tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2636344496136069172024-02-21T01:49:20.793-08:00Shameless BraggingMeredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-75293843320474414172013-05-27T13:23:00.000-07:002013-05-27T13:24:29.097-07:00Here we go. Again.A few years ago, I had my blog printed and bound into a book. Usually the book just sits unopened on a side table with a few other photo books, but occasionally, Claire will pick up the blog book and peruse it. She will read her favorite parts aloud and will get so tickled as she exclaims, "Mom! Did I really want to be spiderman for Halloween?". And then I will get a little sad because I don't remember so I will say, "Well, if I wrote it, it must be true".
As the girls get older, life is getting crazier and more hectic by the minute. There are so many small moments that I want to remember and I know if I don't document them here, they will be gone forever. So, this is me, attempting to revive my blog habit. Again. For, like, the third or fourth time.
When I first started blogging, my girls looked like this:
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbAU_FCKDQ3lzV7YVIoz85OL8GEvGBXu9BWK1C9_oYM1eYNBMRqUoCRRHbkU46srBtNjp6xse-LaAEAFLO1EyuK8kKSYlEkmxig7A4FomNcMuA_Opvydoffy8LGRyTsbfverLiV5nefrE/s1600/DSCN0243.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEbAU_FCKDQ3lzV7YVIoz85OL8GEvGBXu9BWK1C9_oYM1eYNBMRqUoCRRHbkU46srBtNjp6xse-LaAEAFLO1EyuK8kKSYlEkmxig7A4FomNcMuA_Opvydoffy8LGRyTsbfverLiV5nefrE/s320/DSCN0243.JPG" /></a>
And I blinked and now they look like this:
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtc-BkbOzLymjQzNPMvkDMbF0iLQ8hPmNFeEGOVo42CGt_R-uHBueug1QjgG-VVWuNs8HxsWBAfD4Uai7A6hxoLGhQDxPi70uQjWiKYr0Acq8qhtQBGBNbpUhdKoOzovc5hIIpKhH3cqk/s1600/DSC_3793.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtc-BkbOzLymjQzNPMvkDMbF0iLQ8hPmNFeEGOVo42CGt_R-uHBueug1QjgG-VVWuNs8HxsWBAfD4Uai7A6hxoLGhQDxPi70uQjWiKYr0Acq8qhtQBGBNbpUhdKoOzovc5hIIpKhH3cqk/s320/DSC_3793.JPG" /></a>
And I don't know how that happened.
Last weekend, I watched my baby niece graduate high school. I kept saying over and over "I can't believe she is graduating," to which Claire kept saying "Why do you keep SAYING that?". But I just really couldn't get my mind around it. Especially when I realized that in nine more years, I would be saying the same thing about Claire. And then two years later, Arden. And three years after that, Amelia.
When those days come, I want to remember how we got there. So, blogging it is. Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-54548055066152452142012-03-24T06:14:00.005-07:002012-03-24T07:11:19.587-07:00DisneyWorld: The Super Unofficial Guide<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IRINxox3XetIaQz7BL36FijqAdd4_HOZ2-euDMQ8_zoRO4vo-1_D4RLKzCVA4RlV0sWvt94_Dl6VEPdaDRPA227qMMol1ftwZiZb0ty2tkXgXm6NIt9J0YziNI1Wfn4dggW-RmOCDz-I/s1600/disney+2012+565.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IRINxox3XetIaQz7BL36FijqAdd4_HOZ2-euDMQ8_zoRO4vo-1_D4RLKzCVA4RlV0sWvt94_Dl6VEPdaDRPA227qMMol1ftwZiZb0ty2tkXgXm6NIt9J0YziNI1Wfn4dggW-RmOCDz-I/s400/disney+2012+565.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723465630056336610" /></a><br />We just got back from Disneyworld and while I have loads of cute pictures and anecdotes to share, I feel obligated to pass on some tips that you won't find in any of the Disney guidebooks.<br /><br />1. If you do not like other people's children, you should probably skip Disneyworld. If other people's children annoy you, or you are put off by being bumped into while standing in line, then you should probably skip Disneyworld. If you are generally a cranky, glass-half-empty kind of person, you should probably skip Disneyworld. Please. Do it for the rest of us.<br /><br />2. If you are at all claustrophobic, do not go to Disneyworld on spring break. <br /><br />3. If your child thinks that "Dumbo" is pronounced "Dumpo," please make her say it 1,000 times a day while you are at Magic Kingdom because it is the cutest thing ever.<br /><br />4. If your child is being hassled by some kids in the pool at your hotel, do not come screaming down to the lazy river and create a big commotion. Your kid would probably rather fend for himself rather than watch you recreate a scene from Jersey Shore. Especially after you said that the only thing southerners are good for is growing corn. Also, please brush up on your agriculture knowledge if you intend to insult an entire demographic of people. We do not grow corn in the South. Soybeans? Yes. Cotton? Yes. Rice? Yes. Corn? Um, not so much. <br /><br />5. If you ride the Dinosaur ride at Animal Kingdom, please note that it may traumatize your five year old. Your three year old, however, will likely be unfazed.<br /><br />6. If your child's favorite thing about Disneyworld was playing at the park at EPCOT, do not point out that you could've just gone to the park at home and saved a few grand.<br /><br />7. If your child is fairly newly potty-trained and has an aversion to automatic flushers, good luck.<br /><br />8. If your three year old falls asleep while you are waiting for the shuttle back to your hotel, she will weigh twice as much as she did when she was awake.<br /><br />9. If you accidentally choose Portuguese as your language on the Spaceship Earth ride at EPCOT, the ride will take approximately 45 minutes. <br /><br />10. If your child loves Mickey Mouse and was so excited to see his house, she will be very sad to find out his house is gone forever and she will be worried about where Mickey will sleep now (Note: Cinderella's castle is NOT an acceptable option because that is where Cinderella and the other princesses sleep, I can't even believe you would suggest that).<br /><br />11. If you find yourself humming "It's a Small World," it is time to go home.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-62228073706327355622012-02-13T07:15:00.000-08:002012-02-13T08:09:40.176-08:00Every year on Claire's birthday, I encourage her to stay the same age and not get any older. She never agrees to do it and I'm not sure why, because this tactic has been working out great for me ever since I turned 29 for the first time a few (?) years ago. <br />In spite of my best efforts, she turned eight yesterday and we celebrated with a pool party and 20 of her closest friends. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDB4RBf2XplPsgtebJktMTtPMmpONAuK4Wznbq64wofKwKCRs_GoqMAF8WPQ2ALbYh9Idd9SYLyWizFWFEsbBy3YMOw2kZ1u1KRo-_fwM1UvoD9UV_zBV7a5qMm35mMXlfTJq0EHKBheR/s1600/december+2011+239.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDB4RBf2XplPsgtebJktMTtPMmpONAuK4Wznbq64wofKwKCRs_GoqMAF8WPQ2ALbYh9Idd9SYLyWizFWFEsbBy3YMOw2kZ1u1KRo-_fwM1UvoD9UV_zBV7a5qMm35mMXlfTJq0EHKBheR/s400/december+2011+239.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708641127531727378" /></a><br /><br />Happy birthday to my biggest girl! We are so proud of you and the sweet girl you are. I would like to propose that you stay eight for a while...like maybe the next twenty years or so. Because eight years goes by way too fast. We love you!Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-53645967022449036022012-02-10T12:19:00.000-08:002012-02-10T12:31:29.916-08:00Aaaaaannnnnd...We're Back<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya65Y_7F09gEiZd18VVwZvbNycArGJICLd3HqYvCcjKqYuc0_Orv9XXh1udBh0WFZVZpHtZmcBAhbpUjVbEmvLtB-PgAPnthcB0arxaCg8xDpLjaR7NpLQqt3ybzQill89w9xzPcnk60x/s1600/fall+2011+763.