tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51542183855781055332024-03-13T11:56:07.120-07:00LOVE AND BEDLAMMy life in happy chaos. (More love than bedlam.)karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.comBlogger390125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-24733416373732700962017-11-02T10:15:00.001-07:002017-11-02T10:16:28.155-07:00Halloween 2017It's all for the kids. Yeah, that's it. We're dressing up for them. I take no joy whatsoever at wearing a costume and having a different identity for a few hours. I quietly roll my eyes and sigh, "I guess I'll wear a themed costume that makes our entire family into a fabulous, amazing, matching set of characters from a comic book." Big sigh. <div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9rKmBTs7Oho/WftShw9Yd0I/AAAAAAAAEKw/0mFE2x2Q8tQf9LLC-M2xDeqd5dsullNZQCHMYCw/s640/blogger-image--900865120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9rKmBTs7Oho/WftShw9Yd0I/AAAAAAAAEKw/0mFE2x2Q8tQf9LLC-M2xDeqd5dsullNZQCHMYCw/s640/blogger-image--900865120.jpg"></a> I would also like to take a moment to address our penchant for the dark side. Last year there was a Darth Vader and Darth Maul and witch costume happening. Listen, they are darling angels the other 364 days of the year. They can have a walk with their shadow shelves for a hot minute. If you can't do it on Halloween, then when? We cooked dinner in a pumpkin, went door to door for treats and everyone paid their required mom tax at the end of the night. My little Batman was the star of the night putting treats into the candy bowls of the houes we knocked on. It made my night. 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She was <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2011/09/i-have-breast-cancer.html" target="_blank">diagnosed with cancer</a> almost 5 years ago. Nine months before she was diagnosed, she agreed (reluctantly) to run my 1st ever marathon with me. It was 26.2 miles over mountain terrain. Oof. We were to run 14 miles up the beast of a mountain and then 12 miles down rocky trails. We didn't know it at the time, but our training turned into a metaphor for her upcoming battle against the poison in her body. She used the ridiculous training regime and ridiculous race (FOURTEEN MILES UP A MOUNTAIN PEOPLE, I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE WERE THINKING) as her "I can do hard things" mantra.<br />
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We trained on hills and trails. We finished that race. <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2011/08/wasatch-back-marathon-2011.html" target="_blank">We have the hardware to prove it</a>. When my family moved to the east coast, promises were made to celebrate that year. We wanted to commemorate, remember and keep our friendship alive through our relationship we made with those mountain trails. So we decided we would have a 5 year anniversary hike. Five years after we conquered that mountain, five years after she conquered cancer. </div>
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So on our family trip back to Utah, we made plans, met at the base of Big Cottonwood Canyon and gave each other a massive hug that made the years apart fill in within moments. We hopped in her car and drove to the trailhead together. As we hiked, we caught up. We talked about our kids. Our husbands. Good times. Hard times. We talked about aging parents and growing pains. We talked about what her new normal was after the chemo and years of being on drugs to keep the cancer away. We talked about Jesus and grace and faith and all the lessons that come from having access to these things.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_syKoV6DOo/V7stIv9LizI/AAAAAAAAD8s/6Bqt9u0XxeYXmWIPZQfijU5beZOP5lu8ACLcB/s1600/IMG_0780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_syKoV6DOo/V7stIv9LizI/AAAAAAAAD8s/6Bqt9u0XxeYXmWIPZQfijU5beZOP5lu8ACLcB/s200/IMG_0780.JPG" width="200" /></a>So our hike through the wildflowers with empty ski lifts above our heads became our quiet celebration of hope. We paused at the top to take in the still lake. (Quick pause. Mosquitos were eating us alive.) We spontaneously paused in the middle of the trail on the way down and embraced, overcome with gratitude. We soaked in the view and each other's love. It was a perfect morning to celebrate.</div>
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It also gave me time to think about the grace and faith it takes to face something like cancer. Because Steph is one of those that is a living beacon of what it means to carry hope around. But I know women in my life who have lost loved ones, yet the faith, grace, hope and love is still carried around in them. I've seen it carried around in births of children. Joyful, exciting times where I know the pain of missing their person must have been so palpable it was an emotion that they never knew existed. Such joy with such aching. (I actually can't even imagine, I'm feeling inadequate writing about it.) </div>
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I've seen it in wedding plans being made and missing their person so much, sometimes choosing shoes for a rehearsal dinner turns into welling tears of longing, never mind thinking about the actual ceremony. But still, hope, grace and love are carried around. They are choosing those things in life that matter. That really matter. They are choosing to create those very bonds of love and life and family that was so very painful to lose. Knowing the crater of loss, they still choose to fill it up with love. That's hope. That's grace--knowing that we can't always choose when we get to say goodbye, but we also know we don't have to do it alone and have access to that Divine Love all around us.</div>
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These are the things I thought about as I drove home. We celebrated life. The same way we all do whenever we choose to open our hearts to all the beautiful, painful, and exquisitely wonderful parts of loving and living. </div>
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So cheers to you Stephanie! Cheers to you and cheers to us all who love with our whole hearts, holding nothing back. Life is beautiful.<br />
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-43686797421836246442016-04-19T18:12:00.000-07:002016-04-19T18:13:48.241-07:00Whole Heart Parenting...Kind OfI have been heavily immersed in the <a href="http://brenebrown.com/about/" target="_blank">Brene Brown University</a> lately. She writes about shame, vulnerability, empathy, courage and a bunch of other emotions that are sometimes hard to access or look in the eye. <br />
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She writes about the adults she's interviewed who live in a whole hearted way. Whole hearted people, according to her research are those that choose to live and love with their whole hearts. That sounds nice. I'd like to do that. <br />
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I'd also like to raise little people who do that too. <br />
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Her research has uncovered that adults who don't always live and love with their whole hearts, very often experienced shame as children surrounding their creativity. Song, dance, art. These little kids told in some way whatever they did was bad or embarrassing, or not good enough.<br />
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This anecdote was fresh in my head after an afternoon of my 6 year olds painting rocks. They've reached this age where I can be a quasi-facilitator with some of their activities. Painting rocks. How much supervision do they need? So I flitted in and out of the room while doing domestic mom stuff. <br />
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"Mom! I'm done!" Sunny yelled. They announced their creations were ready for the fairy garden they had been talking about during the paint fest. I walked into the room, ready to praise and adore.<br />
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<i>Ahhh! </i>I screamed in my head. Paint everywhere. <br />
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Drippy, gooey, puddles of paint all over the table. Paint so thick the newspaper isn't even necessary. It's soaked through. <i>Don't shame, don't yell, don't belittle. They're being creative. </i>I repeated in my head, eyes wide.<br />
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"That's niiiiice honey." I managed through a forced smile. "Umm, maybe next time you can use a little more newspaper," as a I pointed to the puddle of paint nearly dripping to the floor.<br />
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"Oh. Right. Sorry mom." She laughed it off and busily started explaining her color choices. I praised and admired and oohed and ahhed at all of their rock creations.<br />
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The paint came off the table. It took a little extra elbow grease, but it did come off. Before you pat me on the back and say, <i>"Huzzah good woman! You did it! One set of whole hearted children coming right up!" </i> Because the paint was brought out again 24 hours later without my consent and definitely without newspaper. (Face palm.) I didn't yell. But I didn't praise and adore. I handed them wet rags and stomped out of the room.<br />
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So it's a process. So what?<br />
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I'm a process. But I am grateful (another super important attribute/quality/emotion/state of being Dr. Brown says is necessary for living with your whole heart). Because that painted rock, which was actually a really cool looking, was gathered on this beach. With this crew. On this sunny day.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UUa-bVw0NPs/VxbWR5CgjiI/AAAAAAAAD5s/W2wPq_QwqTU8XcIUnHfS7SJmaE6fpyLrwCK4B/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UUa-bVw0NPs/VxbWR5CgjiI/AAAAAAAAD5s/W2wPq_QwqTU8XcIUnHfS7SJmaE6fpyLrwCK4B/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a>karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-26110147784463766192015-05-11T18:06:00.000-07:002015-05-11T18:50:17.492-07:00Spencer Walked While I Ate GuacSpencer took his first steps the other day. We've been waiting for this a long time. He'll be turning three years old in 2 1/2 months. He has a hearty appetite and although his motor skills are behind, his growth isn't. So not only have I been wanting him to learn to walk so he could have the freedom to roam and have a whole new world open up at 3 feet tall, he is just plain heavy! So getting his little legs going has been on our list of "Goals for Spencer" for a really long time.<br>
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So he walked! He took about 4 steps on his own, then plunked down and crawled the rest of the way to the gate he was headed for. Doors, hinges, anything that swings open, he is obsessed with. And that day in the park, when he took his first steps, he was headed for that gate. </div>
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When I saw it, I was so proud I could burst. I clapped my hands over my mouth and my eyes got teary. I was emotional with pride and excitement. The milestones Spencer reaches have a little bit more gravitas than a typical child. The first time he fed himself, the first time he said "mama," all these little things have the added weight of doing them nearly 18 months after his peers, so it's just extra special. </div>
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I was also emotional because I was watching it through my phone. My babysitter sent me the two second clip of his first steps. I wasn't there. I wasn't there to scoop him up and shower him with congratulatory kisses. I wasn't there to clap with him or tell him what a big boy he was. I was in the parking lot of Chipotle. </div>
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A lot of thoughts remained in my head for a few moments. They mingled together. Stewed and sat as I took a moment to process this weird feeling of elation over his accomplishments and guilt for not being there. I mean, I've never regretted the non-GMO guac and extra carnitas with a splash of chipotle tabasco, but HIS FIRST STEPS. And I missed it. It should've been me in the park that afternoon.</div>
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But here's what my thought stew turned into:</div>
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1)</b> <b>I am one woman</b>. </div><div> I simply can't be everything to everyone in my family. I already knew this. I just had to remind myself of this supernal truth that has saved me these years of being mom to triplets and a special needs little boy. If I was everywhere, all the time, at all the important moments and milestones and never missed ONE THING...I'd be a wreck. This is my truth. I can't speak for all moms, but this is me. I need that alone time where I can eat one meal a week without little people climbing in my lap or needing to shovel food in as fast as possible because x,y and z is waiting to be cleaned, folded, put away, swept up, wiped down, packed, whatever. I need that time to just be. And that's what I was doing that day. I was taking time to order extra guacamole, get some pants hemmed I bought for my birthday last month and listen to an audio book between errands. I don't regret any of those things I chose to do for myself. (I'll never regret guac.)</div>
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2)</b> <b>Spencer needs other people to grow. </b> </div><div>Spencer and I have a unique bond. I am his world. If I am in the room, he becomes my magnet. He doesn't sit with me the same way he does with his dad. If Chris is holding him, or laying in bed with him, he will perch comfortably in his arms and appear content. If I am next to him, he nuzzles his tiny face into mine however he can. He presses so hard into my cheeks. He doesn't want to lay next to me, he wants to unzip my skin and crawl inside me. It's like he can't get close enough. When we first started therapy, (like physical and occupational--but I'm sure we'll both need the emotional kind someday, you know for the guac guilt and face smashing) it became pretty clear that he would do more with his therapists if I left the room. I was some kind of emotional crutch for pushing past those barriers of discomfort. So when therapy is in session, I step away. I pop in every now and then if I can hear that he needs some motivation to keep moving down the hallway or is getting extra grumpy with his honey sweet therapists. I remembered this in the parking lot, as I quietly wiped a tear from my cheek. Spencer will always need other people in his life to grow. As much as we both want it to be a two man show between the two of us, I have to step away. This is our truth. I can't speak for all mothers with special needs children, but this is us.</div>
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So Spencer walked the other day while I was eating a carnitas salad. He hasn't had a repeat performance, even with me trying to recreate the exact same scenario. But I have watched that clip about 80 times, with 10 of those being with him. We sat and watched his wobbly steps, one, two, three, four, plunk. He smiled and I clapped for him, gave him a kiss and told him what a big boy he was. <br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CKKY06Ealdc/VVFcV_wB3SI/AAAAAAAADwA/OwXTlJTdkFc/s640/blogger-image--1129707907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CKKY06Ealdc/VVFcV_wB3SI/AAAAAAAADwA/OwXTlJTdkFc/s640/blogger-image--1129707907.jpg"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CKKY06Ealdc/VVFcV_wB3SI/AAAAAAAADwA/OwXTlJTdkFc/s640/blogger-image--1129707907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gbeoghJV65A/VVFcTzeqdXI/AAAAAAAADv4/WWj8IAG61X4/s640/blogger-image-348985796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gbeoghJV65A/VVFcTzeqdXI/AAAAAAAADv4/WWj8IAG61X4/s640/blogger-image-348985796.jpg"></a></div></div><br></div>
karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-20323990654088035432015-01-01T18:19:00.000-08:002015-01-01T18:19:39.940-08:00That One Time We Were On Food Stamps<b><i>Recently, I met the director of the food pantry here in Gloucester. One thing led to another, and I wrote a true story they used in their most recent newsletter. It's a little crazy to reflect on what we had then and what we have now. I hope with all my heart that I was just as grateful for my life then as I am now. Because I've always had so much, just in different ways.</i></b><div>
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<b><i>Anyway, here is my true story about that one time we were on food stamps...</i></b></div>
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We have enough. My husband has a great job. He can advance and grow; the well is deep with possibility. We feel fortunate. So feeding our family is something that is just part of the muscle memory of our family life. We never have to think about it too hard. We just do it.<br />
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Four years ago, my husband Chris was swept up in the excitement of a start-up company. The company had a wide market in a nation of golfers and some fantastic software. The vision of what this company was going to do was grand. We are grand thinking, optimistic people, so we took the plunge. Sure it would be tight for a little while, but the business model seemed solid and it really was a great product.</div>
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But weeks of fledgling start-up pay turned into months, and we suddenly found ourselves with four maxed out credit cards and bills piling up and overdue. It’s amazing how quickly it happened. The frustrating part was Chris was working. So. Hard. He was putting in hours of time and making the sales, but the company was a baby and had severe growing pains about how to adequately pay the people contributing.</div>
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One Monday morning, after a text from Chris to “not use the card until Friday,” I had had enough. I was pregnant and had three toddlers at my feet and our fridge and cupboards were nearly empty. I had done some miraculous things as a mother, but I couldn’t make the food we had last until Friday. I made the decision to go after resources I knew were available. I called him and told him I was going to apply for food stamps. He was not happy at first, but in that moment, with our cupboards nearly empty and half a gallon of milk, he reluctantly agreed.</div>
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<strong>"I had done some miraculous things as a mother, but I couldn’t make the food we had last until Friday."</strong></blockquote>
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I also lived in a community where being on “food stamps” was sometimes synonymous with being a “freeloader” or “lazy” person. My Facebook newsfeed had angry posts once in a while of someone who had been behind someone in line paying for their potato chips and cookies with food stamps. The messages were clear: “If you’re going to be eating food with MY tax money, you should be buying carrots and broccoli.” Or, “Quit being so lazy.” And, “Why don’t you just get a job?”</div>
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The disgust came through my screen and the fact that I had applied, been approved and would be on food stamps for an entire year was something I never thought I would ever talk about. Ever.</div>
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But today being removed from a situation gives you a lot of clarity and time to reflect. I’m grateful we were in that place as a family. I’m thankful I’ve been at that door of desperation so I recognize it in others when I see it. Not to pity, not to condescend, but to share hope and empathy.</div>
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<strong>"I’m thankful I’ve been at that door of desperation so I recognize it in others when I see it."</strong></blockquote>
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I’ll never assume someone on food stamps is just too lazy to look for work. I’ll never be annoyed if I see someone buying chips with an EBT card. I’ll never throw those stones. I know the kind of day someone might have dealing with the stresses of not having enough to make the rent, pay the electric bill and care for their children, all the while keeping a smile on their face. Hiding the pain so no one knows. Low income hurts.</div>
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Because what people don’t talk about is how using food stamps for food helped stretch the rest of our budget to pay our heating bill, our water bill, the car payment, the rent, our phone bill, put gas in the car, buy diapers. It wasn’t just food, it was life.</div>
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And did we need an entire year? Yes. Because you are suddenly in this hole and it takes a while to get out. He switched jobs of course, found something that matched our needs, something more stable. But the credit card debt didn’t go away overnight. Overdue bills take months to get caught up when you’re paying the current month plus more. There is always “plus” when coming out of that low income hole.</div>
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So nearly four years removed, I’m just grateful. I never would’ve predicted needing a “handout.” We never fit that mold. Which is why I’m grateful. Because now I know there is no mold. According to Feeding America, 1 in 6 people in the U.S. faces hunger. Your neighbor, sister, daughter, or friend could be on food stamps right now, hoping no one knows, to avoid the shame broadcast in political rants and half-thought out Facebook posts or rolled eyes of someone behind them in the grocery store line. They could just be grateful to be able to feed their kids AND pay the bills. Years later, when their basket is bounteous, they’ll remember the lean years and share what they have, they’ll probably give of their excess with an open heart. And someday they may even speak up about what it meant to have help in the desperate times--the kind of help that also brought hope of better days.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.3999996185303px;">Today, Kara lives in Gloucester with her husband Chris, and their four children. Kara volunteers at The Open Door as a SNAP Advocate.</span></div>
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-76497472522929706102014-12-02T06:19:00.000-08:002014-12-02T06:19:59.094-08:00He Is Just SpencerDoes anyone else get antsy about the end of the year? Like the end of the year is also going to be the end of the world? Every year? Just me? Okay. <br />
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I just put two years of my blog into book form. This is of course, because the world is ending soon, and when the world ends, there is no internet. I've got to keep my words alive for my posterity to read as they walk around the apocalyptic wasteland that will be. <br />
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I also made some Instagram books. Same reason. World ending, gotta have those square prints in tangible form.<br />
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Making part of my blog into a book has caused me to read parts of my blog. And think about parts of my blog. And wonder why it is I've stopped blogging. And if I were being perfectly honest (brutal honesty is what you need when dealing with end of the world scenarios) I would have to say it's because of Spencer. <br />
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Spencer has been my enigma. He was and IS this happy, beautiful, perfect little baby boy in our family. He has been a joyous and beautiful blessing to us for 2 1/2 years, since day one. But Spencer isn't that toddling little one you might think of when you think of a two year old. He doesn't walk. He doesn't talk. He is far behind his peers. He crawls and babbles and is so, so, so (I could add a LOT of so's here) happy. <br />
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I knew he was behind when he was 6 months and I kept wanting to talk about it. I wanted to write about it. But I didn't want to label him. I didn't want people reading my blog (people that know me) or family and friends to see Spencer and just think: behind. I wanted Spencer to be Spencer and I wanted the joy and happiness that he carries with him at all times to be what people see. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HPwLdEKnJ64/VH1fCzJLJVI/AAAAAAAADq4/pac4NubCyJU/s1600/IMG_3972.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HPwLdEKnJ64/VH1fCzJLJVI/AAAAAAAADq4/pac4NubCyJU/s1600/IMG_3972.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>I've had this blog about milestones my preemie triplets have made. I've blogged about when they started crawling, and eating solid foods and with Spencer, there were no updates or progress reports for a long time. I wasn't sure how to introduce him in the story arc of our family. I didn't want to make excuses or try and give reasons WHY he wasn't rolling over, or crawling or grabbing toys with his hands. Isn't that silly? Why do I need to preface who he is? He is JUST Spencer! <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H_8R4Hcz5lQ/VH1fDl6YfLI/AAAAAAAADrA/3nq4M66UCts/s1600/IMG_3510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H_8R4Hcz5lQ/VH1fDl6YfLI/AAAAAAAADrA/3nq4M66UCts/s1600/IMG_3510.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>A lot of family and friends ask about Spencer's diagnosis. This is totally natural, and I might do the same thing in their shoes. The truth is, Spencer doesn't have a diagnosis yet. It's not because doctors can't figure it out and we've been searching and searching for 2 years. It's because just last month is when I had a simple blood test done to test his genes to look for abnormalities. I didn't have to wait. I chose to. I've never had a urgent need to "find out what's wrong with him." Spencer is happy. He is loved by his brothers and sister. He is his dad's buddy and his mom is his world, not unlike any other 2 year old. He hasn't regressed since he's been born. Only progressed. Slowly. Painfully slow. But he is happy and he is healthy and that is all I care about. I think Spencer has taught me about patience even more than his older siblings have. (I KNOW! THAT'S A LOT OF PATIENCE FOR ONE WOMAN TO LEARN.) I've had to really trust myself as his mom to follow this course we've been on. I've had to follow that quiet whispering that <i>it will all be ok. Don't panic. He is JUST Spencer. </i><br />
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So I don't panic. I trust and I wait. I set aside the outside voices of "what's wrong with him?" The ones I've been hearing for nearly 2 years.<br />
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I will continue to trudge through the system of specialists and doctors because it's what's best for him. We will eventually solve the puzzle of why Spencer has global delays. I'll go to the genetic specialist and the ENT specialist and the orthotic specialist, and urology specialist and neurology specialist and we will continue to have physical, speech and occupational therapy for him every week. But I am going to stop with the pause button on the story of our family. Because Spencer is our happiest hero. He saves me everyday and came to us with the most beautiful plot line. <br />
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It's time I shared it. <br />
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-62644294027285354952014-02-26T17:04:00.001-08:002014-02-26T17:04:14.312-08:00In LoveThe heart is a funny thing. It yearns, and swells and breaks and opens.<br />
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I fell in love a few months ago. I fell hard. It wasn't like the last time. Last time it was that slow, approachable, don't know what you got until it's gone type of love. But this last time. BAM. Right in my gut and it hasn't let up since. <br />
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We moved into this rental house that is near the Annisquam River in Massachusetts. One recent Saturday morning, I happened to hear a radio story that <a href="https://www3.nd.edu/~dhoward1/Physics%20as%20Theodicy.pdf" target="_blank">mentioned a millionaire</a>, who before he became one, had a sister that drown in the river near the turn of the century and once he made his millions, he dedicated most of his time and resources to creating an anti-gravity device, because he was convinced that is why she drown. Because of gravity. <br />
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I remember looking out my window that Saturday morning, watching the ice caps flow with the current tide. I watched the river for a few moments and thought about that man over a hundred years ago. I smirked. Not at his heartache or loss. I can't imagine. But because my bones tingled a little. I felt like gravity--a force of nature--is the exact thing that brought me to this town. My new love.<br />
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I married an adventurer. I've already acquiesced to the fact that we will always be that family making plans, trying new things and "settling down" may be a relative term I will have make up my own definition to. It's taken me a while to say this comfortably and without exasperation and hands tossed in the air like a frustrated shop keeper looking for a lost key. This is my lot. This is our lot. And it's a good one.<br />
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We have somehow ended up in this old fishing town north of Boston, Gloucester, Massachusetts. <i>(2 things. #1: it pronounced glos-ter if you're not from here, glos-tah if you're a native. #2: I'm still working on trying to spell Massachusetts without using spell check. Don't tell my 4th grade teacher...or my mom. Hi mom!)</i><br />
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Cheap winter rent and the lure of the ocean is how we found it. It wasn't on our radar when making plans for our trek east. I trusted Chris when he picked a spot to bring the rest of our brood on one of his solo trips here. We arrive, unpack a few suitcases, try to get as settled as you can when you've just sold 75% of your belongings and are sleeping in something of a summer vacation rental. In the winter.<br />
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Our first Sunday here, we took a drive. "You have to see the coast line," he tells me. With everyone piled in the van, we wander past shops and old homes. We talk about the fishing history, the <a href="http://www.gloucestertimes.com/andreagail#The Storm" target="_blank">Perfect Storm history</a>, the <a href="http://wikitravel.org/en/Gloucester_(Massachusetts)" target="_blank">oldest seaport in North America</a> history. It's a cool place to be if you like history.<br />
