tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23689501403297992252024-02-18T18:50:36.772-07:00Music, Mayhem, MotherhoodStacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.comBlogger340125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-16138691317014663472014-09-11T13:12:00.000-06:002014-09-11T13:12:02.789-06:00Meanwhile...<div style="text-align: center;">
So yes. We had a baby. And he's so so cute. We adore him, one and all. </div>
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But we've been doing other things as well. For instance, we moved. While we are grateful to be in the city, closer to all the many many things, we miss Midway. And I don't recommend moving at 7 months pregnant. You would think I would remember that from when we moved when I was 7 months pregnant with Max. Nope. Moving is terrible. We are grateful to be settled.<br />
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In other news, my kids started back to school at real, public, brick and mortar schools this fall. </div>
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There are many reasons why we made the switch, but mostly it was because the girls wanted to, and we decided they should have some say in their schooling. Max and Ashlynn were accepted to a fantastic charter school, and Abby goes half-day to the middle school that's in walking distance and comes home at lunch so she still has time for practicing, homework, and having a life. They are busy and happy. I am spending much time dropping off, picking up, and negotiating homework with the 12 year old, 11 year old, and the 5 year old. Yesterday, I had to bribe Max with an m&m for every row of cursive practice he completed. (Cursive in kindergarten. Yes. I don't know that I get it either.) But we got through it in record time, so that's something.<br />
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But whoever said that public school is easier than homeschool must have been crazy, because the busy, runaround life we normally lead has multiplied exponentially. My color-coded google calendar and I have become best friends, and I'm trying my hardest to keep all the balls in the air. So far, I'm averaging about one epic meltdown a week, so that's better than it could be. And that's one epic meltdown for me, not to be confused with the epic 3-year old tantrums, or the semi-regular implosions from the 5, 11, or 12 year olds, for that matter.<br />
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And I might be certifiably crazy, because this week, Max had his first cello lesson, and I've started teaching Ian little daily violin lessons.<br />
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So that makes four kids playing five instruments, (Ashlynn is playing flute in the 6th grade band...) three different music teachers, and lots and lots and lots of practicing. But the little boys love it, and due to being surrounded by it constantly, assume it's perfectly normal to practice itty-bitty violins and cellos every day.<br />
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What else? We blessed Charlie a few weeks ago, and by happy scheduling coincidence, both my sister and brother and their families were in town for the blessing. It was very fun to have everyone together, even only briefly.<br />
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And it's starting to look more and more like little Charlie may also be dealing with metopic craniosynostosis. For all those that say cranio isn't genetic, I don't believe you for a second. I started noticing Charlie's forehead ridge a few weeks ago, and kept telling myself I was crazy and blowing things out of proportion, but then my husband noticed it and I knew we were in for a ride.<br />
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We're currently watching and waiting, because although he's showing all the signs of metopic cranio- ridge down the forehead, a developing triangular forehead shape (trigonocephaly), pinching at his temples and close-set eyes, the suture still shows open on a CT scan. (As a side note, you know you're a mom of a cranio kid when they put your baby in the CT scanner and you're tempted to take a picture, because you know, baby's first CT scan...) No one can explain it, so we're currently watching and waiting. Things are changing with his headshape rapidly though, and not for the better. In my gut, I'm pretty convinced we're headed for surgery with this little one too.<br />
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The "fortunate" thing about catching this early is that we have the option of a less invasive, endoscopic surgery if his metopic suture is indeed fused. The surgery would be shorter, less risky, and be followed by few months of helmet therapy to help his head retain its corrected shape. So we'll see if that's an option. In the meantime, I'm trying not to think about it every hour of every day.<br />
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So while I'm frustrated and angry and all those other things about facing the hell that is craniosynostosis AGAIN, especially since it wasn't all that easy the first and second go rounds, I'm grateful that at least we know what it is, and we know how to treat it. We know who the doctors are and how to navigate Primary Children's Hospital, and that there is life after surgery. Doesn't mean I don't wish we'd never heard of craniosynostosis in the first place.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-27417678042432403832014-08-01T21:49:00.000-06:002014-08-01T22:00:40.308-06:00To RememberThis baby, this little Charlie of mine, is growing up right before my eyes. At 6 weeks old, he's already lost his newborn look, has outgrown all of his newborn and most of his 0-3 month clothes, and is dangerously close to needing size 2 diapers. While I am thrilled that he is growing healthy and strong, and we can't wait to see who he becomes, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't mourn each new milestone just a little bit. I love tiny babies, and already, my baby isn't tiny anymore. (In fact, he's probably pushing 12 lbs, if not more!) And please forgive me if you find this post overly sentimental- this blog has become a journal of sorts over the years, so even if no one reads this, I'll probably read it and cry in a year or two!<br />
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There are so many things I want to remember about my tiny Charlie. I want to remember his cute little chin quiver; it almost looks like he's chattering non-existent teeth. I don't know why he does it, but the first time I saw his chin quiver, I realized I recognized that movement because I had been feeling it in the womb!<br />
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I want to remember his cute little grunts, coos, and noises. I don't know that I've ever had such a vocal baby- I've been woken up in the middle of the night to hear him grunting in his sleep! My favorite are the little coos he makes sometime when he's sleeping and I'm holding him; he almost sounds like a purring kitten. And this morning he was sleeping in while I was getting ready, and he was giggling in his sleep. I nearly died of cuteness.<br />
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I want to always remember the feel of Charlie melting in my arms while I'm holding him. He is the cutest, cuddliest little squishy baby, and everyone who holds him comments on how he just melts into their arms. Frequently when I'm holding him, he pops upright to look straight at me and studies the world around him with intense interest. I'm especially loving having him in the baby carrier, close to me. We get this chance a lot since he hates his carseat with the fire of 1,000 suns, and won't tolerate sitting in it even for a quick trip to the grocery store. I am becoming an expert at buckling him up in the carrier one handed, and he is an expert at falling asleep on my chest and gathering compliments from perfect strangers about how adorable he is. (Look at those rolls! And those cheeks! I want to eat him up, daily. In a non-weird, non-cannibalistic way, of course.)<br />
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I want to remember every funny facial expression, and especially his sweet open mouth miles that are coming more and more frequently. He has the best scowl that comes complete with a wrinkle on his nose. And the puckered up lips and blissed-out, milk-drunk expression when he finishes nursing is the best. And the baby smiles, first thing in the morning, at diaper changes, and at random in the middle of nursing sessions, are the reward for everything, I tell you.<br />
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I want to remembers his baby soft, crazy curls when he gets out of the bath.They only last long enough for me to know that he's gonna end up with curls just like his brothers. And I'm sure that in a few years, we'll have a hard time remembering that Charlie's hair was ever dark, because we can already see a lot of blond poking through.<br />
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I want to remember nursing him, everywhere and anywhere. My poor fifth baby has done an excellent job of fitting into our existing chaos, but it also means that he gets carted around everywhere, and has been nursed in the movie theater, the swimming pool, the school lunch cafeteria, church, countless parking lots, outdoor concerts, McDonald's playland, and many a doctor or midwife appointments among other strange places. I can gauge how fast he's growing by how he fits in my arms while nursing. I can still support his whole body with one arm, but that ain't gonna last for long.<br />
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Dear sweet baby Charlie, can you just stay little, for just a bit longer? You are truly the best blessing that we didn't know we wanted.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-88299819281076916262014-07-15T16:34:00.000-06:002014-07-15T17:16:46.018-06:00Baby Charlie, Part 2, the Birth StoryIf you're just landing here, you may want to check out <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2014/07/baby-charlie-part-1.html">this post</a>, which describes how we went from "Nope, we're not having any more kids," to being 40+ weeks pregnant with our fifth baby.<br />
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About 3 am Tuesday morning, I became aware that I was once again having contractions that were waking me up. I'd wake up long enough to be uncomfortable, time the contraction, and fall back asleep. After a little while of this, I realized this was different than all those other episodes of "false labor" for two reasons: contractions almost always slowed or even stopped when I laid down, and even those nights when I contracted most of the night, the contractions always stopped by 3:00 or 4:00 am. Just after 4:00 am, I was awake enough to text Morgan, who was about to board a plane back to New Hampshire with her five kids, telling her I was having strong contractions about 10 min apart. Her response? "I am so not surprised."<br />
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The contractions continued at 10 minutes apart for a while, keeping me wondering if anything was really happening. The contractions were certainly strong, required all my attention to get through, and felt different, aching deep in my pelvis, but I wasn't at all convinced they weren't going to quit on me like they had every time before. I was pacing my bedroom and would lean on the bed and rock my hips when the contractions came. By 5:30 am, though, I was having enough trouble coping with the contractions (and being quiet so I didn't wake anyone up!) that I woke up my husband.<br />
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I was grateful for the long breaks between the contractions, because as they quickly strengthened, I needed every minute of that rest to get through them without panicking. Tom started filling up the tub, which seemed a little optimistic to me, but when I hit my hands and knees on the rug in the bathroom, begging my husband to come hold my hand/press on my back/coach me through each contraction, I finally conceded that it might be time to call the midwives.<br />
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The sequence of events gets a bit blurry for me from here on out as the contractions increased in instensity and started coming much closer together. Tom tried to convince me to move from the rug in front of the bathtub to somewhere more comfortable and with more room, but I heartily refused. I liked the smaller space of the bathroom, and probably would have taken up residence in the closet if I would have thought people could get to me! Heidi arrived not long after we called, and started setting things up. Between the contractions, I kept thinking things like "This isn't real, they're going to stop." or "Why am I making so much noise with these contractions? Maybe I'm exaggerating this. It can't possibly hurt this bad when they're still so far apart and labor just started." Then as soon as another contraction started, it was all I could do to ride the waves.<br />