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya65Y_7F09gEiZd18VVwZvbNycArGJICLd3HqYvCcjKqYuc0_Orv9XXh1udBh0WFZVZpHtZmcBAhbpUjVbEmvLtB-PgAPnthcB0arxaCg8xDpLjaR7NpLQqt3ybzQill89w9xzPcnk60x/s400/fall+2011+763.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707606901383530610" /></a><br /><br />Same goofy kids. More consistent blogging. Get excited.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-90581628075301482702011-08-03T14:23:00.001-07:002011-08-03T14:23:22.269-07:00Excessive Heat Days Look a lot Like Snow Days Around Here<br /><br /><center><a href='https://picasaweb.google.com/MeredithBramlett/JanMar2009?authkey=Gv1sRgCMvZx-fu5_DO9QE#5636743426277960338'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRz6qIv3YtACUkLJDTWTaHUe8CRvp8hmBB6ZoQX5-0SxBD5fZPRmQbaD0XyKIcsCm4MkIcGBrJqgClrUBetj_BwrMzfhnn3MkOg8bmMyDao3VerOoU9K32ECAP_6_3BNi7RNfKrp74DVIy/s288/2.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-49230131000922824742011-06-12T19:40:00.001-07:002011-06-12T19:41:40.879-07:00It's Probably Time to Do Something About This<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='https://picasaweb.google.com/MeredithBramlett/JanMar2009?authkey=Gv1sRgCMvZx-fu5_DO9QE#5617529030739802258'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXQuCvg2Of3Je7hpD8RoOmOJ5wQcEw4CM0tqcQZdbzFODpkeMG3m_qkE1UxKyuCNw4eT8-xyzK4BmraiP9DzWTBZ-daLZKPAmTVPX3arl7xnLkf55rGG12e-tkgtPYVO90lb8xpoOMFEO/s288/2.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-8454260847612361562011-06-11T13:24:00.000-07:002011-06-11T13:47:17.428-07:00Another School Year Ends<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGanApTNTVv8ehGIEEy6aXdxC65C-hbxxh3U3oSJChiOV_PCz0bY7Bs_y_Csqm5GapquGkoemchmLMdr4m6brikkgRFs11YX_ALcPJsXIS66WjeZanRNUZ4aEPt8CmXRXaDJsIswGBknTS/s1600/june+11+002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGanApTNTVv8ehGIEEy6aXdxC65C-hbxxh3U3oSJChiOV_PCz0bY7Bs_y_Csqm5GapquGkoemchmLMdr4m6brikkgRFs11YX_ALcPJsXIS66WjeZanRNUZ4aEPt8CmXRXaDJsIswGBknTS/s400/june+11+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617062305559955186" /></a><br /><br />Amelia loved Sonshine School, mostly because her favorite babysitter, Miss Callie, was also her teacher. She was able to remain on Miss Callie's hip throughout most of the school year, thus securing her place as "most spoiled third baby--ever".<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU40IwfbzCpLhVVbehatVWtisW2ZIgl-S5IlUBi-A4qG6mA0kj5wffZ4D8jAiuNeGIifUznG5TzDZD61PMNfdDEGXRmQvhoe-C4iCftSeRZa4xK7qVdGdo0I-2GEqgg4daFW5-NMH_Pv4u/s1600/june+11+042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU40IwfbzCpLhVVbehatVWtisW2ZIgl-S5IlUBi-A4qG6mA0kj5wffZ4D8jAiuNeGIifUznG5TzDZD61PMNfdDEGXRmQvhoe-C4iCftSeRZa4xK7qVdGdo0I-2GEqgg4daFW5-NMH_Pv4u/s400/june+11+042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617062320733191954" /></a><br /><br />For the first time ever, Arden loved school this year. She made sweet friends and had wonderful teachers. She never had to sit in time out and was a big fan of quoting her teacher's mantra "If you hit, you sit". She asked to stay late every day and got mad if I picked her up early. We couldn't have asked for a better year!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNX1OCLjvn-UpOrvdz_vJs975A1k65e4m02_3sCMMikT4SUGbDoC3AyW1xhvIZdvfbMpkVfGG8bh2KIatnk9WMuk5M_u6t-D0DJwrhNw0tV-siFNzaX1IdhTGscv2VS_rC8z5iMkF0ZR8/s1600/june+11+004.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNX1OCLjvn-UpOrvdz_vJs975A1k65e4m02_3sCMMikT4SUGbDoC3AyW1xhvIZdvfbMpkVfGG8bh2KIatnk9WMuk5M_u6t-D0DJwrhNw0tV-siFNzaX1IdhTGscv2VS_rC8z5iMkF0ZR8/s400/june+11+004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617062277627994034" /></a><br /><br />Claire has declared her first grade year "The best year ever!!!!", although that kid loves school so much, I suspect she'll be saying that every year. She especially loved Science, Reading, and socializing with her girl friends.<br /><br />After a great school year, we are ready for a fun summer. Thanks to all the snow days we had this winter, it will be a shorter than normal summer, but we plan to make the most of it!Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-1271456468167107572011-05-02T19:43:00.000-07:002011-05-02T21:02:19.218-07:00And Then A Whole Year PassedLast year, I was a little emotional around this time of the year. The one year mark of Amelia's diagnosis was looming over me and I realized I hadn't allowed myself to fully grieve and process what that meant. Some of that was because I simply didn't want to, but, in retrospect, it was largely because I didn't feel entitled to. <br /><br />I knew of so many others who were dealing with very traumatic losses and life-threatening illnesses that I felt it wasn't OK for me to grieve. I mean, Amelia has ONE good eye, right? You can certainly live life with one eye. What's the big deal?<br /><br />I see now that this logic is flawed. There is no litmus test for pain. If your child is hurting, you are allowed to hurt along with them. If your child has been given a challenge, it's OK to grieve for that. It's OK to feel like they got ripped off. It's OK to wonder why it happened to them. <br /><br />It's OK to be sad. <br /><br />*****************************************************************<br /><br />When Amelia was two months old, Jason and I noticed that she didn't seem to focus on anything. I noted that she always looked to the left when she was laying on her changing table or on the floor. Her eyes seemed to cross a lot. We were midly concerned.<br /><br />I mentioned our concerns at Amelia's two month check up and was told by the doctor (NOT my beloved Dr. J or Dr. P)that she was fine and it was normal and I was over-analyzing things. I left her office feeling uneasy. <br /><br />They don't call it mother's intuition for nothing.<br /><br />****************************************************************<br /> <br />A week later, I made an appointment with Dr. P. Normally, Dr. P is a boisterous, funny guy but that day he was very serious. He laid Amelia on the exam table, took one look at her eyes and said, "I'm very concerned. I'm going to make a phone call."<br /><br />Less than ten minutes later, we were sitting in Dr. H's office hearing him diagnose Amelia with a rare eye condition practically NO ONE has ever heard of. <br /><br />Less than ten minutes after that, we were in a retina specialist's office, listening to him confirm the diagnosis and trying to get our brains around the idea that our infant was blind in one eye. <br /><br /><br />***************************************************************<br /><br />Easily the worst day of my life. But two years later, I can honestly say that the fear of not knowing what to expect was much worse than actually experiencing it. <br /><br />Not that it's been a picnic. Did you know my toddler wears a contact? I probably don't need to spell out what a nightmare that is. But we manage. Sometimes I have to take her to the doctor just to get her contact back in. This doesn't seem strange to me anymore. <br /><br />It's just what we do.<br /><br />***************************************************************<br /><br />Some days, I still feel sad. I feel sad that my baby has to wear a contact in an eye that can't see. I feel sad that she wears glasses as protection for her good eye rather than for vision correction. I feel sad that her eye isn't growing normally and that she's at a high risk for complications like glaucoma. I feel sad that other kids notice her difference. But mostly? Mostly, I feel just like I did when the other girls were toddlers.