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Then we come around this bend. And my heart stopped. badaBeat, badaBeat, badaBeat, badaBOOM. And without warning, tears flowed quietly and quickly down my cheeks. Everything clicked. Everything was clear. If anyone tells you they don't believe in love striking unexpectedly, you can tell them this story. Because I fell in love with this old, cranky town On. The. Spot. I don't know what biological thing occurred or neurons fired or strange pheromones of the ocean air got a hold of me. But I'm telling you I love this place. Love. It's old. Real old. Like 1623 and 1973 mixed up old. The roads are terrible. There are abandoned fisheries right in middle of town, which is also in the middle of the beach. Nearly every grocery store employee I've met here either hates me, or their job, I can't decide which. The local movie theatre is, umm, <strike>dilapidated, run down</strike> quaint? It's been winter ever since we got here. Not just winter. But the town has run out of funds to plow the roads and keep them salted kind of winter. Like, it feels 10 degrees below zero because the wind won't stop blowing winter. But I don't care. Because I am in love.<br />
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I still laugh a little when I think that <i>perfect</i> San Diego was also in the running for this new job. Did I mention that? San Diego! Summer year round San Diego! Poppin sunsets like candy San Diego! Temps below 60 degrees require sweaters and hot chocolate San Diego! We could have picked <i>let's go the beach in swimsuits and swim in the water while the turkey cooks during Thanksgiving</i> San Diego! But the western current wasn't meant for us. We were lured, pulled, beckoned to this cold, easterly, storm ridden peak of the state. <br />
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And after two days of living in it, I found love. So this is where we stay. <br />
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Until the next, continental shift.<br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-65710214870923817242014-01-09T18:16:00.001-08:002014-01-09T18:16:51.942-08:00The Fox StoryMaybe it's that awful song that accidentally got popular, because, well, internet. But I keep thinking of this fox I saw on one of the last days we were in Utah. <br />
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In my old neighborhood, I had this gully right by my house that I would run through a lot. It was a park that had a playground and grass on one end, but the entire rest of it, close to 10 acres was natural trees and a lovely path and it was very out of place in the middle of this suburban jungle, so I loved it. <br />
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Our first week in that Cottonwood Heights neighborhood is when I found the park. It was early in the morning as I came around a corner and there on the trail was this beautiful fox. Big red tail, pointy, sharp ears and it stopped when it heard me and looked my way. I stopped too and for a brief moment, we locked gazes, both caught a little off guard. Then it turned and ran towards the brush. I saw this little fox 5 or 6 times during that first summer there. It was always around that same spot. <br />
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It became a habit to slow down and walk when I reached a certain point so I wasn't so noisy coming around that area. I wanted to see her again, especially if it was that same early hour. Catch her off guard again. But as it got colder, I saw her less and less. In springtime, I was quite pregnant with baby #4 and I didn't make it down to the ravine <strike>ever</strike> as often as I wanted. In summer, I HAD baby #4, so it wasn't until October that I came back to running and back to my park. <br />
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Of course I still slowed down in that spot and still hoped I would see the fox, but I never did the rest of the year. It was another spring, and still no sightings. Summer passed with beautiful, already hot at 7 am mornings, and still I never saw my fox. Then fall, with the news that we were moving. I went for a handful of runs that last week in our neighborhood. The mountains were more glorious than ever. I stopped more often and snapped pictures with my phone, happy that I never really took for granted the spectacular view of those grand watch guards of our little valley.<br />
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One morning, I was making my way down into the park, my mind on this landscape and community that I loved so much, leaving connections I had made, friends I loved seeing, family I relied on, family I needed, family I loved so much--getting choked up about leaving it all. Having to start over. These thoughts were on my mind that morning. <br />
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Then, I looked up and saw her. Standing a little bit off the trail, a few yards in front of me was my fox. Beautiful, full tail, propped ears, alert at my presence. I stopped dead. My heart skipped a little and then she was gone. I ran ahead, and looked where she had darted into the bushes. I saw her again. She was running parallel to the path I was on. I kept stopping because so did she. She was hidden by trees and bushes sometimes, but then I saw that big tail moments later. I had a thought to pull out my phone and snap a picture, but it seemed inappropriate somehow. In this age of Instagram and status updates, I felt it would be a betrayal if I shared this rare moment with everyone else in my feed. So I was quiet. We "ran together" for about 25 yards and then she was gone. I craned my neck in the direction I saw her go, trying to get one last glimpse. <br />
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That little fox was my message that day. It's like she showed up to say goodbye. To tell me to really let go of all the apprehensions I had about making this cross country move. It was going to be ok. <br />
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Trust me, she said through the trees. Trust God. He knows. <br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-60022655068888352112013-12-08T21:32:00.000-08:002014-01-09T18:17:31.177-08:00Saying Goodbye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">With this big move, this 2300 mile journey our family is about to embrace, there has been a lot on my mind. Of course there is the logistics of getting a family of six across the country and keeping your sanity, marriage and bank account intact. There's that. </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">But there is also the goodbyes and chapter endings. </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">There is leaving this beautiful state that I love so much. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Leaving these beautiful people, that I love so much.</span></span></div>
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For the last few years we've lived at the base of these grand, mountains. The Wasatch Front stood outside our front window, ever greeting us good morning and showing us the moods of the seasons. A happy, green summer, a hopeful spotted spring, a warm, colorful autumn, ushering in a mostly abrupt and unforgiving white winter. That cold, lovely snow. </div>
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Whatever the season, they were always there. Unchanging and solid. I've grown to love and respect these massive footstools of God. I've hiked and ran among wild flowers and witnessed views that have literally (although terribly cliche) taken my breath away. I've smelled cool earth as I've approached a mountain stream along a trail. I've watched the peaks from my warm house as a storm rolls in over the range. I've watched with dread, on scorching summer days, mountain sides on fire as a community prays over people and property in harms way. I've lived in these grand hills. I've lived at 6000 feet, where snow in May and October are totally normal and expected and the winters are brutal and unrelenting. Snow and cold and frozen everything. You curse the mountains and wonder why you made your home there. Then, at 6000 feet, there is six weeks of perfect. At 6000 feet, for six weeks in summer, there is a palpable perfection to this glorious and magnificent country. The sun sets and it keeps you outside, on your porch, as the night becomes deeper. You gaze up at the stars and there is a quiet stillness of only crickets singing about the night. It's kind of magic.</div>
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These mountains are what I'm saying goodbye to. Their constant, steady presence in my life. I was born in their shadows and raised in their heights. These mountains, always around. Something I could look out my window and always see, be a part of, curse or bless, depending on the season. They're always there. My constant. I always know which direction I'm heading, the familiar peaks my compass.</div>
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But, change friend. Change is the only thing that's constant and it's time to leave my beloved mountains. Of course I'll always have them in my heart.<br />
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Just like the faces of friends and family that have also been my constant, my compass, my blessings (or curse, depending on the season) and steady, presence in my life in such an up close and personal way. <br />
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While I'm grateful for the Internet and Steve Jobs who gave us magnificent devices to keep us updated and in touch, this is the end of a magnificent era for my family and life. The chapter ends, but you'll want to keep turning the page. We are set up for more adventures and more living and more blessings of a beautiful life, just like we've enjoyed here. <br />
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My soul is bursting but my mind is kind of empty with the words needed to convey how happy and heavy my Utah girl heart is about saying goodbye. To my people and my mountains. All I can say is thank you. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the love. Thank you for the influence and constancy. Thank you for giving me a rich and meaningful experience here in my mountain home. <br />
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While I look forward to our next chapter with hope, adventure, and excitement, a piece of me will stay behind. No matter where our journey takes us, you'll always be home. <br />
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Now send a prayer our way. We're about to take three 3 year olds and a baby to the edge of the Atlantic. In roughly 4 days. Wish us luck! <br />
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</span>karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-66275732797015225122013-10-25T22:06:00.002-07:002013-10-25T23:19:54.353-07:00I Am...The other day I was in the park with my four kids. The air was crisp and all October. We found a spot in the sun to lay our blanket down and the leaves made a satisfying crunch as I spread out the blanket on the grass and began to pass out lunch. The kids happily munched on apple slices and took bites from their peanut butter sandwiches. We had the park to ourselves so I let them fully feel that freedom of space, like clumsy hummingbirds, flitting and tripping back and forth between our picnic and a small pile of leaves they tried to satisfactorily jump into. Then back to their sandwich, then to the swings a few yards away. My baby grunted and talked in his monosyllabic way, letting me know he was happy as I helped him eat, propped up in his stroller. His eyes wandered upward when the wind gently picked up, trying to figure out what was making the whooshing noise. A few more leaves fell on our picnic.<br />
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And my heart swelled.<br />
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Not everyday with my four kids are perfect fall days with crunchy leaves under a picnic blanket, but that day was marvelous and I was reminded how much I love my job. My job as mom. I treasure being able to stay<br />
home all day with this rag tag crew of crazies. I love them more than there are enough words in the lexicon of language to describe. I feel grateful I am where I want to be. Grateful that our family has that freedom to choose right now. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YAdJoHRwv9I/UmYjeXXCruI/AAAAAAAACUc/zAi9CczoZuw/s1600/IMG_8514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YAdJoHRwv9I/UmYjeXXCruI/AAAAAAAACUc/zAi9CczoZuw/s320/IMG_8514.jpg" width="240" /></a>I proudly stay at home and do dishes, fold laundry, wipes noises and bums, celebrate potty training, play with plastic horses and plastic food, plan meals, sing lullabies, read stories, give hugs, kiss owies, sometimes get a shower for the day, wave at the mailman, go to play dates, wear an apron on occasion, read stories, go to the library, sometimes sneak a nap when they are, wash the floor, scrub toilets, cook dinner, bake muffins, sweep sand out of my kitchen, pour milk in sippy cups, cut up waffles, help with puzzles, dry tears, lose my patience, keep my patience (and sneak a cookie), make up songs, turn on shows, put on socks and shoes, look for pacifiers, wonder if I'm measuring up to what's expected of me and many, many other domestic duties make up my day. I am a domestic housewife. I'm a stay at home mom. I'm also a feminist.<br />
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I haven't always been comfortable with this label. This word feminism has a lot of nasty press. People tend to think of a woman burning her bra while screaming from the rooftops how angry she is at every man she's ever known because they've always tried to hold her back, hold her down, and she's not going to take it anymore! But feminism means to advocate for women's rights. It means you care if women <i>have</i> rights politically, socially and economically. And the more I realize my own true north, and what's in my heart, the more I embrace this word and title of feminist, for myself.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LdF-FzoF4P8/UmYlkmS2gdI/AAAAAAAACUo/4nvr5GS5i-k/s1600/IMG_8548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LdF-FzoF4P8/UmYlkmS2gdI/AAAAAAAACUo/4nvr5GS5i-k/s200/IMG_8548.jpg" width="150" /></a>Feminism is the reason women can vote. Feminism is the reason a woman can have a baby and not get fired. It's the reason she can give birth, heal and rest, and still have a job when she gets back. Feminism is the reason your daughter can aspire to be an astronaut, a scientist, the president instead of only wondering if she'll be a secretary or a nurse. (Both great professions, except 50 years ago, those were pretty much the only choices for "career women.") Feminism is how <a href="http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/title-ix-enacted" target="_blank">your daughter (or you) can play sports in high school and college</a>. (It's easy to forget this was actually a right that was fought for and made into law back in 1972.) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOGXvBAmTsY" target="_blank">Feminism is the reason women can run in the Boston Marathon</a>. Feminism is Eleanor Roosevelt and Mia Hamm. Feminism is <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/world/2013/10/10/malala-jon-stewart-daily-show/2959599/" target="_blank">Malala Yousafzai</a>.<br />
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I'm shyly coming out of my feminist closet. We women are powerful creatures. Our inherent characteristics that God has given us have the ability to change the world for the better. The world. Given the chance to lead in the political, social and economic realm, we could heal nations, communities and families. I believe this with the inside of my bones. We need a seat at that proverbial table. Feminism can do good things.<br />