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I tried to vocalize what I was feeling and I don't think I was very coherent. I remember asking Heidi "these contractions aren't going to stop are they?" and starting to feel a bit panicked because everything felt so strong and powerful and painful and I was certain I still had hours to go. Soon, Laura, the second midwife arrived and she and Heidi and Tom all took turns providing counterpressure and encouragement.<br />
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Heidi and Laura kept telling me I was almost there, that this was transition and I'd be holding my baby soon, and my sarcastic inner voice kept arguing with them. "There's no way I'm almost done. Labor just started. I'm still not convinced that it isn't going to stop again. They have no idea what they're talking about." (It's funny to reflect on this now, because I felt the same way during Ashlynn's lightning quick birth, you'd think I'd remember what it feels like.) The midwives started to spread out chux pads and their equipment, and I still felt like everyone was being overly optimistic. I was trying to keep my sounds under control and labor gracefully and peacefully, but the low and loud vocalizations seemed to come of their own accord. Heidi encouraged me to "greet each contraction with relaxation," and I tried, I really did, but at that point I was holding on for dear life!<br />
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When my knees started to give out, everyone kept encouraging me to move to the tub, someone even suggesting "Let's have a waterbirth." I was a little panicky about changing positions and getting in the tub, worried that I wouldn't feel as secure or grounded in the water. They helped me move quickly in between the contractions, and I was grateful for the few seconds of relaxation the water brought before I was slammed by another contraction. It was about this point that I remember wondering (and maybe saying) why in the world I thought giving birth at home was such a smart idea, which got a good laugh from everyone.<br />
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At this point, I was pretty done. I was looking for a way to get out of this- to not finish. All I could think of was that I wanted to get out of my body. Of course the only thing I could vocalize was "This is wrong....I want out...." which led my poor midwife Laura to think I meant I wanted out of the tub, at which point she started trying to help me to get out of the tub. Finally I was able to sputter out "I just want. out. of my body," which caused everyone to laugh again.<br />
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It wasn't until, in the middle of one particularly nasty contraction, that I felt the tell-tale burning, stretching, stinging, baby-is-about-to-crown feeling that I actually truly believed that he was coming. And then I started to panic. Crowning is the scariest, most intense part of labor, and I wasn't looking forward to it. In the space between contractions, I looked at my husband and muttered, "You. Are. Getting. The. Procedure. I am NEVER doing this again." He was amused.<br />
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Two more burning, stretching, crowning, entire-body-splitting-apart contractions. Heidi encouraged me to reach down and feel his head, and I tried, but couldn't move my hand without feeling like I was losing all my stability. One more huge push and his head was out, followed quickly by the rest of his body. I opened my eyes, saw my baby and reached down to pull him up to my chest.<br />
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I cried, breathed a huge sigh of relief that I was done, and exclaimed "A baby! I had a baby!" to anyone that would listen. Everyone grabbed cameras, and I couldn't take my eyes off my sweet baby. He was quiet, breathing and pink, covered in vernix, with the thickest head of black curly hair that any of my kids had been born with. He was gorgeous and perfect and I was so blissfully happy to finally have him in my arms. Best moment ever.<br />
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My kids all came rushing in, thrilled to meet the newest member of the family. Ian immediately begged to hold him, before the cord was even cut! He was the first to climb up on the side of the tub and reach out for Charlie, and wouldn't leave his side for most of the day. Ashlynn called dibs on cutting his cord when we first told them we were pregnant, and once he was free, they bundled him up and passed him to Tom and four eager brothers and sisters. Some of my most treasured moments from Charlie's birth were watching my big kids interact with and love on their new baby sibling.<br />
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Charlie weighed in at a whopping 8lbs 7oz, and measured 20.5 inches long. He didn't love the newborn exam, but settled in to nurse quickly and proved to be a natural. My parents came almost as soon as Ashlynn called and announced "We have a baby," and after a quick look at her new baby brother, Abby ran out the door to catch her ride to violin institute.<br />
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One of the hardest parts of Charlie taking his own sweet time to make his way earthside was the conflict with violin camp, which we have been to every summer since Abby was 4 years old. This year, she had sent in a video audition to play at one of the lunchtime honor's recitals, and she was chosen to perform in front of the entire institute, a big deal. I didn't worry about her being assigned to Tuesday afternoon because I never imagined I wouldn't have a baby by then. But life goes on, and she kissed her baby brother, and went off to Institute to happily tell everyone that mom had just had a baby that morning. (I was there helping people register the day before!) Tom took all the kids and my parents to go hear her perform at the 1:00 recital, and I curled up in bed with my new baby Charlie. While I was heartbroken to miss her big performance, (I had basically taught her this piece from the beginning, we had worked on it for months, and she was playing it brilliantly,) I knew there was nothing I could do. Tom tried to skype me in to see her perform, but it cut out just before she walked on stage. I knew the minute her performance was over though, because I got 4-5 texts from people in the audience telling me what a great job she did. The tears flowed freely as I looked at my newborn son and realized how blessed I was with all 5 of my amazing children.<br />
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Charlie has been such an amazing addition to our family, and the adjustment to having him here has been remarkably easy. He is by far the most mellow of the five, and is for the most part, remarkably easy. He's a great sleeper and has been from the beginning- I commented to Tom that it seems like his bad nights are the equivalent of my other kids' good nights. I have spent hours with him on my chest, cuddling him, memorizing every detail, and trying to absorb every moment since I know he truly is my last newborn. He is truly loved, (and fought over!) by his siblings, and I regularly have to fend Ian off and tell him that baby Charlie has had enough kisses. Within a few days, it seemed like he had always been a part of our family.<br />
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First day at church. He was underwhelmed.</div>
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Amazing Midwives at 3 weeks old</div>
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I am so grateful for such a wonderful birth experience. While I wouldn't say it was easy, (is any birth ever easy?) it was by far the easiest and most satisfying of all 5. Straightforward, simple, fast, intense, powerful and wonderful. Within days I felt nearly back to normal, and by the time a week had passed I felt like nothing had happened. With each of my previous births, I look back and think "I should have..." or "If only..." and I feel nothing like that this time. With the exception of Morgan having to miss the birth by hours, I have no regrets, which is such an amazing feeling. It was a long hard pregnancy, but the baby at the end? Totally worth it.<br />
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-64721870630219508022014-07-10T16:07:00.000-06:002014-07-15T12:56:38.635-06:00Baby Charlie, Part 1It's been a little over nine months since I last posted on my little corner of the interwebs.<br />
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Incidentally, nine months is also just the right amount of time to conceive, grow, and birth what may be the world's cutest baby.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Pardon the huge basket of laundry in the background, just keeping things real...)</span></div>
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For those keeping score at home, yes, we were done after 4 kids. Two older girls, two younger boys: perfect. I was knee deep in violin teaching, managing the two older girls and all their performing, rehearsing, schooling, etc. Add two busy little boys into the mix, and I really had about all I could handle. Or so I thought. I swore that if we were to have another child, it wasn't going to come through me.<br />
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About a year ago, I got a (completely shocking) positive pregnancy test. I admit it, I cried. And flipped out. And called a friend while I was pacing around the yard, and kept saying things like "There is no way in the world that this is ever going to be okay." Then I told my husband and we both cried.<br />
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It took a few weeks for me to decide that I was okay with the idea of another baby. And then, just like that, I miscarried. It was a strange place to be in. It took me a while to even decide how I felt about it. But, when all was said and done, we decided that yes, we did want another baby to join our family. It took a surprisingly short amount of time to get another one of these.<br />
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We were 100% convinced it was a girl. We had a name picked out from the beginning, referred to the baby as "she," bought baby girl clothes, and didn't even entertain the thought of it being a boy. Until we went for the routine 20 week ultrasound and the tech started writing "boy" on the screen, the possibility of having another boy never crossed our minds. I even accused the poor ultrasound technician of lying to us. Ashlynn, who was babysitting at the time and didn't see the ultrasound, was convinced the entire family was playing an elaborate joke on her when we told her she was having a baby brother. It wasn't until I showed her the ultrasound photos myself that she was convinced. It took some time for me to get used to the idea of three little boys in a row; there were many moments throughout the pregnancy where I would look at Max and Ian wrestling on the floor and wonder what in the world it was going to be like to add another to the mix.<br />
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I'm not going to sugarcoat it: it wasn't an easy pregnancy. In fact, miserable might be a better word. This was my eighth pregnancy, and by far the hardest. In other pregnancies, I would feel nauseous, or maybe dry heave. This pregnancy, I threw up nearly every day, sometimes multiple times a day, for nearly the entire pregnancy. At 38 weeks, I texted a friend to tell her I was full term and still puking in the sink every morming. Heartburn, no sleep, aches and pains? Oh yes. Present and accounted for.<br />
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As soon as we could wrap our minds around another pregnancy, we began planning a homebirth. While being in the hospital was the right decision for<a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2010/10/surprises.html"> Ian's birth</a>, both Tom and I much preferred the experience we had<a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2009/07/maxs-homebirth-story.html"> birthing Max at home</a>. I went into it with a certain amount of nervousness: while Max and Ian's births were both wonderful experiences in their own way, the start and stop labors were hard both physically and emotionally, and I wanted to do anything I could to avoid a repeat of that experience. The only thing that I could come up with as a reason for the weird labor pattern was that with both the boys, I had interventions, however "natural," to try and get the labor going. So, I called my dear friend Heidi, who was my doula for both the boys and had since become a midwife, and dove into homebirth planning with both feet. I made all three midwives in the practice promise not to let me mess with anything as I came close to my due date, no matter how much I begged.<br />