<br /><br />Tired. And so in love. <br /><br />And compared to a year ago, that's major progress.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-80454710255819425482011-04-26T11:09:00.001-07:002011-04-26T11:44:28.846-07:00There Will be Mud<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWU0Hurbnt2yNYdgxEPvLO3-sepcorGHrZMNPCgQ9tz2KEf2YLXNwiUVbCOZJ0KGd8hSBPHCrzaPRjZ0rdGA-OmNvC_lHfmAu8Qinh5bXbH_Im-WhNvFm8s_DZo07B0on7RG49XhKGabM/s1600/DSC_0680-1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDWU0Hurbnt2yNYdgxEPvLO3-sepcorGHrZMNPCgQ9tz2KEf2YLXNwiUVbCOZJ0KGd8hSBPHCrzaPRjZ0rdGA-OmNvC_lHfmAu8Qinh5bXbH_Im-WhNvFm8s_DZo07B0on7RG49XhKGabM/s400/DSC_0680-1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599956395654518226" /></a><br /><br />I love Easter. I especially love it when it falls in late April, because I love celebrating the resurrection of Jesus against the backdrop of nature reawakening from its winter sleep. Also, it means the girls won't freeze in their cute Easter dresses, which I realize is NOT what Easter is about, but you have to admit, is a nice bonus.<br /><br />This year, after several weeks of beautiful weather, Easter fell in the middle of a monsoon. Oh how I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you that, but I'm not. Well, it's possible that the amount of rain we had over the last week doesn't quite reach monsoon status, but it must be close. <br /><br />After church, we headed to Grandma Becky's house for lunch. We got lots of play time with one of our favorite cousins, Samuel. Isn't he the cutest?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBv4q2ildzFCUXjMUEVdiLSgahPzn9wVawCQzZE-z1OFP2prCnT3rePILVusWUUsbo9RHdWwFGIwbG1EbJzQB0OeA3GyMXRwwZsB0jG5sNuedlUVuhPnTD_ZSAcN9i7YtK76hWmFfb7wv/s1600/DSC_0691.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBv4q2ildzFCUXjMUEVdiLSgahPzn9wVawCQzZE-z1OFP2prCnT3rePILVusWUUsbo9RHdWwFGIwbG1EbJzQB0OeA3GyMXRwwZsB0jG5sNuedlUVuhPnTD_ZSAcN9i7YtK76hWmFfb7wv/s400/DSC_0691.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599959139048235346" /></a><br /><br />And we had an indoor egg hunt.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4j7Cf5IyG-aKPCbwSDOYYmBAxG3NIYg7D4AnmDy3ItheB6AYN3Z2VNnbdeWBLw0JZZkLqgI4O8FMeHgzfQkQHrisuocj0P4yHryebDxq5HTVMbiUQZWS38oc_oZZ-KYnqnjizIbMFt_s/s1600/DSC_0713.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih4j7Cf5IyG-aKPCbwSDOYYmBAxG3NIYg7D4AnmDy3ItheB6AYN3Z2VNnbdeWBLw0JZZkLqgI4O8FMeHgzfQkQHrisuocj0P4yHryebDxq5HTVMbiUQZWS38oc_oZZ-KYnqnjizIbMFt_s/s400/DSC_0713.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599961338499644450" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_udEdc3hu2DCUboEqhjzoDEKnlwYE3XQLMmVF0m71ytWIlHSi1VkZ_I6kGRh-Kdv6C2UcpJ-X8_K1xf9sXo5-rJkJa6YyJgQmpLtalRv6lmKQpVBbnxPCh4Sqg3EamgcnpUgnTI7CW3T9/s1600/DSC_0721.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_udEdc3hu2DCUboEqhjzoDEKnlwYE3XQLMmVF0m71ytWIlHSi1VkZ_I6kGRh-Kdv6C2UcpJ-X8_K1xf9sXo5-rJkJa6YyJgQmpLtalRv6lmKQpVBbnxPCh4Sqg3EamgcnpUgnTI7CW3T9/s400/DSC_0721.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599961328605481330" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWa2cvJ-d6vj8i_rJgbbeLrK5n9rKtHHbatGdZQ3Rdk3Gf9zyQXHeTHie8fPQJIatVpvVOYruiM7JT3tS4Mnbnq2YQcb0XmOBmlzEk7Y8BSx4J8QH8-rWeE8n3mjpHtfAi8wFJcZHKqLq/s1600/DSC_0720.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWa2cvJ-d6vj8i_rJgbbeLrK5n9rKtHHbatGdZQ3Rdk3Gf9zyQXHeTHie8fPQJIatVpvVOYruiM7JT3tS4Mnbnq2YQcb0XmOBmlzEk7Y8BSx4J8QH8-rWeE8n3mjpHtfAi8wFJcZHKqLq/s400/DSC_0720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599961325713050258" /></a><br /><br />Eventually, the indoor hunt extended onto the front porch.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPNKIr1D7V3m7Nylt0Z4D5V0VM_j02dLOq_6UCDoolY0sOgqbklIdsta5zoY7XbgfMXSo-XbHFy0sfCOnPhV6q76nwkttf2oIhe13kwyFdkGifm3EEQkh2YFGGfIxoDraZExxTGn6x1JI/s1600/DSC_0723.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPNKIr1D7V3m7Nylt0Z4D5V0VM_j02dLOq_6UCDoolY0sOgqbklIdsta5zoY7XbgfMXSo-XbHFy0sfCOnPhV6q76nwkttf2oIhe13kwyFdkGifm3EEQkh2YFGGfIxoDraZExxTGn6x1JI/s400/DSC_0723.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599962466935261330" /></a><br /><br />And that's when things started to get messy. Literally.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOqpF_BwtGDa2wu-DTNMADAjHc6iqsRBRD3PivaL9DCFQKpPYA1o9EzVQ-Au5XQlTnnQpj809Cp7isTuAgmxCCk_4YsReK6IkJ6mXu-2WjZK8zmOH5q3TpRbmPGv1pT10BdLBqi71bBXW/s1600/DSC_0730.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOqpF_BwtGDa2wu-DTNMADAjHc6iqsRBRD3PivaL9DCFQKpPYA1o9EzVQ-Au5XQlTnnQpj809Cp7isTuAgmxCCk_4YsReK6IkJ6mXu-2WjZK8zmOH5q3TpRbmPGv1pT10BdLBqi71bBXW/s400/DSC_0730.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599963897639991362" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8vONwj2IY6jhthPpi2cKn7WfuQJpi9sB2hv_RoZ0UwfeKemwRlkAhWKMNoBrqyYZv7TCHj0OX5X7SGMR-nj9ovfz7GPMK_4rGLv5_8Hlzt0pxNhiarU_uwmAzJYnaRvWdKwJAuO_3Jsv/s1600/DSC_0738.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8vONwj2IY6jhthPpi2cKn7WfuQJpi9sB2hv_RoZ0UwfeKemwRlkAhWKMNoBrqyYZv7TCHj0OX5X7SGMR-nj9ovfz7GPMK_4rGLv5_8Hlzt0pxNhiarU_uwmAzJYnaRvWdKwJAuO_3Jsv/s400/DSC_0738.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599963901448432098" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDSNG9GnLXRrjhoec9RxYpDEyuTBDZBhv_K04M1908bIyFoeXsBBJwYIie7uvM5Hvcl8XGNVpMkXEIdJiBOjCJH1GDMHRFZ3iwWSkv5LmQ_Pov5U8PhrgWpyGuSZEdmScaB5XdkvQgcQQ/s1600/DSC_0743.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDSNG9GnLXRrjhoec9RxYpDEyuTBDZBhv_K04M1908bIyFoeXsBBJwYIie7uvM5Hvcl8XGNVpMkXEIdJiBOjCJH1GDMHRFZ3iwWSkv5LmQ_Pov5U8PhrgWpyGuSZEdmScaB5XdkvQgcQQ/s400/DSC_0743.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599963907617543298" /></a><br /><br />It seems no child can resist the pull of muddy grass and puddle-filled sidewalks. At least no child of mine.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-60801667722467424102011-04-25T19:38:00.000-07:002011-04-25T19:59:02.572-07:00Chips Off the Old Block<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqKF3QQA_UXr8e00beTVN1CNoY0IpR7vKl4LElsBnDen0J_oJIIY1H17QUGRzzNEhjCLtsgdpeaEoSU2_1NtmPlYosC9SFxmFlKprQDwHx8DPqHfy2VETHjtSUbZj8DX02Iby25SWm2uWg/s1600/april+2011+035.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqKF3QQA_UXr8e00beTVN1CNoY0IpR7vKl4LElsBnDen0J_oJIIY1H17QUGRzzNEhjCLtsgdpeaEoSU2_1NtmPlYosC9SFxmFlKprQDwHx8DPqHfy2VETHjtSUbZj8DX02Iby25SWm2uWg/s400/april+2011+035.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599716455969286578" /></a><br /><br />Last Friday, the girls ran their first real race--a one mile fun run at a local park. Before the race started they were both pretty nervous. Arden because she was afraid she was going to get run over and Claire because she was afraid when she won all the people would stare at her (she really needs a little more self-confidence, that girl). <br /><br />They both loved it, which came as a complete surprise to me because the eldest child is not a fan of sweat or exertion and the middle child has a low threshold for pain/discomfort/face-planting ten yards from the starting line (that could've gone really badly). <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3XTmDLotuOb3WFLa2C2wkpK4Lowm5sOzfTXdiZIy8CVAfQ0QIQBnsJvWtwVr_Kjxj2mXlehGZ8tGOMw6o8aoYI-rnzWyMTyAawGIyU3J5ClWWbwHQ7uMUysoX_3Af1DgLI6gEkaHBjsY/s1600/april+2011+047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3XTmDLotuOb3WFLa2C2wkpK4Lowm5sOzfTXdiZIy8CVAfQ0QIQBnsJvWtwVr_Kjxj2mXlehGZ8tGOMw6o8aoYI-rnzWyMTyAawGIyU3J5ClWWbwHQ7uMUysoX_3Af1DgLI6gEkaHBjsY/s400/april+2011+047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599719537065789794" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVge4_IdrEJTzPlJZ0yITDowqfApqtnx755jfb6TYtGCGE1sCsOo5UQxvBfI_ReNNCMaRXJNRklxmGV50sDm6qUZQAvmYze2TQdtdysExUK-x8EYX-k-V2ZqNXWKX7Xo7D-5gCCqPJqQl/s1600/april+2011+052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVge4_IdrEJTzPlJZ0yITDowqfApqtnx755jfb6TYtGCGE1sCsOo5UQxvBfI_ReNNCMaRXJNRklxmGV50sDm6qUZQAvmYze2TQdtdysExUK-x8EYX-k-V2ZqNXWKX7Xo7D-5gCCqPJqQl/s400/april+2011+052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599720054449225586" /></a><br /><br /><br />They both ran hard and did really well. No need to dwell on the fact that both girls ran the mile in less time than one of their parents typically does, or that the younger sister came from behind to beat the older sister to the finish line.