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However, I'm deeply embedded in a culture that sometimes (naively) condemns feminism and accuses feminists of destroying family ideals and values and blurring gender characteristics. But I'm here to say I am a feminist who loves her role as wife and mother, which is exactly why I am a feminist. My job as stay at home mom means I am shaping future generations. The love I show, the time I invest, the lessons I teach and learn along the way will echo through generations of my descendants. I have an immensely important job to do and I want every opportunity and tool available to do it. <br />
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Recently, there were some extremely harsh and derogatory comments directed at feminists in my religion in regards to petitioning the brethren of our church to ask God if women can be ordained to the priesthood. These women stood outside a priesthood meeting meant only for the males of our church and asked to be let in. They wanted inclusion in regards to ordination and most had their own reason why they were there. There are <a href="http://ordainwomen.org/full-list-of-profiles/" target="_blank">many different personalities and entreaties within this movement</a>. (<i>If you're outside of the Mormon culture, this was kind of a big deal, read more about it <a href="http://www.sltrib.com/sltrib/news/56963037-78/women-mormon-church-priesthood.html.csp" target="_blank">here</a>, or <a href="http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2013/10/9/mormon-women-marchforentryintopriesthood.html" target="_blank">here</a>, or <a href="http://www.religiondispatches.org/dispatches/joannabrooks/7324/why_the_women_s_ordination_question_will_shape_the_future_of_mormonism/" target="_blank">here</a>.</i>) I wasn't in line with those women that day. I'm actually not sure where I stand on the issue of women's ordination. That's an honest answer. I'm still in the process of praying about it and asking God questions. But I do know a few things for certain:<br />
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1) God loves it when you come to Him with questions.<br />
2) Jesus said to love our neighbor.<br />
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My heart ached when I witnessed the raw, vitriol response to my fellow sisters (i.e. my neighbors) asking God a question. (Question: can women be ordained to the priesthood?) I saw a few Facebook comments and comments on blog posts about this issue, whose authors were mormon (so therefore disciples of Christ) calling "these Mormon feminists" apostates, asking them to leave the church and go form their own, questioning their faith in God, their testimonies, their understanding of sacred rites performed in our holy temples calling them crazy and idiotic and sometimes even accusations of blasphemy for even bringing up the subject of women in relation to the priesthood. And I shrunk back in my feminist closet and turned out the light. (I think the internet gives people an ugly mask they normally wouldn't wear and words they normally wouldn't use if they were sitting on your living room couch.) <br />
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I have some sincere questions about the role of the priesthood in regards to womanhood. Even before this event. Questions that I've still yet to gain a satisfactory answer. Maybe I'll search until the day I'm able to ask the Savior myself. I'm not angry about it and it's never damaged my testimony of Christ or caused me to question my membership in His church. I've grown accustomed to God planting peace in my heart if I don't get an answer right away. I can handle that. It's the venom and vile I can't. Especially from those that claim to be followers of the Savior. <br />
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The irony of it all (to me) is that our church was founded on questions and answers. <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/pgp/js-h/1?lang=eng" target="_blank">A 14 year old boy had a question and he took it to God</a>. He read from the bible in James 1:5, <i>If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men (</i>and women<i>) liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.</i> I belong to that church that was founded from the premise of this scripture. Personally, I think God is OK with the question and answer thing.<br />
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I'm definitely not perfect and would never want my flaws put up on any Jumbotron. There are peee-lenty of things I do wrong. So I sincerely hope this post didn't come across as 'holier than thou.' Remember, this blog is my version of therapy. This is my cool down after the marathon of emotions I've been through in regards to this issue.<br />
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Mostly, I want the world to be a kinder place. Especially in places where I've come to rely on peace and welcoming. If I have a question about my theology, I want to be received with the love of Christ, not the rebuke of online rants. I've decided to memorize the <a href="http://www.easwaran.org/the-prayer-of-st-francis.html" target="_blank">Prayer of St. Francis</a> and study <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/nt/matt/5?lang=eng" target="_blank">Matthew 5</a>. Be the change. Right?<br />
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Also, along with the kindness thing, (and perpetual belief that given the chance, women have the power to change our world for the better) I want everyone to know that<br />
I am a mormon,<br />
I am a wife,<br />
I am a mother who happily stays at home,<br />
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and I am a feminist.<br />
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So I guess I'm officially out. Phew. That felt good. Kind of like a warm, October afternoon.<br />
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(Or slobbery baby kisses.) <br />
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-2148486395204971942013-07-28T21:56:00.000-07:002013-07-28T21:56:09.875-07:00Spencer's Birth Story: Part IIIPart one <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2013/01/spencers-birth-story-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
Part two <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2013/03/spencers-birth-story-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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So the props and tricks didn't work. My doctor came back in and kept his doctor like vigil while I pushed for a while longer. (He left during the prop phase.) Birthing a baby is strange business. My doctor told me he had a meeting to go at noon and that it would last about an hour. He asked me if I thought I could keep pushing while he was gone. I asked him if I could take a break, I was so tired I didn't have the strength to even think about the word "push." I imagined if I just laid there, the baby would eventually find his way out, right? I would just lay in a position that he could walk on out and climb in my arms and we would take a nap together. In my state of pushing, and being in pain and things not going how I thought they would, this was a fantastic (albeit absurd) thought. I'd much rather think about this image than pushing. <br />
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Dr. Draper said of course I could rest and when he got back, we would try pushing some more. I thankfully closed my eyes and had my hand ready to rub that hot spot on my hip when another contraction came. <br />
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That hour passed quickly and Dr. Draper was back, all chipper and asking me if I was ready to push. Uggh. No. Still eeeeeeexsausted! Contractions were still regular, powerful and often. Yet, my little baby was not interested in going anywhere. We tried a few more rounds of pushing. I mustered up strength. Found something from down in the basement and really tried to help get the baby to moooove. Nothing. <br />
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I head a sigh from my doctor and I could tell he was getting ready to tell me something. "We have a couple of options," he said. He was worried how stagnant the baby was and despite every signal that my body was ready to deliver a baby, the baby was not interested in being delivered. We were at about 20 hours of labor, fully dilated, effaced, head down, everything but the movement of the baby. <br />
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This is the part of the story that has caused me so much delay in telling the rest of it. I'm not happy about how my baby was born. That's a hard thing to admit. Hard to say out loud because I never want it to be confused or construed with my feelings of my baby being born period. I'm incredibly happy about the event and I haven't missed a day thanking God for another sweet soul to nurture and hold. But it's been a hard thing for me to remember and recall how things went. <br />
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Dr. Draper told me that our best option of having a regular delivery was a forceps delivery. He would try one time, and if it didn't work, I would have to have a c-section. It would be too dangerous to let me labor any longer with the baby being in the position it was in and NOT moving. Because a c-section suddenly became a possible scenario, I would have to be prepped and ready for one. The next phase of labor would happen in the O.R. I paused. Looked at Chris. He took my hand and smiled. I waited for my doctor to tell me my other option. But he didn't. This was it. (I had lost control of the situation a long time ago.) I numbly and wearily nodded my head in assent. <br />
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The nurse brought Chris some scrubs and he changed. My monitors were being unplugged and I felt my bed move as the wheels were unlocked and moved away from the wall. This was happening now. They told Chris to put on his gear and stay in the room until they called him in. <br />
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And I was wheeled down the hall.<br />
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I wondered if this hospital had several rooms for situations like this. Wondered if I would be taken to a part I had never been to before. But my heart started to beat a little faster as I recognized the hallway and doors I was wheeled through. It was the same room where I delivered my two pound babies. Where they quickly took me down the hall, gave me drugs and cut me open because my body wouldn't do what it was supposed to do and these babies needed immediate NICU care. So immediate that there is a window in the room where a nurse stood, blanket in hand, she was the first one to hold my tiny babies. Hold, resuscitate, whatever the situation called for.<br />
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Something triggered those dark days of waiting and watching tiny, sick bodies learn how to breathe and eat. Although my bucket of joy and happiness about my older kids is much bigger than those three months of dull, consistent darkness, my heart went cold again at the memory of what happened here last time. I didn't want my babies to be born 3 months early, but they were. I didn't want to try and deliver my baby with forceps, in an operating room, but it was going to happen. (I was not in control.) I looked around at all the masked staff in the room. A few were having their own conversations. (I couldn't tell what.) My nurse would occasionally come to my side and ask me how I was doing. I managed a faint smile, but my insides were terrified. Her eyes were kind above her masked mouth, but the masks all around me only reminded me where I was and what being in this room meant. Masks, masks, masks. Muffled conversations behind those masks. I glanced at small window in the back of the room. I knew what was on the other side. I fought back tears. How did I end up here? Again?<br />
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I looked up at the ceiling, trying to be a brave girl, and strangely grateful for the extra dose of drugs I got in anticipation for a c-section if needed. My hip had finally stopped throbbing. A few tears escaped my struggling ducts. Be brave, I kept trying to tell myself. This isn't the same situation as your first delivery. (<i>Only the same room, doctor, little window, masks, medication, bright lights...</i>) Be brave. (<i>Why did I think I could handle another baby? I can barely keep up with my 2 year olds.</i>) Be brave. (<i>How was this going to work? FOUR kids?!? Am I crazy? God must be joking sending me one more...</i>) <br />
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Then I saw them. A pair of eyes hovered above mine. Those eyes. I recognized those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes that my kids all had. All three of them. Maybe this one would have blue eyes too. They belonged to my best friend. My partner in this crazy journey we started together. He leaned down, stroked my tangled, matted hair and said, "Hi baby." My iced-over heart thawed, relaxed. Oh yeah. I remember. I'm not doing this alone. My strength, courage, and force of what makes me a woman and an intensely capable mother returned. <br />
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By now, the doctor was ready for me to push. He told me he was going to have me push 4 or 5 times. He played coach for a minute and gave me some kind of Rocky-esque speech on giving him all that I had. There was some kind of count down and I pushed. <br />
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Chris brought with him an air of renewed strength that I absorbed. Three BIG pushes and my baby was out. Chris leaned over, and looked at our new little one. "Oh Kara, it's a boy!" We didn't <i>officially</i> know until now. I gave him an exhausted smile. I was not surprised. There are some things a woman just knows. And I knew for the last 6 months leading up to my delivery that I was growing a little boy inside me. <br />
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He was big. 8 pounds, 15 ounces. He didn't go through the window. He came right into my arms. My big, baby boy. I marveled at his size and tried to take in everything I could at that awkward, laying down on a surgical table angle. But from what I could see, he was perfect and he was here. And at that moment, that's all that mattered.<br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-61590251117984381792013-03-18T22:08:00.000-07:002013-03-18T22:08:32.922-07:00Spencer's Birth Story: Part II<span style="font-size: x-small;">In case you haven't read part one, it's <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2013/01/spencers-birth-story-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span><br />
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Ahhh. Sweet, sweet relief. That was the thought and the momentary sensation that was running through my head, and entire body after I had been drugged up with that epidural I was so certain I was not going to be receiving. The pain went from, I'm going to jump off a cliff to end it, to ok, that was not pleasant. <br />
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I was relaxed, a little more calm and now it was time to hurry up and wait. I was still laboring of course, but now that I was drugged up, I was confined to my bed. I think Chris was relieved about this. Relieved that I was no longer retching in pain and agony and relieved that he could grab a seat on the extendo chair and try to rest a little. </div>
