tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24073435768012934782024-03-05T09:10:23.376-06:00The Story of YYvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-50319959856174035562013-09-10T14:00:00.002-05:002013-09-10T14:00:20.422-05:00Six Years Ago
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>3:00 AM</strong> <br />I wake with a start. I am 9 months and 1 week pregnant
with our second child, feeling big, bloated, and tired all of the time and wishing
I would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have this baby already!</i> And to make matters worse I think I may
have just peed the bed!</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>3:10 AM</strong> <br />Wait. That’s not pee.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>3:15 AM</strong><br />I wake Pat to tell him I think my water broke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pat: (sleepily) Huh? Why don’t you wait a little while to
make sure.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />His head hits the pillow and he resumes snoring. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>3:20 AM</strong><br />I lie on the couch holding the phone and timing
the contractions while I watch crappy television turned down low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>5:15 AM</strong><br />I finally call the doctor, who laughs when I tell
him how long I let him sleep.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>6:00 AM</strong><br />Pat and I pull into my sister’s drive way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He escorts a sleepy 8-year old Savannah through
the rain inside the house.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>6:20 AM</strong> <br />We arrive at the hospital.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>11:56 AM</strong> <br />Sarah arrives.</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Six years later we have our fairy princess.</span></div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Happy birthday, Sarah! </span></div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-4677037514223538072013-09-09T11:05:00.000-05:002013-09-09T11:05:59.871-05:00101 in 1001: #69<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I’ve gotten older I’ve been trying to avoid the camera.
Hence why my current Facebook profile pic is of my son and why all the photos of me on this sidebar are <em>very old!</em> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t like the way I look on film – sometimes pasty,
sometimes dull, sometimes frizzy-haired, and a lot of the time kinda bloated. It doesn’t
make for a pretty picture.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But what I hate more than an unflattering picture are the
disappointed looks and words from Savannah and my husband while I try to block
the camera. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even more than that, I
hate not having pictures of myself with my husband and kids during this time. I’d
like to be present in the scrapbook when I look back years down the line. I don’t
want to be the one behind the lens, or worse, that person hiding behind a hand
or a book or someone’s shoulder.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To cure this I wrote #69: “Take a self portrait once per
month for 1001 days.“</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sounds easy enough. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I took my first pics sitting here in my office so I could
check off my first month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I felt silly, but it was painless. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But then I had
to be a real go-getter (or smart ass if you prefer) and add another goal on my
list: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Post these pictures publically.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh crap!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So here goes. The first photo for #69, taken in August 2013.
Yes, it took me 3 weeks to get around to posting it publically. I’m cringing
while I do this, but I’m determined to make it through this list.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVhLJOfOPrqcbtbwp3Vg5quWukXLynKV4moHWbnI0LLzwsZsy3QyRLP9WgxM6lriCmSG2GKekmj8rfpiWlU_i9zI6sdjPsmfjL84Ua5ZeEwqBQAHprM256SmASpQlZJesSf0LatQdrg/s1600/Aug+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVhLJOfOPrqcbtbwp3Vg5quWukXLynKV4moHWbnI0LLzwsZsy3QyRLP9WgxM6lriCmSG2GKekmj8rfpiWlU_i9zI6sdjPsmfjL84Ua5ZeEwqBQAHprM256SmASpQlZJesSf0LatQdrg/s320/Aug+2013.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What will be cool to watch (<em>I hope</em>) is seeing changes in
these photos as I try to reach #27 (Getting down to my “happy weight” – if there
is such a thing!), and #63 (Give myself a complete makeover.)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This should be interesting.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(Read more about the 101 in 1001 project <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2013/08/57.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-21001013431309133192013-08-28T09:43:00.000-05:002013-08-28T09:43:00.738-05:00#57
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since March 2011 I’ve been on a journey of sorts and ended
up not quite where I thought I would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
quit my job as a conference manager for a large nonprofit organization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was totally burnt out, stressed, and
snapping at everyone at home and sometimes at work. It was time to decompress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(If you want a little history, you can read about my
decision to leave <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2011/02/season-of-blooms.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the next 2 1/2 years I went from being a stay-at-home mom to a part-time church
secretary, then a full-time volunteer manager and now I’m back to managing
conferences. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>Did I want to end where I started? Not exactly. I was expecting to make a pretty big change, and I obviously failed there. I do
this conference planning thing well, though, and I’m getting paid for my knowledge and experience, which is
nice. What’s not nice is having a boss that stays late often and comes in on
her vacation days (as she did yesterday - <em>all day</em>), and this is after we talked about wanting to
be with our kids more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought we had
the same priorities, but apparently not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>But this time around I’ve decided to do something different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Typically I focus on the vast amount
of work I have or that this work doesn’t fire me up, and complain about the time
my work takes away from my family. All of this is such an energy waster and I end
up feeling tired most of the time, which doesn’t make me the greatest mom or
wife. So I’ve started a project that I’ve seen around the web and decided to jump
in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://dayzeroproject.com/" target="_blank">101 in 1001</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>I have made a list of 101 things I want to accomplish in 1001
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s 2 years and 9 months. I’ve included things
that involve my kids and my husband and things for myself that I’ve been
wishing I had the time to do. My hope is this project or challenge will turn my
focus on things other than work and put my energy back where it belongs…actually
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">living</i> life instead of complaining.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>Many other blogs have published their entire lists. I’m not
completely comfortable with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
included some pretty personal things, so I’ve decided to share one
at a time as I make my way through it. So stay tuned for some posts about my
101 list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
#57 (hence the title of this post) is to blog more regularly - and I plan to accomplish that!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
It occurred to me while writing this post that I could have gone through the bulk of a 101 list in the time since I left that original job. Who knows where I'd be!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Join me! Click the link above or just Google "101 in 1001" and get some ideas for your own list. I have one friend doing this with me. I'd love to have more come along and share your experiences!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span>By the way, I just heard author Jack Canfield say, “101 is