<br /><br />We all know they'll be plenty of time for that in the next 15-20 years.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-91822026978903984082011-04-07T19:22:00.000-07:002011-04-07T19:34:57.627-07:00These Girls<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTlw6_C-Vy5nCxGXStAQPUBaP_FCwLCU4qsgeIpKwPoyPShKVjp_QhfimG-KpvWTLGVa5H2ndpfEG1xDxSH3GKzRuxCnheqznEExQllHmdFOIq7ly-yqdrUML3eamskTewsIb7k0W4i4v/s1600/Spring+2011+136.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTlw6_C-Vy5nCxGXStAQPUBaP_FCwLCU4qsgeIpKwPoyPShKVjp_QhfimG-KpvWTLGVa5H2ndpfEG1xDxSH3GKzRuxCnheqznEExQllHmdFOIq7ly-yqdrUML3eamskTewsIb7k0W4i4v/s400/Spring+2011+136.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593033252946625026" /></a><br /><br />These girls. Sometimes, they fight. About what TV show to watch, who gets to sit in the very back of the van, who ate the last package of mini muffins. Sometimes, they get mad at each other and stomp their feet. Sometimes they get frustrated and exclaim "it's not fair!". Sometimes, they yell. Sometimes, they slam doors. They've even been known to hit/bite/pinch each other.<br /><br />Shocking, I know.<br /><br />But sometimes. Sometimes, these girls are pure sweetness. Sometimes, they are so in sync with each other that my heart feels like it will burst out of my chest watching them together.<br /><br />These girls. These girls are sisters.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-82848947243414736072011-04-06T18:22:00.000-07:002011-04-06T18:42:25.796-07:00This is Me, Eating My WordsTwo weeks ago, Amelia figured out how to climb out of her crib. And by climb, I mean hoist herself to a crouching position on the crib rail and then launch herself into the middle of her room. You can imagine how awesome that sounded coming over the baby monitor. <br /><br />Since neither Claire nor Arden ever figured out how to escape the crib, we weren't sure what to do. At first we thought maybe it was time for a big girl bed. Claire was exactly Amelia's age when she moved to one, but that was necessitated by the impending arrival of Arden. Since there are no more Bramlett babies coming, I had fully intended to leave Amelia in her crib until sometime before Kindergarten. <br /><br />After a few sleepless nights, waking up to find Amelia playing with her babies in the playroom, we knew something had to give. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yLI6zyZA9gWi0pfaV_jpXi4sBg2djqlWk33N2NQzTc31J2skVK_ub35o4DGClX7qOPEVTKzk0chl0l4vJYWNPiL7WdoRKpR9CrB0JpF267e7lLdgqbzTrWAxBmDR0qH4ptNjxNusy33j/s1600/crib.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yLI6zyZA9gWi0pfaV_jpXi4sBg2djqlWk33N2NQzTc31J2skVK_ub35o4DGClX7qOPEVTKzk0chl0l4vJYWNPiL7WdoRKpR9CrB0JpF267e7lLdgqbzTrWAxBmDR0qH4ptNjxNusy33j/s400/crib.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592649479066396114" /></a><br /><br />Go ahead. Judge me. I once equated crib tents with those teddy bear leashes you see on unruly toddlers at the mall. But that was before my two year old learned to do acrobatics out of her bed. And now that I think about it, those leashes don't seem like such a bad idea either...Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-4943978136986914232011-04-04T19:34:00.000-07:002011-04-04T20:12:48.428-07:00They Said He Would be 55 PoundsLast summer, we thought it would be fun to get a dog (yes, if you want to get technical, we already had a dog. She just lives with my parents. On their land out in the middle of the woods where she is free to torment deer and not small children). Having already saved one psycho dog from the animal shelter, we decided to go a different route. After a great deal of research, we decided that a labradoodle was the way to go. <br /><br />A mix of the fun-loving, family friendly Labrador retriever with the intelligence and non-shedding properties of a poodle? Yes, please. <br /><br />Jason drove to central Arkansas to pick up the newest member of our family. He brought home the absolute cutest, sweetest, sleepiest puppy you've ever seen.<br /><br />We were in love.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRx6wYhKNFEUlW57fo5MnFRme0f0DU34WYjezW3fuPPXWzbOGZC3LRz57GYn_S_2akNEU1YAXqWfq4wHcKa73pMWqx9OHHVD0tO9_QhTdQ-F56EhQ5nOk5vvJu9VuJWCVRNrHg_kILbKq8/s1600/summer+2010+052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRx6wYhKNFEUlW57fo5MnFRme0f0DU34WYjezW3fuPPXWzbOGZC3LRz57GYn_S_2akNEU1YAXqWfq4wHcKa73pMWqx9OHHVD0tO9_QhTdQ-F56EhQ5nOk5vvJu9VuJWCVRNrHg_kILbKq8/s400/summer+2010+052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591925062613526370" /></a><br /><br />Since this dog was Jason's only shot at a son, I let him pick the name. He chose Hootie. As in The Blowfish. I silently said a prayer of thanks that God had given us girls. And that Jason had let me pick their names.<br /><br />Hootie's initial sleepiness turned out to be due to a parasite in his belly. After a few doses of medicine, he proved himself to be a typical puppy. Chewing, nipping, peeing on the rug, tormenting the girls (and their mama). Everything a puppy is supposed to do. Including grow.<br /><br />And grow.<br /><br />And grow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15V378fFXBmVcfxVNSyHgy-x6XPqWZTlwUWOaisXC70ijcz3LNUbe4fLq2DBfYCytZ-UMePHnwBQ6ovX308cUz7hQ-pqFGNdyae65QwOXhwQPy-j50cdj9EIe9pUKWwWRsSluZGCoA-6g/s1600/Spring+2011+025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15V378fFXBmVcfxVNSyHgy-x6XPqWZTlwUWOaisXC70ijcz3LNUbe4fLq2DBfYCytZ-UMePHnwBQ6ovX308cUz7hQ-pqFGNdyae65QwOXhwQPy-j50cdj9EIe9pUKWwWRsSluZGCoA-6g/s400/Spring+2011+025.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591922883837987074" /></a><br /><br />At his last visit to the vet, he weighed in at 78 pounds. His breeder told us he would max out at 55 pounds. That's a 23 pound difference, for you math majors out there. That's a whole 'nother dog. <br /><br />He turns one at the end of the month. Surely he's gotten as big as he's going to get, right? <em>Right????</em>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-69928604991665005532011-04-03T18:47:00.000-07:002011-04-03T19:13:20.502-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMgEfnJIqKUXt1-clHDCCkfTq-a7oxz2ppJUTm5PRsRwv0Ne-3tbqPYKKPpjYg_3Py3ynzoKSfGF_nKfRsFOdFXpE1I0JG9a-1sevdj94e65wO1jg1w0kd-Uv-Fv3YRRK3YGaDpQgec7z/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMgEfnJIqKUXt1-clHDCCkfTq-a7oxz2ppJUTm5PRsRwv0Ne-3tbqPYKKPpjYg_3Py3ynzoKSfGF_nKfRsFOdFXpE1I0JG9a-1sevdj94e65wO1jg1w0kd-Uv-Fv3YRRK3YGaDpQgec7z/s400/photo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591539652412365970" /></a><br /><br />My baby got new glasses. She looks adorable in them, of course, but way to big, in my opinion. She's supposed to look like this, after all.