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My room had finally cleared of everyone who teamed up to make the pain stop. Chris was settled on his chair, all 6 feet 2 inches of him were sprawled and trying to rest. I was in my bed, never to get up again, and it was quiet. I tried to rest myself, but even being comfortably numb, there was still some discomfort. It was about one in the morning at this point. The hours passed and although I had drugs, somewhere along the line it wasn't enough. I remember there was this one spot on my right hip that simply ached the entire rest of the time. It wasn't a dull ache either, it felt like my bone was being squeezed by the Grim Reaper himself. It was intense, and during a contraction it went from a 9 to a 20. My right arm became sore because the only thing I could do to somewhat alleviate the pain was to rub it. </div>
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Between 1:00 am and 6:00 am, it is kind of a blur or still being in pain and at times simply forgetting I was there to have a baby in the first place. Because the epidural did not take everything away. I was still feeling these enormous contractions with an apex of awareness. Except, at times it was so painful, I didn't think of them as contractions, I just knew it hurt and I wanted it to stop. </div>
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I remember thinking at one point how far I was from that quiet, natural birth I had imagined. The room was quiet and dark, Chris was sleeping and I was hurting. I remember being slightly frightened because I had lost control of the situation. I was beginning to recognize this feeling. The night I had the triplets, I felt the same way. </div>
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I said a sincere prayer. I prayed for the baby and I prayed for myself. I wanted us both to come out the other end of this healthy and well and that I could feel a little peace. I didn't know what else to pray for. I was inarticulate and in pain. I wanted to get control again. <br />
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Peace did enter the room. Nothing changed. That dang spot in my hip was still on fire and the contractions and labor didn't stop or get easier. But the peace did come. I had a little more strength to get me through the next phase of this birth. Shortly after this, I felt like I wanted to push. I told my nurse this. I told Chris this. But my doctor wasn't there. What felt like days, but was only about an hour, here comes my doctor (FINALLY! Aren't you just sitting in the lounge waiting for me to be ready? What do you mean you have <i>other</i> patients?!?) and he tells me to go ahead and start pushing. <br />
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This is where it gets silly. I really wanted to push a certain way. I had practiced this certain form of pushing and even though I was drugged up and not having a natural birth, I at least wanted to push the way I had been practicing all this time. The biggest difference was in the breaths. My way was pushing while breathing down through the contraction. The nurses and doc wanted me to push while holding my breath and trying not to pass out. So here I was, in pain, drugged up and still trying to hold onto a scrap of my original plan. <br />
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It was an awkward combination of the staff trying to continue to respect my requests mixed with their impatience that I just wasn't doing it right. I tried my way for a while. The baby didn't budge. I tried their way for a while. The baby didn't budge. It was an exhausting exercise in futility. I was fully dilated, pushing like a world class...something, and the baby wanted nothing to do with moving <i>anywhere</i>. After going back and forth between different methods of pushing, the props started coming out. <br />
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The first one reminded me of a gymnastic bar. <i>"Well, we were just over at the Huntsman Center watching some gymnastics and thought we might bring this over to try and help you have a baby!" </i>Mind you this is after I had been pushing for hours. The nurse (bless her heart, I was not an easy patient) suggested I simply put my legs up on the bar, then grab that same bar with my hands and push away! <br />
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I did laugh. At least my sense of humor was still working at this point. I told her I had ZERO strength and holding a bar was a laughable proposition, but I would try anyway. Legs up. Arms...almost...if you could just push my back a little...almost got it...just a little more...there. Arms up. Getting into this position was even more exhausting than pushing through a contraction. So, no actual pushing happened. The moment I grasped the bar, I immediately fell back down. (This is a level of fatigue I have never experienced.) I apologized. I mean it seemed like it took at least two people to bring that dang thing in here and I didn't even use it. Now what?<br />
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Prop number two. I call this one, The Prison Escape. I was handed the end of a knotted sheet, (similar to what one might use to toss out the window when trying to escape from prison) and the nurse had the other end. "We're just going to have a tug-of-war," she said with a smile. The idea being I would use the physics of this motion to push and move this baby out. <br />
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Am I on on candid camera? I had to laugh again. The idea that I had the strength to grasp the sheet, let alone push and pull and escape from a minimum security prison all at the same time was just too much. Chris even sensed my ludicrous meter going off and gave me a secret grin. I agreed to try, because really, it was around 11 am at this point, something had to work. It was a similar attempt as the gymnastics bar. I geared my brain up to do it, but my body just limped out and I fell back before I even began. Still exhausted. Still in pain. Still really, really pregnant.<br />
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Next time.... <i>we're going to prep you for the OR, but just a precaution... </i> <br />
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This baby really liked his living quarters. </div>
karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-10200545070502430102013-01-25T01:08:00.000-08:002013-01-25T09:42:05.675-08:00But really, it IS your thing"Mommy! You're hoooome!" My 3 year-old little girl ran to greet me, she was hugging me at the knees and telling me about a book dad had found under the couch for her as I took my coat off.<br />
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"Where you go mom?" She asks before I could tell her I was glad she found her missing book. Three year-olds don't always give you a chance to respond to all their news. I wait a beat to see if she really wanted to know or was ready to move on. </div>
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"Where you go mommy?"</div>
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"I went to a meeting sweetheart." </div>
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"What's your for meeting?" (Translation: what was the meeting for?)</div>
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"Well," I thought for a moment. I love her curiosity and the way I can hold her attention sometimes while she waits for answers she sincerely wants. I kneel down and give her a light squeeze. </div>
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"What's your for meeting mommy?" She asks again, still holding her found book in her chubby fingers.</div>
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"Hmm, well, it was about <i>you.</i>" I know she will love this answer. Her eyes light up and she runs away happily, knowing that I was gone for two hours having an important meeting about <i>her</i>. (Three year-old narcissism is perfectly healthy.)</div>
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Of course the meeting I went to wasn't exactly about my little girl. But it was. It was about her, and her three brothers and even my handsome, babysitting husband who bravely battled 2 1/2 hours alone with all four kids so I could go to something that was important to me. </div>
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I went to an event put on by a Utah group called <a href="http://www.realwomenrun.org/" target="_blank">Real Women Run</a>. The event was billed inviting women to attend who were interested in holding public office or supporting a campaign or serving on a public board or commission. I heard from past female lawmakers and women who have helped shape the public policy in Utah.</div>
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I came home with a lot of information and great ideas. Women are a marginalized group. We are over 1/2 the country, 1/2 the state of Utah, and yet, as elected representatives, women are vastly underrepresented. </div>
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20/100. For the 100 senators in Washington, 20 of them are women.</div>
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77/435. Congresswomen: 77. Congressmen: 358. </div>
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Women are not involved in politics and policy. We need to be. Before you stop reading and tell me that "politics isn't your thing," I want to leave you with a few numbers.</div>
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47 - Only 3 states besides ours have worse wage disparity between men and women. Women earn less than men in Utah (and across the country) and 46 other states do a better job than we do in closing this earning gap.</div>
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50 - Every other state in the union spends more money per pupil on public education. Every. Other. State. We also have one of the largest student to teacher ratio in the country, yet we spend the least on our students. Our teachers have the biggest classes and the least amount of money per classroom. </div>
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50 - Utah is also dead last in the percentage of women who start, then graduate from college with a 4 year degree.</div>
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43 - Seven states have a worse percentage of women in the state legislature.</div>
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These numbers make me very uncomfortable. As women, we are also mothers and wives and employees and business owners. These unpleasant statistics affect all of us. The type of problems that need solving require thoughtful men AND women. We need a bigger voice. To say that "politics isn't your thing" means letting someone else decide what kind of education your children will receive, how much (less) you'll get paid to do the same job as your male counterpart and how the state will spend your tax money. (Schools? Roads? Parks? Giant ski gondolas?) </div>
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Being "into politics" doesn't just have to be something that consumes your Facebook page every four years. Being "into politics" means educating yourself on what is happening in your communities and knowing who you sent to the big building on the hill to draft bills that will become <i>your</i> laws. </div>
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Women are leaders. We are leaders in our homes. We are leaders in our churches. We are leaders in our communities and workplaces. We need to make sure our voice is heard. The seemingly boring legislation and political jargon that happens between lawmakers directly affects you and your families.</div>
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The apathy about our public officials and discourse has to end. Get involved. Care. Vote. Run for office on the municipal, county, state or federal level, whatever your political persuasion or ideals. Get elected to your school board or city council. Also, the worst anecdote I heard tonight was this:</div>
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Candidate: <i>So, who have you decided to vote for?</i></div>
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Utah Woman (more than one, according to the candidate): <i>Well, my husband hasn't told me who we are voting for yet.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Ladies!!</span></div>
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You have your own mind. <u>Use it.</u> We've had plenty of healthy debate and votes for different political ideas in this house. Democracy is a beautiful thing. </div>
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What we debate and engage in now, will shape the future for the next generation. And I believe we need more women at the table.</div>
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Here are a few links to put you on the train of getting involved:</div>
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<a href="http://www.realwomenrun.org/" target="_blank">Real Women Run website</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/" target="_blank">How to find your elected state representative</a></div>
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<a href="http://le.utah.gov/documents/find.htm" target="_blank">For Utah residents - who represents you (scroll to bottom left)</a></div>
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RWR has another event in March for women interested in running or supporting a candidate. It's like a boot camp and training day for getting involved. Saturday, March 16th from 8:30am - 4:00pm. You can register on their <a href="http://www.realwomenrun.org/" target="_blank">website</a>.</div>
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The Utah League of Women Voters is also holding a training and orientation for anyone interested in how state legislation works. Monday, January 28th, noon, in the capitol and later that night at the Salt Lake City Main Library. A new session is about to start, keep up on what kind of law making is going down. More information on their website <a href="http://www.lwvutah.org/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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Look at all those resources I gave you! Don't you feel informed and full or power? Full of potential? Now go help make the world a better place for those you love. Then come home and tell them you were in a meeting about <i>them</i>.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Your voice matters and your voice counts. Use it. </span></div>
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-87244880103520274952013-01-16T21:07:00.000-08:002013-01-16T21:09:41.601-08:00Spencer's Birth Story: Part II've thought about and tried to write this in my head about a hundred times. Writer's block is a real thing folks. Even if it means you are being blocked by other (seemingly) pressing things going on in your life. Blocked by a baby and 3 wildly entertaining and needy toddlers is the most recent thing that comes to mind. <br />
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So I'm just going to start telling the story of how my 4th baby was born. I'm just going to put it out there. I may not even proofread or speel check. I'm not even going to blog about my three wildly entertaining and needy toddlers turning three. Their birthday is always something to write about and celebrate. However, if I go one more blog post without talking about child #4, he might begin to feel like a footnote. Which he's not. <br />
