tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43644074825218683302024-02-18T21:49:03.194-08:00Hidden MomentsMichellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-57955897274215801832015-03-09T20:47:00.002-07:002015-03-09T20:47:22.765-07:00From a 4 year old's perspectiveThere are days that make me wonder what really goes through my children's minds throughout the day. Today was one of those days, and I believe Lillian's take on the situation went like this:<br />
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<i>Hmm, everyone is quiet. What can I do to make everyone laugh? </i>"Hey Makenzie you're a buttface." <i>wait, here comes mom I better not laugh. </i>Mom sat down with us to do homework and I picked up the red marker to look busy. She doesn't know that I am really just going to color the whole sheet red on purpose. I hope she doesn't try to read the directions to me.<br />
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"Lillian, can you help me put dinner out."<br />
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"No." <i>Last time I dropped 2 plates, that was not good. </i><br />
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<i>"</i>Just the glasses, they are already to go!" Mom is not going to stop until I bring something over so I get up from the table and take the glasses one at a time. Usually when I go one at a time Mom takes the last one because she moves so fast. <br />
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Everyone is sitting now, perfect time to start my dinner show. "Makenzie, why didn't you take tuna casserole? It's the best thing ever." <i>Why isn't Makenzie paying attention to me? Time to bring out the big guns, if she isn't going to laugh at me I can make her mad.</i> I grab a handful and fling it across the table. Bulls eye, tuna casserole right in her hair. Makenzie IS NOT LAUGHING.<br />
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<i>Oh no mom saw, hide, hide, hide, quick. Maybe if I cry she will understand that I was just trying to get Makenzie to talk to me. </i><br />
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My perception of the event is much different, but at least I can imagine what she might have been thinking. Every day is more exciting than the last, but the memories are worth the "moments".Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-2648758747795704462015-03-08T20:18:00.000-07:002015-03-08T20:18:13.190-07:00SundayThere are many things that can be cherished in life but nothing comes close to a Sunday. For years growing up Sunday began with church and a donut or big breakfast. I used to hate the church part but love the fact that time stood still for a few hours that day each week. There is nothing like a Sunday to make one feel like they have permission to take things just a little bit slower.<br />
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The pace of my weeks, months, years as I become more grown up seem to go by at lightning speed. I sit sometimes and try to remember the first job I had, the last time I didn't have responsibility, or that day long ago that I slept until I wanted to get up...I didn't HAVE to get up. Strange thing is I come back to Sundays a lot.<br />
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There are many things that my parents did right, they are wonderful and I can't say enough good things about them. Sunday's were their gift to me. The tradition and formality of Sundays made them a big deal in my mind. We spent an hour quietly thinking (or daydreaming) about everything the past week had entailed, and at the end of our quiet time we went home to slowly move through the day together. There were not many Sunday's that we spent apart. <br />
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I continue to remind myself to slow down and what better day to do it than on a Sunday.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-47133713856708235112015-03-07T20:15:00.000-08:002015-03-07T20:16:28.412-08:00Ode to CostcoOh Costco how I love to hate you.<br />
Your always a great idea when I am sitting on my couch.<br />
Your gallon sized sour cream<br />
Free samples
and free loaders are never ending.<br />
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Oh Costco how I love thee.<br />
A one stop shop for furniture, clothes, and food.<br />
One trip stocks lunches for weeks.<br />
1.50 for lunch works for me.<br />
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Oh Costco when did I get old.<br />
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The moment I began shopping with you.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-39329225684953873142015-03-05T19:33:00.002-08:002015-03-05T19:43:54.837-08:00The Stand OffI am a middle child.<br />