the spiritual number of completion.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Very interesting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-75994463773641384472013-08-26T15:26:00.000-05:002013-08-26T15:26:12.380-05:00The Start of a New EraThis morning was exciting in our home!<br />
<br />
Savannah started high school....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwH_GdEp4mPJjr3dyUci7AGYZpfVOQdSy7cF2IpkbFbY60z8VmjIwcPrsrE6AdhazX_cXDvYUpfg5uoAqxbyJsPcOoprgyPSEM4bnjhKUbY_uip5JbIidcJ_skBPktKogeim7UK3loug/s1600/Savannah+-+School+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwH_GdEp4mPJjr3dyUci7AGYZpfVOQdSy7cF2IpkbFbY60z8VmjIwcPrsrE6AdhazX_cXDvYUpfg5uoAqxbyJsPcOoprgyPSEM4bnjhKUbY_uip5JbIidcJ_skBPktKogeim7UK3loug/s320/Savannah+-+School+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
with a smile! I've never seen her smile like this on a school morning.</div>
<br />
<br />
And Sarah started kindergarten....<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1n0LZktg4069aabooO4YBfOj5RHcWiTXwY7pM-87q_NaG4iP85vIYikOkhOm0T1UN0ZsAGdAcd0AD6ULGGC4Czil8VbfV_dgI9XF6MrFMsysfwh14mhiEfTMLVVJ9vemIp2cTxe2Aw/s1600/Toogar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1n0LZktg4069aabooO4YBfOj5RHcWiTXwY7pM-87q_NaG4iP85vIYikOkhOm0T1UN0ZsAGdAcd0AD6ULGGC4Czil8VbfV_dgI9XF6MrFMsysfwh14mhiEfTMLVVJ9vemIp2cTxe2Aw/s320/Toogar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
with some nerves, understandably. But still smiling as always.</div>
<br />
<br />
Pace thinks he's in the clear....<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8ype66DCtpMpKF7DCDGcpSjHg1W71abPupOsuWixGiIzols_LVl18a6sVLay6VdrFB8ENxhD59zaI7BzWfrY7b0rH4BqP6ORgfodHtnDAsir8NibRb3T6_z1dMibz8zJ8VL9H5eJmQ/s1600/Pace+-+School.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8ype66DCtpMpKF7DCDGcpSjHg1W71abPupOsuWixGiIzols_LVl18a6sVLay6VdrFB8ENxhD59zaI7BzWfrY7b0rH4BqP6ORgfodHtnDAsir8NibRb3T6_z1dMibz8zJ8VL9H5eJmQ/s320/Pace+-+School.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
but his time comes next week. </div>
<br />
<br />
I hope his teacher is ready for what's coming her way!<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-67749776425920208562012-12-31T11:33:00.003-06:002012-12-31T11:33:55.620-06:002013, The Year of. . .<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQV5ShdX21O1GkpZi8pYNbkBpieM0rfkHyIv8pm1TQgyfxg1GVf66sysO4lACMRp6KY2Q3_ZvVcWDKnHRYXAb-Xi238F8eg2xr3LX3DEObcxJpoHj_khmpEeyABLqEEO6IDtg9-Z6W3A/s1600/journal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQV5ShdX21O1GkpZi8pYNbkBpieM0rfkHyIv8pm1TQgyfxg1GVf66sysO4lACMRp6KY2Q3_ZvVcWDKnHRYXAb-Xi238F8eg2xr3LX3DEObcxJpoHj_khmpEeyABLqEEO6IDtg9-Z6W3A/s320/journal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
As 2012 has approached it’s end, I’ve been reading some of
my past journal entries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not just from
this year, but 2011, 2010, 2009…. all the way back to 2006, which isn’t hard
since the current journal I use (you can take the word “use” very lightly), started in
2006.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As with so many aspects of my
life, I started a journal (once again) and never truly committed to the
process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the sad – no, make that frustrating – realizations I
had was that sooo many of my posts are basically the same reflections, desires,
and goals.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to lose weight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to become a freelance writer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I want to organize my home more thoroughly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want, I want, I want and not much doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere around the 2009 entries I started to sigh….a
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even rolled my eyes at myself
somewhere in the 2011 section.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us know the famous quote by the amazing writer Annie
Dillard:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRMLmoIshbO71gyzpEBL6jpmvrHUf-HxahqLcWg2rHHWkyygbuJ9nOW4gBpBZcpPn_PLhnbfnZS5E_ZMEN-HHaxSxS9QKPZVH7vQCIA22Ig5scWb85IcrpldvysJvoGeFUT4UZzefxg/s1600/Quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRMLmoIshbO71gyzpEBL6jpmvrHUf-HxahqLcWg2rHHWkyygbuJ9nOW4gBpBZcpPn_PLhnbfnZS5E_ZMEN-HHaxSxS9QKPZVH7vQCIA22Ig5scWb85IcrpldvysJvoGeFUT4UZzefxg/s320/Quote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right on, Annie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
It’s the reason why I keep writing down the same goals year after year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My days are spent procrastinating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have one friend who has lit a fire in me, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crystal and I have spent years’ worth of
lunches at Corner Bakery sharing our grievances and wishes with each other,
along with a pecan tart or a slice of cinnamon coffee cake, and we’ve both
noted that we always say the same things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This year, however, Crystal has taken that first step and is actually
making one of her long-time dreams a reality. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s started a non-profit organization, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/haircare2013" target="_blank">Our Hair</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hasn’t just taken the first step, she’s started climbing
the staircase, step after step after step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I am so proud of her and inspired by her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can check out her Facebook page and learn
more about Our Hair <a href="http://www.facebook.com/haircare2013" target="_blank">here</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They provide African American kids in foster care with hair and skin care products and also education on how to care for their hair and skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell you working at a children’s shelter, we never get products that are geared directly
toward the needs of African American children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This is a sorely needed organization.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So yesterday I began throwing out old notes, plans, and
self-help books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what to do, I
just need to push myself and start walking up that staircase. I’m determined not to read the same journal entries again the next year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with friends like Crystal, I think it’s a big
possibility I could reach my goals or at least be on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just need to be more
attentive to how I spend my days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we should call this the year of being mindful.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-41970115448065749042012-12-11T10:47:00.000-06:002012-12-11T10:47:10.101-06:00The Bad Parenting ContinuesPat and I work really hard to be good role models for our kids. <br />
<br />
Yes, we’re both struggling with weight issues right now, and we watch a little too much TV, and sit at the computer more than we should, and sometimes have silly spats in front of the young’uns. <br />
<br />
Well, at least we watch what we say in front of them….<br />
<br />
Sometimes….<br />
<br />
Okay, we slip….frequently. I’ve <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2010/03/proof-im-crappy-mom.html" target="_blank">written about that before</a>, in the days before I took my long sabbatical from writing. <br />
<br />
A couple of the highlights:<br />
At a very young age, Savannah said the infamous “F” word when she dropped a crayon during a Christmas Eve service.<br />
<br />
Sarah sweetly said “shit” a few times while walking around the living room. I guess she thought that’s what you do when you take a stroll.<br />
<br />
And recently:<br />Pace’s vocabulary is quickly expanding after a late start, which has us relieved, excited, and a little ashamed. <br /><br />One of his new phrases is “kicking ass!” <br />
<br />
That’s. Great. Pace. <br />
<br />
Did I mention he’s two?<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
There’s one incident that popped in my head today that gave me a really good laugh <em>and</em> prompted the writing of this post. <br />
<br />
A little background - Pat isn’t too fond of other drivers on the road. When I say he’s not too fond, I mean there’s quite a bit of name calling and dirty looks being thrown around, and me holding down his arm before he teaches our kids what the middle finger can be used for. His favorite reaction is, “What a douchebag.” <br />
<br />
I apologize now if I’ve offended anyone with that term. <br />
<br />
And now on with the story…<br />
<br />
So a couple weeks ago Pat was leaving the house and like a good family, we were all saying good-bye to him at the door. As he walked to the car, Savannah called out to him (with neighbors outside, I might add), “Watch out for the douchebags, Dad!” And shut the door. Pat said he could hear me inside saying, <br />