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So, without further ado or spilling of my subconscious mind, the story of when Spencer as born...<br />
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"So what did you decide?" <br />
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My doctor asks me this on a Wednesday afternoon. I'm 39 weeks pregnant and it's the first appointment that Chris has come with me. <br />
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I look at my handsome partner and he smiles, we both know we're going to have a baby that day. At least that's what we thought. After all, my body had actually labored before with the triplets, so the second time around is speedy and quick, right? Baby comes out like it's got somewhere to be? Plus, with ALL my hypnobirthing training I had done over the past 4 months, surely this would be the most beautiful and most perfect birth in the history of all births. That's what we had anticipated. At least I had. I never would have predicted that nearly 24 hours later I would be in a surgical room, with a team prepped in masks and gloves hovering around me. <br />
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"Yes." I answer confidently. "We want to have this baby today."<br />
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A week prior, my doctor had given me the option of induction. The baby was measuring big and had even earned the term <i>macrosomia. </i><br />
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<i>{neonatal macrosomia (n) : a baby that is measuring large for its gestational age.}</i></div>
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And he was big. I had a handful of doctors and nurses after they saw him ask me if I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. (I wasn't.)</div>
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So the baby was measuring big, and I had stressed with my doctor that I did NOT want a c-section this time around. I wanted as close to natural as I could get within the confines of being comfortably safe in one of the best hospitals in the state. In my laser focus of not wanting a c-section, I focused on the macro-thingy and worried the baby would be too big and not come the way I planned and all that planning and hoping about channeling mother nature herself in the birthing room would be a pipe dream. So focused on NOT having a c-section that I didn't look too deeply into the effects of pitocin and what exactly an induction meant for me. </div>
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I think part of the reason I have been so reluctant to share the entire birth story is because I feel responsible for how things turned out. I naively thought I would be given something to "get me started" then my body would just do it's thing and I'd pop that little critter right out! </div>
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Also, my older kids have been on a routine and schedule since the day all three of them were home from the hospital. We live and die by a routine around here. So the lure and temptation of being able to <i>plan</i> when the help was going to be with them was too much. Too much I tell you!<br />
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So I decided to go ahead with the induction. And I can't even type the phrase "against my better judgement" after that. Because I really did think I was doing the right thing. It felt right. <br />
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So we were shown to a room in the delivery unit and the nurse began my check in process. I had brought along my birth plan and told her I wanted to go over it with her. I look back and wonder what she was thinking, right before I was to be induced, when I told her I wanted NO talk of pain, or pain scales or asking me if I was in pain etc, etc. Because, after all, this was part of my master plan.<br />
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So around 5:30, I gowned up and was given the drip. This was it. I would surely have a baby that night. I was dilated to a two and 75% effaced. I made a big deal about wanting the "big" delivery room that was shown to me on a tour a few weeks back. It was unavailable when they checked me in, but on one of my hallway strolls, I noticed it was clean and ready for a new momma, so the nurse was nice to let me switch rooms.<br />
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I decided to walk and walk and walk during the first few hours to help things along. I wish the unit was bigger because at around 9pm or so, I think I just looked crazy. <i>There's that insane woman who is hooked up to a pitocin drip and thinks she's going to have a pain-free birth. </i>Is what I now imagine the entire staff was thinking every time I walked by the front desk with my rolling IV stand. <br />
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Around 8pm the anesthesiologist came in to see when I wanted my epidural. He wanted to go over the side effects and risks at that moment so we wouldn't have to waste time later when I needed it. I assured him I would not need an epidural and hence, no explanation of side effects or the like. I told him I had been planning this drug-free birth and I felt fine so far and was completely confident I would never need to see him again.<br />
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He smiled, told me that was great, but wanted to do it anyway. I sent him away with a smile. NO talking about pain, and he was the representative of pain. He was of course professional, told me he would be there until midnight and to call if I changed my mind. I told him I would (which I definitely wasn't) and thanked him for coming by. <br />
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Three hours later, I was checked and to my surprise and disappointment, I was only at a 4. Do you know how much walking I did? Remember I had that flipping drug pumping through my veins? My doc wanted to break my water, he felt like the baby needed some encouragement. It had been too long. Ok, how bad could that be? I felt like I was doing an ACE job with my hypnobirthing training, because every contraction up to that point was manageable. I successfully breathed through every one and they were strong and regular, regular, regular. I felt like I was laboring how I envisioned. <br />
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Then my doctor broke my water.<br />
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Something happened that I don't know how to adequately put into words, but I'll try. <br />
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Before my water broke I was a whole, competent, strong, laboring woman. <br />
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After my water broke, my contractions went from manageable (after all, I was a competent, strong, laboring woman) to I think it would've been better if I was born a man. <br />
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With my hypnobirthing training, I was taught how to breath through each contraction. The breath starts with a big belly breath as you visualize the breath traveling from the top of your head all the way down through your toes. <br />
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The very next contraction I had after my water broke, I started to inhale for that big belly breath. I coughed and sputtered. I couldn't even take breath in, the pain (THE PAIN! I WASN'T SUPPOSED TO TALK OR THINK ABOUT PAIN, BUT IT WAS PAAAAAAAAAAAIN!) was so intense. <br />
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All I could do is double over and wait for the contraction to end. The breathing, the visualization, my happy place, all went out the window. I was a little shocked and tried to recover for the next one. <i>Ok, </i>I told myself<i>, that was bad, but I guess I wasn't ready. Focus Kara, here comes the next one. You got this...</i> <br />
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Two minutes later it hit again. Another contraction.<br />
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And I was ready and focused. And I ended up on the floor, doubled over with pain, gasping at what was happening to my body. <br />
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The nurse was there, as was my husband (he was looking alarmed) and she asked what I wanted to do. (Bless her heart, she remember my blasted birth plan and request to not talk about pain.)<br />
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I said I wanted to see what the next one felt like and wait it out. I couldn't throw months of planning out the window! Between these immense surges of absolute agony, I would gear up and prep myself to breath and visualize--I can do this. <br />
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I think I went through five or six of these. I automatically doubled over and squeaked incoherent syllable every single time. Chris kindly suggested it would be ok to take something. He told me there was no shame in abandoning my plan and calling the anesthesiologist. (He would have the best secret eye roll ever, huh?)<br />
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I was beginning to be absolutely terrified for the next contraction instead of welcoming and embracing it as I had prepared to do. I mean I was mortified that I would need many more of these to get this baby here. I physically couldn't do it. A girl has her limits. So, 15 minutes before he told me he would be leaving the hospital, they called the man, whom I told I wouldn't need his services, thank you very much. <br />
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He came, and with a hint of annoyance, told me he had to go over the side effects and possible complications of having an epidural. I nodded, assented, agreed, whatever I needed to do to make the pain stop.<br />
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Between contractions, I was able to joke with him about our conversation earlier. He then gave me a staggering statistic. I'm sure it was just something he pulled from the air as a generalization, not an actual statistic, but still. He told me he wasn't surprised he was back in my room because 99% of women that are induced with pitocin end up needing an epidural. He had seen very few women be able to labor on pitocin without pain medication. <br />
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Are you *bleeping* kidding me? What? How did I not know this? Do you know how much stinking reading and research and classes I participated in? How did this not come up? How did I not know this or overlook it or NOT know this was the case? I'm sure a large percentage of you are reading this, shaking your head and thinking, duh! What did you expect? But this is my story. It's all truth. <br />
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As I felt the cold medication enter my back, I felt relieved, and stupid and comforted and disappointed. It was a weird moment. But here we were. The only thing that had gone as planned was my initial refusal of pain medication and the room I requested. <br />
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But since these contractions felt so strong, surely the baby would be here soon. Right? Right?! <br />
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Next time....<br />
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<i>You do remember you're here to have a baby, right? </i> Or, <i>here, go ahead and grab this gymnastics bar we found and give us a few pushes. </i></div>
karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-15069661160624130142012-12-23T21:02:00.000-08:002013-01-01T21:06:20.269-08:00And To All a Good Night
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Twas a few days before Christmas and all through the house, the children were all noisy and mom wished they were a little more quiet, like a mouse.</div>
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The stockings were tucked in the closet with care, because if they were hung by the chimney, the kids wouldn't leave them there.</div>
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Mom was all nestled and snug in her bed, until she realized she was day dreaming and was changing 4 stinky diapers instead.</div>
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And there in the play room, there's always some chatter, happy laughs and tears too, mom always asking, "what's the matter?"</div>
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But even with the chaos, and the commotion, we pause to take time and remember Christ and his mission.</div>
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A tiny baby was born in a stable long ago, and we celebrate each year the love that we know. </div>
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He brought with him peace, a new way to live; treat each other with kindness and of yourself always give.</div>
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So on Christmas we give gifts and sing Silent Night. We are like the Wisemen who followed the Light. </div>
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Merry Christmas friends, wishing you the best this time of year.</div>
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-3864276525764940662012-12-16T15:21:00.000-08:002012-12-16T19:28:14.889-08:00Dear Children<i>Over the years, I've often been asked, "why do you write?" </i><br />
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<i>I write because sometimes my mind becomes a cluttered, jumbled mess of emotions, thoughts and expressions that find a home in the form of sentences and complete paragraphs. I write to quiet a crying heart and bring her peace. I write because there is healing in expression.</i><br />
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<i>I write because sometimes saying the words with your tongue is too loud for the quiet, solemn moments in which you find yourself. </i><br />
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<i>With that said, I wrote a letter today.</i><br />
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Dear Children,<br />
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My heart is still broken and a little dark from the tragedy that befell you Friday. I often have to stop my mind from thinking about the details and have not watched the news one time since I read the brief article about what transpired. It's too much for my mother heart.<br />
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The pain your parents must be experiencing from your all too soon departure is something I cannot begin to imagine, and if I try, my mind and heart becomes heavy once more and I have to remind myself to breathe. Circumstances do not allow me to speak to them or personally share in their mourning. Because I am mourning. <br />
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I don't imagine there will ever be an appropriate time to share my own thoughts and feelings with each of your heartbroken parents, but I would like to share the change that has taken place in me over the last few days.<br />
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I write this letter with my own darling baby sitting next to me, cooing and bubbling. I have four babies actually. Three of them aren't really babies anymore, but I bet more than one of you were still called baby by your mom or dad once in a while. <br />