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urbandictionary.com states: </span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><i><span style= font-family: inherit;">As the oldest child is special to the parents for being the 1st, and the 3rd child is special for being the baby of the family, the middle child is never the favorite child.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><i><span style=font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><span style= font-family: inherit;">I <i>am </i>a middle child and embrace the position that defined me a few times throughout my tween years. There are things that you can change in life but this is one is static so I dealt with it an moved on. My older sister was wise and mature, never made a bad decision and was very proud of following the rules. My younger sister commands the attention of a room, charismatic, friendly, and unashamed of anything. I am the middle the silent, stealthy of the group. I learned to be patient and quiet in moments of celebration, sorrow, and panic. I loved and challenged the boundaries of my birth position and always thought that I would have 4 children so the "middle" wouldn't be so lonely. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Things you plan don't always turn out to be the best realities and I find myself raising the exact </span></span><span style="color: #2c353c;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">sibling</span></span><span style="color: #2c353c;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> situation I come from. 3 girls, 9, 6, 4 and 1/2...almost the exact </span></span><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">separation</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> my sisters and I have endured. So it is reasonable that I can predict with the utmost certainty when conflict will arise with my children. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span 22.3999996185303px="" line-height:=""><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><line-height: 22.3999996185303px="">Today was no different. 6:15AM everyone is up, eating, lunches are made, coats are laid out in front of backpacks we are on a roll. Grace (the oldest) helps me get the dogs food and cereal for the bunch so I give her a bit of smoothy (oldest gets special attention) Lillian bumps her knee getting her shoes on...I give her the last monster high band aid <i>storm is brewing. </i></line-height:></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><span 22.3999996185303px="">I pack all the bags into the car "T-minus 2 minutes, great job guys we could be early today." As the last word is yelled over my shoulder through the open front door I feel eyes on me. I turn from the car, shut the passanger door, and ...there...she...is Makenzie (my middle) She is outfitted for the day, backpack is on, but she is standing on the sidewalk in 15 degree weather not moving a muscle. I turn and ask "Why don't you get in the car? I'll be out in a second!" She smiles and says, "I'm gonna wait till Lilly gets in. She got the band aid, I get the good seat. " </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><span line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2c353c;"><span style= line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">I should have seen it coming from a mile away, but the hustle and bustle blinded me to her place. I paid not attention until she commanded it, and I paid the price. 20 minutes of reasoning with 2 very cold and stubborn girls. Trying to convince them that the purposefully identical booster seats are equally comfortable was a futile task for me, but the middle got to shine for a moment. Hopefully next time I can shine the spotlight instead of forcing Makenzie to commandeer it herself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c353c; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-27383344173868507372015-03-04T19:24:00.001-08:002015-03-04T19:24:39.633-08:00Memory Lane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbIAD1wN8XgL5XD0XvVlYi6KNChJtdzZphgAoyzO-Z5qBOZVmerY19YM7OVfUBO6kfxgqP4o5e6ie3H4brgn5FxBGF-s8TUh0VLLJyg_mmfuIQABdMATzDGMF24FZE3ZW8qF25bcL6Ci7/s1600/Puppy+Jumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbIAD1wN8XgL5XD0XvVlYi6KNChJtdzZphgAoyzO-Z5qBOZVmerY19YM7OVfUBO6kfxgqP4o5e6ie3H4brgn5FxBGF-s8TUh0VLLJyg_mmfuIQABdMATzDGMF24FZE3ZW8qF25bcL6Ci7/s1600/Puppy+Jumbo.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jumbo, you were the first thing that I ever raised and it has been a long strange journey indeed. There was something about your face that was irresistible and annoying all at once. You taught me patience, responsibility, and to sleep less; all things I need to learn before becoming a parent. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9053hb1o3Vf09ECEgF39eT70xwOkCrqJ5sGapmQ3oWw6Wco4AseqoOPBuaF7M57eL8DzbI2D3AKqRlOnq9gXEs7b1sHrJOngeHTVyMubXpw_otZy6auJAJvkZSrQCd4fHmGSgIDFkGh9J/s1600/sitting+jumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9053hb1o3Vf09ECEgF39eT70xwOkCrqJ5sGapmQ3oWw6Wco4AseqoOPBuaF7M57eL8DzbI2D3AKqRlOnq9gXEs7b1sHrJOngeHTVyMubXpw_otZy6auJAJvkZSrQCd4fHmGSgIDFkGh9J/s1600/sitting+jumbo.