<br />
“Savannah! Don’t say that!”<br />
<br />
And her responding,<br />
<br />
“What?? What did I say??”<br />
<br />
Yes, Pat and I try really hard to be good role models. <br /><br />We just forget sometimes.<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-6294351214654944142012-12-06T14:58:00.003-06:002012-12-06T14:58:51.284-06:00High School DaysLast night I went to the open house for the local Arts Magnet High School with my oldest daughter Savannah.<br />
<br />
*sigh* <br />
<br />
High School….already.<br />
<br />
It’s happening too fast.<br />
<br />
But before I sink into a <em>my baby’s growing up</em> depression, I want to talk about how freaking cool this school is!<br />
<br />
This is actually my alma mater. I graduated from there in 1988 and it was a cool school waaayyyy back then. You know, in the old days. <br />
<br />
May I name drop for a moment? I walked the halls with Erykah Badu, hung out between classes with jazz great Roy Hargrove, and did a few plays and parties with Elizabeth Mitchell who was in the TV series “Lost.” Edie Brickell graduated the year before I arrived. Norah Jones came in a few years after me and her phenomenal success made the school close to impossible to get into.<br />
<br />
Back in my day it was just a 2-story brick building with an addition in the back that included a state-of-the-art (for the 80’s) music department.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The school is on the same spot, but it’s now a 4-story modern, talent molding facility. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYkCHTKlSKPFGKdE9ui5Syjzrbb_0pAfIK2umcUbqC_gve4aR8nHFSwRvyRjkssVgOAbayxRtmu-GVf7K94lqLQ4RG-4Ue2227AmtE2ivor4F5HNMYX0IKzLIAoBk2QKEnCkeulXXSg/s1600/New+Arts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYkCHTKlSKPFGKdE9ui5Syjzrbb_0pAfIK2umcUbqC_gve4aR8nHFSwRvyRjkssVgOAbayxRtmu-GVf7K94lqLQ4RG-4Ue2227AmtE2ivor4F5HNMYX0IKzLIAoBk2QKEnCkeulXXSg/s1600/New+Arts.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I seriously want to go back to high school. I’ll take on all the awkwardness and fear to be able to hang out here 5 days a week. <br />
<br />
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My favorite class, Playwriting, was tucked into a small, dark room in the back of the Auditorium. I filled several spirals for 4 years in that space. That class is now in a huge computer lab where each student has their own computer to type out the next Broadway play, or at least a 10-minute play to have produced in Showcase Theater on a cold Thursday night.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I would go back for my teaching certificate if I was guaranteed a position at this specific school...but quite frankly I don't think I have enough talent and experience to teach these kids. They are exceptional.<br />
<br />
<br />
And my girl <em>is</em> exceptional. Make a note, Arts. <br />
(I'm showing my age. I keep calling it "Arts" instead of "Booker T" as it's now known.)<br />
<br />
Savannah was so excited. She kept looking all around her with this smile on her face. That smile I love so much. <br />
<br />
Every once in a while she would look at me and whisper, “I really want to go here, Mom.”<br />
<br />
Every time we turned a corner her smile would get brighter and I would think <br />
<br />
<em>Please let her go here</em>.<br />
<br />
Like mother, like daughter.<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-31864427323188266082012-12-03T12:43:00.000-06:002012-12-03T12:43:38.322-06:00A Long Awaited PostNot long ago I was talking to my teen daughter, Savannah, about the books she likes to read. I’m trying to get some Christmas ideas, you know. She said, “Your blog is my favorite thing to read. Why don’t you write on it anymore?” <br />
<br />
Well, Savannah, Mommy has had a year-long stage of writer’s block. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Quite honestly, I just didn’t feel I had anything interesting to say anymore. I guess I felt stunted, static, bored. That’s not fun to write about. <br />
<br />
But I’ve been thinking about Savannah’s words and how I hate that she seems let down a little that her mom stopped doing something she enjoyed. <br />
<br />
I’ve been thinking about my love for writing and how much I long for it and miss it. <br />
<br />
I remembered just how much I enjoyed being a part of an online community…a funny, insightful, and supportive community, and how I got to know some of my husband’s long distance, long-time friends through this blog. <br />
<br />
I’m also in a different place now than I was a year ago, even 6 months ago. I’m working in a new job that has changed my outlook on things, both material & spiritual. <br />
<br />
I’ve decided that I do have something to say. I’ll be writing about that new outlook and the recent experiences that have brought on these changes. Things that I want my kids to know. <br />
<br />
Of course, I’ll still be sharing those embarrassing mommy moments. I don’t think my mother & aunt would let me get away without those. (And I think those are the posts that have made this blog Savannah’s favorite thing to read.) <br />
<br />
So, thank you, Savannah, for being Mom’s #1 fan and for encouraging me to write again. This blog post is dedicated to you, Sweetie. <br />
<br />
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Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-74282439468834644022011-11-17T08:00:00.002-06:002011-11-17T08:00:02.427-06:00My Lunch TimeThis is the month of Thanksgiving here in the states, so I feel it's only appropriate to state at least one thing I'm grateful for this month, so....<br />
<br />
One of the things about my job for which I am so grateful is my lunch time. <br />
<br />
Hmmmm....that doesn't sound too good, does it? <br />
<br />
But, seriously, I can have some really great lunches because I'm close to some great places....<br />
<br />
like home is just 10 or 15 minutes away, so Pat and the kids can come meet me whenever I (or they) want.<br />
<br />
I'm also close to a park my kids play at sometimes. Although this creepy woman started hanging out there during lunch, too, so I've stopped going.<br />
<br />
There's also some great eating places in the neighborhood, like one of the best burger joints, and a fantastic Thai restaurant, and a really good salad place when I'm feeling healthy.<br />
<br />
But there's another place that I absolutely love, and it hit me a few days ago how lucky I am to work so close to this. I go there and sit on a park bench or a picnic table and read or try to do some writing, <br />
<br />
and I have this to look at...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcv9mkXcqJoILtxAQJcYgnNzTFeTNTT7C7D_off-qCRyWSTxMkFsAEdp2P1FpO6LYFOGy0KZDoEicI9WxBIy7RVX5YQI22bx4Lsr0K1ysIn7M2tOgb02AjBjK81VNS1ROjS9ZCF3fsKA/s1600/IMG-20111103-00013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcv9mkXcqJoILtxAQJcYgnNzTFeTNTT7C7D_off-qCRyWSTxMkFsAEdp2P1FpO6LYFOGy0KZDoEicI9WxBIy7RVX5YQI22bx4Lsr0K1ysIn7M2tOgb02AjBjK81VNS1ROjS9ZCF3fsKA/s320/IMG-20111103-00013.jpg" /></a></div><br />
and this...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDIyNIFWuzr81VM06SOlnNAB7xFdj1g9rm3UMLZ-1zTPanG3vpXWAJlRv5Bmb7-c0aP_wn8PY2rVpS8KCbAeSw5LsdG0kXwag7YsgZXwMKDdUkfea2pesnWWxfVMgurg9AFLwoKoHw/s1600/IMG-20111103-00016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GDIyNIFWuzr81VM06SOlnNAB7xFdj1g9rm3UMLZ-1zTPanG3vpXWAJlRv5Bmb7-c0aP_wn8PY2rVpS8KCbAeSw5LsdG0kXwag7YsgZXwMKDdUkfea2pesnWWxfVMgurg9AFLwoKoHw/s320/IMG-20111103-00016.jpg" /></a></div><br />
and this is one of the places I used to go to write when I was a teen and an early twenty-something and I wrote that sordid soap opera for years....<br />
<br />
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and now I work just 5 minutes from there.<br />
<br />
That's just one of the things I'm grateful for - <br />
<br />
a beautiful respite in my day.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-2170137012342924182011-11-16T09:30:00.001-06:002011-11-16T09:30:00.804-06:00NaNoWriMo - It's a No Go!This year I decided to join <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">Nanowrimo</a><br />
<br />
a.k.a. National Novel Writing Month: "Thirty days and nights of literary abandon!"<br />
<br />
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Since it started on November 1st I have...<br />
<br />
Cleaned the house<br />
<br />
Baked a cake<br />
<br />
Baked muffins<br />
<br />
Organized my files<br />
<br />
Written so many blogs I actually have a backlog<br />
<br />
Offered to work as much overtime as needed<br />
<br />
Walked the dog so much she now refuses to go out<br />
<br />
Redecorated the house<br />
<br />
Knitted a scarf<br />
<br />
Started exercising again<br />
<br />
Joined Procrastinator's Anonymous<br />
<br />
And I've written exactly 2248 words out of the 25,005 words I'm supposed to have written on my novel.<br />