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWVYfokrl7IhUkBxSpTy41CpGZPIWSgp202PXpwlUIwoKhUywfHr0oO9gTL-uduSpErtOB8dNyFOvXVCG6x73SYxeOer2oQ-pZhtwtY6PPgJ0HGj1lq61TOx5a9Jo9rF3APW3ZJaqdd4Y/s1600/phone+pics+099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWVYfokrl7IhUkBxSpTy41CpGZPIWSgp202PXpwlUIwoKhUywfHr0oO9gTL-uduSpErtOB8dNyFOvXVCG6x73SYxeOer2oQ-pZhtwtY6PPgJ0HGj1lq61TOx5a9Jo9rF3APW3ZJaqdd4Y/s400/phone+pics+099.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591541760952759970" /></a><br /><br />Depite oozing adorableness in her new specs, she happens to hate them. She doesn't like the way they hook behind her ears. She is not a fan of the nosepiece on them. She prefers her "baby glasses" (yes, I tried to make the new glasses seem more appealing by calling them her "big girl glasses" and the old glasses her "baby glasses". Unfortunately, my baby likes being the baby and is not swayed by efforts to shame her into trying new things in the name of being a "big girl". And yes, now I'm talking about potty training. And giving up the paci.).<br /><br />For now, we're back in the baby glasses and working our way towards the big girl glasses. Could be a long road ahead for potty training...Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-20897999745299668242011-02-11T19:54:00.001-08:002011-02-11T20:51:58.594-08:00SevenExactly seven years ago, I was laying in my bed in a sweet little house in Dallas, trying in vain to go to sleep because the next morning I would be having a baby. My first baby. The one who would make me a mother. My Claire. <br /><br />Sleep was impossible, especially once the contractions started sometime in the middle of the night. I didn't bother timing them since I already had an induction scheduled for the next morning. I just laid awake, feeling the baby move, wondering. <br /><br />We had to be at the hospital early. 6:00 a.m., I think. I didn't realize the enormity of what we were doing, bringing another soul into the world. I didn't realize, walking through the hospital doors that day, that I would leave a different person. That I would be changed, forever.<br /><br />The early part of the day was filled with laughs, visitors, excitement over a first baby, a first grandchild, another baby to love. A constant stream of people flowed in and out of the room as we waited for things to progress. <br /><br />Finally, it was time. <br /><br />My doctor told me most first time moms push for an hour. An hour seemed doable to me. So I pushed, or at least I thought I did. My epidural, that blessed medical miracle, was turned up so high that I couldn't feel anything. Jason and Dr. Hays watched the monitor closely and told me when I was having a contraction and when it was time to push. <br /><br />An hour quickly turned to two hours. I was becoming exhausted. At one point, the nurse brought a mirror into the room, thinking that would motivate me to push harder. I don't think I have to tell you that it had the exact opposite effect. My doctor brought in a knotted bedsheet and we played tug of war for a while. Still, no baby.<br /><br />We approached the three hour mark. Things were getting stressful in the room. An internal monitor had been placed on the baby's head and she was being carefully watched. Dr. Hays told me if I didn't get the baby out <em>right then</em>, I would be having a c-section. A nurse even began putting a surgical cap on my head before Dr. Hays shooed her away.<br /><br />A team of doctors entered the room. Two nurses from the NICU came in with an isolette. A precaution, Dr. Hays told me. Sometimes babies born with the use of forceps have difficulty breathing. It will be fine. Just a precaution. A blue curtain was draped over me. The anesthesiologist told me he was giving me something that would make me feel loopy. <br /><br />The next moments are just blurry snapshots to me. Vague memories of what I think happened mixed with more accurate accounts from those in the room. My sister-in-law, who had initially agreed to man the video camera once the baby was out, got way more than she bargained for that day. She later told me one of the interns in the room sat behind me and pushed me forward while another doctor pushed down on my uterus. All this while Dr. Hays sat behind the blue curtain using what are essentially enormous salad tongs to pry my baby from my body.<br /><br />I don't remember these things. <br /><br />I remember only the newborn cry. The relieved look exchanged between the NICU nurses as they wheeled the isolette out of the room. The team of doctors filing quietly out of the room. My husband rushing over to the scale and declaring that our baby--our Claire Anne--weighed a healthy eight pounds, six ounces. <br /><br />I remember the nurse placing her in my arms while she was still wiping her clean. I remember crying and telling her I thought she'd never get here. I remember staring into her eyes, wide open and murky, wondering what secrets of the universe she knew. <br /><br />I remember being so overcome with love. And now, seven years later, it's even more true.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb10fYeK7CRRQpF9JRypg9hNquTLGO-7v3s_6I-DjU_MCBAEg8E8q2EL0EVDwv8fOjUVdotoaK_7ouvSN8nKDF7TkggeTpjw2_yCc7IGg9maOWujiqvw_9dpNoVtC-Wo4KsKLHxfv6VF6T/s1600/Baby_Claire%2527s_Birthday_010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb10fYeK7CRRQpF9JRypg9hNquTLGO-7v3s_6I-DjU_MCBAEg8E8q2EL0EVDwv8fOjUVdotoaK_7ouvSN8nKDF7TkggeTpjw2_yCc7IGg9maOWujiqvw_9dpNoVtC-Wo4KsKLHxfv6VF6T/s200/Baby_Claire%2527s_Birthday_010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572661078831108018" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />happy birthday, big girl! We love you so much!Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-65680291917514819132011-02-10T13:59:00.000-08:002011-02-10T14:20:01.218-08:00So, it snowed this week.I wish my sweet old neighbor still lived next door so he could put out <a href="http://shamelessbragging.blogspot.com/2010/01/this-ones-for-my-sister.html"><strong>his sign </strong></a>again this year. If 4-5 inches of snow prompted him to call out Al Gore and his global warming theory, imagine what he would think of 20 inches. <br /><br />We spent the day playing the matching game and watching old Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen movies on Netflix. We ventured out in the snow for a little while but the girls quickly discovered that 20 inches of snow is taller than their boots and thus creates a situation involving wet pants. My children do not enjoy wet pants, or really any form of discomfort in general. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip01diJ9BtrRldw4gerqdHKLkvlao1zvgXxBeQziM7lNIvgJVnK7wep2ansdHfGmrX4rcqjhvmm8AV7_MXMZijlztAwUDOX8OifRCr_LDCjjd1Na09gMKwaX7FTriROU4DCoKhQMuhyphenhyphenyaj/s1600/Feb+2011+002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip01diJ9BtrRldw4gerqdHKLkvlao1zvgXxBeQziM7lNIvgJVnK7wep2ansdHfGmrX4rcqjhvmm8AV7_MXMZijlztAwUDOX8OifRCr_LDCjjd1Na09gMKwaX7FTriROU4DCoKhQMuhyphenhyphenyaj/s200/Feb+2011+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572185034017393026" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_YMu4OhYF9dY-00rFlUuLmK4vrysW5PDIJtID_KclzK20Y5NQNg3NptpMq59PjcNiSoN7LiPat7tP1Un1klvNElxy9iOxmocvNj_rHWOq5JEKG6GxAArbVQ02jYF-PCWjaVcmlCxWCmZ/s1600/Feb+2011+003.