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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You have been there for my first apartment, first home, first child, second child, second home, and the third little red head too. There isn't a milestone that I haven't completed in my adult life that you haven't cheered for me with a nice lick of the hand. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cIB_Y_geEokdYqkEtASb84VzQpxFVK__bA4qHWzWRe8wsQj8VQERQYvni40wJgaizYCiSUJVS4Xrr31Mqwh7vGT_8-NemyzwKXFijsjHEcGZa6jMKyTeIFhp2t_ztKMpmRaJPI08gnHN/s1600/hiding+jumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cIB_Y_geEokdYqkEtASb84VzQpxFVK__bA4qHWzWRe8wsQj8VQERQYvni40wJgaizYCiSUJVS4Xrr31Mqwh7vGT_8-NemyzwKXFijsjHEcGZa6jMKyTeIFhp2t_ztKMpmRaJPI08gnHN/s1600/hiding+jumbo.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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You are stubborn and intense when it comes to defending your toys, our home, or your family. You are "OUR DOG" and could never belong or be claimed by anyone else. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgqbpuM-vF54c47iFluxD7C3bOnMMtw_B6_2duHOKEIFC5WcyEfN-RMurAVF_GUnFzL56iDYOOFrE2aZjJS3nDVg4RWyhO_6ImjEeuGlC1DtqSKpm9XYegHjPeQQlJfI9DRgFJ6esCd92/s1600/Couch+Jumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgqbpuM-vF54c47iFluxD7C3bOnMMtw_B6_2duHOKEIFC5WcyEfN-RMurAVF_GUnFzL56iDYOOFrE2aZjJS3nDVg4RWyhO_6ImjEeuGlC1DtqSKpm9XYegHjPeQQlJfI9DRgFJ6esCd92/s1600/Couch+Jumbo.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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You are a constant companion of the best kind. The kind that rests and relaxes for most of the day, but needs to be close just because. You are the king of your castle, always choosing the best spot to overtake. There isn't a couch or bed in this home you don't like. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfay7Kt8IlWeuzRpNfLzzrGXg1XiO8uwz4q8_YEKupyT6a3BHvfVmBq4KgxC18Moa5m6lUtC66ZWM44HNTK4jm0ExJBEg3KWPcj3XiDWZY-bJoJxu0Ne28P2Iv-pLBU1li8GLWrTv-sS1_/s1600/cone+jumbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfay7Kt8IlWeuzRpNfLzzrGXg1XiO8uwz4q8_YEKupyT6a3BHvfVmBq4KgxC18Moa5m6lUtC66ZWM44HNTK4jm0ExJBEg3KWPcj3XiDWZY-bJoJxu0Ne28P2Iv-pLBU1li8GLWrTv-sS1_/s1600/cone+jumbo.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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We have had our rough patches to say the least. You arrived to us unable to breath and spent months receiving treatments to keep you alive. People asked us to return you to the tragic beginnings you came from, but we saved you and nursed to back to health. 11 years and 3 surgeries later you outlasted everyone's expectations to become the curmudgeon that you are at this moment. </div>
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The decision to help you out of your regular, daily pain isn't going to be one that it easy but we make it knowing that you are better off. The 11 years of adventure, fun and silliness will be with us always and we will remember the way you shaped the little moments of our lives forever. A day in the near future will present a very tough decision for us, but you are making the path to peace clearer each day. </div>
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<br />Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-72522541388226269812015-03-03T19:54:00.000-08:002015-03-03T19:54:13.897-08:00Roses and ThornsA few years ago a colleague of mine was directing professional learning. In the session we were building community by learning about each other. In her infinite wisdom she explained the idea of roses and thorns, a daily ritual that President Obama's family practiced to categorize and prioritize the events of their daily life around the dinner table. Since that day I have had my family use this as a spring board for dinner conversation. <br />
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When it first began the girls, I have three under 10 years of age, would say things like "My rose was I got candy today." "My teacher said she liked my shirt." Or "you made my favorite dinner." Tangible things are age appropriate for my girls and since they always are bursting to share I let them go first. As the years have passed they listen to my roses and thorns a little bit more than they used to. I have shared thorns like: not getting to park in the school parking lot and feeling anxious about being late, missing an opportunity to hug them in the morning, and hearing my daughter insult someone and wondering why. On the flip side I also tried to always make my roses about family and showing others justice and kindness. I had no idea if my modeling was working, the same things were being shared.<br />
Roses this past week:<br />
Minecraft castle built<br />
Found puppy when he was lost<br />
Extra TV time<br />
Watched Big Hero 6 again<br />
Didn't have to take a bath (yes a 4 year old celebrated this in my house this week!)<br />
