply.<br />
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Love generously.<br />
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Care deeply.<br />
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Speak kindly.<br />
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Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:<br />
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When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.<br />
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Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.<br />
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Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure Ecstasy.<br />
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Take naps.<br />
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Stretch before rising.<br />
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Run, romp, and play daily.<br />
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Thrive on attention and let people touch you.<br />
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Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.<br />
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On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.<br />
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On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.<br />
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When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.<br />
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Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.<br />
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Be loyal.<br />
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Never pretend to be something you're not.<br />
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If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.<br />
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When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently. <br />
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There comes a time in life, when you walk away from all the drama and people who create it. You surround yourself with people who make you laugh, forget the bad, and focus on the good. So, love the people who treat you right. Think good thoughts for the ones who don't. Life is too short to be anything but happy. Falling down is part of LIFE...Getting back up is LIVING...<br />
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Have a great life.<br />
by: Ultima National Resources, LLC</span></span></div><div class="photoUnit clearfix belowUnitContent"><a class="uiScaledThumb photo photoWidth1" href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=406586752688907&set=a.124580417556210.22757.114243581923227&type=1" rel="theater"><div class="uiScaledImageContainer photoWrap"><img alt="" class="scaledImageFitWidth img" height="403" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/p480x480/422575_406586752688907_1030317538_n.jpg" width="403" /></div></a></div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-9129241068254646222012-02-27T15:53:00.012-08:002012-03-02T10:07:12.318-08:00Parents Are People....<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was watching an interview between Jonah Hill and Oprah Winfrey the other day and Jonah Hill was talking about his parents and how wonderful they were. Then he made this statement-- "It was a long time before I realized that parents are people </span><span style="font-size: small;">who just happened to have children." I have had that statement stuck in my head ever since. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is a lot of truth in that one little line. It was only recently that I realized my Dad was just a man....not infallible as I thought for many years. He had made mistakes just like any other parent. Just like me. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What makes a parent then, because honestly it would be quite enough to go through our lives and just deal with our own problems. Taking on superhero status willingly seems plain crazy. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the first things that came to mind as I was trying to answer this question in my own head was July 5th, 1989, 3 AM. My water broke. Now it isn't like I didn't know this was coming. I had been waiting for it. Waiting and it suddenly happening were two different realms of reality. Especially when you are twenty and completely alone. Looking back on it, I must have been crazy. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I lived by myself in a little apartment in the Shawneetown complex on the UK campus. When my water broke, I didn't panic. I called the doctor and he said to head to the hospital. So, I picked up my suitcase and walked the short distance to Central Baptist Hospital. I walked in the ER door and up to the desk. The lady looked up at me and asked if she could help me. Apparently from her position she couldn't see my extra large belly and the fact that I was abnormally calm for a woman "in labor" added to her confusion. She stood up and looked at my stomach. Then she called a guy over with a chair and he wheeled me up to the maternity ward and up to their desk. Again, they asked if they could help me. I told them my water had broken and that the doctor had told me to come on in to the hospital. I thought my size kind of gave everything away, but apparently these people were going to need convincing. I felt as though they didn't believe me. I was asked if anyone was with me. I answered no. The nurse took me into a room and had me pee on a strip. Only after she saw the strip did I start to feel like they really believed I was there to have a baby. She handed me a gown. The excitement was starting to set in. In a few hours I would be a mother. Then she asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks. She asked if I was keeping "this baby" or giving it up for adoption. I answered yes, I was keeping my baby. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know now all these years later, she didn't mean anything with that question. I guess it is really odd to have a young pregnant woman show up alone to labor and delivery. At the time though, it really rubbed me the wrong way. In fact I spent the next 12 hours waiting for Ashley or Aaron (I didn't know yet) to arrive with her question swimming in my brain. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What was I doing exactly? I never one moment doubted I had made the right decision to have the baby, but did she ask me that question because I wasn't going to be a good mother? Was I somehow not capable of what was before me and she knew that for sure? What if I was making a mistake? What if it turns out that I am a terrible mother? How will I know what I am doing?</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The truth is, even though the circumstances were different than those of most expectant parents, no one knows the answers to those questions until you live it. I was no different than anyone else. I was, as Jonah Hill said, a person who happened to have a child. A human being who would make plenty of mistakes.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I am back to my original question. What makes a parent? If Jonah Hill's parents weren't superheros as he had thought when he was a child, what was it that made him gush about them now? Now that he knows they are mere mortals. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have at times wondered how I parented Ashley at all before the internet, when I couldn't find the answers to parenting dilemmas by using Google. Must be something else guiding me, guiding all parents. Love of course is the easy answer. There is nothing on earth that can ever compare to the truly undefinable love I feel for my children. I believe though that there is something even more complicated than love and there is one story about Benjamin that defines it for me. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ben was not quite two and doing a lot of the normal mischief that little boys do. One thing he hadn't tried yet was to open the doors to the house. He hadn't shown one bit of interest in venturing outside. Because of that we had made the mistake of not childproofing the front door. I left Ben playing in the living room floor and went to finish up the dishes. I probably wasn't out of his sight more than 10 minutes when I came back to find him gone. We looked all over the house, but couldn't find him. The front door was completely closed, but we went out and looked in the front and back yard. Then we went through the house again. Now I was scared. I went back out the front door and yelled across the street to my neighbors that I couldn't find Ben. We congregated on the front sidewalk momentarily. We could go left or right. We all turned right and started to walk. I stopped and told them I felt like I should go the other way. They kept on in their direction and I turned to my left. All I could think was that someone had kidnapped him. The house next to mine had an alley that ran beside it and I took off down the alley. I probably didn't get fifty steps down that alley when I saw him. He was standing on the deck of our neighbors above ground pool looking down at the water. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My gut instinct had told me to turn left instead of right. That same gut instinct I know has guided a lot of my parenting. It was definitely there with Ashley as we traveled together through those first nine years, just the two of us. Maybe instinct is what guides us all through the journey. This doesn't mean that our instinct isn't wrong sometimes. That we don't make mistakes, but I believe if we follow that instinct and give a lot of love even when it is difficult, we will raise a generation of people able to do the same for their own children someday. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I hope is that years from now if you ask my children what kind of parents they had, they will smile (maybe laugh) and say we were kind of crazy sometimes, but we always knew we were loved and that they were there for us even when we didn't want them to be. Maybe they will tell stories about mistakes we made with an understanding that we were after all people who just happened to have children. People just like them. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Side note:</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I asked Anna today as we were on the way home from her doctor in Lexington if she thought I ever made mistakes. Didn't take her long to say "Yes!" Uh-oh. I asked her what she meant by that. She went on to explain that sometimes I bought the wrong size jeans for them. Ok. This is good so far. I told her that wasn't quite what I meant. Did she know that sometimes I make mistakes as a human being. "Yes....when you give me a time-out and I don't think I should have one. That is a mistake." I pushed a little more but she told me this conversation was kind of boring, leaned the seat back and fell asleep. Well.....maybe 10 is too young to ponder the complexities of parents as people. That's ok. I don't mind being a superhero for a few more years. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8Q9S3cT18Fs" width="420"></iframe>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-56883707958795103822012-02-07T10:56:00.000-08:002012-02-07T18:09:41.440-08:00Mothering My Mother<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In August of 2010, Dad and I were leaving the hospital where we had been visiting my mother. She had fallen several days before and broken her knee. We both knew it was more than a broken knee. She was about to be moved to the nursing home for extended stay rehab. Although he didn't say it, Dad knew that Mom would probably not be coming back home ever again. He cried every time he visited her. He cried each time on the way home, and I have no doubt there were many tears shed as he sat alone in his assisted living apartment. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The day she was moved from the hospital to the nursing home he finally said the words he had been avoiding. "Mom won't be coming home. I won't be able to take care of her anymore." He started to cry. In that moment, I said the first of two statements that would forever change my entire family..."You know Dad, you can always come home with us." He cried harder and then finally managed to say he needed to hear that. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He came home about 3 weeks later and settled into the routine of life with my family. There were many visits back and forth to visit Mom in the nursing home. These, as would be expected were difficult visits for Dad. Difficult for me too, but mainly because I was the one who got the rundown about how she was behaving (not cooperating with therapy, not wanting to leave her room) and how they couldn't get her to eat. I started to dread going to see her as much as he did, just for different reasons.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So it happened, as it is with my sometimes impulsive nature, I uttered the second statement that would once again change everything. "Dad, I think we should bring Mom home." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That was sixteen months ago. In the beginning I didn't know most days whether to laugh or cry. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to do this. During those first days and weeks, she screamed at me, was uncooperative, and hit me more than once. I found myself thinking....elder abuse? What about caregiver abuse? Then it hit me...I am in charge here and I don't have to be treated this way. So one night when she started to throw a glass at me, I took it abruptly from her hand. She reached out and hit me. I tapped her back, not hard, but to make a point. She hit me again. I tapped her again. She kicked me. I lightly kicked her back. Then I looked at her and asked her how long we were going to do this. She looked at me like she had something good to say, but instead shook her head. We haven't had a problem since. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It is day in and day out the same routine....if we are lucky. Change in routine usually means someone is sick. I have said to friends that life here is like the movie Groundhog Day where Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again. They eat the same breakfast and lunch everyday. They get up and go to bed at the same time each day. Mom says the exact same thing to me every morning when she wakes up. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have started to find myself dreading growing old. I have never feared aging before, but now I do. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I come face to face with the future on a daily basis. Scary stuff. My Dad is 93 and he can't hear even with hearing aids. He can't see due to macular degeneration. Mom, in the late stages of dementia, no longer consistently knows who we are, or who Dad is, and except for feeding herself, is completely dependent on someone else to care for her. She sleeps probably 18 out of 24 hours and Dad is not far behind with his sleep. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I finally realized that the only way I was going to make it through caring for my parents without becoming depressed by the sadness of life's cycle, was to start finding the humor. It is laugh or lose my mind. Let me tell you, some funny stuff goes on here. It is all about perspective. Now I realize that some reading this may find what I am about to say offensive. For that I apologize. I know how terrible dementia is. I also see that in some ways it is an odd sort of gift. She doesn't have to be aware of growing old the way that my dad does. She is unaware of time and age. She doesn't really know that she can't walk anymore or care for herself. She is stuck in happy times. She is not suffering. Mom as she once was is already gone. My job now, truthfully, is to see to it that she has a dignified death. Laughing about it along the way is a great coping mechanism for all of us. Like I said it is all about perspective...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Here are a few of our funny moments.... </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--The day we picked Mom up bring her home from the nursing home she ran down this list in her head of all of the stuff in her room that she needed to take with her. I agreed with her and told her Jason was on his way to pick everything up and take it to the house. She looked at Dad and said, "Well, they are just making out like bandits." I think she thought we were stealing her stuff. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--The other day, my Dad had been to a NARFE meeting at Mallard's. When he came in, Mom and I were in the bathroom. He came to the door to see where Mom was. When she saw him, she said, "Oh good, my Daddy's home." I said, "That isn't your Daddy Mom it's your husband." He started laughing and said it was ok...he wasn't quite sure who he was either. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--Several nights ago, as I was taking Mom to bed, she told me I was going the wrong way. I asked her where she wanted me to go and she pointed toward the garage and said they had been sleeping on a mattress on the floor in there. No Mom, you and Dad sleep in here. She told me I didn't know what I was talking about but she said she would sleep in the bedroom...this time. The next morning she told Dad she really liked that bed. That it was better than the mattress on the floor. He looked at me, then at her and back at me. I shrugged my shoulders. He chuckled, reached over and rubbed her hand. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--Mom asked me the other day when the renovations on our house would be done. When were we moving was what she wanted to know. I said I hadn't been doing in renovations that maybe she was thinking about the girl who takes care of her on my days off. She said no, it was me. I was moving. I just kind of dropped it and went on. That night after Brooke had given them their dinner she came up and said that Mama was asking her about renovations and when we would be moving. Brooke told her we weren't moving, that we all lived in this house together. Mom's response was to tell her to be sure and clean up our mess when we left. (I think she wants to get rid of us!!!)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--They were watching a UK ballgame and I happened to be downstairs folding laundry. I heard Dad ask mom what it said on the bottom of the screen. (the ticker of announcements/news that runs across the bottom of the screen) She read it out loud to him. Then after about thirty seconds, she read it again. Then again and again. By the time I came out of the laundry room she had read it about six times and Dad was sitting with his head in his hands. I didn't say anything and headed up the stairs. Half way up, I heard her reading it again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--I take Mom to the bathroom several times throughout the day. Once I get her situated, I try to give her privacy, but remain close so I can make sure she doesn't try to get up on her own and fall. I came into the room and asked if she was ready to get up. She responded by saying, "No. I was in full bloom when you walked into the room." I am still trying to figure that one out. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">--I have to be careful at night when I go down to put Mom to bed. She and Dad have usually been snacking throughout the evening, but Dad doesn't pay any attention to what Mom does with her wrappers or food portions that she doesn't eat. The other night she reached out her hand and told me to throw that away. It felt warm and mushy and I was afraid to look. She had chewed all of the juice out of orange pieces and then spit the pulp out in her hand. That was gross. She also sits on unwrapped chocolate bars to save them for later. Dementia and saving a candy bar for later don't go together very well. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There have been many of these moments. Moments where I have to stop myself from laughing out loud. I can't predict how the next months or years are going to go even though I know how they will end. Between now and then I will find the funny moments and hang on tight. </span></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tR-qQcNT_fY" width="560"></iframe>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-16898644007054912392012-01-28T19:58:00.001-08:002012-03-02T10:11:22.179-08:00Reflection<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">A friend of mine pointed out today that I hadn't written anything on my blog in a while and suggested that I should really write about all of the humorous stuff that goes on when you live with and take care of aging parents. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">She is right, there is a lot I could say about that topic </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">so I started planning out this blog entry in my head. I didn't get far before I got stuck. This is not because I don't have a lot of material to choose from. Believe me--there is plenty, but my thoughts kept being interrupted by thoughts of my husband. So I am going to take a risk and instead talk to you about Jason. Because as all wives know....our husbands provide all sorts of great story material also! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know what you are thinking already. You are thinking that I might be getting ready to complain about all of things Jason does to annoy me. All of the juicy (ok, juicy might be pushing it a little) details of my marriage and family. Not at all. Instead I want to tell you about risks, hope, growth, and love. Hum....sounds like a love story. Laura and Jason? Well....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">First, the risk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thirteen years ago I was a single mother working three jobs. I was a part time secretary for a church, I cleaned houses and offices, and I worked as a cashier at Food Lion. I was happy. Ashley was happy. Our life went along rather smoothly in fact. Although I wasn't against the idea of dating and finding the "love of my life", I hadn't had a lot of luck in that area so it wasn't something I spent a lot of time thinking about. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I met Jason at Food Lion where he worked too. He had been there a year or two and to him I was probably just another cashier. I don't think he gave me a lot of thought. Truthfully, I didn't give him a lot of thought either. The more I worked with him though, the more I started to think about him. What did it for me was how he would laugh AT me. Yes, that's right...AT me. Not at my wonderful wit and charm....at my stupidity. My blonde moments. I am not sure what that says about my self esteem that I liked being laughed at, but I did. Not by everyone, just Jason. So it began. The relationship that no one thought would last. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">We were more of a "what are they thinking" kind of couple. Jason, you see, was 10 years younger. So if I was being honest...I would have to admit I asked myself that same question on more than one occasion. Yet, just as it would remain over the next thirteen years, there was something there that told me to follow my heart and not my brain. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I took the biggest risk I had ever taken in my life. I jumped in with both feet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Hope </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Our first daughter together, Brooke, was born 20 months after we first met. Followed 14 months later by Anna. At this point, Jason and I had already experienced many moments that made me think all of those people who said we didn't know what we were doing were right. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I didn't think we would make it. I spent more time mad at him than I did liking him ...and although he has never said it, I am sure he felt the same way about me. By this point Jason was a truck driver and gone more than he was home. When he did come home, we spent a lot of that time mad. I could give those "juicy" details now to paint a clearer picture, but it wouldn't do any good. Trust me, it was a bad cycle we were in. Yet that risk I had taken in the beginning to me was based on hope. Every time we would have an argument</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">and I </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">would think about leaving, it was hope that kept me there. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It wasn't as if we didn't have any good times, we did. A lot of great memories. I loved this man and we could do it</span>. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> So I would keep trying to make things change</span>. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> I think back now and realize my main thought was that I hoped I could change HIM. After all, the way I saw it, everything was his fault. I am perfect, right? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Growth and Love</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">In 2004, I was pregnant again. This is not what I wanted. That sounds bad to say those words, because I love our son more than life itself, but at the time, having a fourth child was not a good idea. Partly because I had been told by my doctor not to have any more children, and partly because Jason and I were still struggling. Of course there are always those times when you bring a new life into the world where everything seems blissful and right. We had those times when Ben was born just as we had with our other children. Wouldn't take long though and all of the old problems would be back. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I decided it had to end. HE was never going to change. I started planning my way out. I went back to school and got my degree. I got a job right after graduation. I worked hard. Then, I lost that job. Suddenly, my world turned upside down. I wanted to die. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Jason picked me up. Jason. This man I had discounted all of these years. The one I had blamed everything on made me feel I had a reason to live. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sometimes we have light bulb moments. I had one of those. Maybe all of these years, it hadn't been all his fault. Maybe I had gotten so caught up in myself and seeing things my way and having things my way that I hadn't seen the truth. I was so busy trying to make him into the man I thought I wanted him to be, I didn't see the man he was all along. In all of those years I had forgotten to look into his eyes and see that HE loved ME. Now I could see it very clearly. It was the same look I had seen in the beginning. Deep in his eyes he looked at me the way no one else had. That was why the risk had been so worth taking in the beginning. Humbling times for me. The way I had treated him at times. The way we had treated each other. I am surprised looking back that he didn't leave me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">This Wednesday, February 1st, is our 10th wedding anniversary. I can't tell you how happy that makes me. Thirteen years together and ten officially. We are doing what no one thought we could do. I am so lucky to have Jason. Lucky to have someone put up with me while I have grown up. Lucky to have a person in this world who knows and puts up with all of my quirks and faults and still loves me like I am the most important person in the world. I can no longer picture a world without him and while we will never be a perfect couple, that is ok too. It is ok because individually, we are not perfect people. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Oh, and the way he used to laugh AT me...he still does that and I still love it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Since I know you will be reading this Jason...I love you and I hope there are many years of laughing at each other ahead! Happy Anniversary! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-77367057191685251482011-11-22T17:21:00.000-08:002011-11-22T20:20:38.152-08:00So I Am Supposed To Be Thankful?<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday was not a great day. I was beginning to wonder if the warm fuzzies of Thanksgiving passed me by this year. I hate days like that. I wake up with a smile on my face ready to face the day and within five minutes I want nothing more than to crawl back in the bed. Here is how it went....</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--I was out of coffee and had to walk all the way downstairs to get a new container from the deep freezer. Normally this isn't a big deal, but I just wasn't awake yet.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--I stood outside with the puppy in the rain only to have him go to the bathroom in the house about five minutes after we came inside. Another day of keeping the steam cleaner on hand. Did I really say yes to a puppy? </span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--The first words out of Anna's mouth when I woke her up were "My stomach hurts". </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--It took 3 times to wake Brooke up. This is not unusual, but some days, more irritating than others. This particular day I was wishing I had a bull horn. Or maybe a bucket of ice water......