<br />
I don't feel like I'm getting anything done.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-66418272636900046842011-11-14T09:24:00.000-06:002011-11-14T09:24:29.225-06:00TributeYesterday my husband was hit with some sad news.<br />
<br />
One of his music heroes - who had turned into a friend - passed away yesterday. <br />
<br />
This is my own little tribute to that friend.<br />
<br />
My husband Pat moved from his home state of Utah to Texas in 1991 to pursue his dream of playing guitar. Once he arrived in Texas he discovered the blues: Muddy Waters, Freddie King, Howling Wolf...and then there was Stevie Ray Vaughan. A guitarist who kicked the blues up to a whole new level.<br />
<br />
Not long after arriving, Pat formed a band and began touring, which eventually led to a high profile gig (in the blues world anyway). He played in several countries and all across the states, meeting many people he admired, even B.B. King. I think that's the only man who's ever brought Pat to tears - until yesterday, that is. <br />
<br />
Another musician Pat met was Doyle Bramhall, the songwriter and inspiration for many of Stevie Ray Vaughan's hits. Pat met Doyle through Chris Hunter, Doyle's step-son, who played drums in the same band with Pat. Pat and Doyle talked, hung out, and played together. Pat gained great respect for Doyle pretty quickly. He was mega talented, and unlike so many successful entertainers, carried himself with no conceit. Pat always prided himself that Doyle (the man who partnered with Stevie Ray Vaughan) loved his guitar playing. Pat played on one of Doyle's cd's not long after they met.<br />
<br />
I wasn't able to spend much time with Doyle, I only had a handful of times with him, but there is one memory that immediately came to mind when Pat told me the news yesterday. About seven years ago, Doyle and his wife Barbara were visiting in town. With a 5-year-old Savannah in tow, we met up with them at a local Starbucks to give them some baby clothes to take back to Chris for his little girl. After a brief conversation they invited us to lunch. They were hungry for Tex-Mex (and who isn't in Texas??), so we took them to our favorite haunt. Doyle was so friendly, and spoke easily with our little Savannah, and had me crying with laughter as he told past stories from the road. That lunch led to a full day together: all five of us driving around the city, talking, laughing, and sharing stories and food. Both Doyle and Barbara left a lasting impression on me and I was always happy to see them when they came to town.<br />
<br />
I'll forever be grateful to Doyle for the compliments and confidence he gave my husband, <br />
<br />
for the way he welcomed me, <br />
<br />
for the way he talked with Savannah,<br />
<br />
and for the music he gave us.<br />
<br />
RIP, Doyle.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfstQZdnpyryRSGPiN7rjTrZtzXOrZeA8-JH22OpQ7h1ovS6KOk-7A9IlWA7449yzBvFvTbBbecNiULOULw7ok7nmoHlcMov3UE_P3ZQQKllzU78dI-CWE5Hd2e7DOFl3mjafgE240jA/s1600/doyle_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="213" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfstQZdnpyryRSGPiN7rjTrZtzXOrZeA8-JH22OpQ7h1ovS6KOk-7A9IlWA7449yzBvFvTbBbecNiULOULw7ok7nmoHlcMov3UE_P3ZQQKllzU78dI-CWE5Hd2e7DOFl3mjafgE240jA/s320/doyle_1.jpg" /></a></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-46414849491777102422011-11-09T11:41:00.000-06:002011-11-09T11:41:10.118-06:00Sound the Alarm!Like many moms, I constantly compare my parenting skills to others.<br />
<br />
I try to emulate their patience, and then I snap at Sarah when she won't quit pulling on my shirt over...and over....and over.<br />
<br />
I work so hard to be more attentive to my kids, and then I shush them when I'm watching <i>Modern Family</i>.<br />
<br />
I try to be more health conscious to keep their bodies growing strong instead of wide, and then I stop at the nearest drive-thru and order burgers and fries.<br />
<br />
One thing all moms do, though, is have days when you think you're going to absolutely lose it!<br />
<br />
The other day while I was cooking dinner and getting tomato sauce all over my favorite white shirt, Savannah kept coming in asking for various snacks, Sarah was hanging on to the back of my shirt like she loves to do, Pace was crying at my feet wanting to be held, and telemarketers wouldn't stop ringing my phone.<br />
<br />
I had a sudden urge for a glass of wine...a piece of chocolate...something that would give me a quick respite.<br />
<br />
Then I remembered an article I read in a parenting magazine about the rise in the number of women who have become addicted to prescription pills. <br />
<br />
Is it bad that I wanted to search for that article so I could get some tips on which pills work best???<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMDjbjNoQwlucSSWPbhrMqQfsKvyCijCBnv9KUiTNHbvtg2wp8yBFxg4b4ybIuNUC4nzIJUoADjhaHSkJLdX1Cqxcp7rw1oA9JLBfu7x3fbM1As3JH68Lu954SuQlHNl9mWy5UtEvtw/s1600/frazzled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMDjbjNoQwlucSSWPbhrMqQfsKvyCijCBnv9KUiTNHbvtg2wp8yBFxg4b4ybIuNUC4nzIJUoADjhaHSkJLdX1Cqxcp7rw1oA9JLBfu7x3fbM1As3JH68Lu954SuQlHNl9mWy5UtEvtw/s320/frazzled.jpg" /></a></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-67382029969937569802011-11-07T15:22:00.000-06:002011-11-07T15:22:53.151-06:00The Pros and Cons of My Career ChangeIn March of this year, after much deliberation, I left my full-time job at an organization where I had grown, gained more and more responsibility, and actually surprised myself numerous times with my ability over the past ten years. You can read about my pain-staking decision <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2011/02/season-of-blooms.html">here</a>. <br />
<br />
A couple months ago I took a part-time position as the Office Administrator for a local church. Yes, that means I’m the church secretary, but my official title is “Office Administrator,” and I’m sticking with it. <br />
<br />
Over the last few days I've been thinking about the good, the bad, and damned-near ugly that has come from my career change. I guess you could say I've been trying to verify that I made a good decision. Here's what I've come up with so far:<br />
<br />
<b>Pros</b><br />
1) <b>No more traveling!</b> I felt so guilty leaving Pat home with three kids each time I traveled and my trips were getting ready to increase. It also didn't help my guilty conscience to have a three-year-old screaming, "Don't go, Mommy!" when I walked out the door.<br />
<br />
2) <b>Less stress</b>. I’m no longer receiving threatening e-mails from my Senior Vice President, which means I no longer grind my teeth (or plot someone's demise) in my sleep.<br />
<br />
3) <b>Less time at work and more time at home.</b> I work four days a week, I'm able to sleep in a little later, I <i>must</i> close up the office for an hour lunch each day, and I get out of work before rush hour hits. These are my dream hours!<br />
<br />
4) <b>No make-or-break decisions</b>. I don't sweat over the big, suffocating, eye-twitching, budget-making or breaking decisions anymore. That is someone else's job now.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Cons</b><br />
1) <b>No more full-time pay or benefits</b>. Bye-bye, new boots and low co-pay! <i>"Honey, I know you like to climb on the table, dive on to the couch, and then roll off on to the floor all while sucking on a lollipop and holding scissors, but Mommy really needs you to stay healthy right now. She needs a new pair of shoes."</i><br />
<br />
2) <b>No more traveling</b>, which means no more free five-star meals or facials, or massages. If there's going to be any spoiling, I'll have to do it myself. However, see Con #1. <br />
<br />
3) <b>Being called a “Church Secretary.”</b> Yes, I know that’s what I am, but for some reason it drives me up the wall when someone calls me the <i>church secretary</i>. See image above.<br />
<br />
4) <b>I have to watch my language.</b> I’m the <i>church secretary</i>, you know. And, man, is that hard! Especially when I want to cuss someone out or throw this dinosaur of a computer out the window.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7Ull7t0w9oLkaU-3zDos7c0TGndj96W3AV-3o3QeRZhBa4qumtWDRu6FlXno5f5-F_B_951DOf9ujlv-ME_vIFIVhXS11yb5uDHBfOgZSWdhzuoP3cquFqPQBIOUvDMTN9jg_dfc4A/s1600/yelling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="170" width="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7Ull7t0w9oLkaU-3zDos7c0TGndj96W3AV-3o3QeRZhBa4qumtWDRu6FlXno5f5-F_B_951DOf9ujlv-ME_vIFIVhXS11yb5uDHBfOgZSWdhzuoP3cquFqPQBIOUvDMTN9jg_dfc4A/s320/yelling.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Overall, though, I have to say that I'm really glad I made the decision to leave and I stuck with it. My bank balance may be smaller, and I may not have all the little perks that I did before, but at least I sleep well at night, don't dread the mornings, and have more time to hang out with my kiddos....which is the best <b>PRO</b> of all!Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-71939258145046691492011-11-03T11:06:00.000-05:002011-11-03T11:06:12.519-05:00Extra CreditToday's post is once again for <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/blog/">Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writing Workshop</a>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96cT_wXjadQgaKL-Q6zFxrGtG8shImaQuHloNVLZlCCWWa-p3IgzTuCaDhnsrVIbcopDrgkbMHZtisG-PoWySlqwnNjBOWQzWZeTbhANNstmLUD4Vwosng67cxUgx-KwSiSyWIc1vXw/s320/workshop-button-1.png" width="125" /></a></div><br />