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Grace's rose today didn't come at the dinner table, it came in a quiet moment we had after long division, showers, and bedtime stories. She looked at me and started to tell a story about a boy in her class. She talks about him often, he sits alone, he picks his nose, people talk about him and she doesn't know why. Today was a bit different, the story began with "So I asked Owen to sit at the end of our table at lunch today because he likes the Origami Yoda books like I do and he is totally into Star Wars, I knew the other kids would like that. At the end of lunch mom he smiled...he doesn't do that too often...I think that's my rose. It was pretty cool." It is pretty cool, we both have the same rose today. Totally different reasons but the same rose all the same.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-41994757756759310452015-03-02T19:25:00.001-08:002015-03-02T19:25:34.496-08:00The WhistleThere are no reasons why whistling is my nemesis for today except that it was. I spent the morning gearing up, making lists, getting things accomplished. I am not a Monday person. Morning person yes, absolutely, hands down, 100% morning person. Monday on the other hand, not so much. This Monday was different, everything was falling into place and I was knocking things off my list of things to do left and right. When I heard it.<br />
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Whistling, a happy tune.<br />
Down the hallway<br />
Where was it coming from<br />
No turning back...<br />
I had to find it.<br />
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You<br />
Oh...you<br />
Oh...happy, chipper, kind you. That's where the whistling is coming from?<br />
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I can't explain what whistling does to me, every time without fail I see red. In my personal life, in the classroom, everywhere. The only times that I have ever enjoyed the sound is when it first pushed it's way through my children's lips. Then I went right back to hating it. <br />
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Today was different, today I believe I found the reason why it struck me as frustrating, annoying, inappropriate almost. How could someone be so happy in such a stressful time, a Monday. I had to step back and gain perspective on what Monday's mean to everyone but me. Monday is a day that brings a fresh start, not the pile or list of things to do. It is a time that celebrates invention and ingenuity, not what you didn't get done last week. Monday ushers in fresh perspectives and hopefulness about what can be accomplished, not what wasn't. <br />
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Maybe if I would allow the whistle in my life a bit more I might feel as carefree as he did this morning. Monday, whistling it is. Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-39380042142513319962015-03-01T20:42:00.002-08:002015-03-01T20:42:22.512-08:00I almost forgotThere are many hats that I wear in life: mother, sister, teacher to name just a few. <br />
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I am not a writer. <br />
I have never thought of myself as a writer. I have made feeble attempts to become a regular writer because I know that it could make me better...but it has never stuck. <br />
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It makes sense that I have opened this blog 6 separate times today and attempted to "rip the band-aid" and just begin, but then closed it again because of a more pressing matter. There is always something that gives me the excuse to walk away and start again some other time that is more calm, appropriate, or sane. <br />
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Today is the day that I attempt to be a writer, for better and worse.<br />
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At least for the next 30 days.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-70806893393550249132012-07-08T19:58:00.002-07:002012-07-08T19:58:14.450-07:002 little wordsI'm sorry. 2 words that we say thousands of times over the course of our lives but really are the only words that make a difference sometimes. <br />
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2 PM: Wailing from the back porch stops me in my tracks. I look up to see Grace gingerly touching her shin and in the midst of the cry that has ceased to have sound. The cry that lets mothers for blocks around know that ice and band aids will soon grace our day. She has a knack with this cry and she uses it often so I don't immediately put down the grimy shovel that I have spent the last 3 hours using to finally get to the "summer project" of moving plants to the side of the house. Instead I glance up and yell "Calm down there is no need to get hysterical!" Her scraped, pink leg with a bruise forming needed an ice pack that I got immediately but I never said I was sorry. I didn't even think about saying it, I didn't trip her or hurt her leg, I might have been a few seconds late but I did what most moms would do. I never even thought about saying I'm sorry until 10 minutes later when she tripped over the same small step of concrete leading to our back door. There was no doubt in my mind at that point an I'm sorry was in order, not out loud but in my head.<br />