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The hardest challenge of the pregnancy was the near constant contractions that started around 30 weeks. At 33 weeks we ended up in the hospital for pre-term labor, a scenario that was familiar from Ian's pregnancy, but the contractions were much more serious this time around. We were all but convinced that we were going to end up in the hospital with a preemie, but as it turned out, once they stopped my labor and sent me home, I was just in for weeks and weeks of miserable, painful contractions, that did nothing but exhaust me and make me grumpy.<br />
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My due date was June 12th, and I was super convinced that I wouldn't make it to my due date. All the pre-term contractions, plus the fact that Ian and Max were both born before their due date had me convinced that he would be an early June baby, if not born in late May. Every day that passed found me more discouraged. Every night I went to bed with contractions 3-5 minutes apart, and every morning I'd wake up miserable and still pregnant. As I checked concerts, recitals, and all of the normal end of school year items off my list, I became more tired, grumpy and anxious to meet my baby by the day.<br />
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My only consolation was that my dear friend <a href="http://ingfamily.blogspot.com/">Morgan</a> was coming to Utah to be here for the birth, and would arrive two days before his due date. I fully anticipated that he would be born as soon as she got here; that HAD to be the only thing keeping my body from going into labor. But then my due date came and went and oh, how grumpy I was about it! I felt terrible for my poor supportive husband who had to live with pregnant me, and my kids, who at that point had learned to just stay out of my way! Each day that crawled by, I was more and more convinced that I was going to be the first woman ever pregnant forever, that my body was broken and had no idea how to really go into labor, and that I was going to be stuck facing a hospital induction at 42 weeks. It really was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausting.<br />
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Several times I gave serious consideration to "natural" induction methods. At my last midwife appointment, I begged my midwives to strip my membranes, hoping to get labor going, and they refused. While I should have kept in mind all my determination at the beginning of the pregnancy to not mess with things, it didn't keep me from being irrationally angry with them. Friday afternoon, I even went and bought a bottle of castor oil and the ingredients for a castor oil smoothie, determined to serve the baby an eviction notice, then chickened out at the last minute. I wanted a good, smooth, low-intervention birth, and was too afraid that castor oil, along with tasting awful, would screw everything up.<br />
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Then came Monday, June 16th, 3 days past my due date. Morgan was flying home with her family early the next morning, and to say that we were both upset that she had been here a whole week and was going to miss the birth is an understatement. The only time I had been pregnant longer than this was with Abby, who was induced at 42 weeks. I said goodbye to my best friend and my doula and went to bed and cried. I'm not joking when I say that when I went to bed that night, I was more discouraged than ever.<br />
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(And this is already too long, so I'll stop here and continue in another post that hopefully won't take 9 months to write...)Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-82192749778369034682013-09-12T14:24:00.001-06:002013-09-12T14:24:24.501-06:00Naps are wasted on the young...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
My baby boy, Ian, is nearly 3. How this happens, I don't understand.</div>
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But it's hard to be a nearly three year old, you know?</div>
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He's in that awkward stage where he still needs a nap, but when he naps he stays up until the middle of the night. So sometimes, we try to do without a nap, but the whining, crying and the slobbery pile of toddler tantrum that inevitably results around 4pm when he doesn't nap makes all of us want to scratch our eyes out with plastic forks.</div>
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But sometimes, you just need a nap.</div>
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Sometimes you curl up on the couch with sister's blanket.</div>
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Sometimes (most of the time,) you fall asleep in the carseat.</div>
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Sometimes, church is too hard, so you fall asleep in the foyer.</div>
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And sometimes, it's even harder, so you fall dead asleep on your sisters' laps.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio81szEB-YI64uR-XXZb2UENjVrGY_Oop8tZY4ob-iR6RK3yM5Em_vw_PcUHcbODPyl_adTznAQr2hFcIZ8KBn26TfSXE6dX53OYBYWsxIDOVCfQTOxLXWtmM32pEwPjQPJ4U3nEHuXd8/s1600/IMG_2395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio81szEB-YI64uR-XXZb2UENjVrGY_Oop8tZY4ob-iR6RK3yM5Em_vw_PcUHcbODPyl_adTznAQr2hFcIZ8KBn26TfSXE6dX53OYBYWsxIDOVCfQTOxLXWtmM32pEwPjQPJ4U3nEHuXd8/s320/IMG_2395.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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And sometimes, church is the hardest, and you fall asleep with your dad and a dish towel (who knows?) in the rocking chair.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8JJ6BOYX59k-j3XIV2Q6S9hSB97RVG2-apfr0j2mlsUaTgryk8Q8wlUE7vtO-3-SQFIL5wEnojxIOfSipK56OaLHY2Kbc-4V8u331Pg4mchZjql8hai0fnK92gUGOcNq715me7Plxkw/s1600/IMG_3246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8JJ6BOYX59k-j3XIV2Q6S9hSB97RVG2-apfr0j2mlsUaTgryk8Q8wlUE7vtO-3-SQFIL5wEnojxIOfSipK56OaLHY2Kbc-4V8u331Pg4mchZjql8hai0fnK92gUGOcNq715me7Plxkw/s320/IMG_3246.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes, on a random Wednesday afternoon, you decide for reasons unknown, to fall asleep on the step of the garage, which makes your mom panic when she can't find you. Then, just as she's about to call the cops and your dad to report a missing kid, she nearly trips over you heading out to the garage.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5cx0Vihtk-6zQ883xYqqOnWoANEJKezMDYhJYH_OR7Ls6A3kQOh67dcm_YG_5b0N5PGQNcm4o8Fy0N5uCOHIFrJ7bkay2TJa2iIy69yBudJODQvyeMHNE1pTkjQGQj5bGsr2TAWXH3U/s1600/IMG_3266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5cx0Vihtk-6zQ883xYqqOnWoANEJKezMDYhJYH_OR7Ls6A3kQOh67dcm_YG_5b0N5PGQNcm4o8Fy0N5uCOHIFrJ7bkay2TJa2iIy69yBudJODQvyeMHNE1pTkjQGQj5bGsr2TAWXH3U/s320/IMG_3266.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes, your macaroni and cheese doesn't cook fast enough, and you fall asleep mid-tantrum on the kitchen floor.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes your naps make your parents so jealous they could spit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NULIJltuBvFLi3k3zqv-d1W20Jv-w8LgNVAiFuxWwJd-JjrWmIOpcSxSxLfbxA2aj0CoK7VIPnHM78RmC1I-pErodnWl9HDGrPEO_03lS1KBsFE0e5KZ6llkgLXksAhvIJmKeYwX_Cc/s1600/Ian+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NULIJltuBvFLi3k3zqv-d1W20Jv-w8LgNVAiFuxWwJd-JjrWmIOpcSxSxLfbxA2aj0CoK7VIPnHM78RmC1I-pErodnWl9HDGrPEO_03lS1KBsFE0e5KZ6llkgLXksAhvIJmKeYwX_Cc/s1600/Ian+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes, not even a stroller ride and a sucker will prevent an emergency nap.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbh-aR0HfE0Cs0KZ28MVbrMEhRnRouUqpplI4t41rwkdFyupSe7_wPcEJmRYp08cOcp9B9vLE6JLeScHIiggW4qOvfIzvV7UIZGwHsXy5_iMljHgnDD8cgUxHV-m3RyHRJ8suvGmINSE/s1600/Ian+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbh-aR0HfE0Cs0KZ28MVbrMEhRnRouUqpplI4t41rwkdFyupSe7_wPcEJmRYp08cOcp9B9vLE6JLeScHIiggW4qOvfIzvV7UIZGwHsXy5_iMljHgnDD8cgUxHV-m3RyHRJ8suvGmINSE/s1600/Ian+3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And sometimes, you just need your brother to insure a good nap.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-77951170020060419422013-08-22T13:37:00.000-06:002013-08-25T21:34:34.363-06:00The Juggling Act<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wrote this a few months ago, and never pushed "publish." I revisited it today for some reason, probably because motherhood is kicking my trash this week and I needed the inspiration. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">~</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I groan and roll
over to silence the bleating alarm. It’s
5:30 am. Between my anxiety-riddled dreams, soothing the two year old who was
inexplicably awake three times during the night, and getting kicked repeatedly
in the ribs by the four-year old who firmly believes Mommy and Daddy’s bed is
his bed, I had closed my eyes for good about 4am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Bleary eyed,
I step in the shower, silently chanting my morning mantra: “Being tired never
killed anyone. I will feel like a person if I can just make it to 10:00am. I
will not die simply because it’s early morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By 6:15 am,
my household is reluctantly stirring, my makeup is hastily applied, and my
first violin student of the day is beginning an E-flat major scale in the
violin studio. I hit my knees in the dark living room, the shrieks of my boys’
first morning brawl echoing down the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Dear
Father,” I plead, “I’m not sure I have the energy to do this today. Please help
me to be patient and kind to my children, even when I don’t want to be. Bless
me with the energy and the stamina I need to get through this day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My second
student of the day has just started tuning her violin when the studio door
opens. My daughter, doubling as my babysitter this morning, is holding my four
year old son by the hand. “Mommy, my ear
hurts,” he whimpers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I excuse myself
from the lesson, taking a brief look in my son’s ear to confirm yet another
raging ear infection. I convince my poor, feverish son to take a syringe full
of ibuprofen and hurry to place a call to the pediatrician. My sweet boy has
never met an ear infection he didn’t have to have, and no run-of-the-mill
course of antibiotics ever comes close to clearing the massive infections. The
nurse gives me the last appointment of the day so I can still drive my daughter
to her own violin lesson fifty miles away, then teach two more lessons in my
studio, all before I have to leave for the appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I choke back
the bitter taste of guilt as I tuck a blanket around my little boy, turn on
Phinneas and Ferb to help babysit, and head back to the violin studio,
wondering how many more ear infections my son will get before the doctors start
talking about a third set of ear tubes. While my student is perfecting her etude,
my stomach is churning, knowing there’s no way we’ll be able to afford yet
another surgery, especially now that we have no health insurance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The guilt,
the stretching and pulling in seventeen different directions, they are my
constant companions. I could be a better mother if I didn’t have 22 violin
students. I could be a better teacher if my students were the only thing I had
to focus on. Days like this are a long walk across a tightrope strung over a
pit of snarling lions: one slip-up, one late baby sitter, one dead van battery
and it’s going to get ugly really fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There are
other times too. The times when the teenager, who has struggled with crippling
stage fright for years, has a brilliant recital performance and her smile
lights up every corner of the recital hall.
The times where a young violinist and her mother beam with unexpected
pride when they realize they’ve achieved something remarkably difficult. The
moments when I giggle, witnessing my two sons wrestling like puppies on the
living rooms floor. The day when my violinist daughter plays her Bach Partita
so brilliantly and musically that it takes my breath away, leaving me in awe
with tears in my eyes, despite the lunch debris spread all over the counter and
the little brothers squabbling at a deafening volume. Those are the times that remind me. This.