Today I decided to combine two of the writing prompts into one blog: (1) elaborate on one of the <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2011/10/few-things-ive-done.html">22 things I've done</a> (#11), and (2) write a blog with eight lines. I get extra credit for this, right?<br />
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And now...<br />
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<div style="color: orange;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">The Story of the Deaf Guy in Eight Lines</span></b></div><br />
I worked in a hot tourist attraction selling t-shirts in the West End<br />
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A magician's shop that employed some cute guys who possessed the sleight of hand was right next door.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GQD3lb9ma_s1NFtyB2l1lVGv5oNdSaDOizpxPozRsVYed0Zz3oTr0TlN0ThlKcCV7UQtHtr8kXWVKvCx2EPvxIGNGodtCEkdlYc1vpSRWZ-5ErS650abprFMnk8QJRO96YYopgcc4w/s1600/MagicHands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GQD3lb9ma_s1NFtyB2l1lVGv5oNdSaDOizpxPozRsVYed0Zz3oTr0TlN0ThlKcCV7UQtHtr8kXWVKvCx2EPvxIGNGodtCEkdlYc1vpSRWZ-5ErS650abprFMnk8QJRO96YYopgcc4w/s320/MagicHands.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br />
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One day one of those cute guys brought over a new, even cuter guy who could not hear or speak.<br />
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This new, cuter guy kept looking and smiling in my direction and I thought, <i>I need to learn sign language and fast!</i><br />
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So I bought a book and studied day and night<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgordI_I9QFVVxeAGdECCJQ84CsJQVoAXGi1Pk5rounLy4GVVRdvKUertNx8wc0X4Kw-cydUxqOpipcSBcdXrI8IMQ1DMMMCIixLOJQLuG0nVyfH5JJwgY8eU_q8E2qzYn8PBF5YmVtIA/s1600/Sign+Language.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgordI_I9QFVVxeAGdECCJQ84CsJQVoAXGi1Pk5rounLy4GVVRdvKUertNx8wc0X4Kw-cydUxqOpipcSBcdXrI8IMQ1DMMMCIixLOJQLuG0nVyfH5JJwgY8eU_q8E2qzYn8PBF5YmVtIA/s320/Sign+Language.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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One of the magician’s who noticed me flirting with the new guy pulled me aside and whispered, “You can’t go out with him – he’s been charged with sexually assaulting a minor!”<br />
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Unfortunately, it turned out to be true and my fascination with him vanished like Copperfield’s assistant.<br />
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A good thing came out of all this, though, when a deaf couple came in to my store a few months later and I was able to communicate with them!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzcpvQ8KG6RojNGXjGNtFRKtD0wl2oYT03hn4-TW7tJhN0EemAAx2Gs0wTg9z1LVHMN71Fp2EAUgesP4R_-lq8s6pa74E_uPW52U0n2cAlFwxawYhqbCz8ucjztYwzkQGLVoZw2jxTQ/s1600/victory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="104" width="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzcpvQ8KG6RojNGXjGNtFRKtD0wl2oYT03hn4-TW7tJhN0EemAAx2Gs0wTg9z1LVHMN71Fp2EAUgesP4R_-lq8s6pa74E_uPW52U0n2cAlFwxawYhqbCz8ucjztYwzkQGLVoZw2jxTQ/s320/victory.jpg" /></a></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-72825403766623587502011-11-01T17:14:00.005-05:002011-11-01T19:00:57.064-05:00The Last Trick-or-TreatLast night was a fairly traditional Halloween for us: a dinner of mummy dogs and chips followed by trick-or-treating and lots of candy eating. Although we opted to skip the scary movie and watched "Castle" instead. Savannah & I have grown to love that show!<br />
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For the last couple of years, my sweet, soft-spoken Savannah has taken to scary costumes. This year she was a blood-sucking zombie basketball player.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCxv3AlW3GHxQLDJJj_QQR6fBEhM55-bB2LWEaac0j1zCXU6RjlH7aBjqdD5RBk6z6RKCI0liThJgUtoxTKf1iHBOENsFrj-VO1-xc1KcHyIJ59Gw2ncI-11XK_PY0isupvbxj5UDTQ/s1600/IMG-20111031-00003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCxv3AlW3GHxQLDJJj_QQR6fBEhM55-bB2LWEaac0j1zCXU6RjlH7aBjqdD5RBk6z6RKCI0liThJgUtoxTKf1iHBOENsFrj-VO1-xc1KcHyIJ59Gw2ncI-11XK_PY0isupvbxj5UDTQ/s320/IMG-20111031-00003.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Sarah wanted to be Rapunzel, but, alas, we were unable to find the long, flowing hair for our fair maiden. She finally agreed to be a fairy princess.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jIfWE0zUF7oAz9ZD_Lqg_QUEYypx4AZoIjRk-ENp-017dFlL4WlTG-n-uOogbi3DATk5abDcmaysU2X0PpvcI0q_Xmn3_ifTjljeqvy9K16ZC7EZaARwDaXGx-8tyPI8OQDPDelDLA/s1600/IMG-20111031-00010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jIfWE0zUF7oAz9ZD_Lqg_QUEYypx4AZoIjRk-ENp-017dFlL4WlTG-n-uOogbi3DATk5abDcmaysU2X0PpvcI0q_Xmn3_ifTjljeqvy9K16ZC7EZaARwDaXGx-8tyPI8OQDPDelDLA/s320/IMG-20111031-00010.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Pace, still not quite able to communicate, had absolutely NO say in his costume. <br />
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Yeah! <br />
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Oops! I mean, maybe next year, little guy. <br />
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He went as the head coach of the Dallas Cowboys. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4etI3czB8UHBJXj2j-2AD1BQE5uX2Yfl9U2WID9CfW-TGU5-NvIe6EP9uOd9jP6q4fOqTXK-5BIqocYJ3IPgyiAGPgbW2LScwUQruSP3xacwhDEHr4qMcsxlT82PAJz35qyrrQ5mYg/s1600/IMG-20111031-00005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4etI3czB8UHBJXj2j-2AD1BQE5uX2Yfl9U2WID9CfW-TGU5-NvIe6EP9uOd9jP6q4fOqTXK-5BIqocYJ3IPgyiAGPgbW2LScwUQruSP3xacwhDEHr4qMcsxlT82PAJz35qyrrQ5mYg/s320/IMG-20111031-00005.jpg" /></a></div><br />
His costume turned out to be the hit of the evening, and all I did was add a headset to a Cowboys outfit already hanging in his closet. Touchdown!<br />
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But the event of the evening that really woke me up was at one of the last houses we visited. Pace and I were slowly making our way up the path when Savannah and Sarah raced by us. <br />
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“Trick or treat!” they both proclaimed.<br />
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Pace and I waddled up (I swear, Pace walks like an old penguin.) as Sarah received her candy. The lady looked up at me and said, “Where did your older one go?” I looked around to find Savannah standing on the sidewalk with her dad. <br />
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“Anyone who says trick-or-treat gets a piece of candy. Would you give her this?” the neighbor said placing a candy bar in my hand. I took it to Savannah and asked why she left.<br />
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“I’m just too old for this, Mom.”<br />
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And that was that. <br />
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I now have a kid that’s too old to trick-or-treat. Wait…I need to stretch out my creaky knees and put on my reading glasses. The words have suddenly grown blurry.<br />
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So the plan for next year is Savannah will stay home and pass out candy while the “kids” go trick-or-treating.<br />
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She’s growing up, folks, and I can’t stop it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMePPCo61sYnRX5UVvhfb6iUdsOrknDIrTFQJ2Oro-SxmDwIJpmWbOtiwZpZGm3Rc5O_cQi7w0wBCK_xO5kxq32qB8BrZx_5EnbCUftKLcKk1mzxHz6nyAKpIq1BD2FHigH-0dgbCog/s1600/Sav+Halloween+05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMePPCo61sYnRX5UVvhfb6iUdsOrknDIrTFQJ2Oro-SxmDwIJpmWbOtiwZpZGm3Rc5O_cQi7w0wBCK_xO5kxq32qB8BrZx_5EnbCUftKLcKk1mzxHz6nyAKpIq1BD2FHigH-0dgbCog/s320/Sav+Halloween+05.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<a href="http://sellabitmum.com/2011/10/29/boo-in-the-blogosphere-halloween-costume-link-up/"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakWxZglYuHudmnrZKbzDNriSGZO5zgDEkm7Di8DIbi9kiw-oM-IqDoQ0JWWs7vk9PuU20n_P5ptubSKbxiVBxIxurKJgGFfbQnxF7zQk0lFoejcpaM7Mg2Y_gENTldwz2n-3_2FGckw/s1600/halloween_night1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakWxZglYuHudmnrZKbzDNriSGZO5zgDEkm7Di8DIbi9kiw-oM-IqDoQ0JWWs7vk9PuU20n_P5ptubSKbxiVBxIxurKJgGFfbQnxF7zQk0lFoejcpaM7Mg2Y_gENTldwz2n-3_2FGckw/s320/halloween_night1.jpg" /></a></div></a>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-68953152786519820772011-10-27T18:46:00.001-05:002011-10-27T18:50:27.829-05:00A Few Things I've DoneI’ve taken the leap!<br />