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My daughter has Stargardt's disease and although it appears to everyone else in the world that she is a sassy kid with her dark shades on, she is slowly losing her ability to see the little things that make life easier. All the little things that come easy to so many are so hard for her: walking up the bottom stair leading to the house, catching the rolly-polly before her sister can snatch it away, and finding the gray remote sitting on the gray couch. No matter how hard she tries those things are not always easy for her. That is why I thought "I'm sorry" over and over again in my head in that moment. She can read like the wind, dance beyond my abilities, and debate bedtime tirelessly but at a certain time of day she can't walk up the back stairs to our house without tripping. That is why when people look at me now, their faces say I'm sorry. <br />
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I wish people would say I'm sorry out loud sometimes. Maybe then when Sean took her inside , I wouldn't feel bad about sitting in the garden crying a little bit. It might be a little easier to put the reflective tape down on the stairs. I might feel like I could stop feeling like I need to say "I'm sorry" for what IS, and use it when they really needs to be said.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-63837054470298036832011-12-13T20:34:00.000-08:002011-12-13T20:34:09.481-08:00ReflectionI started writing because my friend at school does it and part of me thought, well if she does it I can too! I am sitting tonight tired and weary without a whole lot to say and for some reason I am making time to write. My posts were intended at first to be about teaching, mentoring, writing curriculum and the many academic things that I fill my days (and nights) with, but looking back at my posts only one is close to that subject. I always write about what will make me feel better, my family. <br />
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Family is a funny thing because it never is the perfect situation, comment, or story to be told. There are always left over feelings about anything that happens. At times I would like to hit a button and redo an entire year. I would love to erase the flock of seagulls hairdo in the Christmas card that year, or running away from home for a full 3 hours until my mom tracked me down, or age 20 (Yep the whole darn thing!) But then again these are the things that make up the fabric of who I am. <br />
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Last week I posted about my amazing daughter and how she is facing some trails in the near future with her eyesight. Today I took some time to reflect. I thought about what if things had been different? What if I hadn't dated that loser? What if I had stayed at UW-Madison? What if we had waited a little longer than 3 months after the wedding to get pregnant? All of these questions resulted in the same idea for me, all of these things are what make me who I am. Determined, intelligent, and passionate. All those people touched my life and shaped it in some way that makes me better today because of what I learned from them. These are the lessons that I can pass on, use as examples, and forge ahead. <br />
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I think I write about family because they are everything that I ever dreamed about. It is one of the things that I did right on the first try. Again, there are times that the car gets pulled over and things aren't perfect but perfection isn't the goal. The journey is what makes up the fabric of who you are and Grace and I are going to weave a new pattern together that is our own, unique from everyone else. Now that's a beautiful thing, something to celebrate.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-59714519646478063182011-12-07T21:54:00.000-08:002011-12-07T21:54:10.168-08:00What's in a name?The name of my first daughter was never a mystery to me. I knew it would be a girl from the moment I thought of the name. It was fitting, right, almost meant to be and today I struggle with that idea a bit. How can you know who someone will be without even meeting them yet? Sometimes the details are worked out for your beforehand. <br />