</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Benjamin decided to come to breakfast naked. Nobody wants to see that first thing in the morning even on a good day. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Finally got them out the door and safely on the bus only to turn around and see that the puppy has gone to the bathroom again. Seriously? I need a bus to come by and pick up the puppy too. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--After I cleaned that mess up I started doing my usual walking through the house and picking up after my family. I found myself thinking a variety of not so nice thoughts.... "Do THESE PEOPLE not have any respect? Cereal bowls and milk still on the table. Socks (including Jason's) and pajamas in various locations throughout the house. Am I asking that much that they clean up after themselves? Do they even notice how hard I work for them?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Around 11 I headed to Kroger thinking by going on Monday I would beat the Thanksgiving crowds. Wrong. The parking lot was packed so I turned around and headed to Zaxby's. I was going to need more strength than I thought to tackle Kroger. I ate lunch in the Kroger parking lot and noticed people had a weary looks on their faces as they loaded groceries into their cars. Maybe we didn't need groceries after all. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--In I go. Coupons organized, list ready....even had my pen behind my ear. It was probably a bad sign when I just about got run over as I was picking out apples. Then the same lady showed up again when I was picking out onions. Again, I must have been invisible because she almost ran over me. Not like there was a shortage of onions. It was beginning to feel like a Walmart black Friday sale in the produce section. I resisted my usual urge to say something. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--</span><span style="font-size: large;">Wish I could say it got better after that, but I can't. They were out of Parkay, eggs, half and half and buttermilk.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Guess I will also be going to Food Lion. Great.</span> </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--</span><span style="font-size: large;">Returned home with enough time to unload groceries, take the dogs out and check in with the girl who takes care of Mom on Mondays before heading out to an appointment with Ben's pediatrician. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Today was the day Ben would be starting medication for ADHD. Not really where I imagined I would be with Ben. There is a lot more to this....but let's just say it makes my heart hurt. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, that was most of my day. So much for a spirit of thankfulness. Maybe I can skip Thanksgiving. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well....maybe not.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The REAL truth is I have nothing to complain about and everything to be thankful for. I am so endlessly lucky.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--I didn't mind going down to get the coffee....I am thankful we were able to buy the new deep freezer this year.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--The puppy....well he is so darn cute I can't really get mad at him. Besides, that's why we have a steam cleaner in the first place. Life is full of little messes. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Anna felt better after she had been up a few minutes and went on to school. No crisis there, and I was thankful she felt better. I sent a note for her teacher just in case!</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Waking Brooke up....I wouldn't really use ice water. Besides, it used to take 4 times to get her up!</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--The lady in Kroger. The truth is I smiled at her and commented on how busy the store was today. Wasn't until the onions that we realized we knew each other. We talked for a couple of minutes about her grandchildren and how my parents were getting along. It was good to see her!</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Ben and the ADHD diagnosis is a big hurdle for me, but he has a terrific doctor who answered all of my crazy questions and reassured me that Ben would be o.k. It is a team effort and if this helps him learn then it is a good thing. He made me feel better. It is also good to feel like we may finally have answers. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Last but not least. My family. Yes, they leave their stuff everywhere and it is quite possible they believe a fairy comes along and picks it all up because they certainly don't seem to notice me doing it. But what if I didn't have them to pick up after? The world would be an awfully lonely place without them. They don't just raise my blood pressure.....they cause my heart to keep beating in the first place. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So it isn't that I have to be thankful because it is Thanksgiving but instead a belief that the feelings of Thanksgiving can happen every day we are on this earth. Some days we just have to look harder for them than others. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Thanksgiving! </span></div><br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/rnztMhtUF6o" target="_blank">You Raise Me Up</a>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-2003007498147487472011-07-15T16:58:00.000-07:002011-07-15T17:04:42.279-07:00Just Write D-U-M-B Across My Forehead<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Today was a day that Ashley and I had planned for and coordinated for a couple of weeks. Well....ok....I had been doing most of the planning because I am a Type A and Ashley had been letting me because she is definitely not a Type A. At any rate, Ashley moved into her first "all by herself" apartment today and I of course was there to help her. We had already had a huge shopping trip to buy a lot of what she would need like a vacuum cleaner, new kitchen utensils and small appliances. Everything was in place....cable guy coming between 10-2, KU turned on today, and my neighbor's sons made the trip to Lexington to help with the "labor". </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I even planned for my usual stop at Starbucks on the way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So we managed to get the first load unloaded quickly and Ashley, Will, and Mike headed across town to load up the rest of Ashley's stuff. Ben and I stayed behind to unpack her kitchen and do some cleaning. I was determined to have the kitchen in shape before they got back. With Ben's help, I actually accomplished this rather quickly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">While I was waiting, I thought I would start on the bedroom. First on the list was to unpack a new lamp. Here is where the trouble started. You know, why do they put those darn unbreakable zip ties around the cords? Frustrated, I decided to use a paring knife since Ashley did not have scissors. Better yet, it was a brand new, just out of the box, paring knife. D-U-M-B. D-U-M-B. D-U-M-B. When an paring knife slices through you index finger at the joint....it causes a lot of damage. Mind you, I didn't feel it slice through my finger, but I had no problem seeing the blood spurt out of my finger. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I dunked my hand in the dish water and told Ben I had a problem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> "Wow Mom! Is that blood?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Yes Ben. See if you can find me a band-aid." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Where am I supposed to find a band-aid?" (smart boy...everything is in boxes) "Gosh that is a lot of blood Mom."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Ben, I think I have a problem. I am going to need help."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Ben got kind of quiet. I tried at that point to form the words to explain to him how to unlock my cell and call 911. The words weren't coming. I realized it wasn't going to be long before I passed out. All I could think about though, was what would Ben do. What if he tried to go find help and got lost? Or worse, someone took him. I had heard a terrible story about a little boy in New York this week who got lost then abducted and then found murdered. Geez, how do I create these messes? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I made it to the wall across from the front door, propped it open with my foot, and sent Ben to the apartment right across from Ashley's. I could see their door and I am sure it was quite a site when they opened it and saw Ben's little face then looked across at me. They called 911 and stayed with me until they arrived. By now I was laying down on the floor and Ben was sitting right next to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They arrived and determined that I would need stitches and then gave me the choice of riding with them to the hospital or going to Urgent Treatment within the hour. They were very nice. I kept apologizing for calling them, and explained that I was worried what would happen to Ben more than myself. They said I had made the right choice, but I still felt bad for causing the trouble. One of the guys called Ashley for me so that she wouldn't be alarmed when she pulled in and there was a fire truck and ambulance in front of her apartment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In the end, I only needed 3 stitches, not the 5 or 6 originally thought. Ben thinks they are cool. We also were able to get Ashley's apartment 90% unpacked before I headed back to Danville to pick up the girls. Ashley now has something to really tease me about and Ben has an interesting story. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I realized though, that I had been waiting for Ben to be "old enough" for me to explain what to do in an emergency. That was a mistake and it is a mistake that alarms me. The very thing I was fearing in the moment could have been a non issue if I had already taught him to use my phone and dial 911. He knows now. </span></span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-60973653036185850722011-07-10T16:10:00.000-07:002011-07-10T16:14:31.139-07:00Heartbreak and Hope<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes the unexpected happens. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A few weeks ago my Dad told me he had given my phone number to one of mom's former students. He couldn't quite remember her name but he knew she had visited them, sent them cards at Christmas, and called them several times over the years. Odd, I thought that she would want to talk to me, but ok. He said he thought she probably wanted to ask how mom was doing. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Within a few days I discovered a message from a lady named Fern. She explained in the message that she really wanted me to contact her and that it was really important. She left her number. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Honestly, something seemed strange so I put off calling her for over a week. Then I decided I was acting childish and went ahead and returned her call. What happened next was unexpected and heartbreaking and I know it will stay with me for a long time to come. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The conversation started quite normally even though I could sense a nervousness in Fern's voice. She asked about Mom's health and how long they had been living with me. She talked about how she had visited my parents and kept up with them over the years. Then, she asked about my brother. She called him by name and said she remembered that they had adopted him when they lived in Russell Springs. I thought....oh no....what has he done now. He is a destructive force, but one of Mom's former students? I braced myself and about the time I started to say "What has he done now" out loud, the conversation totally changed gears. Fern said she had better tell me why she had called. She wanted to tell me her story.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fern was the youngest of nine children and they grew up in Russell Springs, Kentucky. They were dirt poor, but her parents had done the best they could to take care of them. Her mother and father had both passed away young, so really Fern had taken care of herself. When she was fourteen she was raped by a family member and as a result became pregnant. This had happened in the spring of 1961 and she went on to explain that back then there weren't a lot of options for poor unwed mothers and so she kept the pregnancy to herself for as long as she could. That fall she began her freshman year at Russell Springs High School. This is where my mother came into the picture. Somehow my mother realized Fern was pregnant. Fern says from then on my Mom saved her. Mom encouraged her to stay in school and helped her realize she could give the child up for adoption. Mom introduced her to the social worker who ended up handling the adoption. Her baby, a boy, was born in December of 1961. I suddenly felt pain for this woman because I knew where the conversation was going next. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fern explained that she had kept up with my parents and my brother over the years because she felt that Eric was her son. Now that she was getting on in years and my mother couldn't remember her anymore she wanted to talk to me about Eric. She thought Eric was her son. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had a moment where I realized I could let Fern keep on thinking that Eric was her son to save her the heartache. I also realized just as quickly how wrong that would be...even if the truth was painful. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I stopped her story and gently explained that Eric was not hers. He had been born in April of 1962 in Ashland, Kentucky. I also explained to her that I had found Eric's mother several years ago and that she lives in Georgia. Suddenly it was very quiet on the other end of the phone. I didn't say anything. I just waited. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Finally she explained that the reason she had thought that Eric was hers all of these years was because after the social worker would see her at the school, she would often go to Mom's classroom to see Mom. She didn't know why at the time the social worker was visiting with my parents, but after the announcement of my brother's adoption came out, she had made the connection to her baby because of the social worker. It had never crossed her mind that it could be mere coincidence. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My heart broke for Fern. Can you imagine? All these years. I understood her story more than most would. I also knew from conversations with my birth mother, how painful the not knowing where I was or if I was safe had been for her over the years. Fern had spent the last 49 years following from a distance the life of a child she thought was hers. She had taken comfort in knowing he had a good home and more secure about her choice because of that. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I felt I had taken the wind out of her sails, but we talked for a bit longer. In the course of that conversation I told her about my own search for my birth mother and my search for Eric's birth mother. I told her if she wanted she could send me copies of all the information she had and I would see what I could do. I explained not to put a whole lot of hope in my efforts and that while finding Eric's had been quick, my search had taken 17 years. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wasn't sure I would hear from her again, but a couple of days ago I got a rather large envelope in the mail from her. Inside were copies of everything she had about her son, whose name had been Leroy, including the letter she had written to him that was added to her state record many years ago in case he ever searched for her. There was also a very sweet note thanking me for the conversation even though it was difficult and for offering to help her. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am not sure what I have gotten myself into or if I will have any luck at all. What I do know though, is that if there is the slightest chance I can help mend a stranger's broken heart, I have to try. </span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">We go through what we go through to help others go through what we went through.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">--- Unknown</span><br />
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</span></span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-26558722046539067422011-05-19T17:09:00.000-07:002011-07-30T15:41:20.661-07:00This and That<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few days ago I discovered that someone in my household downloaded a book to my Nook. This irritates me because there are very few...well maybe not any places in my house, that little hands don't find their way into. Of course leave it Jason to point out the obvious- I gave them my password. Ok, so it is my fault, but I was still irritated and was about to go wake the angels from their peaceful sleep to preach to them about respecting my stuff when I read the title of the book. "100 Quotes to Make You Think" by Wolfgang Riebe. Hum....these kids may know me better than I think! I guess I won't fuss at them after all. </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Since I seem to have no theme to my blog, really just whatever randomness has popped into my head, I thought I would share some of my favorite quotes from this book. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-If you think you are too small to be effective, you have never been in the dark with a mosquito!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-It's not hard to make decisions when you know what your values are. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-When your dreams turn to dust, vacuum. (THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-I have learned that everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all the happiness and growth occurs while you're climbing it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Take twice as long to eat half as much.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Forgiveness is me giving up my right to hurt you for hurting me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.</span></span><br />
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</span></span></div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-30368719730583892022011-05-06T18:37:00.000-07:002011-05-06T19:50:19.719-07:00When you know you know.....you know......understand?<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: large;">This has been one of those weeks when I can't seem to get through a day without doing or saying something idiotic. A week when my mouth has often been ahead of my brain. All week I had been wondering what was wrong....hormonal imbalance, wrong phase of the moon. I needed an excuse for my stupidity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thursday, I had almost made it through the entire day without making a fool of myself. Almost. In fact I got a lot accomplished early in the day because I knew my afternoon would be full taking the girls for camp and 6th grade physicals. The visit started out as nothing unusual...sign in, make sure nothing has changed with insurance then have a seat in the waiting room. We didn't even have to wait but a minute or two which was a relief. Then it all went downhill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I knew already that since Brooke was there for her 6th grade physical she would be needing shots. Anna was going to have a 4-H camp physical and she would not need shots.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The first thing the nurse said to me was that since they didn't have Brooke's shot records there at the office, they wouldn't be able to fill out her immunization record today. WHAT? Maybe I heard her incorrectly. She said that the first time they had been to that office was in 2008. I said that couldn't be accurate. She said they had looked for the records and there weren't any before that time and there wasn't an immunization certificate for either girl. She even said to me that they don't keep hard copies of doctor visit records. That they only keep important things like shot records. I suddenly felt quite unnerved. These are my children's medical histories that have traveled with them through the years. I depend on knowing where those records are in case they are ever needed and suddenly I didn't know where they were. What did she mean "they don't keep them"? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When you know you know something is true and someone is telling you it isn't, it is a frustrating feeling. To make it worse they were truly acting like I was crazy. I wasn't rude at all, but I was insistent that the records were there. They did find records for Ben and Ashley going back to early 2006. Yet, when I said that Brooke and Anna's records were there also because it wouldn't make sense that I would bring my oldest and youngest child, but not the 2 in the middle, they gave me a look like they truly pitied my stupidity. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They said they would go downstairs and look one more time. They didn't find the records, but they did bring up Ben's immunization record so they could show me that he had his first shots in Richmond (we lived in Richmond until October of 2005) and maybe that is where the missing records were. At this point I just gave up and said maybe they were right. I apologized that I couldn't remember things correctly and for asking them to look again for the records. Perfect. Another day this week when I am feeling like a fool. I spend a lot of time around someone with dementia...starting to know how she feels. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I went home and tried to put it out of my head but I couldn't. Then it dawned on me that the best place to figure this out was the billing department of the doctor's office. Billing departments never lose any paperwork. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So this morning I gave them a call and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Took less than a minute for her to tell me that the first time Brooke had been seen in their office was January 2006. In fact all of my kids were seen there in 2006. Thank you....I am not crazy after all. She also said she would have them check again for their records and call me back if she found them. Would you believe when she called me back she said the records were right where they should have been for both girls. They weren't even out of alphabetical order. Oh, and in that folder of records.....IMMUNIZATION CERTIFICATES and the form I had filled out in 2006 requesting records from Richmond be sent to Danville. I have decided there must be two basements and the nurse from Thursday night had gone to the wrong one. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When you know you know something......you know it....period. Oh, and finding out today that I didn't make a fool out of myself after all helped me make it through the rest of my Friday craziness free. </span></span><br />
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</span></span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-29617494245899801702011-04-24T11:21:00.000-07:002011-04-24T11:36:06.177-07:00Interesting Friday<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This past Friday I went to Lexington to go apartment hunting with Ashley. She is going to be getting her first "big girl" (as she called it) apartment in May. This will be the first time she lives without roommates and she is excited about it. I must say, that I am excited about this too because the place she lives in now leaves a lot to be desired, at least from a mother's point of view. I will be glad when she is out of there! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On the way to Lexington I kept getting a call from a Michigan number. I don't know anyone with a Michigan number so I decided not to answer it. Whoever it was kept calling over and over until I finally gave in and answered. It was Ashley calling on a friend's phone. Instinctively I knew we had some sort of problem if she wasn't calling on her phone. I was right. Her purse had been stolen the night before. That meant her bank card, phone, and house keys were gone. </span>Apparently she was at Redmonds the night before with some friends and turned her back on her purse for just a minute. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So, after we went to look at apartments, we headed to the Sprint store. Here is where my story gets interesting. I was about to have an experience that left me wondering if I should feel really old or....well, I wasn't sure what to feel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As we were sitting there waiting for our customer service lady to set up Ashley's new phone, another customer service guy walked over. I would guess he was about 25 and relatively nice looking. He looked at me and he said, "I don't want you to take what I am about to say the wrong way...(I felt a little panic. Had I done something embarrassing I wasn't aware of?) but you have the most beautiful blue eyes." Huh? I just kind of looked at him. I had never been told this before. Then his purpose flashed across my brain. I said, "Thanks, but Ashley here is the one with the beautiful eyes." He said, "Well, I do see the similarity." Then he talked to her for a bit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Did that just happen? That was the smoothest "man move" I have ever seen. He used the mother to get to the daughter. Ashley didn't even pick up on it until I explained it to her later. So I left the Sprint store not really knowing how I should feel. Proud on one hand that this guy obviously thought Ashley was a beautiful girl with startling blue eyes.....on the other hand, strangely sad that the 25 year old guy probably didn't think these 42 year old eyes were that great after all. Ashley's response to the whole thing...."Geez Mom, he was completely bald." </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-52779586505217830992011-04-16T18:48:00.000-07:002011-04-17T13:14:16.268-07:00It's The Little Things<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulYblWCY57ILxkpT66Q-76xU2nj2qNQykYsY-ZuEbsBxQM7ntNNOn-c-Y7Lnck3JDTOnQZC0XDvrHU1XnsyrGNucZhfqLpN9VU4b5ztFC1JYgntTBPOL3H4qqJ04YGGDgTqfuZajhq03a/s1600/IMG_4434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulYblWCY57ILxkpT66Q-76xU2nj2qNQykYsY-ZuEbsBxQM7ntNNOn-c-Y7Lnck3JDTOnQZC0XDvrHU1XnsyrGNucZhfqLpN9VU4b5ztFC1JYgntTBPOL3H4qqJ04YGGDgTqfuZajhq03a/s320/IMG_4434.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">This picture was taken on our trip to Chicago. We had walked about 3 miles and Ben</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">was getting tired so Ashley told him to hop on. To me it was a special "little moment". </span></span></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">Fancy Pants Designs, my favorite scrapbooking company, recently put out a line of products called "It's The Little Things". </span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">I usually want every product the company puts out, but I practice some, not a lot, but some self control. This time I knew I had to have the entire collection. I loved the retro colors in the papers and embellishments and the qoutes and sayings were great too. What really drew me to the collection though was the name itself....little things. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">I have always been aware of small moments of importance and how something so seemingly small to one, can be extremely meaningful to another. I have scrapbooked for years and any scrapbooker will tell you that the whole point is to freeze little moments in a creative way. Scrapbookers spend hours attending to small details. Yet in the midst of capturing all of these little moments, I discovered I had been missing the big picture. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">This time last year, I was in the first true depression I had ever been in. I had never been like this before. In fact, I never could understand how people got so depressed in the first place. Stuff happens and you pick yourself up, brush it off and go on. I was too strong for that....so I thought. I thought I had been preparing myself for my job loss months in advance. We had been told early on that there would be losses and I knew I would be one of them. So I made jokes about it and talked about it. I really thought that the more I got it out of me, the easier it would be. I was wrong. I hit the bottom so fast I don't even fully remember the trip down. Oh, I functioned enough to go to work every day but I was a zombie at home. My family would be talking, but I didn't hear a thing. I would cry without warning and be unable to stop. I started to wonder how I could get out of this life because I didn't want to be here anymore. I couldn't get it off my mind. I was miserable and I don't doubt that I made everyone else around me miserable too. All I could see was that a dream was gone and I was too tired to chase another one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">This went on for weeks, then one night, one of those nights when I couldn't stop crying, my husband did something I will never forget. He laid down beside me and put his arms around me. He didn't say a word, he just held me. He doesn't know this, but it was those moments that saved me. Someone was there for me. Of course I had been so self absorbed that I had missed the fact that he, and others, had been there all along. Jason probably thought this was just a "little thing" he was doing, but it was huge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">I began to slowly change my thoughts and it wasn't easy. I started to make myself notice the little things and tell myself how thankful I was for them. I had a ritual of sorts. Each morning when I opened my eyes I would say to myself how glad I was to have such a warm quilt on my bed. Or maybe I would tell myself how glad I was to have such a great toothbrush. It didn't matter how mundane or silly it all sounded, I just started being thankful for every little thing around me. It worked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">By about the second week in June, I knew without a doubt that I was going to be ok. I wasn't going anywhere if I could help it. I knew I still had a ways to go because there was anger and pain yet to work through, but I knew I could do it now. Life was suddenly more worth living that it had been in a long time.A year later I am still not quite sure where life is taking me, but I know I want to be here for the journey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;">This past Friday I ran into a girl who had done some of her practicum work at the school where I taught. She had since graduated and gotten a teaching job. A few weeks ago she had been pink slipped. She and I talked for quite a while and she said how glad she was to have run into me. She said no one understands what this is like unless they have been there. I told her she was absolutely right, it feels like a dream was crushed. Then I told her my "little things" story. I told her the next few weeks were going to be tough. When she is sitting in those faculty meetings as they plan for next year or looking at her son wondering how she is going to put food on the table just start looking around for little things to be thankful for. I said she may not see them at first, but they are there and they will save her and give her more reasons than she realizes to move forward. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif;"> </span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-81733984199421789102011-03-30T17:56:00.000-07:002011-03-31T08:08:53.847-07:00A gardener? Who? Me?<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If you would have told me as recently as 3 years ago that I would be a gardener, I would have said you were crazy. Just the mere thought of toiling over dirt for the "possibility" of a few tomatoes and ears of corn would make my head hurt. This reaction is not without foundation. I grew up in a family of gardeners. My father has a degree in agriculture from UK and my mother was a home economics teacher back in the day when they still taught students to cook and preserve foods. In addition, they grew up in a time when you grew your own food or you didn't eat! So growing up, gardening and canning foods took up a lot of the summer. I spent more hours than I care to remember in the hot sun picking strawberries and grapes or hoeing weeds and picking potato bugs. Then there was the stringing and breaking of beans, shelling peas, and picking those gosh darn silks out of the corn. I was also a 4-H'er and grew my own vegetables in pots on the back porch that I would then enter in the county fair each year for prize money. I didn't hate it back then....but I didn't love it. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrq8W16E8S9OoVLwwACDFU9EapEbFkvPTRLgLlPpChx5vTffxzANkw23OJB3Qao8-Wcrlu8I9IcT1y4eNmTBNCmAthEPq3xqGqmCZP0IMC82WJl4xiEScys80etJE1CE4YenbNXkq8lM-/s1600/laura+gardening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrq8W16E8S9OoVLwwACDFU9EapEbFkvPTRLgLlPpChx5vTffxzANkw23OJB3Qao8-Wcrlu8I9IcT1y4eNmTBNCmAthEPq3xqGqmCZP0IMC82WJl4xiEScys80etJE1CE4YenbNXkq8lM-/s320/laura+gardening.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">1980</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">with my 4-H projects</span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Fast forward about 25 years and here I was living in the house and tending to the yard where all of this gardening had taken place. The garden tools still hung in the same spot in the garage and I knew without having to look too deeply what garden chemicals and fertilizers occupied Dad's garage shelves. Not only that, my parents left at the end of July that year and there were still tomatoes and corn growing in the garden. Suddenly I was expected to take care of the garden and deliver the vegetables to my dad at the assisted living home. I agreed to do the best I could not to let the tomatoes die, but didn't make a lot of promises about supplying them with a winter's supply of corn on the cob. I had no clue how to freeze corn.....I had been a silk remover, but tried to stay away from the kitchen when the freezing and canning was going on. I did the best I could and delivered Dad several rounds of tomatoes.....but for the most part, I told the neighbors to take what they wanted. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The following January, Dad started asking me if I was going to grow anything in that garden. I sort of fumbled with my words, trying to quickly think of reasons why I couldn't. Then Dad, in only a way a dad can do, said "Boy I sure would like to have some tomatoes and corn this year." Darn. It is hard to tell him no. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Seemed like winter passed quickly and before we knew it (I say we, because by now I had gotten Jason involved....I needed manpower) Jason was learning to use a plow without killing himself and I was trying to figure out why there were so many different varieties of corn and tomatoes? Wasn't a tomato just a tomato? What the heck is early corn, sweet corn, or heirloom corn? Doesn't it all look the same? Of course my best source of information became my dad. Sometimes there was more information than I was able to absorb, but slowly, it all came together. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I was now a gardener. Not only was I growing corn and 2 varieties of tomatoes, but we also had potatoes, green, red, and cayenne peppers, eggplant, zuchini, squash, cucumbers, cantaloupe, watermelon, onions, green beans, crowder peas, marigolds and zinnias. I was a very proud first time gardener. Of course as I have learned gardening, is that there are successes and failures. My tomatoes grew beautifully and so did the cucumbers and potatoes. The zuchinni and squash were also big producers. I had fresh cut zinnias on my table everyday for 2 months. For some reason though, my green beans never even got going and although the corn grew as it was supposed to, I harvested it too early out of fear it was about to be taken over by corn ear worms. I have bad childhood memories of silking corn and one of those darn worms would come crawling out. The corn was still better than store bought and we had corn on the cob all the way up to Christmas. Yes, that means I also learned to freeze it just like mom used to do. Well, almost like Mom used to do. I also made pickles and salsa. I was proud of what I had accomplished, but more than that I knew that I was hooked. I LOVE GARDENING!!! Turns out, sitting for hours picking potato bugs off of plants and watching them drown in a jar of gasoline is rather therapeutic. And those corn silks? Well I passed on that joy to my own children who actually did it with smiles on their faces. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I started planning for this year in December as I imagined a true green thumb would do. I poured over seed catalogs and planned on how to expand the size of my garden so I could try new things. The UK gardening guide has become my go to garden book. I read a lot about raised bed gardening, and all about the differences in varieties of vegetables. My dad, as always, is a good source of information although he still can't wrap his mind around why I need to have raised garden beds. I am hoping to show him the merits of this method by the end of May when we have fresh spinach, lettuce, radishes, carrots, green peas and turnips. These are vegetables he never had a lot of success with. I have at least doubled the planting ground that my dad was using 2 summers ago in addition to the 3 raised beds that Jason built for me. I also started 3 varieties of tomatoes and my cucumbers indoors. I watch over these tender seedlings as if they were children. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I realize that just like last year, there will be successes and failures. I plan on growing peanuts and popcorn and am not exactly sure if I have all of the information I need to have success. I am also expanding the space which means I may be dealing with ground that isn't as fertile as it will need to be. Knowing how to fertilize and when to do so is still something I am learning through trial and error. Yet, this girl who once got a headache just thinking about garden hoes and dirt couldn't be more excited!!!!</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qGz_wderyXhMyNBrBPxjdMKwotDbx4PU3RaNOrR_Y5JA0GC_YKWluhSGN8YZuvyrSvJ4xtANMsGxPMt1wxiC193ZyRz2qG6tipWq2wDcCHnvIa4YuwRBrybwmY85b79Da-4MbBjPaCzI/s1600/gardening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qGz_wderyXhMyNBrBPxjdMKwotDbx4PU3RaNOrR_Y5JA0GC_YKWluhSGN8YZuvyrSvJ4xtANMsGxPMt1wxiC193ZyRz2qG6tipWq2wDcCHnvIa4YuwRBrybwmY85b79Da-4MbBjPaCzI/s320/gardening.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Some of my "babies"--tomatoes and pickling cucumbers--4 weeks old.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwOiohPg2vffWQu73k_qIsnFjts-CIM_fHxgagmu3cGC2On8niSxL5TpWuUflxB0NwFk_W2xlzGn5hZZJ45hagliHzQensBHC2n4OlzvubcYtqKJrgYjZV1Bl9aQXcKNa_259LSUmHSlS/s1600/gardening2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwOiohPg2vffWQu73k_qIsnFjts-CIM_fHxgagmu3cGC2On8niSxL5TpWuUflxB0NwFk_W2xlzGn5hZZJ45hagliHzQensBHC2n4OlzvubcYtqKJrgYjZV1Bl9aQXcKNa_259LSUmHSlS/s320/gardening2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Cherry tomatoes, 4 weeks old</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75ClbHHxsiijwL0VWmzhyMhE9LSuHCdJxWS_EhsOlDxKOkmgu-hCfLzjuz8FZOPj8DTlhHOj85QoRyPiruMLop13uTTRaOwSJY7S2LbmdeKMqKXQN93LZskEhCk5tJt7utq4Up8D8AuKR/s1600/gardening3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75ClbHHxsiijwL0VWmzhyMhE9LSuHCdJxWS_EhsOlDxKOkmgu-hCfLzjuz8FZOPj8DTlhHOj85QoRyPiruMLop13uTTRaOwSJY7S2LbmdeKMqKXQN93LZskEhCk5tJt7utq4Up8D8AuKR/s320/gardening3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Spinach and carrots sprouts outside in one of my raised beds. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisRc7n2yWML7epgegSb4s3qWHS8UxRtlVqoiRhuXgxcv5pV0HfyYjpg7i_1eSaG4zFUdOhHk-_jKu8CktuiKLtIrtRwM5qkIiu_Y8YUKzVEL0VINtMcoW7vXhh5ftb6sgjLkTBccty6b_/s1600/gardening5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisRc7n2yWML7epgegSb4s3qWHS8UxRtlVqoiRhuXgxcv5pV0HfyYjpg7i_1eSaG4zFUdOhHk-_jKu8CktuiKLtIrtRwM5qkIiu_Y8YUKzVEL0VINtMcoW7vXhh5ftb6sgjLkTBccty6b_/s320/gardening5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Outside, a pea sprout. I planted 50 peas and so far I have 25 sprouts---not too bad...I think?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">*<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Please excuse my sideways pictures. I rotated them, but for some reason when I uploaded them to the blog, they were still sideways. I am technologically challenged sometimes. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-19301116599852586532011-03-25T07:07:00.000-07:002011-03-25T07:07:02.690-07:00Anger<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday was one of "those" days. It started with a phone call from my former sister-in-law. She was letting me know that my brother was up to no good again. This was at 6:45 AM. By 9 I was headed across town with a friend and "bodyguard" in tow to check on the house my brother lives in, but my father owns. I went without Dad's knowledge to check out damage that I had been told about and to see if my brother had abandoned the house. I had grabbed the wrong keys, so I was only able to look in windows and go into the garage. I knew he wasn't there, but it still made me nervous. I am always in this terrible position of being given information and then having to inform my dad. It has been this way for years. When he stole dad's social security number 3 years ago and ran up $17,000 in debt in 3 months, I was the one who had to tell my dad. When he traded the 3rd car my dad had given him in 2 years for drugs, I had to tell my dad. So, needless to say, I spent most of the morning sick to my stomach and angry at myself that after all these years of dealing with a sociopath, it can still have this kind of effect. So yesterday I had to tell Dad that there are several holes in the walls of the house, the carpet has been destroyed by dogs, and the best one.....Eric ran into an interior wall in the garage with his car and has caused structural damage to the house. The wall in the living room is now buckled. Great. Good morning Dad, hope you are enjoying your Cheerios. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We actually haven't heard from my brother in about 7 weeks. Dad says it was Feb. 1st. He knows this because he wrote Eric a check for $50 that day and said it would be the last one. He hasn't said a lot about this lack of contact, in fact I think it has been a break for him. He scares my Dad and he is just starting to open up about those fears. Not seeing him has been a good thing. There are still daily phone calls to my dad's number--debt collectors looking for Eric, but my dad has fallen into a routine of not answering or hanging up on them. If I happen to take the calls, my approach is different. I tell them Eric is a criminal and they need to quit disrupting my 92 year old father's life everyday. I am not nice about it, but by the time I finish they usually agree to take Dad's number off their calling list. This works for all callers except the Sprint collection people. We can't get rid of that call because my brother took the phone out using Dad's social. As far as they are concerned it is Dad's bill. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">So why am I writing and sharing this now? Well, I have always talked too much, but more than that I am angry. I am angry that once again I allowed a day to be lost to <b>his</b> craziness. I am angry that my Dad needs me to help him handle things because he has gotten too old to do it on his own. I am angry that he has hurt so many in his 49 years. I am angry that he took "normal" away from so many and continues to do so. It hurts. It hurts to know the irreparable damage he has done to his children, to 2 wives and their families, my parents, and me. He has robbed us all of those extended family moments--Christmas, Thanksgiving....all of it. He has robbed children of normal childhoods. I hate addicts. That is a strong word, but it is how I feel. I think unless you have lived it as we have, that may seem heartless. I see stories of addiction on TV and sometimes I feel sad for them, but not for long. We all have choices and some of them are very difficult. Addicts take the easy way out and then blame everyone else. In our case, we are dealing with more than just addiction because he is truly a sociopath, but addiction is a big part of the picture. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So today, we will do what most addict's families do. We will tell ourselves this is a new day. We will pretend that everything is normal and take a break from discussing the elephant that is always in the room. There will be jokes, discussions about gardening, and the daily critique of my evening meal. There is a UK game tonight and we never miss those. I also have a friend coming to visit that I haven't seen in a while and I am excited about the visit. </span>This is our normal. For today at least, God will grant us the serenity to accept the things we can't change and change those that we can. Maybe tomorrow we can discuss how to get one step closer to getting the elephant out of the house. </span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-86527563430981237902011-03-04T17:50:00.000-08:002011-03-04T19:25:51.320-08:00Basketball, the Benjamin Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeY_nYrBp_iehNtQw0qeb4nNnT5VeV8AIjUtQ2WYRqIFk-xUa-kQJha75pkTodI2KEpGO9yTdNk4Gngu4J1ED4qduyG_EDi8l2vgoQGdGf84efdY2JFsb_2OoSVpZT38cpj5wcZ-wcbLc/s1600/IMG_3867%255B2%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeY_nYrBp_iehNtQw0qeb4nNnT5VeV8AIjUtQ2WYRqIFk-xUa-kQJha75pkTodI2KEpGO9yTdNk4Gngu4J1ED4qduyG_EDi8l2vgoQGdGf84efdY2JFsb_2OoSVpZT38cpj5wcZ-wcbLc/s320/IMG_3867%255B2%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I was really excited this year when Ben said he wanted to play basketball. I saw this as a great opportunity for him to learn about the game and how to be part of a team. I didn't count on just how entertaining watching 5 and 6 year old kids play basketball would be. Or at least how entertaining my son would be. Honestly it is some of the funniest stuff you will ever see. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">First of all, the coaches are literally on the floor running back and forth with the kids. They really get a workout. They have to run up and down the court with the kids because for the most part the kids don't know what is going on. There is a lot of yelling "Hands in the air" and "Dribble the ball". There are a few stand outs who seem to already have a grasp on how the game is supposed to be played, but for the most part this is just kids having fun. The looks on their faces when they "accidentally" make the basket is priceless, even when the basket made is not on the correct end of the court. There are also those dumbfounded looks when an opposing player steals the ball out of their hands. When there is a "fight" over a ball, it is a true wrestling match and most of the team...well at least those paying attention...are involved in the battle. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Unfortunately for us, Ben is one of those players who starts out paying attention, but then loses it quickly. Tonight he seemed to forget he was there to play at all since he left the floor twice as his teammates ran the opposite direction. The first time, I guess nature called and couldn't wait. He ran off the floor. The coach didn't seem to notice he only had 4 players on the floor. By the time Ben came back, I guess he forgot he was supposed to be playing, because he went and sat down on the bench. I yelled his name until I got his attention and pointed to the game and he ran back onto the floor. He played with his mind on the game for about the next minute or so. Then, I looked up and he and the girl he was supposed to be guarding were at the opposite end of the floor than the rest of the players and seemed to be talking smack to each other. I could tell it was a heated conversation because she had her hands on her hips and her little pigtails were bobbing up and down. By the time they finished, the team was coming back towards them so they decided to play again. That was the first half of the game. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> During halftime, Ben took another bathroom break. This was good, he would be ready to play, I thought. He sat on the bench for the first part of the second half and I was proud that as he sat there, he seemed to actually be watching the game. Then it was his turn to play again. Within about 30 seconds he managed to hit the referee in the face when he tossed him the basketball. The whole crowd made a sound. I just shook my head. The ref recovered quickly and the game resumed. Ben finally did some decent dribbling and had 2 great efforts at shots. Then, when I thought he had finally settled into the game, he left his team on the floor for the second time. He left the floor, walked right over to me, gave me a hug, then went back to playing. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I mean it is hard to turn down a hug from Ben. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Finally, the game was over. I have no idea who won because they don't keep score with this age group. All in all both teams had played a good and very entertaining game. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On our way out, I found out that during his second trip to the bathroom he had decided to check out the girls bathroom, because as we were leaving he told me the girls bathroom had white paint. I decided not to ask if there were any girls in there at the time. I was already mentally exhausted. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">His last game of the season is tomorrow morning and I think I will have Jason take him.....I am not sure I can sit through it again and keep my mouth shut. One thing is for sure though, Ben has enjoyed playing. He is sad that tomorrow will be his last game and I am a little sad too. It will never be as simple and carefree as it is at this age. </span></span><br />
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</div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-48321880857858639282011-02-28T11:13:00.000-08:002011-02-28T18:34:01.268-08:00What was I thinking?<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I would consider myself a fairly good parent. I have been at it for over 21 years, so you would think I had it down pat. Yet, sometimes I get "ideas". Mind you, they seem good at the onset, creative solutions even, but it doesn't take me long to realize they aren't very well thought out. The latest of these ideas came last week.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You see, my kids are driving me crazy. They can completely destroy a room in about five minutes. Like miniature tornadoes. I had begun to feel like all I ever do is bark orders about cleaning up messes. Most of the time it is me who cleans up the messes, but not with a smile on my face. I believe if they see how frustrated it makes me, they will feel bad and help me out. WRONG. I have finally accepted that this will never happen, ever. They do not care. In desperation I came up with what I thought was a solution for Brooke and Anna's room. I would make the room being clean a competition. Whichever one had the cleanest side of the room when I did a random check would get 50 cents. Great idea right? </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The thought behind this idea was that they would see how easy it really is to keep their room clean...that it would become a habit after a while and they wouldn't need the reward. They would magically hang up all of their clothes and stop stuffing everything they didn't want to put away under their beds. They would get a sense of satisfaction from the experience. Plus, competition can be fun and that would be a strong motivator. The biggest part of this farce though was that I thought I would no longer have to say the words "clean your room" or that this type of competition would be a good thing. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Basically all I accomplished with this was to create an additional problem. Oh, it went o.k. for the first 2 days. O.k. for Anna anyway. You see I forgot that Anna is already neat, so this was a breeze for her. Brooke on the other hand is scatterbrained and chaotic by nature and there was no way she would ever win. The room was clean, but that problem had been replaced by a new problem. Brooke was whining and Anna was gloating. Shouldn't I with all of this parenting experience have predicted this? </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I have come to a new conclusion about the whole cleaning their room thing. This is my problem and my problem only. THEY DON'T CARE!</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here is my new idea...I am going to let the mess go. I am going to tackle MY problem and let my children be normal children. It is time to do what I did with Ashley. When she got to a certain age, I just started closing the door. If I didn't have to look at the mess, it didn't bother me as much. My hope is that they will get sick of it and clean it up every once in a while, but I am not holding out a whole lot of hope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After all, this is MY problem. They are not crazy, but it is quite possible I am. I should be glad that my children are comfortable in their own mess and don't mind showing it. I think that cleaning, even as a child, became a way for me to control something about my world. I would close myself in my room and empty every drawer and closet shelf and then organize everything and put it neatly back in place. This would take hours, but it gave me a "high" of sorts even as a child. When all else failed, I would clean and organize something and suddenly feel better. I have done this my whole life. My children don't need the same safety net I needed as a child. They are already feel safe and a clean room is not what has given them that feeling. Brooke and Anna are in the bedroom I grew up in. A room that truthfully held a lot of dark memories for me. I have to shift my focus and be thankful that this room has become a place of happy memories. They laugh, they fight, they share "sister" secrets in that room. Things are just the way they should be even if there are clothes and toys all over the floor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am still taking bets though on just how long I will be able to go without saying "CLEAN YOUR ROOM"! </span><br />
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</div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-8792561157224269432011-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:002011-02-22T14:03:36.457-08:00Three Names<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last night I was watching a new show called "Searching For..." on the OWN network. I love this new network. Most of the shows appeal to me. A lot of real life stories, but positive ones. The show "Searching For...." particularly appeals to me because it is about family members finding lost loved ones, mostly adoptees looking for parents, and birth parents looking for children they had given up to adoption. Their stories are mine. </span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Most people come in to the world and their parents give them a name that they have thought about for months. Many times it has a family connection as my children do. Not the case in my life. I have really had 3 names. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Maybe I should start at the beginning. Laura Anne. I always liked my name it had a pleasant ring to it. I knew quite a few people with the name Lori or Laurie, but no one with the name Laura. Originally I was going to be a Rebecca after my aunt, but they quickly settled on Laura. My parents didn’t have the usual amount of time to come up with a name. The announcement of a daughter to come came in the form of a phone call from the Kentucky Child Welfare Cabinet. They had been on a waiting list for a couple of years to adopt a girl to join their adopted son. The call came at the end of February 1969. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It is really interesting how it works……kind of like giving you a call to let you know that “something” you ordered has finally arrived and you can come and pick it up. So my parents and my brother loaded up in the car and drove to Frankfort the first part of March to check out the merchandise and decide if it met their specifications. I was five weeks old and had been in foster care since my birth. On this day, I was at the office waiting for “inspection”. Parents go in and “check out” the baby----make sure it is cute enough and passes muster. I couldn’t lose, I mean who could possibly turn down a cute bald headed baby girl? My dad told me just a few years ago that he really hadn’t been on board for adopting another child. He was 51 and really felt that he was too old to take it on. I could see where he was coming from. I can't imagine starting with a newborn at that age. He said he thought about his misgivings from the time they got the call until he walked into the room and saw me. He swears that at five weeks I looked at him and smiled and he knew I would be alright……and more importantly so would he. My life as Laura Anne had begun.