This is what I’m supposed to do. This is where I belong. This is who I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So I’ll continue walking the tightrope, hitting
my knees in the dark of the morning hours to plead for help, and ignoring the
ever-present baskets of clean and dirty laundry. I’ll mother, nurture, teach, guide, make
music, chauffer kids to doctor appointments, rehearsals, and question my sanity
daily. I’ll giggle until my cheeks hurt
with my kids around the dinner table, and I’ll stay up too late enjoying the
only quiet moments in the day. And I’ll cry, and sing, teach, bandage scrapes,
pray, and then hope against hope that it’s enough. For my students, for my
children. For me. For God.</span>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-32134639098242183562013-08-16T17:20:00.000-06:002013-08-16T17:20:04.317-06:00Is this thing on?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
So this crazy insane life of mine doesn't leave much time for sitting at a computer. And while I honestly aim to blog more often than every four months, (oh my holy heavens!) sometimes you just gotta do a great big dump of photos, not even in any particular order and call yourself caught up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So this summer that's nearly over? It has been, and forever will be forever after referred to as the summer of Swiss Miss.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN_xjzza93WH0_hRWktW42lDY2QesXRl6wFl-Tt819NWKpb3g-boW778UTHiM0VdEVu4bPf3g7U_HjCDv9QDKufTfpgpsQKuZRFoPM5vY4YPlya8wOOGEirSy6bxy3tirkYBS8GDKAZU/s1600/IMG_2195.JPG+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN_xjzza93WH0_hRWktW42lDY2QesXRl6wFl-Tt819NWKpb3g-boW778UTHiM0VdEVu4bPf3g7U_HjCDv9QDKufTfpgpsQKuZRFoPM5vY4YPlya8wOOGEirSy6bxy3tirkYBS8GDKAZU/s320/IMG_2195.JPG+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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These girls have performed everywhere. It turns out that preparing a singing and dancing program with 5 10-12 year olds takes a ton of time, energy, and general schlepping everywhere.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtozis76KVLHY79plZ64C5nzOkhDPpKD5S-waltJ8LBpPUHQZ04J5782U_nQs_qTAe8Lq-S6WOIsqjlDDe7XH-9yodzSfJCRLwQG8PvEe8PkX27YL_K0Dlw0yXFMYoqRziJiTPGtG9iLA/s1600/IMG_2346.JPG+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtozis76KVLHY79plZ64C5nzOkhDPpKD5S-waltJ8LBpPUHQZ04J5782U_nQs_qTAe8Lq-S6WOIsqjlDDe7XH-9yodzSfJCRLwQG8PvEe8PkX27YL_K0Dlw0yXFMYoqRziJiTPGtG9iLA/s320/IMG_2346.JPG+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We learned more about setting up, dismantling, and driving a float in parades than we ever thought there was to know. (Six parades down, one more to go!)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigcSBStTr-95ndtfSkNnHDlRGFqCf1SpA7Gqs1SyA3byYspCcZWNMOrTf33waAZY4LkqX_LgkW5qkpavgTe-WS60vqK4sXWSb8QgpZ7OYNTyqYyB9y3UOeW6ZpCaJ4NRmtu_PU8YFZk0/s1600/IMG_2983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigcSBStTr-95ndtfSkNnHDlRGFqCf1SpA7Gqs1SyA3byYspCcZWNMOrTf33waAZY4LkqX_LgkW5qkpavgTe-WS60vqK4sXWSb8QgpZ7OYNTyqYyB9y3UOeW6ZpCaJ4NRmtu_PU8YFZk0/s320/IMG_2983.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their biggest event is yet to come when Swiss Days arrives in a few weeks.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1zGQABgoImaMAIHoCb2s_YdEbutorymmLyeUKN4jWH-upzj0hVE_dpREnkpbt1bTTGwwQdbmXr7GycBFqY2eIhd-f-Tm168L_NNCkgruv_-zJI2kJ-umLidZ-Zwe4d6zNUVenJUVvWo/s1600/IMG_3191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: start;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1zGQABgoImaMAIHoCb2s_YdEbutorymmLyeUKN4jWH-upzj0hVE_dpREnkpbt1bTTGwwQdbmXr7GycBFqY2eIhd-f-Tm168L_NNCkgruv_-zJI2kJ-umLidZ-Zwe4d6zNUVenJUVvWo/s320/IMG_3191.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's a little bit like I have 4 extra daughters for the summer.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1uAUOzX_vBg4y7pHQyaXwDt0fvO0Dt_HV6_VrzwFbve5tBeqTUC9TX2cLg42A9ky2n5UTv0A5Bo0icoCxfJTX5paCmm0hPcfpCHKNCnzdK4QkNz3KgoJSPnwusjhFnVOvPx5ckAou-U/s1600/IMG_3192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1uAUOzX_vBg4y7pHQyaXwDt0fvO0Dt_HV6_VrzwFbve5tBeqTUC9TX2cLg42A9ky2n5UTv0A5Bo0icoCxfJTX5paCmm0hPcfpCHKNCnzdK4QkNz3KgoJSPnwusjhFnVOvPx5ckAou-U/s320/IMG_3192.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I never knew it would be so much work. Honestly. But I look at this and realize it's worth it. Every bit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZ5BsHKB0j_4-WX2ql91HeuhfsP4QG0h5ebengddkI5OdMI2hzQvagXtfTh2pkL0YrQYugvqscGFrxvlen-Wifusq9lpxN3Sb-oIQrzjWKqEts6VkQaW11R3Bt9BExrksnU4FLroylkE/s1600/IMG_2343.JPG+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZ5BsHKB0j_4-WX2ql91HeuhfsP4QG0h5ebengddkI5OdMI2hzQvagXtfTh2pkL0YrQYugvqscGFrxvlen-Wifusq9lpxN3Sb-oIQrzjWKqEts6VkQaW11R3Bt9BExrksnU4FLroylkE/s320/IMG_2343.JPG+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ashlynn even landed herself on the front page of the Sunday Newspaper after the Days of '47 Childrens' Parade.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoHCUvEtoiS3COf4Y-xtumOO-0jOint8i9XgTwpodRUtd5WwY5WMjKp6to7WW4DQGvTzxKHJjpZltnPN7RxGBRMMmWFqG25rY3hf8wLQ-1-DQO9vKfQ2uuOG2NAAkieeS52fEjeh009Y/s1600/IMG_2549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoHCUvEtoiS3COf4Y-xtumOO-0jOint8i9XgTwpodRUtd5WwY5WMjKp6to7WW4DQGvTzxKHJjpZltnPN7RxGBRMMmWFqG25rY3hf8wLQ-1-DQO9vKfQ2uuOG2NAAkieeS52fEjeh009Y/s320/IMG_2549.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We've had other adventures too. In May, Abby and I went on tour with Rocky Mountain Strings. It was three days of buses, performances, and amazing fun.</div>
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Ian wants to take after his sister.</div>
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And he got a haircut, which I fully admit to regretting immediately.</div>
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Max's blonde locks, however, are as long and curly as ever.</div>
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June marked our yearly trip to violin institute.</div>
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Where Abby played violin approximately ten hours a day,</div>
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And I had a solo on the tublular bells. (Don't ask. My life is weird.)</div>
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Ashlynn's 10th birthday was at the end of June. (How she is 10, I don't know. Someone will need to explain this to me at some point.) We had a giant party with 20 of her closest friends and a lot of water.</div>
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She asked for and received a bow and arrow set.</div>
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Which, as it turns out, she's really good at.</div>
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In July, we returned to Torrey for our annual Fourth of July Celebration. This time it included time with cousins, which was extra fun.</div>
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Abby gained quite a following when she played her violin on Main Street before the parade.</div>
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She earned enough money playing the violin this summer to buy herself her very own iPod. She's very proud.</div>
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We've played in the water, and I decided that little boys with swim trunks that don't stay up are my favorite.</div>
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And sometimes, we just stayed at home and ate popscicles, because what else do you do in the summertime?</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"> Oh. And this happened. Which shocked the pants off of me and my husband. Just as I had made up my mind that another baby wasn't going to completely ruin our lives, I miscarried. And miscarriages suck. I'll write more about this another time. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">So there you have it. The summer of Swiss Miss and all. It's hard to believe that summer is basically over and it's back to the school routine next week. We're holding on to our hats and getting ready for another year of homeschooling. And maybe a few deep breaths.</span></div>
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-60759451439277019732013-03-30T21:25:00.000-06:002013-03-30T21:25:01.600-06:00Going Full Hippie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These are chickens.</div>
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Six Rhode Island Reds to be exact. They have taken up residence in a corner of my living room and are happily peeping away. </div>
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I completely blame <a href="http://ingfamily.blogspot.com/2013/03/hagey-hens.html">Morgan</a>.</div>
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My kids are over the moon excited. (I'm pretty excited too...) We're looking at plans to build a chicken coop, and hopefully, within a few months, we'll be able to send the girls out first thing in the morning to collect the eggs. </div>
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We're also planting phase one of our garden on Monday.</div>
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So, go for it. Best "hippie" joke wins. As far as I'm concerned, all I'm missing are some dreads, birkenstocks, and maybe a goat. </div>
Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-62161414928733034532013-03-25T15:08:00.000-06:002013-03-25T15:08:47.104-06:00A Different Kind of Stage MomThere's a certain amount of stage-mom-ness that comes naturally to me given my two girls and their musical pursuits. But when Ashlynn asked, begged, pleaded, and basically threw herself at my feet promising she'd do whatever I asked her happily for the rest of forever if I'd just let her enter a pageant, I nearly choked.<div>
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A pageant? Really? Like dressed up, parade around stage, fancy dresses, judged on your appearances? So not my scene. I might even be morally opposed to beauty pageants on a fundamental level, and maybe a bit afraid that my inborn stage-mom tendencies would turn me into one of those crazy reality-show pageant moms. </div>
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So I talked to a few moms in my community, and they assured me it wasn't a beauty pageant, that it was judged more on talent and poise and interviewing skills. They told me it would be a chance for her to serve our community. Then Ashlynn begged more. For months on end. And my husband pointed out how we encourage Abby to be on stage all the time and it would be good for Ashlynn to do something just for her. And then I thought about how fun it would be for her to be in parades, be on stage, make friends, represent our small-town community, etc... So we took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.</div>
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The last few weeks have been filled with practices, talent routines, discussions about modeling and on-stage interviews, and a giddy 9-year old bouncing off the walls with excitement about the pageant. I kept wondering what in the world I'd gotten myself into.</div>
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But Ashlynn loved every minute of it. She absolutely lit up and shined on stage. The first time I saw her do her cute Harry Potter monologue that introduced her piano piece, tears sprung to my eyes as I thought, "Wow. That's my kid. And she's pretty stinking amazing!"</div>
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The pageant was on Saturday, and the days leading up to in and the day of were absolutely insane. Saturday morning at 6:40am found me hauling down the mountain in the blizzard to judge violin federation. (Stupid snow, grumble grumble....) I got back just in time to re-curl Ashlynn's hair, put makeup on her and run back over to the pageant.</div>
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After all the talent-ing, the makeup, the glitter, (I got in extra trouble for putting glitter in her hair because all the girls are supposed to look the same in the opening number, don't you know,) she was sitting in the chair next to me, bouncing off the walls, waiting for her name to be called as part of the royalty.</div>
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And call her name they did.</div>
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What I've learned in the past few days is that this isn't just your average beauty pageant. These five girls will be representing our small mountain community for the next year with tv appearances, community service projects at least monthly, performances, and a huge commitment for the community celebrations that happen around here every Labor Day and Christmas. I don't think I realized quite the crazy we signed up for until I was talking to one of the moms of the outgoing royalty, and she showed me the bag she carries everywhere complete with butt-glue (did you know there was such a thing?!), false eyelashes, multiple costumes and at least two curling irons. </div>
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So deep breaths. She is going to love every bit of it. I'm going to hold on for the ride, and pray for on-time carpools, good hair stylists, and moms that know more about the mysteries of butt glue than I do!</div>
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-88575372345860123972013-03-18T12:52:00.001-06:002013-03-18T12:52:19.619-06:00In Which I Reveal the Extent of my Craziness...<div style="text-align: center;">