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_YMu4OhYF9dY-00rFlUuLmK4vrysW5PDIJtID_KclzK20Y5NQNg3NptpMq59PjcNiSoN7LiPat7tP1Un1klvNElxy9iOxmocvNj_rHWOq5JEKG6GxAArbVQ02jYF-PCWjaVcmlCxWCmZ/s200/Feb+2011+003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572185039371735890" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQJC8xBewX77lMfAFdwkY5PgsINbb_p_bMxWYL8ZXIirjZoJz5vfSEmFY1P2WJ0vv8wteVTEQpCGyQEFTj3exDxu578vzmqMzAgaxqjspvvgEBIIuwRxA3P24s-W-e5biRIhamUf_lPtz/s1600/Feb+2011+006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQJC8xBewX77lMfAFdwkY5PgsINbb_p_bMxWYL8ZXIirjZoJz5vfSEmFY1P2WJ0vv8wteVTEQpCGyQEFTj3exDxu578vzmqMzAgaxqjspvvgEBIIuwRxA3P24s-W-e5biRIhamUf_lPtz/s200/Feb+2011+006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572185050704630386" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdoKYFa6lJXGoZa2yeBI0WL3j94Jjugzpf3ANY4wpwbPfk4EmVcsZ_VfW9KfLouU_J_mN_wyRnUFyVunT3HAaW3gSff_6evsXjQwCHDYucYoFIMe-I34b2pcJjfQe9qstdmHwxB1ZzZ9hf/s1600/Feb+2011+010.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdoKYFa6lJXGoZa2yeBI0WL3j94Jjugzpf3ANY4wpwbPfk4EmVcsZ_VfW9KfLouU_J_mN_wyRnUFyVunT3HAaW3gSff_6evsXjQwCHDYucYoFIMe-I34b2pcJjfQe9qstdmHwxB1ZzZ9hf/s200/Feb+2011+010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572185063122357218" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja6OeZvzcZsBzPJt1p8s2pBkCjWbMBBlMrWseF4x2RT56mA6mZz70SqAxYaaPUkGtQUblEbydVMp0K4yZU_4G9HhP21SWAlAKVBUzlEC_6Ma21avwgnmhWcT4QVMtP6GdenRPlZXg30Xje/s1600/Feb+2011+009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja6OeZvzcZsBzPJt1p8s2pBkCjWbMBBlMrWseF4x2RT56mA6mZz70SqAxYaaPUkGtQUblEbydVMp0K4yZU_4G9HhP21SWAlAKVBUzlEC_6Ma21avwgnmhWcT4QVMtP6GdenRPlZXg30Xje/s200/Feb+2011+009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572185051235444018" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmPvnQHVtZhluskH6C6EkJwQ_DnD5xmQbUwXt0PELx_7YFmVd52nvJ0Slfx7ik32aVzuaRmzAGPko0D6OICLOPGMF0vaxH1MiW-aOkAJQcLZDrApim0tT7tsJRg34W4aG9MoOQ_4S3I6H/s1600/Feb+2011+015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmPvnQHVtZhluskH6C6EkJwQ_DnD5xmQbUwXt0PELx_7YFmVd52nvJ0Slfx7ik32aVzuaRmzAGPko0D6OICLOPGMF0vaxH1MiW-aOkAJQcLZDrApim0tT7tsJRg34W4aG9MoOQ_4S3I6H/s200/Feb+2011+015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572186303968037762" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKS52mk3QVIuZG7szqyTnFXThlXENOa7juO4yv44aep0GhG_ICB1fUHfbhSvr3oW79FclCR4MiZdup_57OPVJCrjC_lMTMt7n2EH0b3dgZBzcfMr9WEoc3IYJXDAxHDon523nDRVBgsBq/s1600/Feb+2011+014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKS52mk3QVIuZG7szqyTnFXThlXENOa7juO4yv44aep0GhG_ICB1fUHfbhSvr3oW79FclCR4MiZdup_57OPVJCrjC_lMTMt7n2EH0b3dgZBzcfMr9WEoc3IYJXDAxHDon523nDRVBgsBq/s200/Feb+2011+014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572186296619717746" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdRGO_80QTP94XibsE4LTWUu4xaLSYcpGohcsMkRrYwhOgF2KVpPs_fNiOTViNrN8fOSs7soja43aLwSG3CRvKdzsOljCCA6k3fyaD3dxHk4rHONy_EDrBsVW3FqsMohyphenhyphenWSsAhHJi8TQK/s1600/Feb+2011+012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdRGO_80QTP94XibsE4LTWUu4xaLSYcpGohcsMkRrYwhOgF2KVpPs_fNiOTViNrN8fOSs7soja43aLwSG3CRvKdzsOljCCA6k3fyaD3dxHk4rHONy_EDrBsVW3FqsMohyphenhyphenWSsAhHJi8TQK/s200/Feb+2011+012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572186293155007922" /></a>Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-42523570364183839282011-01-14T11:45:00.000-08:002011-01-14T11:57:16.922-08:00An FYIIf your child ever bites into a Cascade Complete dishwasher packet, the following is a list of actions you may want to take:<br /><br />1. Wipe blue and green gel from child's mouth and tongue.<br />2. Force child to drink a glass of water.<br />3. Wipe up all the water that just flooded your kitchen floor because you forgot to put a lid on the cup.<br />4. Give her more water, this time in a sippy cup.<br />5. Read the back of package to make sure it is ok to give child water.<br />6. Assure your other children that their sister's tongue will probably not remain blue and that no you do not need them to call 911. Or daddy. Or Aunt Missy. Or Grandma.<br />7. Fret for 10 minutes about whether or not to call poison control.<br />8. Call poison control and get confirmation that the packets are not toxic but may induce vomitting.<br />9. Awesome.<br />10. Wonder how much your third child will age you in the next six months.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-7865920937716379632011-01-06T11:23:00.001-08:002011-01-06T11:39:45.257-08:00Bye Bye Baby<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCffT_YVbLAvc6o9blNIlARHIPbuaLLvyu-LYSGpFzGFtoyrYByc9IN15wmCz30QRptPZKPsemYAHUVq8QRlbKMhUBvrLS76QqCLFTdFqUzV3PXKtApn0M6AN5QVo0kjqEv8nGmXQJmJzD/s1600/ColorSplashImage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCffT_YVbLAvc6o9blNIlARHIPbuaLLvyu-LYSGpFzGFtoyrYByc9IN15wmCz30QRptPZKPsemYAHUVq8QRlbKMhUBvrLS76QqCLFTdFqUzV3PXKtApn0M6AN5QVo0kjqEv8nGmXQJmJzD/s200/ColorSplashImage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559159274123497650" /></a><br /><br /><br />It's this girl's last day as a one year old and I just don't know if my heart can take it. Also, I think it means I will have to stop referring to her as "the baby," as in, "Can someone go check on the baby?" or "Shhh! The baby is sleeping!" <br /><br />If I could freeze time right now, I would. The girls are all at such a fun age and I have to say that I am loving Amelia's new found independence and spunkiness. That's the thing with third kids--you've already been through the whole toddler scene twice before and know that is a just a phase. So when find your little one sitting naked on your bathroom floor painting her toenails, it's more funny than infuriating. Or when she starts screaming because she can't keep her six year old sister's shoes on, you know it's just because she's frustrated. When she yells "TOP IT!" to you or her sisters, you have to keep bite your lip to keep from laughing because it's just <em>funny.</em> <br /><br />Side note: what's not so funny is when your baby--excuse me, toddler--tells you she just pooped and needs a new "biaper". OK, maybe it's a little funny. And possibly a sign that you should invest in a potty seat.<br /><br />Happy last day of babyhood, Amelia! Could you please try to grow up a little slower?Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-8439389269162579882011-01-05T19:25:00.000-08:002011-01-05T19:26:58.236-08:00Arden's PrayerDear God,<br />Thank you for everything in the whole wide world.<br />I like my family.<br />I hope you're having fun.<br />I love Jesus.<br />Amen.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-65914456501648606792010-11-25T19:20:00.000-08:002010-11-25T19:42:52.107-08:00In Case You Were Wondering...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksIfKaikSdNT7vRMY1IEjGsJMBy_0qaIW3ceceZp-86vz0Qun0DHzRf9k9r9KsAXUWO9vpopITrMCBC23Vz7dyFnwUGrhHFJU7c4Xj3oC0KK06XkN2OAdxIH4Fd0h_tNPEMOB1B3m5OPP/s1600/november+2010+335.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksIfKaikSdNT7vRMY1IEjGsJMBy_0qaIW3ceceZp-86vz0Qun0DHzRf9k9r9KsAXUWO9vpopITrMCBC23Vz7dyFnwUGrhHFJU7c4Xj3oC0KK06XkN2OAdxIH4Fd0h_tNPEMOB1B3m5OPP/s200/november+2010+335.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543698526946711778" /></a><br />...yes, I ran the marathon. And no, I didn't win. But I didn't die either, which, given the extreme heat on race day and my lack of training, I consider a win. Here's a little glimpse into what the experience was like.