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Grace is an exceptional child and always has been. Yesterday she was diagnosed with Stargardt's disease, something that will change everything for her in a short amount of time. I laid in bed with her tonight, something I skip too often, and reminded her how special she is. In true 6 year old fashion she stroked my back and said "I know I'll be awesome even though my eyes don't work that great. You and dad will make me better." There are no words to describe that feeling as a mother. When there is something that you can't shield your children from it feels like you have failed in some way. I keep running back to her name, Grace.<br />
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Grace is the perfect complement to her condition and describes everything she embodies. She is strong and stoic when she needs to be. In the quiet moments that don't count to anyone but us, she is graceful and reassuring. She will climb every mountain put in front of her and meet every goal she sets for herself knowing at all times that we are behind her to give an extra push if she needs it. What I realize now is that I need to take my lead from her. Trust in her knowledge and insight; believe that she is graceful and resilient. She will teach me so much about what it means to truly live, in the only way that a 6 year old knows how to. <br />
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There is a lot in a name. I know now that we choose the right one<br />
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</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-27564457725983707582011-11-08T19:14:00.000-08:002011-11-08T19:18:19.832-08:00Moments of SilenceEvery morning we pause for a moment of silence because we are mandated to. We honor our individuality through a small gesture that many students don't even understand. Today was one of those days. The kind of day that makes you rethink why you chose this path, one kid gets stuck, one cries, one boldly lies to you without flinching, but in the end I found myself drifting into my own moments of silence. Sometimes moments of silence speak volumes.<br />
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There are not many people in this world that would tell you that I am a quiet person. Reserved is not something that typically is the go to character trait that my husband or sisters use when describing me but that is what I became today. Moments of silence became my safety, my individuality, and my escape. I realized that in a moment I could disappear in a room full of people, ignore comments that I wasn't ready to address in the moment, and preserve my dignity and sanity without a word. Sometimes moments of silence speak volumes.<br />
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So I tried it, taking moments to gather my thoughts using silence to gain individuality. I also watched when my students took moments to themselves throughout the day, and who didn't. Some of them choose not to, and that wasn't a bad thing it was just very telling. If you always have an instant opinion does that mean that it is right? Does that somehow make that person more intelligent than someone else? One of my most reserved students was also one that had the most powerful things to say today. This person didn't need an audience to know that the ideas she shared were important, but when she spoke people listen and noticed. It's amazing that a 10 year old can teach a truly powerful lesson, Sometimes moments of silence are golden, they prepare the world to hear what is important.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-18475532869843652242011-11-01T18:52:00.000-07:002011-11-01T18:52:56.629-07:00Life in 6 wordsI read an article today on Scholastic.com that talked about a teacher who had her students write memoirs in 6 words. I rarely open these emails. They typically go directly into my trash without a second look but today I was compelled for some reason. The article talked about how Hemingway once wrote a 6 word sentence that told a much longer and larger story. "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" It just goes to show you that less is more sometimes.<br />
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This got me to thinking, so much is packed into the smallest phrases of our lives. <br />
I love you.<br />
I hate that.<br />
I can't do this anymore.<br />
I'm sorry we did everything we could.<br />
Congratulations it's a girl. <br />
Please mommy!?<br />
These little phrases can change our worlds in amazing or terrible ways. Why do we as people give so much power to words and yet use them so carelessly? I hear people claim that they were misunderstood or that they didn't mean what they had said. If everyone took the time to think and value the words they did say, conversations may look a lot different. So here is my attempt at a memoir in 6 words. A word of caution: I am no Hemingway!<br />