I have four children. This is a lot, did you know?</div>
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Let's be honest here. There are many times that the volume level in my house rivals a jet engine at takeoff. Often, my day consists of triage-ing the needs of my four children and deciding which screaming child, which bickering pair of kids, which gigantic mess needs my attention first. There are very few things that I avoid so strenuously as I do as a trip to the grocery store (or heaven forbid, Wal-Mart!) with my herd of children. At least once a <strike>day</strike> week I hide myself behind a locked bathroom door just to get a minute to compose my thoughts.<br />
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After finally getting pregnant with Max, I swore up and down that we were done, all the time knowing that we were supposed to have at least one more. Then Ian snuck in, completely unexpectedly, and when he was born, we finally felt whole, complete.<br />
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For a little while.<br />
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There's a long story behind the removal of my birth-control-of-choice, but all you really need to know (trust me) is that in the months since my fail-safe, don't-even-have-to-think-about-it birth control method has been gone, I've been filled with the unmistakable knowledge that our family isn't complete. I've tried to deny it. I've looked around at our chaos and wondered what I could possibly be thinking. I finally got up the courage to mention it to my husband, expecting that he would tell me that I was crazy insane.<br />
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Except then he didn't.<br />
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(This is hard for me to even write about, because I fully expect that virtually everyone who reads this will think me totally insane. I think I'm totally insane, if that makes you feel any better. One of the reasons I've been so absent from this blog for so long is because I haven't had the courage to sit down and write about it for fear of ridicule and people telling me that I've completely gone off the deep end. Trust me, it's not anything I don't know.)<br />
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We know there's a girl that needs to join our family, and we feel her absence from our family keenly. There have been many times in the past few months that I've been making dinner while Abby practices upstairs, Ashlynn practices downstairs and the two little boys are playing literally at my feet, and I look around, panicking because I don't know where the baby is. It always takes me a minute to realize that <i>there's no baby. </i>When we're out and about and I do the kid head count, I frequently have to remind myself that I have only four kids, not five, and don't need to go running around like a crazy lady because I've lost a kid that doesn't exist. (Further proof that I've lost it: when I typed that last sentence, I typed "only five kids." See, told ya.) My husband has had similar experiences.<br />
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But it gets better. Tom and I equally as convinced that this baby is not coming from us. This has been hard for me. While I don't love being pregnant, I love little babies, and would gladly cuddle a newborn daily for the rest of forever. But we've known since shortly after we were married that someday we would do foster care and/or adopt a child, and we can't deny any more that this is the right time to pursue it. <br />
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There are many reasons why we shouldn't do this, chief among them being that I already have an entire herd of children, two of which I'm homeschooling, and a whopping 22 violin students. I've been immersing myself in foster care and adoption blogs, and I've learned that above all, foster care can be incredibly unpredictable, which scares the daylights out of my control freak self. I'm worried about how it may change the dynamics of my family, and how it may affect my girls if we have a disrupted placement. I'm worried about the chaos that may result from suddenly adding a new member to the family, and how we'll manage everything that comes with a foster placement.<br />
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But for as many reasons as there are not to do it, there are reasons why we should. While I joke about how crazy our house is, there is a lot of fun here. Good food, lots of music, many laughs, much love. I am not afraid of special medical needs, and I know that we have many blessings to share.<br />
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We're meeting with someone from Utah Foster Care Thursday night. We have a million questions. We're nervous, we're probably a little naive, we're more than a little green behind the ears. Yes, we may be a little crazy. But above all, we're excited to follow this path and see where we end up.<br />
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Any tips? Anyone have experiences doing foster care? We'd love to hear from you.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-52369629270500733712013-02-13T20:22:00.001-07:002013-02-13T20:22:49.928-07:00Shameless Mom BragThe violin journey with Abby hasn't always been easy. She has a strong personality, (really, no idea where she got that from...) and we've had our moments of butting heads.<br />
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But, a few months ago she decided she wanted to start entering competitions. We started the third movement to the Kabalevsky Violin Concerto in October, and she nailed her audition this past Saturday. The competition was tough, and the winner gets to solo with a symphony in May. We don't know the results yet, and probably won't for a few a few more days, but regardless, we're very proud.<br />
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As a side note, I didn't start playing the violin until I was twelve. She's eleven, and already playing violin literature that high school students use to audition for college scholarships. I am truly amazed at what she's been able to learn and accomplish.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-12353440150536935212013-01-30T20:21:00.000-07:002013-01-30T20:21:52.746-07:00Catching up in pictures<div style="text-align: center;">
Well. </div>
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My goodness, it's been a while.</div>
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Do you remember me? (Do I remember me?)</div>
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So, it was Christmas. We like Christmas.</div>
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Now it's winter, and there is much snow and cold. A week or so ago, it was -18 degree when I woke up. Yes siree, it makes getting up to teach 6:30 am violin lessons extra inviting.</div>
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So what do you do when there's 2 feet of snow and ice all over the place and your 4 year old is bouncing off the walls? Bring his bike inside. Then curse yourself repeatedly for thinking that a bike in the kitchen was a good idea.</div>
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Then, in the approximately 2.5 minutes when there isn't snow on the roads, you take your kids out for a walk. Greet the animals and splash in the puddles, quick, because you won't see the sidewalk again for months!</div>
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So what else have we been doing?</div>
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Sleeping through Sunday School,</div>
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Preparing for our new lives as famous recording artists, </div>
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Ruining Mom's high scores on iPhone games,</div>
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Beating each other up with swords,</div>
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Learning to ice skate,</div>
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Baking pies, (mmmm, pies!)</div>
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Making gigantic messes,</div>
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Getting by with a little help from our trusty friends, </div>
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Making more giant messes, this time of the artistic variety,</div>
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And looking ridiculously cute in our pjs and matching curls.</div>
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Don't forget the fact that winter and spring mean lots of practicing, performing, and Abby's first big violin competition. (Gulp!)</div>
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So Ashlynn is practicing for the piano festival,</div>
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I'm working on perfect bow hands with my students,</div>
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Abby's performing everywhere,</div>
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And even Max feels the need to practice. (Will someone get that boy a cello already?)</div>
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Other important happenings: </div>
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The boys are developing their talent in photography. </div>
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They're both going through a rather experimental self-portrait phase.</div>
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Max has another impossible to cure ear infection. I didn't think you wanted to see pictures of that. (You're welcome.) We're heading into February, the dreaded month of illness, and I'm crossing my fingers that this is as bad as it gets.</div>
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I even took all the kiddos to get new pictures taken, and we all still liked each other when it was over. Check out the sidebar. Pretty impressive, right?</div>
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So there you have it. 2 months, two dozen pictures, and you're up to speed.</div>
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We're busy. We're happy, we're grateful.</div>
Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-51608145746995879112012-11-25T21:09:00.000-07:002012-11-25T21:09:48.469-07:00Birthday IanTwo years ago, two days before Thanksgiving, in the middle of a blinding snow storm, we welcomed<a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2010/11/new-baby-bliss.html"> tiny baby Ian into our family.</a><br />
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Ian has been a surprise right from the start. While we knew all along that another baby was meant to join our family, we hadn't planned on that addition coming along quite so soon. In fact, <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2010/04/things-are-going-to-get-lot-more.html">staring at a positive pregnancy test </a>a mere two days before Max went in for skull revision #2 was quite a shock.<br />
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Other things I didn't plan on when it came to Ian? <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2010/10/surprises.html">Going into labor at 30 weeks, then again at 31 weeks</a>, 6 weeks of "restricted activity" along with the demon drugs terbutaline and nifedipine, and giving birth in a hospital with both pitocin and an epidural on board.<br />
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But in the end, when the midwife handed me my baby and we discovered that he was a boy, (another surprise, because I could have sworn right up until the time I was pushing that we were having a girl!) it was if he had always been a part of our family. From the minute we brought him home, we couldn't remember what it was like without him.<br />
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Ian has a huge personality trapped in a little tiny toddler body. If there's trouble to be had, Ian will find it. He scales bookshelves, desks, chairs, counters, and kitchen tables like Spiderman, makes messes like it's his job, and has practically no fear. "Get down, Ian!" is a frequently heard motto. This is Ian on the very top shelf of our laundry room...<br />
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One memorable afternoon not long ago, he had a complete meltdown as I was pushing him on the swing in the backyard. Finally, after ten minutes of hysterics, I realized the reason he was so upset was because I wasn't pushing him high enough.<br />
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Ian is a complete charmer with his blonde curls and his dimples, and more than once I've been asked if he and Max are twins. When we sat down in church a week ago, one of Max's preschool friends pointed to Max and said, "Look Mom, it's Max!" He then turned to Ian, somewhat confused and said "There's another Max. there's two Maxes!" Ian idolizes Max, wanting to do everything that he's doing, but is just as likely to be found stealing Max's toys or beloved hat and running away, laughing.<br />
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Ian has two volumes: loud, and loudest. He has absolutely the loudest scream of any kid I have ever heard anywhere, and definitely knows how to use that scream to get what he wants. He is a bundle of toddler contradictions: heaven help you if you try to assist him in getting dressed in the morning, ("No! Leave me alone! Do it self!") but you're in equal amounts of trouble if you refuse to carry him everywhere he wants to go. I think I spend as much time rocking him in the rocking chair now as I did when he was 8 months old, but the "Love you, Mama" that I often get from him is plenty of reward. His is filthy more often than not, and I secretly rejoice in the 30 seconds each day right after I brush his teeth and hair, knowing it's like that those are the only 30 seconds that day when he'll be that clean.<br />