<br /><br /><em>“Only 24.7 more to go—it’s all down-hill from here!”</em><br />Miles 1-5: Feeling great, running great, looking great (what? my fuel belt was hot). Mandy (my running partner) needs a potty break—decides McDonald’s is a better choice than the port-a-potties. Take a leisurely stroll through the first aid station while she goes. Consume some Chomps and Gatorade. Continue running. Laughing and talking—oh, this is so easy. Am no longer worried about IT band or the fact that my training essentially ended at 14 miles. I am obviously a natural—maybe I'm part Kenyan?<br /><br /><em>“You are all crazy”</em><br />Miles 6-10: Still feeling good. Not too hot yet. Am vaguely aware of the tightening of my right IT band. Wait. It’s my left one that’s been flaring up for the last four weeks. Why is my right one so tight? Commence stretching. Mimic Mandy’s street light stretch (grab pole with both hands, plant feet on ground, lean back and lower booty towards ground). Try to ignore the guy who tells me not to pull the street light out of the ground. Need to potty. Mandy suggests going behind a fence. Explain that my southern upbringing makes it physically impossible for me to urinate in public. Really. Physically impossible. It’s not like I haven’t tried before. Sheesh. Will wait a little longer. More Gatorade. More water. More Chomps. <br /><br /><em>“Hey John, Braden and Dylan said it’s OK if you crap your pants”</em><br />Miles 11-13: Must pee. Veer off to a port-a-potty and lock myself inside. Make mistake of looking into potty. Instantly curse my southern upbringing and vow to try harder to urinate in public next time. More water, Gatorade and Chomps. Realize that the professionals are already done with their race and I haven’t hit the halfway point yet. Am not Kenyan, after all. Am hot. Run through some water hoses. Dump Gatorade in my shoe. Slip on the wet pavement. Am getting even hotter. <br /><br /><em>“Suck it Up”</em><br />Miles 14-20: Tell Mandy to go on without me. Turn on my ipod. Maybe Justin Beiber will motivate me to run. No. Maybe Led Zepplin. Nope. Maybe Pearl Jam. Uh-uh. Ice Ice Baby? Not even close. This is a very dark moment. Turn ipod off. Run through more hoses. Soak hat with water. WHAT IS UP WITH THIS WEATHER?! Double up on the Chomps. More is always better. Convince myself that after mile 17 I only have 6 more miles to go. Wonder if my math and statistics degrees should be revoked.<br /><br /><em>“Embrace the Suck”</em><br />Miles 21-25: Glance around and notice that everyone is walking. Begin to regret writing my name on my bib. Do not want to be encouraged. I am NOT almost there. Still have a long freaking way to go. Start to hate Chomps, Gatorade, water, water hoses, and everyone who didn’t try and stop me from running a marathon. Have an overwhelming desire to sit down and quit. Walk by an event photographer and glare at him as his camera captures me walking. <br /><br /><em>“You’re a rock star! Please don’t die!”</em><br />The last mile: Oooh, look! A jumbo-tron! That must be the finish line! Eyes fill with tears. I did it! Wait. That’s not the finish. What kind of sick joke is that? That’s just mean. Final little hill to the finish. IT flares and knee does not want to bend. AM NOT WALKING INTO FINISH LINE. Begin Lamaze breathing and am glad that those child birth classes finally got put to good use. Cross finish line. Want to lay down and die. Spot Jason just in time and am so happy. Eat some carbs and pose for a finisher's picture. Am slightly delirious but so glad I did it. Even if I did come in 28,354th place.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-78011662714483363682010-09-28T19:35:00.000-07:002010-09-28T20:02:58.605-07:00Round One Goes to the Monkey Bars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrsq-INnfKhwKPWcDIvxVLL1sJwSvanjCQ8CqHfTCx9txfVIqsJr-mcXDc-AHjV3-XundtY0XUttoJkByGY71CPtumxhn1sGOhy4AA5367goaPPQYjh1kUErRg_z3APrt9-Ii7NjmrDuA/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrsq-INnfKhwKPWcDIvxVLL1sJwSvanjCQ8CqHfTCx9txfVIqsJr-mcXDc-AHjV3-XundtY0XUttoJkByGY71CPtumxhn1sGOhy4AA5367goaPPQYjh1kUErRg_z3APrt9-Ii7NjmrDuA/s200/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522165230319917058" /></a><br />About two weeks ago, Claire fell off the monkey bars in our backyard. <br /><br />We gave her an ice pack and a dose of motrin. Then we went out to eat. <br /><br />About a week after the fall, Claire mentioned that her arm "kind of" hurt when she went to gymnastics a few days before. I noticed that she couldn't open the clasp on her backpack and that she wasn't able to put any weight on her right arm. <br /><br />I took her to the doctor. She ordered x-rays. The x-ray technician asked me if the doctor wanted me to wait at the lab or go back to the clinic while they read the x-rays. I told him the doctor said we should go home and she would call me if the bone was broken.<br /><br />The tech said I might want to just wait there.<br /><br />The next day, I took Claire to an orthopaedic surgeon. More x-rays. Talk of going to the OR. Verification that the bone was 80% broken through and was slightly displaced. Validation that, yes, it's completely common for a broken bone to go undiagnosed for a week or more. I suddenly felt nauseous as I pictured her doing cartwheels and swinging from the uneven bars just days before. <br /><br />I kept saying, "I can't believe your arm is broken." <br /><br />Claire kept asking, "Why do you keep <em>saying</em> that?" <br /><br />Finally, a hot pink cast. The doctor pressed hard on Claire's arm as he casted her, trying to get the bone to line up as much as possible. Claire didn't even flinch while I practically broke a sweat just watching. More x-rays were ordered for later this week, to make sure the bone hasn't shifted anymore. If it has...possible surgery. Let's all pray it hasn't. <br /><br />In the meantime, Claire is enjoying the celebrity that comes with being the only kid at school with a cast. And as for the monkey bars, let's just say their time with us is limited.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-74096721133905400082010-09-14T06:05:00.000-07:002010-09-15T20:50:53.225-07:00Marathon-arellaOnce upon a time, there was a girl* who had a blog. One day, the girl and her good friend, B**, decided to run a marathon. The two friends decided to register for the race right away so they wouldn't change their minds. They even went so far as to post it on Facebook, which is the modern day equivalent of signing your name to a contract in blood. <br /><br />The girl started training for the race in March, a mere two weeks after surgery to remove an internal organ or two***. She faithfully followed her "Novice Level Marathon Training Plan" all through what would turn out to be one of the hottest summers in recent years****. <br /><br />Somewhere along the way, the girl's blog became neglected*****. Many, many events went unrecorded. Events that were definitely blog worthy. Events like: that time the girls fell off a horse and Claire got some teeth knocked out and her face all beaten up, and the time Arden may or may not have had viral meningitis but either way, ended up in the ER. And then there was a trip to Disneyworld, the end of Kindergarten, the end of preschool, the arrival of a new family member (a dog named Hootie) and an impromptu trip to the beach. <br /><br />Sometimes, while the girl was running, she would compose blog entries in her head. This foolishly led her to believe