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I’ve decided to try my first writing prompt for <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/blog/">Mama Kat’s Almost World Famous Writing Workshop</a>. <br />
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Luckily, this prompt doesn’t get me shaking as much as others, so it may be the perfect start.<br />
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One side note before I start: this list will be edited since both my mother and my daughter read my blog.<br />
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Without further ado….<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><b>22 Things I’ve Done in My Life</b></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">1. Hid in the bushes of my school in Kindergarten when my mom was late picking me up. I was afraid I would be kidnapped.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2. Almost kidnapped in third grade walking home from school. (I guess I had given up on Mom in my mature years). A van pulled up beside me and a man got out and started walking toward me. I took off running down our alley and a bamboo shoot went up my thumb nail while I frantically tried to open our gate. I heard the van door shut and speed off.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3. Learned to drive on the back roads in the Piney Woods of East Texas at the tender age of 11. And, yes, I drove my aunt around town for many years before I received my license at 18…but you didn’t hear that from me!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4. Wrote a secret, on-going soap opera throughout middle school and high school. I even had set and costume design planned out the entire time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">5. Went to a fantastic high school. I attended the Arts Magnet high school in downtown Dallas. We didn’t dance on the tables like they did in “Fame,” but I did walk the halls with Erica Badu, get stoned with jazz-great Roy Hargrove, and acted in a play with Elizabeth Mitchell from “Lost” and “V.” I loved high school!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">6. Had a mad man at my front door. He was trying to get in the house with a knife. I was 15 and terrified. Thank God for neighbors and the cops!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">7. Belly laughed many times with my best friend through high school and my twenties. We actually recorded ourselves one night and then played it back. We ended up on the floor laughing at ourselves laughing. Does that even make sense? At one point it became completely silent; we were laughing so hard we couldn't get any sound out, only gasps for breath - both on the tape and while we were listening. I love it when you can laugh yourself into silence! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">8. Fell into the fountain still wearing my maid of honor dress after my sister’s wedding. Yes, alcohol was involved.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">9. “Acted” in the Video of the Year for 1989. I was in Don Henley’s “The End of the Innocence” video, which was filmed in the Dallas area. My one, solitary scene was filmed at Union Station downtown. In case you’re dying of curiosity, here’s a link to the <a href="http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/DonHenley/The-End-Of-The-Innocence--39785611">video on Yahoo! Music</a>. You know you wanna see it! That’s me as The Bride at 3:47. I was 19, skinny, and had high aspirations of making it big. *sigh*<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">10. Had my hair butchered onstage by an “internationally known hairstylist.” Yeah-right. Internationally known for crap! I will say that my own hair stylist managed to turn it into something really cute, but it was the shortest I had ever been. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">11. Learned sign language so I could date a cute deaf guy. Turned out he was a pedophile. That pretty much sums up my pre-Pat dating life.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12. Started my period on my wedding day. *sigh*<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">13. Been on David Letterman. Not as a guest, though Pat and I scored free tickets to be in the audience. When we watched the show that night, there we were when the camera scanned the audience: I was laughing and Pat shot his arms up in the air to be seen. It worked!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">14. Watched my husband play for thousands at Jazz Fest in New Orleans several times. I got that old-time, pre-marriage butterfly feeling watching the crowd go nuts after his guitar solos.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">15. Met Clint Eastwood at the Monterey Jazz Festival. He was there to interview a woman Pat played in a band with. Mr. Eastwood was so gracious and made sure I was included in the conversation. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">16. Performed with my husband twice a week for the last three years. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">17. Stayed at two “haunted” hotels and managed to scare the crap out of myself both times. (A story may be coming on Halloween. Mwah!)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">18. Took a leap of faith and left a torturous work environment without knowing I had a net to catch me. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">19. Lost a baby in utero.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">20. Gave birth to three extraordinary people who have changed my life for the better.<o:p></o:p></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">21. Gave birth to one of those three extraordinary people without drugs. Believe me, I wanted the drugs! She just came too fast.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div>22. Married a man that actually gets me (most of the time), allows me to be really immature and goofy (and frankly dives right on in there with me), and has learned to work around my many moods (and there are a lot). Oh yes! And we make beautiful music together. *blush*<o:p></o:p></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF2_PtZiN1sZvob5rW-7r9Sxbj27GEwrjADAq90TLVSo-4zCT-GdNLSQPWv00w6FosSxS_d7b4g7T111XK9flU3xf71A8aYRy-w0l1w77wqUfH6ESeVIXhWAOJTbUCjsoFW14oDAxjA/s1600/mama+kat+workshop-button-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="125" width="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF2_PtZiN1sZvob5rW-7r9Sxbj27GEwrjADAq90TLVSo-4zCT-GdNLSQPWv00w6FosSxS_d7b4g7T111XK9flU3xf71A8aYRy-w0l1w77wqUfH6ESeVIXhWAOJTbUCjsoFW14oDAxjA/s320/mama+kat+workshop-button-1.png" /></a></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-8715346213726959092011-10-26T10:00:00.003-05:002011-10-26T13:38:52.058-05:00Savannah's First ConcertTwo tickets to see Taylor Swift in concert...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oOXPOAF4S5cZYD9huhDMeLka7sN6qCLUUy_VwX6uDz9VhwJ1gTFKTn7Uu2JhdgYzr-Nb9CNKzJI2PkDH8Ht_4izBc55Hm1Gl9lOUzB9syZGezzDPdjbpoN40eJhyphenhyphenkgk4aJ66VJ80Lw/s1600/taylorswift053111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oOXPOAF4S5cZYD9huhDMeLka7sN6qCLUUy_VwX6uDz9VhwJ1gTFKTn7Uu2JhdgYzr-Nb9CNKzJI2PkDH8Ht_4izBc55Hm1Gl9lOUzB9syZGezzDPdjbpoN40eJhyphenhyphenkgk4aJ66VJ80Lw/s320/taylorswift053111.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">$225</span></b><br />
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Cost to park at Cowboys Stadium....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXze3yeb0KcqJ6uH0zB_aCaIVjl7a6PbMzZVOn5YM746wz7hGMO2-7-W-3sbw1sr5cSslfL9tgZ5GcfY7svjp_hRjcSEIIXGTz4uABFvx136EpXkXl8QdJ04FU1GWdfZ_POvcdmuv2ow/s1600/dallas-cowboys-stadium-07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXze3yeb0KcqJ6uH0zB_aCaIVjl7a6PbMzZVOn5YM746wz7hGMO2-7-W-3sbw1sr5cSslfL9tgZ5GcfY7svjp_hRjcSEIIXGTz4uABFvx136EpXkXl8QdJ04FU1GWdfZ_POvcdmuv2ow/s320/dallas-cowboys-stadium-07.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">$35</span></b><br />
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Cost to see Savannah's face when Taylor Swift steps onstage....<br />
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It was a very good girl's night out!Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-82301572233524647902011-10-24T20:05:00.000-05:002011-10-24T20:05:05.638-05:00Eleven YearsOn this day eleven years ago, early in the morning, I was driving to east Texas with Savannah, then 20 months old, in the backseat. My sister Valarie had called a few minutes after six to tell me our father had died after a hard battle with bone cancer. <br />