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When I read how quickly and how many of you left this earth, my own little ones were having their afternoon nap. The house was still and I was alone. I was relieved, because I could not weep quietly over what happened. Losing you of course, seemed so senseless, evil and wrong. But I also wept for those you left behind. Those left behind don't get a chance to sit on Jesus' lap, (as I'm sure you have) so he can wipe tears and soothe the pain. Those left behind still have to wait to see that benevolent face that greeted you. I wept for you. And I wept for them. <br />
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While still staring blankly at the news story, one of my toddlers woke up suddenly from his nap. He had a bad dream. I tip toed out of the room with him in my arms, while his brother and sister slept. He was still in that foggy place between sleep and awake as I sat on the couch and kissed his soft, red hair. We were both quiet and he never noticed that my tears continued to fall, quietly this time.<br />
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When he was ready, he asked me to read a book with him. I wiped my tears, gave him a big hug and told him I would love to. We read a few of his favorite books about tractors, trucks and a things found on a farm. The dishes, laundry, and regular messes of our day sat all around us. Things I would usually try and get done while more than 2 kids were napping. But I didn't care. It was a tender moment that I wanted to last forever.<br />
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It will in no way begin to heal their still bleeding hearts from missing you, but maybe one day your parents will know the resolve that took place in my very bones to show my children how much I love them. Hugs, kisses, kind words, story time, block playing, puzzles, more patience during tantrums, mac and cheese for dinner once in a while and a happy, grateful mom will hopefully be a few ways they notice how much they are cherished in this home. How special they are. How much I love them.<br />
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And maybe one day, if it's ever appropriate, your parents will know the strength I gathered to determine to be more caring, more loving and more Christlike to everyone around me. Those I don't agree with as well as those I do. Those who aren't kind and those who are. Love One Another -- not just a nice thing to say, but something I <i>do</i> with a fervent conviction.<br />
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Lessons I don't have to tell you of course. Jesus wants us to be more like you because children already know and practice these lessons of love and tolerance. I need to take better notes from my own children on these matters. <br />
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My personal thoughts and resolutions are insignificant in comparison to those that knew you best. But I wanted to share my heart. It has been broken more than once before this tragedy for various reasons, but each time it does, I look to the Light. The Christ who held you in his arms the day you left here.<br />
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The One who makes all things calm. All things bright.<br />
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Merry Christmas little ones.<br />
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Love, Kara <br />
<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-42888622800108049092012-12-09T20:39:00.000-08:002012-12-09T20:39:57.945-08:00Our TreeI wrote <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2011/12/my-christmas-decor-or-lack-thereof.html" target="_blank">this post</a> last year about Christmas and the trap one might fall into when comparing your own celebrations, traditions and decorations to everything else out there. I called it the Martha Stewart Syndrome, or MSS. <br />
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I'm happy to report that this year, I have not yet let MSS into my life. Do I still want that giant, flocked, 8ft tree with matching blue glass ornaments and silver bells someday? Of course. But this isn't our season for such things. I have three toddlers and a baby. This is our season for finding magic is paper chains and foam figured nativity sets found at the craft store. <br />
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And of course, every Christmas season is about the Savior. I'm trying to teach my little ones that. It's their first year of really getting what Santa Clause is all about. And instead of trying to fight the whole Jesus/Santa debate, I think they go rather nicely hand in hand. Forgive me if any reader finds this blasphemous, but a kind man who gives gifts to children out the kindness of his heart definitely has some Christian qualities about him. So we are going to focus on the kindness of the season and how we should also be kind, like Jesus. (And Santa, I guess.)<br />
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So, in honor of my Christmas with toddlers, I'll share with you one of our activities.<br />
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We have this beautiful, real tree in our home this year. It's large and lovely and my heart was so happy when we strapped it to the roof of our car. <br />
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We got out about 1/8 of the ornaments I have in boxes. It's just too tempting for little hands to not touch all the little hanging wonders. And by the time they finally learn to REALLY leave the ornaments on the tree, we could have some causalities. So, we are making a few of our own decorations.<br />
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The paper chain! I had plans to do this one and imagined cutting out strips of construction paper. Because last time I made a paper chain, in my 3rd grade class, I'm pretty sure this was our method. But I found this great thing called Lickety Strips. So much easier.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U2_53X21qps/UMVlIfBTPTI/AAAAAAAACLA/Gq57T_ETEd0/s1600/IMG_2766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U2_53X21qps/UMVlIfBTPTI/AAAAAAAACLA/Gq57T_ETEd0/s200/IMG_2766.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lvDgJL1EqvY/UMVj20mTXaI/AAAAAAAACK4/jz6sGX41CxY/s1600/sunnychaincollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lvDgJL1EqvY/UMVj20mTXaI/AAAAAAAACK4/jz6sGX41CxY/s640/sunnychaincollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gq9tdHmuYj4/UMVlK_LPjOI/AAAAAAAACLI/mChnqs_PSZc/s1600/IMG_2767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gq9tdHmuYj4/UMVlK_LPjOI/AAAAAAAACLI/mChnqs_PSZc/s400/IMG_2767.jpg" width="300" /></a>The boys worked on it for about 4 minutes, and Sunny was focused for a good 20. It's been on ongoing project. The paper came in pre-cut strips and you simply lick the back in order for it to stick together. Easy peasy! Perfect for my little elves.<br />
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We'll add a little something each week, and on Christmas Eve, we'll add the star. Did you know in Germany, the parents decorate the entire tree Christmas Eve and it's a lovely, beautiful surprise for their little leiblings. <br />
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What are your favorite toddler friendly Christmas activities? <br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-82156326027550158712012-12-03T23:03:00.000-08:002012-12-03T23:03:57.798-08:00Oh, HelloWhat do you do when you haven't visited your blog in <i>six </i>weeks? <br />
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Photo DUMP! How else would I catch you up on all that we've been doing?<br />
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Halloween, two feet of snow, walks with daddy, baby smiles, wondering what the heck is going on with hair on a day to day basis, saying goodbye to my missionary brother, grateful hearts, lots of family time, love, tantrums and naps. Plus some other stuff. Our lives are just as crazy, chaotic and wonderful as you would imagine a house full of 3 toddlers and a 4 month old would be.<br />
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There! Now you know everything. On to December and everything that comes with it. Cheers all. <br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-84221994937994200492012-10-16T22:57:00.000-07:002012-10-17T08:58:55.940-07:00The Moment With the Leaves<span style="font-size: large;">Any style magazines, blogs or TV shows would love my house.</span> It is riddled with "before" pictures. From the people to the rooms, we aren't exactly up to the current standards of fashion and trend. I know this because I've seen <i>your </i>blog and <i>your</i> Instagram shots and we are a good ol' hot mess around here. But I do have this one tree in my backyard that is so alive with golden fall leaves, any magazine cover would be proud to feature it. <br />
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However, my play room is a hodgepodge collection of toys in un-matching baskets lined up against a strange colored wall with crayon streak accents. Wait, who am I kidding? The toys are rarely in the un-matching baskets. The baskets are usually overturned and toys are strewn...just <i>s t r e w n</i> everywhere. </div>
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My kids have <i>maybe</i> worn coordinating outfits twice in their lifetimes. If I do get them dressed before lunch, I'm lucky if their shirt is spot free by dinner. I don't want to start on me. Let's just say the woman who got dressed and ready for the day 4 years ago is much different than the woman today, who counts wearing clean yoga pants as being ready.</div>
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But my heart sang a quiet, lovely song today. The 5 of us (kids and mommy) were upstairs in our always messy, very large playroom. I had just fed the baby and he was sleeping lazily in a milk stupor on my chest. His soft breaths leaving tiny warm spots on my arm. My three toddlers were playing together. Read that last sentence again. Because the opposite of that sentence is what usually goes on. Fighting over toys, wrestling over toys, crying over toys and because of this whole new baby thing, a lot of the refereeing and supreme court judging is done from the couch while little man is eating. </div>
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But at this moment, the kids were pretending to go the beach together and packing each other's back packs with pretend food and tiny horses. Every once in a while they would bring me "lunch" in the form of a plastic pretzel and plastic hot dog on a tiny pink plate. But then tell me it wasn't ready yet and take it back to their kitchen to put in the microwave. </div>
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The space was so pleasant and comfortable, my very bones tingled with contentment. I sent up a quick prayer of gratitude for this moment. For these beings in my life that give me grief (to be sure) but so much more joy. </div>
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And before I could even finish my thankful refrain, the wind picked up, sending golden leaves into the air from our big tree out back. The sun was peaking out from one of the many clouds that had dominated the afternoon. So the leaves caught the warm fall light as they flitted to the ground. Every window in our corner play room had so many golden flecks that even the kids stopped and noticed. </div>
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It was so beautiful. A reminder that God listens and loves me. </div>
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Because as I was saying thank you, the leaves fell, so lovely and light, as if to say <i>you're welcome</i>.</div>
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Of course 3 minutes later I was telling one of my sons (almost verbatim) "please don't take the lid off your hippo cup and dump water on the table..." Then later, "please don't yell at your sister, we can all look at the book." And even still, "there are six hot dogs, you don't need all of them, you can share." </div>
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I already know my leaf moment today will outlast the refereed hot dog match. Twenty-five years from now, when I have a slight ache in my heart from missing plastic lunches served by stubby toddler hands, I won't care about the spilled cup of water, but I will remember my falling leaves and the warm glow of contentment we all shared.</div>
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If just for a moment.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapped this after I watched the wind burst send dancing leaves past all the windows. </td></tr>
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-68097081612880664822012-10-09T23:01:00.000-07:002012-10-09T23:01:25.267-07:00Spencer's Birth Story: Preface<span style="font-size: x-large;">I'm going to tell you the story </span>of how my baby boy, child #4 was born. <span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Before I do, we need to have little chat, a big ol' fat preface. <br />
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I told you about <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2012/07/hypnobirthing-according-to-kara-part-i.html" target="_blank">my grand plans of having a hypnobirth</a>. My mind and heart were so set on this. I had practiced, visualized and 100% expected this would be the perfect birth I had imagined. When I say perfect, I don't mean <i>perfect</i>. I just mean I knew it would happen as I had envisioned and planned.<br />
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I had my birth plan that I had lovingly written out at my kitchen table one night. I tucked it away in a bright green folder and placed it in my packed and waiting hospital bag. Then, once at the hospital, I went over this birth plan with the nurse that checked me into the labor and delivery floor. Looking back, I wonder if L&D nurses ever have to practice their nods and polite assents to a fresh faced expectant mother as she goes over her "plans" about how her birth is going to go. I wonder if they try not to imagine this chatty, put together woman as a disheveled heap of fatigue and damp strands of hair hanging in her face at the end of it all. You know, so they can be professional and not laugh in her face when she says under no circumstances is there to be any discussion about pain. <br />
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I know every birth is different, I know some women actually have a good experience giving birth, but this written plan I had brought with me -- forget about it. Not one thing went as I had envisioned, practiced, imagined or planned. I'm not exaggerating either. Nothing. Nil. Zip. Nada. <br />
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So, the question is, <i>was I disappointed</i>?<br />
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I believe the act of bringing another life into this world is so monumental, so important, so grand and significant that if you allow yourself be disappointed on how your personal experience went, I truly believe it can make some permanent, albeit unintentional, scar on your heart and maybe even effect that little spirit you just helped usher into this life. That's my personal theory. So although NOTHING went as I wanted it to, I felt I had to let that go in the moment it happened. So as I relate my story in upcoming posts, know that my heart is well. <br />