that she was actually updating her blog, because HELLO? she totally wrote about that already. But then she would glance to her neglected blog and realize that she hadn't, in fact, updated it. She would briefly consider doing so, but would ultimately decide against. The running, man. It was so consuming. <br /><br />Training was going just fine until one day, the girl felt a painful twinge in her knee during a long run. She instantly knew what it was. The dreaded IT Band******. Not wanting to admit it, she continued running until she couldn't take it anymore and ended up walking nearly six miles back to her car. The long, cold walk allowed her plenty of time to think about her neglected blog. She vowed then and there to sit down and update her blog*******. <br /><br />Ultimately, the girl would recover enough to limp through a few runs and revise her marathon goal from a 4:30 finish to a 5:00 finish to a 6:00 finish*********. Although she was a little down about her injury, she realized that easing off the training would allow her ample time for other activities, including blogging. <br /><br />And she blogged happily ever after.<br /><br /><br />*The girl realizes that at some point, she will have to stop referring to herself as a "girl". That time has not yet come.<br /><br />**The girl would like to hold B, and her fun birthday weekend at Big Cedar Lodge, responsible for making her commit to running a marathon.<br /><br />***The girl failed to mention her surgery on her blog because it contained words such as "ovary" and "fallopian tubes".<br /><br />****Of course it was the hottest summer in recent years. <br /><br />*****The girl would like to note that, while the blog may have been neglected, her children were not.<br /><br />******In this story, the IT Band will play the part of the wicked stepmother.<br /><br />*******She, of course, didn't update her blog but instead sought means to heal her injured knee. This included taking copious amounts of anti-immflamatories, lots of stretching, and a visit to a massage therapist who will from here on be referred to as "Patty Pain". <br />*********The girl now just hopes to finish the race before the streets open back up.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-70092077609768543242010-05-19T12:17:00.001-07:002010-05-19T12:26:42.964-07:00I Think This Means I Should Cook MoreAs we were leaving the park yesterday afternoon, Claire asked me if we could order some Japanese food for dinner. She really meant Chinese food but I didn't bother to correct her because that would have led to a whole other conversation about the differences between the two cuisines, and frankly, after an hour and a half of chasing my wild one year old up and down the stairs to the slide, I wasn't up for that discussion. Instead, I just told her no, that we had eaten out the night before and we were going to eat at home.<br /><br />"Oh man," she whined. "I don't want a <em>sandwich</em>."Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-23147059705281299582010-05-01T18:46:00.000-07:002010-05-01T18:50:22.366-07:00The Saddest Note to the Tooth Fairy Ever Written<div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXghcoxHZ6UmYo41yqEWkBUlOYHTcZmWnlf-B8HggsptRyEOJzSpgMdp9mCHjpJDZHGUQgAaHiN23V8ZcNQC0QBGGxq5d8poHSZVeayIxpDihFeiJwYubWlGpEB3ZY9fgBTPbL5B3qQwHa/s1600/scan0003.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXghcoxHZ6UmYo41yqEWkBUlOYHTcZmWnlf-B8HggsptRyEOJzSpgMdp9mCHjpJDZHGUQgAaHiN23V8ZcNQC0QBGGxq5d8poHSZVeayIxpDihFeiJwYubWlGpEB3ZY9fgBTPbL5B3qQwHa/s320/scan0003.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div><br /><br />In case you don't read kindergarten phonetic spelling, it says:<br />Dear Tooth Fairy,<br />I fell off a horse and lost my tooth. We couldn't find it. I am mad. I hope you give me some money and a prize. I am brave. <br />Love, Claire B.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263634449613606917.post-83360360599933681402010-04-16T11:15:00.000-07:002010-04-17T05:19:31.991-07:00Touched By An Angel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YnTYv7EUd_lqVGx_3dbRZm56sv2vhbV4FAU9ItCNr0aAjRRWGi7E1EsQEvrChO_K9a8EChiKNmG38oGSpQ5SRhJ_MrcVkfVrIXqvUHas4oNpxkwZdhpBXvGT0nvYXISCdoOVw5MD6zYu/s1600/Disney+2010+052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YnTYv7EUd_lqVGx_3dbRZm56sv2vhbV4FAU9ItCNr0aAjRRWGi7E1EsQEvrChO_K9a8EChiKNmG38oGSpQ5SRhJ_MrcVkfVrIXqvUHas4oNpxkwZdhpBXvGT0nvYXISCdoOVw5MD6zYu/s200/Disney+2010+052.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461079530906464226" /></a><br /><br />When you have a baby who wears glasses, you get a lot of attention from strangers. Most people comment on how cute Amelia is in her pink plastic glasses (can't argue with that one) and sometimes they ask how we knew she needed them. A lot of times they'll want to know how we keep them on her or how the doctor knows what her prescription should be. Occasionally, a person will tell me about their nephew/neighbor/grand-daughter/brother's best friend's cousin's baby, etc... who has a lazy eye and wears glasses. One time a waiter at TGI Friday's told me about the time he took a firework to the eye during a bottle rocket war and had to wear a patch for three months. He said he knew EXACTLY how Amelia feels. Because, clearly, a grown man getting injured during a fight with pyrotechnics is very similar to a baby being born blind in one eye.<br /><br />Anyway. The point is, we get a lot of attention.<br /><br />So today, when we were leaving a restaurant after lunch, I didn't think it was strange when a man got up from his table and stopped my mom, who was carrying Amelia. I paused, expecting him to ask one of the typical questions we get. But he didn't ask any questions. Instead, he laid his hands on Amelia's head and prayed for her vision to be restored in the name of Jesus.<br /><br />So. Yeah. Did not see that one coming.<br /><br />At first I was completely weirded out by the whole thing. A stranger touching my baby? And praying over her as if he knew her? It was just too much. But at the same time I was also deeply touched. Moved to tears, even. <br /><br />You see, it was a Friday morning, exactly a year ago that we sat in Dr. H's office and heard the term "PHPV" for the first time. It was exactly a year ago that our fears that something was wrong with Amelia's vision were confirmed. And today, a year later, I found myself driving to Dr. H's office for yet another appointment for a contact that doesn't fit right. It was the last place I wanted to go today. <br /><br />I mentioned previously that I had been growing anxious as this day approached. Anxious because it brings back to the surface all those feelings and emotions that we experienced that day and in the weeks that followed--shock, sadness, anger, confusion, disappointment, worry, grief. And lately, we've been coming to terms with the fact that Amelia's vision is just not improving. And, according to her doctor, most likely won't. <br /><br />But today, a stranger reminded me that in spite of medical evidence that says otherwise, I can still hope for something better for Amelia. I can still pray for something better. I'm ashamed to say I had forgotten that. <br /><br />So to the man who prayed over my baby in a crowded Mexican restaurant today: Thank you. But dude, seriously, next time give a little heads up before you touch a stranger's baby.Meredithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11021292630294643724noreply@blogger.com1