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At two years old, Ian loves anything that has to do with "Toy Story," loves hot dogs, broccoli, macaroni & cheese, and any sweet thing he can sneak or con someone into giving him. He is very nearly weaned, although he's not super happy about that. Ian is an articulate little chatterbox, who keeps us laughing everyday with his words and his funny, funny expressions. He has to be up on the counter "helping" while I'm cooking, and will frequently try to mimic what he sees me do in the kitchen, which is less than thrilling when it involves him trying to make strawberry jello in a cup on the living room floor. Ian loves to wrestle, to run, to play with "his" phone, to dump shampoo all over the carpet, to watch "Sesame Street," to jump on anything, to drive his sisters crazy, and to snuggle as close to me as possible at nap time.<br />
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We doubled up and celebrated his birthday on Thanksgiving with a giant oreo shaped cake, Toy Story figurines, and two foam swords. A happy birthday indeed.</div>
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He's such a sweet, charming, hilarious little boy, and I'm so glad he's ours. Surprises and all.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-32754777483498886862012-11-19T20:56:00.001-07:002012-11-19T20:56:47.193-07:00It's the little things<div style="text-align: center;">
Ten things I am grateful for right this minute:</div>
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1~Swimming for FHE? Yes, please. The tired kids that come with it? Even better.</div>
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2~A wonderful, successful recital this past weekend. It was the most ambitious group recital I've ever done, and I'm so grateful it's over.</div>
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3~The best part of the recital being over? One completely lesson-free week. That means 5 blessed weekdays this week without a 6:30 am lesson. Yes, life is good.</div>
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4~Warm socks, a hoodie, and very large blanket.</div>
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5~Cold sore medicine.</div>
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6~Kneader's pumpkin spice bread brought to me by a sweet violin family.</div>
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7~The anticipation of a new novel on my kindle tonight.</div>
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8~Text messages. And the friends who have day-long conversations with me via text messaging. (Seriously, what did we ever do when we had to actually pick up the stupid phone...?)</div>
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9~My sweet husband sitting next to me, both of us typing away on our respective laptops, keeping each other company.</div>
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10~A (mostly) clean house. Or at least the part I can see. Because let's face it, even if my house hosted its own Armagheddon today, I wouldn't be doing anything about it tonight. </div>
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Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-61078988907186189052012-11-14T20:28:00.002-07:002012-11-14T20:28:33.938-07:00Birthday Boy<div style="text-align: center;">
This handsome little dude is Max.</div>
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Max who, four years ago yesterday, <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2009/07/maxs-homebirth-story.html">was born in my room in a giant tub of water</a>.</div>
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This little boy has never met someone he couldn't charm the pants off with his sweet smile and blonde curls. He's hysterically funny, makes us laugh everyday, and has and amazingly kind, tender heart. </div>
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He was so excited about his birthday. Whenever I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he would answer "Presents." Funnier was when I asked him what kind of cake he wanted, and he would answer "With candles to blow out."</div>
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In the end, all our little boy needed to be happy was a new "Woody" doll from Toy Story. The other gifts were icing on the cake. He was so excited about his new toys that he tried to get up at 3 am, 4 am, and 5 am this morning to play with them, and now is as excited for Ian's upcoming birthday as Ian is.</div>
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At four years old, Max's favorite toy is any and all Woody dolls from Toy Story. He also loves Cars 2 characters, Veggie Tales, his ratty, torn red hat that he has worn nearly constantly for the past year and a half, and can quote and sing from entire episodes of Sesame Street. He will only eat about three kinds of fruit, and then only if he's in the mood, but will eat an entire can of pineapple if you give it to him. He has two volumes: loud, and louder, and has unbelievable energy from wake up to bedtime. He adores his little blue "Boot Scoot" bike, playing outside, going to preschool, and wrestling with Daddy. He loves his sisters, but his absolute favorite is his sidekick and best buddy, Ian. </div>
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We've learned so much in the past four years during<a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/p/craniosynostosis.html"> our journey with Max</a>. Can't imagine our family without him, and can't wait to see the person he becomes. Happy birthday, little buddy, we love you!</div>
Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-30016909841990088392012-09-26T20:46:00.000-06:002012-09-26T20:46:38.309-06:00My Boys (A photobomb!)When we first discovered we were pregnant with Max, we did the traditional boy or girl guessing games, although we both knew all along that he was a boy. By 9 weeks along in the pregnancy, we knew his name was going to be Max, even before we had ultrasound confirmation.<br />
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And I was terrified.<br />
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Not just because I'd been parenting girls for seven years, and it was all I knew, although that was part of it. Much of my trepidation came from being raised with four crazy brothers, all of whom struggled throughout their growing up years. While their stories aren't necessarily mine to tell, watching my four brothers and their dealings with drugs, alcohol and crime, as well as the grief they put my parents through was enough to make me doubt our ability to raise boys and make them productive members of society.<br />
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But now, these boys. They are my heart. I can't imagine what I would do without them.</div>
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(And really, how lucky am I to have two adorable little boys with blond curls?)</div>
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These boys need each other. They are truly best friends.</div>
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Of course they bicker, fight, yell at, slug, and tackle each other with regularity.</div>
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But at the same time, they can't stand to be away from each other. Yesterday, while Max was at preschool, Ian must have asked "Where's Max?" 75 times. (Seeing as he's not even 2, it always comes out as "Mats." We love it.) And the first thing I heard from Max when I picked him up? "Where's my Ian?"</div>
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They're also partners in crime. Beware two boys in the bathroom and a closed door. Give them 60 seconds unsupervised in a bathroom and you'll find a filthy sink, a disgusting toilet, and one or more soaking wet shredded rolls of toilet paper strewn all over every surface of the bathroom.</div>
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I love their energy, their curiosity, and their compulsive need to climb, jump, and flop all over anything in sight.</div>
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I love watching them be super heroes, (Super Max to the rescue!) and seeing their loves for bikes and all things with wheels.</div>
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While I'm not certain that I love the heart attacks that Ian and his fearless nature give me on a daily basis, I love seeing his adventurous nature and his thrill at trying new things. </div>
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It also gives us quite a laugh when we see Ian teach his big brother how to get in trouble more efficiently...</div>
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I've been choked up more than once watching them truly care for each other- singing to each other, comforting each other, and running to find each other the minute they wake up at ungodly hours.<br />
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I can't say that the challenges I'll face with my boys as they grow up don't make me a bit nervous. But I also know that even when they grow up to be stinky, sweaty man-boys, I'll still claim them as my babies.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-21269082392159994262012-09-08T20:40:00.000-06:002012-09-08T20:46:18.051-06:00Home Sweet HomeA few days ago, we signed some papers and officially sold our townhome. We lived there nearly four years- four years of blessings, struggles, laughter, clutter, and all manner of family togetherness. Sometimes way too much family togetherness, especially when it involved all six of crammed in our tiny kitchen. Max was born in a tub of water in my bedroom, we brought a tiny Ian home from the hospital to that house. All six of us lived in 1600 square feet far longer than we wanted to, but when we got word that it had been sold, the process of securing a new place to live was a long, drawn-out process that tested our faith at every turn. There were more than a few times that I worried that God had completely forgotten us, and that we'd end up homeless, broke, or (maybe worse) living in my parents' basement.<br />
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Little did we know how blessed we would be. Everything fell into place at just the right time, and this house? It couldn't be more perfect for us. We absolutely love it here. It has everything we need, and many, many of the things on our wish list (although we wouldn't complain at all about central air...) We are nestled right at the foot of the Wasatch Back, and there aren't words for the beauty of these mountains, or the peace and gratitude I feel to be surrounded by them every day.<br />
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I love fall. The months of September and October make up for the fact that it usually snows six months out of the year here. And while I'm absolutely dreading the snow flying, there isn't a time I've left the house these past few weeks when I haven't had to stop and just admire how beautiful the changing colors are. I truly believe we live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. <br />
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I joked with a friend that it feels like we live in a real-life "Mayberry." I send my children on their bikes to the grocery store when I need rice for dinner, or when a craving for 25-cent donuts hits. Everyone waves at everyone else, we can take a ten minute stroll to "downtown," and my children are routinely distracted during their schoolwork by the squirrels and chipmunks that squabble over the apples off of our apple tree and run along the top of our fence.<br />
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I took the boys on a short walk yesterday morning. In the course of four blocks, we saw a squirrel, a couple of roosters, several friendly dogs, a cat or two, and the highlight? Two horses, who were as delighted to see my boys as my boys were to meet them.<br />
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Did I mention I love it here?<span id="goog_200444963"></span><span id="goog_200444964"></span><br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-275677230614475512012-08-23T22:49:00.000-06:002012-08-23T22:49:13.161-06:00School DaysSo here's the thing. We've been "schooling" off and on all summer with the girls, much to their chagrin. BUT, today was the first day of school for all the kids in our district. So, if you were wondering, here's what the first day of school looked like for the girls today.<br />
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However, my little Max had an official first today: his first day of preschool. He could not have been more excited. (And as a side note, oh my word. Isn't he adorable? He looks like such a handsome little man. I may or may not have teared up a little today when I picked him up and heard him chattering on and on about his day. Anyway, this picture melts my heart!)<br />