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We knew it was inevitable he would be gone soon, I just wasn't ready for it to be that soon. I had just left his house 36 hours before. He had suddenly seemed to be getting a second wind. Wanting to eat and laugh, trying to get up from his bed, a hospital bed placed in his den so he could be with his family. We now know that was the surge of energy terminally ill patients get before they die. It can last for one hour, two days, or two weeks. I wish I would have known.<br />
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Today, eleven years later - hard to believe - I still find myself grieving. All day I've been quick to grow angry, cry, or feel overwhelmed. Dustin Hoffman once said you never get over the loss of a parent. I couldn't agree more. It seems strange that my three kids will never know their Grandpa Ralph and just how much he would have loved them.....does love them.<br />
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But as the day draws to an end, I want to remember the good things,<br />
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not the drive I had to take that morning,<br />
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or selecting his casket,<br />
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or walking away from the gravesite.<br />
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I want to remember his hugs.<br />
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How he smelled of saw dust and sweat when he came in from his workshop.<br />
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How he ate his fries with a fork.<br />
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And hearing him say, "Pass the sugar, Sugar."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrQ8ymZ3aBs4Zj23Amkf4KOEPqd_6ADmffT60EJuLAKpCtVwmyLzutvKru4vm1rCm8en0gJOiNzhf4o8lIB3Tb9J2hYC4VA8847ZXTP08epgAiLB0yLCBaUIfG1cKdlblxhZfJwhYow/s1600/Me+and+Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="385" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrQ8ymZ3aBs4Zj23Amkf4KOEPqd_6ADmffT60EJuLAKpCtVwmyLzutvKru4vm1rCm8en0gJOiNzhf4o8lIB3Tb9J2hYC4VA8847ZXTP08epgAiLB0yLCBaUIfG1cKdlblxhZfJwhYow/s400/Me+and+Dad.jpg" /></a></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-60931155578728049162011-06-28T15:50:00.000-05:002011-06-28T17:04:48.245-05:00Grandma's Front PorchLast March I took a leap of faith. <br /><br />(You can read about my decision to leap <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2011/02/season-of-blooms.html">here</a>.)<br /><br />I left my job...<br /><br />a secure job...<br /><br />a well-paying job...<br /><br />a job with benefits...<br /><br />a job with a HELL of a lot of stress and leadership that made everyone's life difficult.<br /><br />For too long I was gritting my teeth, tired all the time, quick to lose my temper, and very hard to live with. I felt I was getting a nudge from something greater than me to leave - that there was another path waiting. So after a lot of discussion with Pat I turned in my notice. <br /><br />I was on cloud nine for weeks, but after time passed and no yellow brick road or sparkly red shoes magically appeared, and a mystical voice didn't whisper sweet <span style="font-style:italic;">anything</span> in my ear, I began to doubt my decision and the tension crept back in to my jaw, shoulders, and home.<br /><br />Savannah was due to go to my mother's for a visit at the beginning of the summer. We typically meet my mom half way instead of taking the entire 3-hour drive, but this time I decided to make the whole trek. As we drove down the narrow country road leading to her house, trees forming a thick canopy over the car, it all seemed so familiar to me. A place of love, family, and home.<br /><br />My mom now lives with her sister, my Aunt Peggy, in the house they grew up in, the house my grandfather built in 1931. It's the place I visited every summer and many holidays. It's where my grandmother, aka G-ma, rubbed my back until I fell asleep; it's where my mud bakery spanned the vast front yard complete with mud pies, mud cakes, and mud cookies, and where I snapped fresh peas and peeled potatoes from G-ma's garden as I sat next to her on the porch. Despite the memories I hold, I don't believe I ever fully appreciated the comfort this place provided until this recent trip.<br /><br />I was in need of calm; something to get my mind to stop. I was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, the same one G-ma sat in for many years, when I heard thunder in the distance. Not long after a soft rain began to fall. A breeze blew in with the rain and eased the Texas heat. I could feel the coolness brush my face and listened to the rain drops softy land on the trees and grass. and I felt my body sink down into the rocking chair as it released the stress. I laid my head back and enjoyed the moment; a much needed moment to gain a little peace of mind. A moment that I now refer to when I feel my jaw tense up, my "safe harbor" as author David Trottier calls it.<br /><br />I go to my safe harbor, my grandmother's front porch, and bring all of my senses with me, and just let go...if just for a moment.<br /><br />What about you? What's your safe harbor?Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-41901900690769328562011-02-15T08:00:00.000-06:002011-02-15T09:38:11.049-06:00FourteenThis was me fourteen years ago today...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcqIu8UfuChPJlZFuvnMzs1rz70hGLys56AuxaBAkM5kAbNfVaFUNzc0fxfHOKyFxjoPWZENBc0xksoFRGhqUDG_w8eQ0_f6c4eBjRFA47VRdSncXBuIIwhLeuS1CRXhaeBEhPhgDCg/s1600/Wedding.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcqIu8UfuChPJlZFuvnMzs1rz70hGLys56AuxaBAkM5kAbNfVaFUNzc0fxfHOKyFxjoPWZENBc0xksoFRGhqUDG_w8eQ0_f6c4eBjRFA47VRdSncXBuIIwhLeuS1CRXhaeBEhPhgDCg/s400/Wedding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573939544385270370" /></a><br /><br />It's been quite a roller coaster.<br /><br />A ride with<br /><br />anticipation<br /><br />laughs<br /><br />screams<br /><br />and relief.<br /><br />And I don't want to get off.<br /><br />Happy Anniversary, Pat!<br /><br />I love you!Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-1092913926727542422011-02-09T16:26:00.000-06:002011-02-09T16:36:24.445-06:00Belated BirthdayI let Biscuit’s birthday pass last week without much fanfare. She turned two on the second. It was late in the day before I realized it and we were iced in most of the week, so I didn’t make it out for the new squeaky toy I had planned to buy her. Pat pulled out a big rawhide bone so she could have a special treat that evening. <br /><br />I’ve never been big on celebrating pets’ birthdays. Partly because I never knew their actual birthdays, only a guess at which month they were born based on the vet’s estimate. Even so, I felt bad about almost missing Biscuit’s b-day this year. I feel like she’s gotten the short end of the stick, and I’m to blame.<br /><br />She was a few weeks old when we brought her home, only a couple months after our beloved Clyde passed. I wrote about it on <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2010/02/happy-birthday-biscuit.html">her first birthday</a> last year, so I won’t bore you with the details again. <br /><br />I don’t know if Biscuit came to us too soon, while my grief was so raw I was tender to the touch, but she and I have never completely meshed well. <br /><br />I hate to say it, but “<em>the dog</em>” grates my nerves, and I think it’s all because I compare her to Clyde, two totally different dogs. Clyde was small, sweet, and obedient. You could pet him without getting smashed in the nose, although he did lick a lot. He greeted you at the door with a smile and a wag of the tail, and he was a perfect leash walker, walking with an heir of dignity about him and showing off for the other dogs locked behind fences. And last but not least, he lived peacefully with our cat Gilligan.<br /><br />Biscuit, well, she’s insane. Of course she’s two, which calculates to fourteen, a horrible year for hormones. I remember my fourteenth year, except I didn’t follow people around licking at their heels or stretching my tongue to eat meat off the counter, though I did bark at quite a few people.<br /><br />But I digress…<br /><br />A complete opposite of Clyde, Biscuit is tall and muscular. She goes nuts whenever you try to pet her. I’ve had many a sore chin and nose just for trying to show her some love. I’m greeted by 60 pounds of dog pushing me down when I walk in the door - and that’s just coming back from getting the mail. You can’t walk her on a leash without having to drag her or her dragging you. And I’ll certainly never be able to own another cat for fear she’ll eat them for breakfast.<br /><br />We should have named her Marley...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYjsyOjIDEXXyITVTFBu6xY57ABvwZU9qsRd7E-pMpZHbFC8EVSbN3iFZE_bng3L0UMo8wz3HYZxdKutSiczhI3nB93qC-r2N_YXtLokfd1jCZovIdaVvUYQgy2GKTX4l-bO5qwyLoA/s1600/Marley+1.