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I had no idea I was adopted. I always thought I looked like Dad. He was left handed and so was I. If you have ever heard adoptees tell their story, many will tell you they always felt different and that is true. There were subtle hints along the way, but I was too young to pick up on those. I was different than the rest of my family. I was always more outspoken. They were very reserved. Unlike most children, I never heard stories about my birth or me as a newborn. There were no pictures of me early on. But there were no pictures of my brother either, so I guess that didn’t seem strange to me. I can remember as a little girl sneaking into my mom's closet and looking for her maternity to clothes to play dress up in. I did this more than once and never could figure out why there weren’t any. I never asked her about it though……then she would know I was sneaking around in her closet. Life went along and I truly never had a clue. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There are certain memories we all have in life that stand out clear as a bell. As if we are right back in that moment. Vivid. I remember the day I found out I was adopted as one of those moments. I think they are vivid because they are pivotal moments in life. Moments that change you forever even if you don’t realize their impact just yet. I was 13. I was sitting in the passenger seat and mom was driving. She often had to be at basketball games at the school where she taught and I usually went with her. We were coming back from a game and were having a conversation about a boy in our church and I told her that someone had told me he was adopted. I will never know what came over her at that exact moment. Maybe she had been waiting to say those words. Instead of answering my question about the boy, she very quietly said…..”well, you are adopted too.” Believe it or not, that was that. She didn’t say another word about it. I just sat there in silence thinking about what she had said. Her lack of emotion and matter of fact tone didn’t surprise me. She was a no nonsense kind of mom and she also had an impeccable ability to completely ignore difficult emotional things. Now some kids might have burst into tears or expressed any number of emotions, I mean I was a 13 year girl after all. My first thought though…..oh that’s why she didn’t have any maternity clothes. Silence the rest of the way home. A few weeks later, I wrote a poem to my birth mother thanking her for giving me life and letting her know I was ok. I was proud of this poem and it had allowed me to get a lot out. I somehow thought mom and dad would like it too. I was wrong. My mother was angry….really angry. I think she missed the part about thanking her for the life I had. I never spoke with my mother about my adoption again. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As a child I didn’t understand her reaction. As a woman and a mother I understand it better and it has taught me some great life lessons. In her time, my mom was born in 1927, it was expected that women would marry and have children, but not being able to have them wasn’t talked about. My mom couldn’t have children and adopting made that known to everyone. There was also the stigma of illegitimacy. My mother told me when I was pregnant with my oldest and not married that back in her day if a woman had a child not married and she happened to die she was buried in an unmarked grave. In their day, illegitimate children were scarred material somehow. I also realize now that she didn't want me to think about "another mother". I understand her fears but also know these were my mother's problems. Deep seeded beliefs that only in recent years I have I realized had nothing at all to do with me. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Her reaction hurt me though and I think a part of me wanted to get back at her. My mom valued silence. Silence was golden, especially if it was something she wanted to keep secret. So that was in part why I told anyone whom I felt like telling that I was adopted. I was actually proud of this in many ways. It made me unique. This all made my mom really mad…..she asked me several times why I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut! By this age I couldn’t keep it shut because she was telling me too, but also because I needed to talk about it. I had gone from thinking I knew who I was and where I came from to suddenly knowing nothing and all of this during those turbulent teenage years. I suddenly knew that my left handedness had nothing to do with dad and when I looked at family pictures any resemblance was now just coincidence. I had lost my identity and due to other events in my life, I desperately needed it. When you are young the world still seems like a small place. Even in my teenage years I didn’t understand the scope of this so I would search crowds looking for myself. Imagine not knowing who you are. People at the grocery, classmates, people at church…were they related to me? We all need a face to put with our own. How often do we hear you look like your father or you have your mother's mannerisms. I wanted that. </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Wasn’t until after Ashley was born that I felt some relief about my own identity. I was now connected to someone else. This someone looked like me in many ways……a fact that we would hear about for years to come and something I treasure. A gift that I can never be thankful enough for. Ashley's birth really got me to thinking about finding my birth mom. I wasn’t dreaming about magical reunions or craving mother daughter moments. But I needed to know where I came from and I was growing tired of not having a health history to put on medical forms. Those health history questions seem like no big deal for most, but imagine how many times we are asked those questions in our lives. Imagine never having a single answer, then also not having those answers for your own children. This reason alone was enough to push me into searching. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For several years my search got me nowhere. I started with nothing. I had a birth certificate, but I found out it wasn’t the original. Once you are adopted the certificate is amended to show your adopted name and the original is sealed away in a file. A file I could never have access to without my birth mother's permission. How could I get that if I didn’t know her? Then something wonderful happened. I was told that there were indexes at the Fayette County library. These indexes listed birth certificates in alphabetical order by birth mother's last name and went through 1969. They ended in 1969, the year I was born. I was in luck. One problem I didn’t know her last name. What I did have though was just as valuable. The number on my amended birth certificate was the same as the original. That number, like a social security number, never changes. This was going to be quite a task, but I was hopeful. I started with the first index of 1969. Letter A. Each index had probably 500 pages or more and I had to look line by line and match the number. This was going to take a while. I spent about 10 hours over the course of several days then on the 10th day I found what I had been looking for. Volume G. I had to look at the number several times before I was convinced I had the right one. The number matched so I traced my finger along the line. There in front of me was a piece of a puzzle I had dreamed about for years----Anna M. Gordon, my birth mothers name. Wow! Not only did I have her name, but it was similar to my middle name and the same as my youngest daughter. What are the odds of that? The next part of the line…..Amy Jo……my first real name. Hum…Amy Jo. I kind of liked it. Suddenly I felt like an Amy Jo. Forget Laura Anne. I was Amy Jo and I was happy. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Of course my search had only just begun. There was no way I could stop at just a name. I spent the next 8 years on and off searching. I searched death records, marriage records, any records I could find. I even had a subscription to Ancestry.com. I eventually found she had been born in Michigan and that she had a sister named Susan. Then another dead end. I had come this far and felt that hiring someone to complete the search was the only option I had left. I located a reputable searcher whose cost was $750. This was a lot cheaper than most searchers, but I had done most of the work that they would normally do. I sent him an e-mail with the information he requested. I wasn’t sure he would ever respond. Within 3 days he contacted me by phone. He had found her. Anna Mercia Gordon, along with an address and last known phone number. She lived in New Mexico. He also told me my aunt lived in Cincinnati and he gave me her last name. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My hands were shaking and quite honestly I was scared to death. Twenty-five years of knowing I was adopted and I held the possibility of her in my hands. Of course I called right away…..no answer. I did this several times over the next several days, but never got an answer. Maybe the searcher had been wrong. I finally got the idea to search her address and find other addresses and phone numbers in the area. I called one of the neighbors and yes they knew her although they seemed hesitant. I realized they probably thought I was after Anna but maybe not for anything good. I decided the best thing was to let them know who I was. They told me she wasn’t there very often but they would leave a note on her door and talk to her when they saw her. I was back to the waiting game….or so I thought. I had almost forgotten the aunt in Cincinnati. Didn’t take me long to find a number I felt was probably hers. I called and Susan answered. I asked if she was Anna’s sister. She hesitated, and before she could answer I began telling her who I was. She was very nice and said all of my facts added up so she felt I was telling the truth. We talked a long time but she never offered Anna’s phone number. I was so excited I didn’t find that odd. She said since she lived so close she would love to come down and meet me and I agreed. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You can’t imagine how this all felt. If you have ever seen these stories on tv and thought the people were being overly dramatic, I am telling they are not. Years coming together in an instant. The first time in my life I had spoken to someone who shared my blood. Each moment in this journey was getting more and more exciting. I had never in my life been on such an unusual high. I still knew there were rough spots ahead in this journey…scary moments, but I was excited. This was my aunt, who was so welcoming and open, but what if my birth mother didn’t share the same warmth? Over the years I had heard other adoptees talk about how difficult it had been to deal with the rejection involved in being given up at birth. I had never felt that. I knew that if I had the opportunity to find out why, I would understand no matter what the reason. I had been where she had been…young, pregnant and scared to death. Whatever her reasons were, I knew how personal and painful the choice may have been and knew I wouldn’t harbor any resentment. I also knew that she might not want to know me or even admit I had ever existed. Again I had heard those type of stories and how hurt and bitter the adoptees had become at a second rejection. I knew whatever the outcome with my mother, I already had more than I ever had and knew how lucky I was. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So my Aunt Susan came. Honestly, she didn’t look a thing like me. Although she searched my face, I don’t think she saw them in me either. None the less we spent the next several hours talking. I suddenly had tons of medical history. I learned about my grandparents and my mother's childhood. She brought pictures and a huge box of writing my grandmother had done before she died in her early twenties. Not all of the story was warm and fuzzy, but a true family story is rarely free of dark moments. I found out I have 4 brothers and sisters. Yes, you read that correctly …..4 siblings. I have an African American brother, 2 brothers who are Guatemalan, and a sister with Peruvian roots. Imagine this blond haired blue eyed girl as part of that family. I also learned that my youngest sister was younger than Ashley. Crazy and exciting. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> As the visit drew to an end I finally asked Susan if she had a way to contact Anna. I now knew that my mother had lived a rather nomadic life and so I really thought she would tell me she didn’t know how to reach her. Instead she pulled out her phone and said, "Well let's call her right now". Seriously. Right then? Oh my, could this finally be it? I heard Susan say hello to Anna. There was a short conversation about something, I honestly can’t remember, and then Susan told Anna she was sitting there with Amy Jo. Apparently there was silence. Susan repeated Amy Jo. More silence. Then Susan said, I am here with the daughter you had in 1969. Then I could hear her. What I heard was excitement, what I felt was relief. As you can imagine I don’t remember every detail of what was in the conversation that followed, only that I was handed the phone and I heard my mother's voice for the first time. What do you say after 38 years? In our case, you say “How have you been” and you go from there. Pivotal moments…memories frozen in time.</span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So what about that third name? The third name is why she didn't recognize the name Amy Jo. Turns out that back in the days of Catholic homes for unwed mothers, the girls were encouraged strongly not to name the children as if they were their own. It was suggested that she choose the name of a character from a book. She chose Little Women, Amy and Jo…..so I legally became Amy Jo. How strange and how perfect that from those characters she would choose the two that I would turn out to be the most like! When I asked Anna what she would have named me if they had let her she said…….wait for it……..Emerald Sky. My name would have been Emerald Sky. All of those years, in her heart, I had been Emerald Sky. Well, I was born in the sixties after all! God bless her, and mom and dad. At that moment I decided Laura Anne was a perfectly beautiful name. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I have met my mother and have a lot of respect for her. She came and spent the night with us not long after I first talked to her. I see a lot of myself in her and finally understood why I had always felt so different than my own family. Anna is opinionated, strong-willed and passionate in her beliefs. She has lived through a lot of adversity. I could relate to that although I knew by comparison I had been lucky to have the life I had. She had done the right thing for me. Even though distance keeps us from getting together very often, we do talk several times a year and I feel a connection and a bond with Anna that I am so thankful for. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmRYUGr9Hr2GN6qiPnsaGDdpWI8iyuD613kmOIsXk9PjD0mMSb_QioRv4xOKJ1f35bDaKLTTWqLND9wU-OOlHQxY62E-3LXqf1fErxpQn_X1a8upW9ONKzluajJ00mDR5jItzMZWcO85l/s1600/Anna+Mercia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmRYUGr9Hr2GN6qiPnsaGDdpWI8iyuD613kmOIsXk9PjD0mMSb_QioRv4xOKJ1f35bDaKLTTWqLND9wU-OOlHQxY62E-3LXqf1fErxpQn_X1a8upW9ONKzluajJ00mDR5jItzMZWcO85l/s320/Anna+Mercia.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Anna, in her late twenties</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZUVGueFN3WQg9dLRhMVtPH7Vq_iXgrqYlha-Y7nGHNTvFOk00q8c4hk1QfBEUr_qvDATZOrKNve_fTZ7vYlIOG3q5r2PWshtaY-0S8_PC9LnplJlVqLHWib42EyVF1j229r2qLTSCHUH/s1600/Beth+gordon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoZUVGueFN3WQg9dLRhMVtPH7Vq_iXgrqYlha-Y7nGHNTvFOk00q8c4hk1QfBEUr_qvDATZOrKNve_fTZ7vYlIOG3q5r2PWshtaY-0S8_PC9LnplJlVqLHWib42EyVF1j229r2qLTSCHUH/s320/Beth+gordon.jpg" width="185" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> My grandmother Beth, Anna's mother</span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-31870362834049287672011-02-20T06:42:00.000-08:002011-02-20T18:54:59.179-08:00My Chainsaw Nightmare<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We didn't realize until we moved into my parent's </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">house in the fall of 2009 what we were getting into. Not a lot of thought went into going from 1/8 acre to 2. We also didn't realize that many of the trees on the property were in bad shape. Of course my thought was to hire someone but Jason had other ideas. He could do it himself. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have to admit I didn't have a lot of confidence in him. Not because I thought he wasn't capable, it was just that Jason is more of a hang out on the couch kind of man. I knew this fact well because that's where he usually was at our old house when <i>I</i> was out mowing and doing yard work. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Something about this yard must have motivated him though because many times he would come home from work and hop on the mower right away. He said if he was on the mower he didn't have to listen to me. That's fine, and true, but it didn't explain the subscription to TURF Magazine that began showing up in the mailbox. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Our first spring he decided it was time to get serious about the trees. Time to bring out the chainsaw and get down to business. I have to tell you, I hate chainsaws. They terrify me. Being who I am, a chainsaw brings to mind images of Jason laying on the ground minus a leg or arm. When I tried to plead my case, he told me to stay out of it. I decided to change my outlook and try looking on the bright side...when I thought about it, a man wielding a large power tool looked kind of sexy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Maybe I told him he looked good with the chainsaw because it suddenly seemed like he was pulling out the chainsaw more often than needed. Even our neighbors started to notice. I would be sitting on their porch and Crystal would say, "What's that sound? Does Jason have the chainsaw out again?"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The sporadic chainsawing continued through summer and early fall. Little by little there was improvement in the yard. My Dad had moved home and he and Jason decided there was an old apple tree that needed to come down. Just what I needed, another chainsaw happy man in my life. My dad set himself up in a lawn chair near the action. I reminded Jason to be careful because I certainly didn't want my 92 year old father crushed by an apple tree while sitting in his lawn chair. Things went smoothly and by next year we should have some nicely seasoned applewood to burn in the fireplace. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You may be wondering why I called this a nightmare. Well, I learned nothing gives a man with a chainsaw more confidence than successfully taking out a 15 ft. tree. Jason informed me that next he was going to take out the 50 ft. wild cherry tree that sits between our house and the neighbors. Huh? I surely didn't hear him correctly. My pleading about the dangers began again and I felt my case was strong this time since the neighbor's property was involved. Knowing Dad wouldn't be much help, I decided to talk to the Sam and Crystal. Surely Sam could help me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I guess all men think alike because Sam suggested he could help by tying a rope to the tree and pulling it with his truck as Jason was making the necessary cuts. This is not at all what I was hoping for. The only one on my side was Sam's wife Crystal, but we were outnumbered. At this point the only good thing about this situation was that the weather was turning cold and Jason needed a new chainsaw. The tree would have to wait until spring. Maybe Jason would lose motivation and decide bringing in a professional wasn't such a bad idea.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So here we are just a few short weeks from spring. Although I prayed really hard that the winds of recent weeks would take the tree down, naturally not even a twig fell. Talk of the tree has begun again. Jason has a new chainsaw and I have officially given up my fight. In fact Crystal and I will probably sit in lawn chairs next to my dad and watch the show. A pitcher of margaritas with a little extra tequila may be in order and I will have 9-1-1 on speed dial just in case. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTqyhh6qQD0lPfas7Gi6ByGFOKC2E5pidLR-_saTQfZZlhS2FW2XZ0NQz1sbYZB34kqQmaF_slz26KKxBX189L4vDy6vym4mVpD6c9H49x5Gzb4DAFUjrH8dPxQSC9x43ZsJh9UkqwLoD/s1600/IMG_3692%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTqyhh6qQD0lPfas7Gi6ByGFOKC2E5pidLR-_saTQfZZlhS2FW2XZ0NQz1sbYZB34kqQmaF_slz26KKxBX189L4vDy6vym4mVpD6c9H49x5Gzb4DAFUjrH8dPxQSC9x43ZsJh9UkqwLoD/s320/IMG_3692%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You can probably tell that it is the dead looking tree farthest to left. The picture doesn't do it justice. There is a huge branch on the back side that accounts for some of the tallest parts of the tree. That is the part that will probably land in the neighbor's yard. </span></span></div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-35891035365125767912011-02-19T12:19:00.001-08:002011-02-21T09:03:53.178-08:00Righting a wrong......AGAIN<img border="0" height="0" src="http://c.gigcount.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.11NXC/bHQ9MTI5ODE*NjcxODY*OSZwdD*xMjk4MTQ2NzUzMzkwJnA9MjY4NDEmZD*mbj1ibG9nZ2VyJmc9MSZvZj*w.gif" style="height: 0px; visibility: hidden; width: 0px;" width="0" /><br />
<div style="width: 466px;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I should have seen this coming. I was very proud of my slideshow of Ashley because I can be technologically challenged at times. I was excited to show it to the rest of the family. They watched it giggling and reminiscing through it and then they all went on their way. Except for Anna. She sort of lingered. I thought she was just hanging out, but she had something on her mind.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Mom, do you love Ashley more than us?" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"What? Of course not!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Well, how come you made her a slideshow but you didn't make us one?" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Now normally I don't fall for the you didn't do it for me kind of stuff that is fairly normal when you have more than one child. In fact just recently Brooke was dramatically explaining to me how I don't fuss at Anna and Ben as much as her and I actually said, "Well, today I like them more. Maybe tomorrow I will like you the best." She stomped off just as dramatically. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Asking me if I <i>love</i> one more than another though, well, that just got to me. That just isn't possible. So to make sure everyone feels the love I decided to do another slideshow. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That will be it for my slideshow making. This second go around was so frustrating Jason had to make me get up from the computer and go to bed last night around 12:30. When I finished this one Anna actually asked me if I was going to do one for each of them by themselves. I said, "ABSOLUTELY NOT. I love you.....but not that much!" She responded by saying "Yeah, right. You do to." I am glad she knows it now. </span></span><br />
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<object height="375" width="466"> <param name="movie" value="http://cdn.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf"/><param name="FlashVars" value="showCode=Tb7vs8pJ&systemConfigUrl=http://cdn.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.0.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=false&muteOnStart=false&useWidgetMaker=false"/><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"/><param name="quality" value="high"/><embed src="http://cdn.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" FlashVars="showCode=Tb7vs8pJ&systemConfigUrl=http://cdn.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.0.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=false&muteOnStart=false&useWidgetMaker=false" allowfullscreen="true" quality="high" width="466" height="375"></embed> </object></div>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-974942306326312997.post-62753781671938342962011-02-18T12:37:00.000-08:002011-02-18T12:48:10.242-08:00Seriously....I am not impressed<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Today during "My Friday" I got to experience customer service at its best....and at its worst. I'll begin with the best.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I love Toyota on Nicholasville. I pulled up in the service line and a very pleasant young man opened my door for me. "Hello! How may I help you?" I explained my purpose and he pulled some paperwork and pointed me in the direction of my service guy's office. I am already pleased because my paperwork and car tag are ready to go. I opened the door of the office and my service guy, whom I have only met once said, "Hello Mrs. Craven!" "I have your paperwork ready and it will only take a moment to have your loaner car pulled up." Of course they new why I was there since I had already had that discussion early in the week. A discussion in which all of my questions had been skillfully answered, so I stood to the side and let the person behind me approach the desk. This next man asked the service guy some sort of car related question and the guy answered it in full, easy to understand detail along with several questions that followed. In fairly short order my loaner car, a Camry like I suspected, was ready and they helped me move some items from the van to the car, shook my hand and I was off. At that time I wasn't thinking about customer service....that would come later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On to Barnes and Noble with high hopes that my current Nook problems would be solved. I had the utmost confidence that they would be because the guy who sold it to me seemed very knowledgeable and was able to answer my questions. I walk in and there is another lady waiting at the "Nook" desk. She seemed sort of frustrated, but before I had time to think about that a gentleman asked if he could help me. I will call him guy #1. I proceeded to explain my wi-fi connectivity issues. I won't go into it here, but for the past several weeks it just won't connect the way it should. Here is where it goes downhill. Guy #1 didn't even know where to look on the Nook to find the wi-fi button. I showed him, then went on to show him what it does when I try to connect by trying to connect to the Barnes and Noble wi-fi. Thankfully, my Nook cooperated by doing the same thing it had been doing at home. Guy #1 didn't say anything, although he seemed to be trying to think of something to say. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Now as hard as I try to refrain from saying the first thing that pops into my head, that doesn't always work, so I said very softly to him...."You don't know what you are doing do you?" He said "No. I sure don't". In walks guy #2 who I realize right away is there to help the frustrated lady next to me....I notice her now because she quite loudly tells guy #2 that he had better figure out a way to fix this while she is in the store because she had trusted them when she bought it and she wanted it fixed. Turns out she is having a problem downloading books from the B & N site. Guy #2 is shaking....I mean that literally, his hands were shaking. Guy #1 obviously not picking up on the fact that Guy #2 is at his capacity to handle anything, starts telling Guy #2 my problems. Guy #2 looks up at me, then past me with a bit of a relieved look on his face. Turns out Guy #3 is headed our way. Guy #1 by this point is backing away, slowly trying to escape the whole mess. Guy #2 quickly explains both of our problems to Guy #3, lays both Nooks on the counter and walks away. I haven't said another word and the lady next to me is showing great restraint also. Guy #3 doesn't even try to find out more info he just says he will give us both new Nooks. Really? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We both left the store with OUR Nooks and an 800 service number to call. I may end up calling that number, but the first call I make will be to Barnes and Noble customer service. The other lady, well she was already on her phone and judging by some of the words she was using, she was already talking to customer service. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Consumers really don't ask that much if you think about it. We aren't complaining needlessly. I don't know about you, but all I really want is when I spend good money on a product, I want part of the cost to go towards someone being there for me when I have a problem. They should understand the product. I received some of the best customer service possible at Toyota on Nicholasville. Yes, I am a smart enough consumer to know that it is all part of the overall Toyota marketing plan and that I am paying for it, but they don't just have a plan.....they execute the plan. What they do is instill confidence in their product. I would never question buying another Toyota, or having it serviced at that location. The jury is still out on Barnes and Noble. Maybe I should have gotten a Kindle. </span>Scraphappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08901759533433372329noreply@blogger.com3