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As for me, I was pretty excited for the few minutes when Ian was asleep and Max was at preschool when I could focus on the girls and their schoolwork. Ah, the ever elusive balancing act. Maybe I'll figure it out one of these years.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-58440613980030947542012-08-17T13:35:00.002-06:002012-08-17T13:35:55.829-06:00Doula in a former lifeOnce upon a time, I had just two little girls and immersed myself in all things natural birth. After a wonderful, if somewhat unexpected birth experience with Ashlynn, I was reading birth stories, research, and haunting message boards dealing with natural child birth like my life depended on it. In the back of my mind, while covered in spit-up and buried in the never-ending demands of little ones, I thought it would be fun to be a doula. It was one of those idle fantasies of the "perfect" job- cute, tiny babies, grateful moms, and fabulous natural birth endorphins all around.<br />
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A few years later, Tom and began planning for a homebirth with a much anticipated pregnancy. I hired a midwife that I instantly clicked with, and I was thrilled to be looking forward to creating the perfect birth I had been reading about for years. I miscarried early in the second trimester, and worked through my grief with the help of that wonderful midwife. A few months later, she put out the word that she was looking for doulas to join her team, and I jumped at the chance. I joked about it being my "infertility project," but the truth was, I was thrilled to have the chance to pursue doula training and start attending births and it gave me something constructive to do while we were waiting to add to our family.<br />
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I quickly found that although there were many wonderful, joyful moments as a doula, there were just as many moments that pushed us to the limit physically and emotionally. For all the giddy excitement and adrenaline that accompanied a 2am phone call from a mom in labor, there was also the weeks on call waiting for the phone to ring, the 24-36 hour marathon births, the days recovering from sleep deprivation, the not being able to move for two days after giving hours on end of physical support, and the various inevitable grossness that accompanies birth. (Don't ask. Unless you're a doula, you don't want to know!)<br />
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During this time, we were pursuing expensive and often humiliating fertility treatments. We had exhausted all the first line, "relatively inexpensive" options, and were ready to be done. It wasn't that we didn't want another baby, but I was increasingly busy with births, considering a midwife apprenticeship, and we didn't have the money or the emotional resources to do more extensive fertility treatments. Of course, the minute I was at peace with that decision, we discovered Max was on his way. Within a few months, we made the decision to downsize and move, and of a necessity, the number of births I was able to attend decreased.<br />
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When Max was born, managing him and his litany of medical problems became a full time job. In the meantime, the midwife I was working with moved to New Mexico, and I was immersed in the demands of mothering a medically needy baby. I had two or three doula clients during that time, and while I loved them, it took a real toll on me and my family to be away for long births. The last client I took was due four weeks after Max's second surgery, and her water broke four weeks early, two hours after we got home from the hospital, and one week after we found out that we were very unexpectedly pregnant again. Needless to say, my poor client had to call her back-up, and I decided that it was time for me to put doula work on hold. While I missed it desperately, I knew that with four young children and a bunch of violin students, it was time for me to focus on my family.<br />
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Until this week. My dear friend asked me to be a part of the homebirth of her fifth baby, and I was thrilled to again be called at 2am, slip out into the night and race down the canyon. I loved being witness to the strength, courage and grace of my dear friend, the excitement of four older brothers, the tenderness and compassionate care of the midwife, and the love and concern of the husband. I cried like a baby when the little girl was born and placed on the mama's chest.<br />
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And it turns out, I really, really miss being a doula. I had forgotten that while violin teaching is my job, (and I do love it) doula work fulfills me in a way nothing else has. I love making a real difference in the lives of the mamas, babies, and families that I serve, being there for the miracle that is a new life. Several times this week, as I've been coming down off the high of attending a beautiful homebirth, I've had to remind myself that there are times and seasons for everything. Right now, I have four children, two of which I'm homeschooling, and two of which I'm trying to keep from killing themselves on a regular basis. (As a sidenote, you know you're a mom of four and have spent some time on the medical merry-go-round when your son falls off his bike, needs stitches, and it ends up being one of those "all in a day's work" moments.) I also have 20 violin students, and a myriad of homemaking responsibilities. There isn't room in my life for doula clients, as much as I would like for there to be.<br />
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I know this sounds all very "The Road Less Traveled"-ish, and I really am happy with my choice to mother, teach, and be there for all my people, little and big. I know they need me, and this time of small-ness and neediness won't last forever. I tell myself that someday I'll return to birth work, but I don't know if I actually will or not, and that makes me a bit sad.<br />
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So for now, I'll help Ashlynn work the place value problems, keep Ian out of trouble, (or attempt to!), take Max to the clinic to get stitches, and remind Abby to slow down as she practices, cuddle all the tiny babies I come across, and hope that one or two more of my friends decide to ask me to be their doula. And that'll be enough.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-82007761340990507432012-08-06T21:03:00.000-06:002012-08-06T21:03:44.318-06:00If you're wondering...One box of peaches+one afternoon equals:<br />
<br />
7 quarts of bottled peaches,<br />
15 cups of strawberry-peach jam,<br />
1 pan of fruit leather,<br />
1 peach cobbler,<br />
4 kids with bellies stuffed full of fresh peaches,<br />
2 loads of dishes,<br />
1 very trashed kitchen,<br />
1 house hotter than the surface of the sun,<br />
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and...<br />
<br />
1 very pleased mama.<br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-20156618811634901002012-07-31T21:10:00.000-06:002012-07-31T21:10:52.426-06:00Sweet SuccessYou know those moments when you realize that all the work, grief, tears, arguments and money have been worth it?<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwzATaPj4qpLK1MSSvesbDAnfORVHnAV_QWds6oFHhM4NrUjTg4bCoB62czotDpJ3KfcFOC7oIbWXXYcAWpkQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Abby took a handful of fiddle lessons this summer, we hired a guitarist, and had so much fun at the Wasatch County Talent Competition last night!</div>
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She came away with 3rd Prize, $50, and a huge smile on her face.</div>
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Way to go, Abby! We're so proud of you!</div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-15576106254104172152012-07-30T15:57:00.000-06:002012-07-30T15:57:24.212-06:00General Conference, here we come!It's a bit of a rite of passage when you're a Mormon and you move into a new ward (congregation): the new families always get pegged to speak in sacrament meeting.<br />
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I don't mind speaking in church. It doesn't make me terribly nervous, and I enjoy the in-depth study time I get about a gospel topic. And being asked to also play my violin yesterday didn't phase me either.<br />
<br />
You know what does phase me? What does make me shake in my boots a bit? When I'm getting my violin out and ready and Ashlynn comes up to me and says "Mom! Mom! Isn't that Elder Holland?"<br />
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<br />
When I looked up to see <a href="http://www.lds.org/church/leader/jeffrey-r-holland?lang=eng">Elder Jeffrey R. Holland</a> walking up to the stand, my heart jumped into my throat. I was going to be speaking and playing the violin in sacrament meeting with a member of the Quorum of the Twelve sitting directly behind me. I don't remember the last time I was nervous to speak or play my violin, but this time, I was more than a little intimidated.<br />
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(For those unfamiliar- the<a href="http://www.lds.org/church/leaders/first-presidency?lang=eng"> Quorum of the Twelve Apostles</a> and the <a href="http://www.lds.org/church/leaders/first-presidency?lang=eng">First Presidency</a> make up the governing body of the Mormon church. They preside over all the affairs of the church, speak in General Conference, and we sustain them as being prophets of God. Elder Holland also happens to be one of my husband and my favorite speakers to listen to because of his eloquence and the spirit that he brings with him.)<br />
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My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh because of the absurdity of the situation or bolt out of the meeting before anyone noticed us. <br />
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In the end, of course, it all worked out. Going into the meeting, I was pleased with how my talk turned out, my girls wrote fantastic little talks themselves, my husband was prepared, the music was ready, so we just stood up and did it. The girls were pros, I didn't trip going up the stairs to the podium, and my husband was brilliant. (If I do say so myself.)<br />
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And when it was all over, Elder and Sister Holland were incredibly warm, complimentary, and gracious. Elder Holland praised the talks and the music, then chuckled as he also said how impressed he was with our kids-wrangling ability. (Ian was rather, um, vocal about his parents being up at the podium speaking.) He joked about how we gave him ideas for his next conference talk, and I have to admit to getting a rather big head when someone told us that Elder Holland was taking notes during my talk. And I would sit down with Sister Holland any day of the week- what a fabulous, loving woman!<br />
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Tom and I spent the rest of the day grinning at each other. Church with little ones isn't always easy, memorable, or pleasant. But yesterday was certainly a Sunday to go down in the history books.Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-48976877089839724792012-07-18T21:34:00.001-06:002012-07-18T21:34:54.742-06:00A pox on your house!Chicken pox, that is.<br />
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You want an example of how things work in our lives?<br />
<br />
Last Wednesday, I was sitting in the backyard with a friend, and we started chatting about vaccines. For many reasons I won't go into here, the girls have been partially vaccinated, and the boys haven't had any. So we were chatting about various vaccines and I told her that we had basically made up our minds that if the girls hadn't had the chicken pox by the time they were twelve, I'd probably just vaccinate them so that they weren't completely miserable when they got it.<br />
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The next morning, Abby came into my room. "Mom, I think I have the chicken pox."<br />
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Bleary-eyed, I answered, "You don't have the chicken pox, Abby. You didn't have a fever. Chicken pox always starts with a fever." (In my defense, it was first thing in the morning. I could hardly remember my own name, let alone diagnose an illness.) "You have some red bumps, You're probably allergic to something. Here's some benadryl."<br />
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Later that day, after rounds of claritin and benadryl didn't help, the spots kept spreading, and I was forced to turn to Dr. Google.<br />
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Sure enough, those spots looked suspiciously like chicken pox.<br />
<br />
I started laughing. Because what else was I going to do?<br />
<br />
Then I called Morgan, to tell her that my children had exposed her children to chicken pox, and beg her to still be my friend even though if her kids contracted chicken pox it would be when she was approximately 38 weeks pregnant. (So far, she's still talking to me. But we haven't passed the 2-week incubation period yet.)<br />
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Then I emailed photos to Abby's pediatrician after speaking to them and having them tell me, in no uncertain terms, that they were NOT interested in seeing her in the office.<br />
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Sure enough, my family somehow, somewhere managed to contract chicken pox.<br />