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My life began with "I do"Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-72027956724261321752011-10-11T20:36:00.000-07:002011-10-11T20:36:13.433-07:00The other side of momI have found over the years that I increasing sound like my mother. Every day I sound more and more like her in my work, home, and yes even with my children. My mom is not your ordinary woman. She is reserved yet driven, kind to a fault and yet can get her point across with a look or one sentence. She is what I have always wanted to be, so in some respects this is an accomplishment for me. <br />
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I found myself this week saying things that would only come from her. Things like "what would you do in that situation?" or "I bet if you thought about it from their perspective you would understand." I'm conflicted about this at times because it is hard think about everyone's feelings before my own, but at the same time it is something that is engrained in my soul. It is who I am because of my mother. <br />
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My middle daughter Makenzie came down with a stomach bug today. It was not planned and in true working mom fashion I went into panic mode. I rearranged schedules, thought 14 steps ahead of every phone call, and tried to make her as comfortable as a 3 year old throwing up every 20 minutes can be. When I held her in my arms, sweaty, and weepy I channeled my mother and broke into Makenzie's favorite song. The voice and song that once soothed me as a child surfaced and created a safety that Makenzie hadn't felt all day. At that moment I became the mother from my childhood memories and I crossed over to the other side of mom. <br />
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I didn't learn how to teach a lesson, how to deal with my kids, or how to be a wife from my mom. I learned how to be a person that can juggle, manage and succeed at all those things at once. I am the person I am because my mom challenged me to think about what I do before I do it. I am intentional and deliberate because of her questions and example. I am me because she was willing to let me try and fail, always knowing that the best way to teach is by example. I am not her and never will be, but I am a better version of myself because of her.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-76351591399760723832011-10-04T19:17:00.000-07:002011-10-04T19:17:58.434-07:00The revolving question.9 o'clock already. <br />
where did my morning go?<br />
rushing<br />
3 drop offs, 15 minutes of tears, 1 lost lunch <br />
Where did my morning go? <br />
No parking, morning meeting, giant coke<br />
9 o'clock already<br />
the bell rings<br />
students rush in <br />
no time to be, just time to think. <br />
Think aloud, solve problems, change course<br />
It's lunch, where did the morning go? <br />
a little slower<br />
more time to search our brains. <br />
one great book <br />
one new class<br />
working, working, working<br />
the nine o'clock Metra barges into my consciousness. <br />
Is it 9 o'clock already?Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364407482521868330.post-64267349553380124932011-09-27T17:25:00.000-07:002011-09-27T18:23:36.492-07:00The Cone"Open the door, you have to come see this!" I darted outside to reconnect with my bloody and battered best friend and there he was stuck in the yard between a rock and a picnic table, literally. Although Jumbo peered out of the tiniest eyes that I have ever seen, I know he blames me for all this pain. I wanted to crawl in that cone and take his pain away. <br />
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Maybe it is my guilt or overactive imagination but the cone continues to pop into my head. I'm the one that needs the cone. I need it to block out the noise that has become the realty surrounding my profession. A cone so I can sit and savor every word the 30 unique personalities share because they value my opinion. One to focus me on the most important tasks of the day and bounce me off a wall when I start riffling through boxes left by someone I don't even know. A dome of solitude when the complaining becomes too much. Jumbo doesn't know how truly lucky he is. <br />
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In a week, when his world becomes whole again, I'm sure he'll spend a little more time at the water bowl, running up and down the stairs, and sneaking food off the kids plates. He'll remember how good he has it. Maybe sometimes it would be good for all of us to wear a cone, so we can bask in the joys of our world when we finally take it off. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Z1ozNoFehP4tU08ADNYbITUetosGLVuT1h9t99mg9trtitsFtoPXMthxO92BpUlnKe-sEsW187Q3A29NNKhIk2kiGZ2VwFastBovDY-pSPQav71c3Dt3VnU7vo9UahA6q7aZ-gv6xIB9/s1600/2011-09-27_19-05-14_313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Z1ozNoFehP4tU08ADNYbITUetosGLVuT1h9t99mg9trtitsFtoPXMthxO92BpUlnKe-sEsW187Q3A29NNKhIk2kiGZ2VwFastBovDY-pSPQav71c3Dt3VnU7vo9UahA6q7aZ-gv6xIB9/s320/2011-09-27_19-05-14_313.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07896760174958680392noreply@blogger.com4