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There were literal hours dedicated to this natural, hypnobirthing malarky. (Ok, I still think hypnobirthing is a legitimate and successful way to have a baby, and although my heart is well, I can still be snarky.) I had grand plans for a quiet, peaceful, drug-free birth. So to tell you toward the end of it all, in the 11th hour, I was in an operating room, identical to the one the triplets were delivered in via emergency c-section, with a room full of people hovering around me in surgical masks, you'll know what a feat it was to let go of my months and hours of preparing for the exact opposite of how things went.<br />
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Which is why I wanted to have this chat before I relayed the story. Just so we're clear about the injustice of life and no matter how in control and well thought out your plans may be, you're never really in charge. At this point in my short experience of being a pregnant person, then mother, I really shouldn't be surprised by this. Because I seem to get this lesson in so many different ways, and each time it's always a light bulb moment. I suppose I'm grateful for a patient God who still cares to teach this stubborn, slow learning daughter that I need Him every hour.<br />
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Next post will be part one of this harrowing tale of triumph, heartbreak and water breaking birthin' fun. I'll sum up 21ish hours in a couple posts. I'll leave you with a shot of what I looked like on the last day of being pregnant with my little (or not so little, as I will soon tell you) baby. <br />
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And this guy... I said, show me your "I'm ready to be a dad for the 4th time" face. This is what I got...<br />
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I believe he was telling me he is ready to rock? <br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-41834394256920907492012-09-17T12:34:00.000-07:002012-09-17T12:34:05.747-07:00At The MomentThe kids are in their room having quiet time. Usually quiet time means naps. I love their naps. <div>
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But sometimes quiet time means yelling and laughing at each other and doing the exact opposite of sleeping. The latter is happening now. <div>
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The baby is in his little crib cooing at the toy stars above his head. </div>
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I'm snacking on a concoction of marshmallows, goldfish and craisins, taking deep breaths and letting it ALL happen.</div>
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How is <i>your</i> afternoon shaping up? </div>
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karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-76756975803038536062012-09-10T21:32:00.000-07:002013-01-25T01:09:44.197-08:00The Stretch Mark Post"...and HER stomach looks like a road map."<br />
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I nodded in a polite way, maybe raised my eyebrows a little, as if to meet his displeasure of what this woman's stomach apparently looked like to him. <br />
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It was my husband's boss after all. The first time I was meeting him, right after I had finished a delicious, expensive dinner on him. <br />
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He had just found out I was pregnant with triplets and after the normal oohs and ahhs about how crazy our life was about to become, he was suddenly concerned about how I was going to keep stretch marks at bay. <br />
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He mentioned coconut oil and how one of his daughters (I think...I don't remember the relation to the women he brought up, I just remember it made me uncomfortable) had used it during her entire pregnancy and didn't get one stretch mark. But his daughter-in-law (???) didn't do one thing and HER stomach looks like a road map.<br />
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He then told Chris he would pick some up for me at this health food store he frequents and bring it to the office the next day. <br />
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First of all, let's just skip the part where he has intimate details on the condition of these women's midriffs. Really. Weird. <br />
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But can we focus on the fact that a MAN was having this conversation with me? Remember how men don't get pregnant? Remember how a man has never experienced labor pains, child birth or the lovely weeks after delivery where every place on your body that is able to leak some kind of fluid does? Or being so large where you can't get up without rolling from side to side to gain momentum. Or your extremities going numb. Like unable to pour a gallon of milk numb. Or the swelling that causes your face, feet and hands to be unrecognizable. Or being so chock full of hormones you cry and accuse your clothes hamper of trying to sabotage your life because it is never empty. (There are literally hundreds of pregnant maladies I could list...)<br />
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Remember how a man doesn't feel the extreme highs of creating another life followed by the lowest lows of not wanting to leave your house for weeks? Remember how men don't experience that societal pressure of being sexy before, during and after pregnancy? Tabloid headlines will never have pictures of how great DAD looks only weeks after his wife gives birth. Remember? <br />
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But Sir, let's make this conversation about being pregnant with triplets all about the worry of stretch marks. Please.<br />
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Present tense Kara is writing this rant. Kara of September, 2012. Kara of September 2009 was a little less brash. 2009 Kara was not bombarded with the craziest comments from friends and strangers about the experience of having triplets. Before comments of people telling me they would rather die than be pregnant with triplets. Or have three toddlers. Or say "oops, I bet that wasn't supposed to happen," when referring to my latest pregnancy. Or say, "isn't there some kind of rule that you are supposed to stop having kids after triplets?" (The guy cracked himself up at that one. Hilarious, tactful stranger. So funny.)<br />
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2009 Kara was before I found my voice of bravery for the sake of my children. They will after all, hear and read these stories and no doubt have things said to their face when people find out their unique birthday situation. They must always know how grateful I am for every single day I have with them. <br />
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So if Kara 2012 was sitting at dinner in 2009, I would've said, <i>"Yea, everyone is concerned about different things, but I'm just hoping that all my babies are healthy and I can carry them as long as I can."</i><br />
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Or maybe, <i>"Every stretch mark that every woman has or will have is a Purple Heart in the complex world of being a woman. We are bombarded at every angle about our body image and what we think we should look like, what the world thinks we should look like and what we think the world thinks we should look like. We are told we don't have enough kids. We are told we have too many. We are told we are too fat, too thin, too ugly, too pretty and usually by people who don't know or care about us. But some broken switch in us takes in every criticism and compliment with a giant magnifying glass. We are never enough. So for you to turn this conversation about me housing three miracles of God's creation into how my stomach is going to look after, is borderline blasphemous and undoubtedly insulting. </i>(dramatic pause)<i> Thanks for dinner by the way."</i><br />
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But Kara three years ago, nodded and smiled and thanked him for his concern. (Gag.)<br />
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Full disclosure: (because you always deserve it) I did accept his coconut oil gift and used it. And I actually never did get stretch marks with the kidlets, although<a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2009/11/where-do-i-send-my-dues.html" target="_blank"> I thought I did. </a> But really, I'm not convinced it was the coconut oil, nor do I want this post to be about stretch mark prevention. <br />
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Because I have stretch marks now. I carried this new baby of mine to 39 healthy, sometimes miserable, always exhausting weeks. He was 2 pounds heavier than the triplets combined weight at birth. And although I winced a little when I realized these purple lines were here to stay, (those societal ideals are tough to shake) I thought of that conversation at dinner years ago. It made me refocus where my priorities really are and, in a way that only a healthy, big baby, born to a once quivering mother of three pre-mature infants can do--I was grateful for those permanent scars. <br />
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I don't see a road map. I see life and hope. I see an able vessel where four separate and beautiful miracles have occurred. I don't have a road map. I have a reminder that I'm one of the lucky ones.<br />
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<i>Did she really just this picture?</i> Believe it. Just doing my part to free women everywhere of the irrelevant concerns we should have during pregnancy and focus on what really matters. After all, I know plenty of women warriors who would move heaven and earth, go to hell and back and be covered in stretch marks if it meant the end result was cuddling a little one of their own.<br />
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Believe it. <br />
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<br />karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-73915390493503152322012-08-25T23:11:00.000-07:002012-08-25T23:11:40.199-07:00She'll Be BackHi Readers. <br />
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Kara's blog here. Where is that dang red head? She's been MIA for weeks. I know she had a new baby and all, but come on, one starts to feel neglected after a while. So I thought I would put up a post in her behalf. <br />
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I know she wants to start blogging again in earnest. I also know she has been a nut case and dealing with post-partum hormones. I think she was afraid most of her posts would be labeled as the ranting, semi-crazy type. Probably the reason she's stayed away.<br />
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I can tell you this new baby in the house is a tiny little ball of darling. She is always snuggling and smelling his tiny head and rubbing all that hair! She is also very busy trying to keep him safe from all the love his 3 siblings have been bestowing on him. A lot of kisses of the smothering variety need to be shooed away. She doesn't mind though. She'd rather be shooing kisses than pokes and prods.<br />
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If you run with the Instagram crowd, you can keep tabs with this crazy family <a href="http://followgram.me/karadgal" target="_blank">here</a>. It's the kind of micro blogging she has time for.<br />
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If not, I found a few memories from the past few weeks...<br />
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Also, on a completely selfish note, I would REALLY like a makeover. So if you know anyone who speaks html or would like to help me pretty up...let me know! Buttons, colors, you know a new look.<br />
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And maybe tell the original author of this blog that you miss her. I think she would appreciate it.karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-13947705484557489632012-08-03T11:27:00.002-07:002012-08-03T11:27:52.954-07:00It's Been a Week?We are a week into this newborn and three toddlers thing. Things have been going great. Especially since I've never really been alone with everyone. I'm grateful for all the extra help and food we've been given over the last week or so. (Also, whoever cleaned my kitchen window above the sink, THANK YOU! I never noticed how bad it was until I could actually see out of it.)<div>
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Things are going to get interesting. But for now, we've all kind of enjoyed our little bubble of help and no plans to go anywhere. What great timing to have the Olympics, right? </div>
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So I will leave you with a few lovely snap shots and an ode to the Summer Games; <a href="http://www.wellredlife.com/2008/08/2008-olympics.html" target="_blank">a post I wrote 4 years ago during Phelps' 8 gold craziness</a> and the Olympic fever I caught.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many fun things my kids did while we were in the hospital with baby Spencer: trip to Heber with ALL the cousins!</td></tr>
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Seriously, so in love with this little face. Asleep or awake. </div>
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<br /></div>karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5154218385578105533.post-43440327249054064342012-07-30T20:03:00.000-07:002012-07-30T20:24:48.946-07:00Welcome Baby #4It's a boy. <br />
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Our little bundle was born July 26.<br />
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If you've clicked on this post to hear the story of how our hypnobirth went, keep clicking friends. Keep clicking. You will find no such story here. After months of preparing, practicing and praying for that smooth, natural birth, nothing went as planned. The only thing that happened on my birth plan was that a healthy baby was the result at the end. That's it.<br />
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There are certain events in your life that make you realize things you've never dreamed of. <br />
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For example, who knew I could fall into a dead, deep sleep so quickly with a giant ice pack between my legs? Who knew? <br />
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And who knew how big a mother's heart can grow? Just when I think it's near bursting with three toddling little ones in my life, I think, that's it. My heart is not capable of feeling any more love and beautiful emotion. If it does, it will surely break in a million pieces. <br />
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Then, another little one comes along. And my heart doesn't break, but grows and beats faster and stronger.<br />
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Who knew? <br />
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Stay tuned for how our near 24 hour adventure of laboring and delivering played out. I'm not trying to be cliff hangy, really. My upcoming posts will be indicative of my time and energy levels. Both short and sweet. <br />
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Thanks for all the well wishes and congrats I've received so far. Our family is blessed beyond measure.<br />
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PS - we named our little bear Spencer.karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896268458024123925noreply@blogger.com11