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Ashlynn started with the spots that night. As far as two cases of chicken pox go, they were both very mild. They took a few baths, itched for a while, and complained about being cooped up in the house without friends.<br />
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Now the girls have recovered, and there's no sign of spots on the boys. Which is super weird, because if there's a virus, a bug, a sniffle, they're going to catch it, love it, make it their own. So we<span style="background-color: white;">'re waiting for another set of itchy, red spots on another set of kidlets. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Figures that since we haven't seen the pediatrician since February that it would be something big, rare and obnoxious.</span><br />
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-82984466751884045302012-07-03T21:43:00.000-06:002012-07-03T21:43:36.959-06:00Recipe for summer fun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisT0wExVvd9SpPsKXGL2RCC2aePXQD4CbYsCRQvR-RLzlAny-K_gPky4ugywK5UymEX-b9S9-UHHp0hyphenhyphenBHMISQQZGGPrEZM_6Atu-8hou82c5ZvJ-AFC_lnD-siYNWMGCp8CIdb6MZNyE/s1600/2012-07-03+15.22.52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisT0wExVvd9SpPsKXGL2RCC2aePXQD4CbYsCRQvR-RLzlAny-K_gPky4ugywK5UymEX-b9S9-UHHp0hyphenhyphenBHMISQQZGGPrEZM_6Atu-8hou82c5ZvJ-AFC_lnD-siYNWMGCp8CIdb6MZNyE/s400/2012-07-03+15.22.52.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Add <a href="http://www.ingfamily.blogspot.com/">Friends</a>, the sun, a hose, water and sand,</div>
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(make sure to mix the sand thoroughly in your hair for optimal shine...)</div>
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Apply the hose liberally to the nether-regions,</div>
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Add three cute boys, and three cute plumber butts,</div>
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Sprinkle in just a touch more water,</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFj4ExY7OdEih4D3ezdyDSBvqhuWiClpxEBj1E3AVBmDhWXzLQ0-5wwc7UOGDdgxHauZexouYn4TuCyBzzCLcWaofQoeId5EUlUNUowgMZdIjy__RHVxtvFyXD7irFsWscGGJAWZBtcQ4/s1600/2012-07-03+15.30.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFj4ExY7OdEih4D3ezdyDSBvqhuWiClpxEBj1E3AVBmDhWXzLQ0-5wwc7UOGDdgxHauZexouYn4TuCyBzzCLcWaofQoeId5EUlUNUowgMZdIjy__RHVxtvFyXD7irFsWscGGJAWZBtcQ4/s400/2012-07-03+15.30.26.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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And don't forget to sample the hose water, just to make sure it tastes ok.</div>
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Then, after the battle for faucet supremacy is won,</div>
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Make sure you get extra, extra dirty,</div>
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Then add an ice cream sandwich to finish the perfect afternoon.</div>Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2368950140329799225.post-17722354150191619552012-06-27T22:34:00.000-06:002012-06-27T22:34:07.384-06:00The big moveWell, we did it.<br />
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We moved four kids, two adults, and an unimaginable amount of crap to a new house. Then, two days later, Abby and I went to <a href="http://www.intermountainsuzukistringinstitute.com/">violin Institute.</a><br />
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Yes, we may be a little bit crazy. (A<i> little</i> bit?!?)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlyPNHw7R63gM_o8Ym3RUJTiVofHScyOvK0VGVkDRAKcqDOBt0pjblBO0OeJv7Ej1V9UOqn-QXbOc5RM4vOmCUjMx8rLRAN7jh7nNcJlGPau4ZwZUsH1RDA0vNvNvhl-4Noivlm71JoQ/s1600/2012-06-15+08.23.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlyPNHw7R63gM_o8Ym3RUJTiVofHScyOvK0VGVkDRAKcqDOBt0pjblBO0OeJv7Ej1V9UOqn-QXbOc5RM4vOmCUjMx8rLRAN7jh7nNcJlGPau4ZwZUsH1RDA0vNvNvhl-4Noivlm71JoQ/s320/2012-06-15+08.23.18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We packed multiple trucks.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeo4zZ_itvI_VWnaYE5B5JCg1IgI7dqBhkt17Mkj87swO5SPQXT8KV29r6QCEuQmXU-l3MmdiH9IDXsDNCHLZi0i_uVCW8JfMjYuBqxkMExq_YuXkOFOY4stcxJHr8wa0Y6tRLSA8z4Y/s1600/2012-06-16+14.29.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeo4zZ_itvI_VWnaYE5B5JCg1IgI7dqBhkt17Mkj87swO5SPQXT8KV29r6QCEuQmXU-l3MmdiH9IDXsDNCHLZi0i_uVCW8JfMjYuBqxkMExq_YuXkOFOY4stcxJHr8wa0Y6tRLSA8z4Y/s320/2012-06-16+14.29.41.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We took a few over-exposed pictures of Ian running in and out of the moving truck.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMDXBjTeOEuMk6feqlKPgnaLGsDNQ9kFy0N5nt40wzSuHxEGWjMT2yL0E33GKy46NZJFSkYjNc1kwOCYm5r9UfhDBZo-PN9tUU0e7JPUeunOy83mqpST_sqm4qPUKpf4EjPRz00dKvw4/s1600/2012-06-16+14.46.42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMDXBjTeOEuMk6feqlKPgnaLGsDNQ9kFy0N5nt40wzSuHxEGWjMT2yL0E33GKy46NZJFSkYjNc1kwOCYm5r9UfhDBZo-PN9tUU0e7JPUeunOy83mqpST_sqm4qPUKpf4EjPRz00dKvw4/s320/2012-06-16+14.46.42.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We unloaded the multiple trucks.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JLgJL9fRDuUXVAb5lLL-sYA5fVf2BzI4kMo_qvcaYoXCCoiSqjGVoV67Oxvl9K_jEToctKWPMSFLN23BTim4D2tiuE17mQz9GKul2LsBMP78IqmLjJ268_0K7HczjiVvewBSS_bxSWI/s1600/2012-06-16+17.56.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JLgJL9fRDuUXVAb5lLL-sYA5fVf2BzI4kMo_qvcaYoXCCoiSqjGVoV67Oxvl9K_jEToctKWPMSFLN23BTim4D2tiuE17mQz9GKul2LsBMP78IqmLjJ268_0K7HczjiVvewBSS_bxSWI/s320/2012-06-16+17.56.33.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And we ate a lot of fast food and drank much Gatorade.</span></div>
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I've decided there is very little in life that is more exhausting or all consuming than moving. And no matter how much you think you've accomplished, it's never quite done. Right now, the garage at our old house still has some random things that we need to move over here, including our BBQ grill, a large container of plastic utensils, (don't ask because I don't know...) and several cabinets full of various garage crap.<br />
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But here's the good news. We're here. We love it. The boxes are mostly unpacked. And those that aren't are stored in my husband's office where I don't have to look at them. That right there tells you something about our house- my husband has his own office and we no longer have to share. This makes me very happy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziqMK3B2Pb32REajIDd_kgeB9cYpaI_Ja_WuAOWif2L-2Tot5Vosvpk5azjBB9LN5is9k_FESZeYtG8hMxdsffKQTLGHe_22y1x8e0kQ6y7NzxI7x4GM7IvLohm55UOTU_OBb_P96cSI/s1600/2012-06-17+19.36.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziqMK3B2Pb32REajIDd_kgeB9cYpaI_Ja_WuAOWif2L-2Tot5Vosvpk5azjBB9LN5is9k_FESZeYtG8hMxdsffKQTLGHe_22y1x8e0kQ6y7NzxI7x4GM7IvLohm55UOTU_OBb_P96cSI/s320/2012-06-17+19.36.00.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pretend this picture is better than it is and imagine that you can see my kitchen in all its spacious glory.</span></div>
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Our house is huge. I mean, the kids can unload the dishes while I'm cooking dinner without us running into each other. This is a whole new experience for all of us. There is a playroom in our house, folks. That right, a room devoted exclusively to toys. Which also means that we no longer have a basketball hoop as the centerpiece in our living room. It's pretty fabulous. Other wonderful things? A bedroom for the boys so they no longer have to share with us, a laundry room that's actually a room and not a closet, fantastic views, a two car garage, and a huge yard. There is so much space that we frequently lose Ian. this is not helped by the fact that he learned to open doors the day we moved. (Sigh.)<br />
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And after we moved, it was<a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2011/06/extreme-violining-year-15-and-winner.html"> Institute week</a>. (Note to self: if you can ever possibly avoid moving the week before you have to take two of your children for a week of <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2010/06/im-not-dead-it-just-feels-like-it.html">extreme violining</a>, please do. You'll thank me later.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EXEgBxuKKV6wNsV37wZMwo8gvK8TFJrYpibagEQJhoLPzTDe5g7FyrXNWZnOTEWTW03ZEBOKWfmsMs6o9_mqL6IbHxfjbGFZvWMtbh1fjcEGk6q0HzsD03iYN_hK7ycil1E3aX9R2Yg/s1600/2012-06-22+10.59.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EXEgBxuKKV6wNsV37wZMwo8gvK8TFJrYpibagEQJhoLPzTDe5g7FyrXNWZnOTEWTW03ZEBOKWfmsMs6o9_mqL6IbHxfjbGFZvWMtbh1fjcEGk6q0HzsD03iYN_hK7ycil1E3aX9R2Yg/s320/2012-06-22+10.59.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Abby loves violin institute.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxI1v74Em8BvF0liftBNs3XgkNGkKVmdX_duYYIYmwVyR6aBcmM6a3Yioi9CETo05lm4B_nUe8lg10s28opNZZpRu46mPCnrYzYPctYA-YWArqSU9onJfBc9caMN09g0UpROo_clNaIA/s1600/2012-06-19+09.34.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxI1v74Em8BvF0liftBNs3XgkNGkKVmdX_duYYIYmwVyR6aBcmM6a3Yioi9CETo05lm4B_nUe8lg10s28opNZZpRu46mPCnrYzYPctYA-YWArqSU9onJfBc9caMN09g0UpROo_clNaIA/s320/2012-06-19+09.34.01.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">Ian did not. Yes, I did take a picture of him tantruming on the floor of Juan Diego HS. Further proof that he's a fourth child. Had this tantrum occurred when Abby was a baby, I would have been horrified. With Ian, I bust out the camera...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBxJKqp83Y-WRT4DW2PPo_vRDSge_t30zC8DwtcIXhikgH0VwiBg2X9Wr3-Yxl8n9yBhDS5vL8Sotw9fBfeTOPmaCF-_Zu5oYGxgnVFWJvCSfLsmEIotQvuG6abZZdAoZXD4It29XNok/s1600/2012-06-23+10.46.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBxJKqp83Y-WRT4DW2PPo_vRDSge_t30zC8DwtcIXhikgH0VwiBg2X9Wr3-Yxl8n9yBhDS5vL8Sotw9fBfeTOPmaCF-_Zu5oYGxgnVFWJvCSfLsmEIotQvuG6abZZdAoZXD4It29XNok/s320/2012-06-23+10.46.40.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Because Abby's teacher is the director of the institute, most of her teachers were handpicked. Koen Rens from Belgium was our favorite.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F-x35Ul1E1NxEUufLJ39R7Dx-2xf_eK78egAg5ZG4_870oJ3B8a97136Ls5dH1NPGwP4rQH2KQnzwapCBCXmfRBGn9fyPrVk226_SSYqB2DDVfRagA-_8uPBwAze4g3F3iezn6-9rV0/s1600/2012-06-18+14.33.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F-x35Ul1E1NxEUufLJ39R7Dx-2xf_eK78egAg5ZG4_870oJ3B8a97136Ls5dH1NPGwP4rQH2KQnzwapCBCXmfRBGn9fyPrVk226_SSYqB2DDVfRagA-_8uPBwAze4g3F3iezn6-9rV0/s320/2012-06-18+14.33.32.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">She fiddled.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6m10925yYJuh4IytU_rVR3alvGkOD9NmvUn-YUvn4DJ7L1vsYnjSXZuPRzPLp53_G6G5cMVGrruguvJ9CJ_cVfC9OXGcUULrJrWJ-l_6DALcOWi6v6nDPOrCa5PmEvjwK7Dp7FEWTPg/s1600/2012-06-18+15.07.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6m10925yYJuh4IytU_rVR3alvGkOD9NmvUn-YUvn4DJ7L1vsYnjSXZuPRzPLp53_G6G5cMVGrruguvJ9CJ_cVfC9OXGcUULrJrWJ-l_6DALcOWi6v6nDPOrCa5PmEvjwK7Dp7FEWTPg/s320/2012-06-18+15.07.26.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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She worked on perfect position with her masterclass teacher.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPfVuiX0KTuJFf_BkjhhhWjOMe42IUtz1Drr5ghSYyPyu28kJ6BDhEAlqDK3nQqTojmZiXyW2Fq0ieUrP1oOLgVe1YScXFk7TUAkevzIjlnfZ4O0LFgOBswYAh0-8EBNTw_otPKp4ZiA/s1600/2012-06-23+09.34.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPfVuiX0KTuJFf_BkjhhhWjOMe42IUtz1Drr5ghSYyPyu28kJ6BDhEAlqDK3nQqTojmZiXyW2Fq0ieUrP1oOLgVe1YScXFk7TUAkevzIjlnfZ4O0LFgOBswYAh0-8EBNTw_otPKp4ZiA/s320/2012-06-23+09.34.07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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She played in orchestra.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGE5ThZ7Zs90teqRVrgYQM1EXzmcOhPE305EHxlc0CCtu3ZIbyxN2z8CUftA9r0RhABuRAhHRbfsMMsgpcsuKGuED6wM_Bj865rL4-Gil83-7z4A2U0f2jEzSY5aNttCyfc7b4xTiVMLs/s1600/2012-06-22+22.30.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGE5ThZ7Zs90teqRVrgYQM1EXzmcOhPE305EHxlc0CCtu3ZIbyxN2z8CUftA9r0RhABuRAhHRbfsMMsgpcsuKGuED6wM_Bj865rL4-Gil83-7z4A2U0f2jEzSY5aNttCyfc7b4xTiVMLs/s320/2012-06-22+22.30.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And then we were tired. And so glad to come home to the "new house" as Max calls it. (He still asks to go home occasionally. Insisting that we are home doesn't help much.)</span></div>
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So far this week I've unpacked a few boxes, taught a few lessons, mowed the lawn, weeded precisely one flower bed, and enjoyed the breathing room. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5iC8qgu7ik3JPJQAzFrMu1KQE2URUg2t1NgEhF5iYaHU4XspBGXW6F9aFZWypofcG4Oq-FBYrNYbWz6O19bLPKjsQrO489TdPzt3pZ5d_CDQvlqeRo_9QSkTRym66j2lRMq7xVVfuVA/s1600/2012-06-24+21.57.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5iC8qgu7ik3JPJQAzFrMu1KQE2URUg2t1NgEhF5iYaHU4XspBGXW6F9aFZWypofcG4Oq-FBYrNYbWz6O19bLPKjsQrO489TdPzt3pZ5d_CDQvlqeRo_9QSkTRym66j2lRMq7xVVfuVA/s320/2012-06-24+21.57.10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">See my pretty new violin studio?</span></div>
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But I've decided. <a href="http://sanityforstacy.blogspot.com/2009/06/extreme-violining.html">Institute? It's great.</a> We'll go again next year. As for moving? I could be perfectly happy with never seeing another packing box, thank you very much.</div>
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<br />Stacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187291686384680925noreply@blogger.com4