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/AVvXsEjTYjsyOjIDEXXyITVTFBu6xY57ABvwZU9qsRd7E-pMpZHbFC8EVSbN3iFZE_bng3L0UMo8wz3HYZxdKutSiczhI3nB93qC-r2N_YXtLokfd1jCZovIdaVvUYQgy2GKTX4l-bO5qwyLoA/s400/Marley+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571820032969772194" /></a><br />(Yes, we’ve had to replace our bedding because of Biscuit.)<br /><br />but I thought I was getting that sweet, cuddly dog from the vet’s office. Man, she pulled one over on me. <br /><br />Pat likes to remind me that Clyde was mischievous when he was young, too. I guess I have selective memory. There was that one time he slid down the roof of our house from the second story and landed in the bushes. <em>And</em> it took him a few months to catch on to the leash and pooping outside. <em>And</em> he used to run around the living room in lightening-fast circles leaving cushions in the dust. <br /><br />I try to remember that Biscuit is young. No, she’s not Clyde, but she’s a good dog, a sweet dog, and she deserves just as much love as Clyde. <br /><br />I guess I just need to buy a hockey goalie’s mask to give it to her.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Cp6jTxkPzs1pEZMJT0hOjKwoixXp3XfmbJK4ZbxEzT565eS73rM9HjkvtevKeRipU4dW_GxGe53evsICwvzPLykKT0AgT8icM0Nu-hd5nB7It6sJJzBlBWSVuEg5gG1Qbf-GY4Q8dw/s1600/Biscuit+in+Snow.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/AVvXsEj4Cp6jTxkPzs1pEZMJT0hOjKwoixXp3XfmbJK4ZbxEzT565eS73rM9HjkvtevKeRipU4dW_GxGe53evsICwvzPLykKT0AgT8icM0Nu-hd5nB7It6sJJzBlBWSVuEg5gG1Qbf-GY4Q8dw/s400/Biscuit+in+Snow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571821784283122962" /></a>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-6903782092303881462011-02-05T22:55:00.000-06:002011-02-05T23:27:11.820-06:00Time to BloomI have a bouquet of flowers sitting on my table that’s eight days old. I’ve removed a few wilted blooms, but it still looks beautiful. Usually by now most of the flowers would lie limp and pitiful and I would be forced to throw them out, even though I don’t want to. Fresh flowers are a rare treat for me. But this particular bouquet is still standing tall and showcasing lavender lilies, white daisies, and pink mums. I think they’re still thriving on the excitement I felt when I bought them. <br /><br />You see, eight days ago I turned in my resignation at work after three years of growing increasingly unhappy with the leadership. I was at the point of dreading Mondays…and Tuesdays…and Wednesdays….and, you get the point. But it was more than just dread.<br /><br />I grew increasingly tense the closer my car came to the building. By the time I drove into the parking garage I was throwing curse words at anyone and anything I saw. Okay, maybe I didn’t literally yell profanities at innocent co-workers who happened to cross my path – I still had to work with them, you know – but I certainly thought them. I also grew resentful of meetings (especially those at 4:00 on Fridays – I mean, seriously!), and colleagues that expected me to work with the detail that used to come natural to me. I blamed my lack of that detail on having a third baby, when in actuality my morale had tanked. <br /><br />The culprit: the organization I used to be so proud to work for has changed, and what used to be a friendly environment has become quite toxic, and I've grown bitter.<br /><br />The worst of it all, I brought my unhappiness home. I tried to nip my bad mood in the bud when I walked in the door, but many times I was unsuccessful. And honestly, no job is worth having an unhappy home. <br /><br />Pat and I discussed the possibility of me leaving for the last few months, but fear always kept me tied down and just when I didn’t think things could get worse, they did. I had no idea how I was going to drag myself into that office every morning without imploding. I was getting headaches, I was physically and mentally exhausted, and I had chest pains. My body was trying to send me signals, or giving up on me. <br /><br />When I didn’t act on my body’s message, I received it from another direction: church. Two weeks ago the topic was to trust God enough to take a leap and know that He will lead you where you need to go. All of the songs I sang were speaking to me:<br /><br /><em>Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, help me stand.<br />I’m tired, I’m weak, I am worn.</em><br /><br />One of my band mates sang a song titled “Word of God Speak.” It’s all about shutting up and listening. As I stood waiting to sing harmony with him I had this feeling of something surround me. It was like I was in this warm pocket and I could feel the music envelop me. <br /><br />Afterward I talked with a close friend about my feelings during the service and she pulled out a quote that she just happened to have with her. She said it helped her while she was having difficulties and she had thought of me recently when she ran across it again. <br /><br />What was it about? Taking a leap and trusting that there will be a net to catch you or you will be given wings to fly.<br /><br />I don’t know how it sounds to you, but I feel like I was getting all kinds of messages that day.<br /><br />After much discussion and many freak outs with Pat, we both decided it was time for me to get out. I had one final meeting with my superiors that confirmed everything I was feeling and the next morning I plopped my resignation on my supervisor’s desk. <br /><br />I. Am. Done.<br /><br />And I couldn’t be happier. <br /><br />Except when my doubts creep up, and fear settles in, and I think that I was crazy to believe I was receiving messages. <br /><br />I think that’s why the flowers are still flourishing. They thrive as a reminder of the confidence and joy I felt that day. <br /><br />I’ve taken the leap and hope there will be a net to catch me, or better yet, I’ll be given the wings to fly.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-84486712337063299362011-02-04T12:39:00.000-06:002011-02-04T12:55:43.893-06:00Am I Still in Texas?Where do I live?<br /><br />In Texas, right?<br /><br />Down south where the winters are short and you rarely get below the 30s? <br /><br />Isn’t that why I love it here?<br /><br />Or I used to.<br /><br />But the last two years have been rather freakish.<br /><br />We typically have one snow/ice day a year when school is out and you stay home from work with a fire in the hearth and jaunts outside to build a snowman; a snowman that used up all of the snow in the yard. He looked like Pig Pen from Peanuts with patches of brown grass stuck in his snow body.<br /><br />Now, and I mean this very minute, we can build a family of snow people and still have enough powdery stuff left to trudge through. <br /><br />I don’t know if I like this. I admit that I don’t like having to wear shorts on Christmas Day, as we’ve had to do occasionally, but this is getting ridiculous.<br /><br />Remember December of 2009? We had a <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2009/12/in-my-best-bing-crosby-esque-voice-im.html">White Christmas</a>. And last February we had two separate winter “events.” One was known as a <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2010/02/texas-sized-mini-snow-pocalypse.html">Mini Snow-pocalypse</a>, which only lasted a couple days. Not too bad. The other was the <a href="http://thestoryofy.blogspot.com/2010/02/just-taste.html">Texas snowstorm from hell</a> that knocked out our electricity for 40 hours. We had to keep our milk and eggs in the foot of snow on our deck.<br /><br />I thought that was just a freak winter for us Texans, but oh no. I had to be proven wrong. We’ve had about an inch of ice on the roads since Monday night, temps in the teens and single digits all week, and then I woke this morning to 6” of snow. School has been closed for an unprecedented four days straight, and I’ve been working from home just as long. I do love being home with my family, but my toes are cold.<br /><br />I think Mother Nature’s trying to tell me geography no longer matters. I’m trying to make a deal with her, though. If I now have to live with these wickedly cold February months, she should drop the temps down at least a little bit in August.<br /><br />It’s only fair.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-68784838185265032272011-01-26T10:52:00.000-06:002011-01-26T11:20:43.050-06:00Mac and What???I tried an experiment last night and, oh, how successful it was.<br /><br />Let me take you back to the beginning of my research…<br /><br />When Pace was just a couple weeks old he turned into a crier. We thought he would grow out of it in a few days like Savannah did and just have a brief spell of colic. No such luck. It was hard to soothe him for several weeks and we were at each other’s throats due to lack of sleep.<br /><br />After a little Googling and reading and talking (to myself usually – I do that a lot), I decided to cut out dairy and see if it would ease our baby boy. Of course almost everything I love contains some kind of dairy, so following some very frustrating days I found a couple of books on Amazon to see if I could gain some tasty recipes to help me through this “sacrificial” time. Yes, I’m wringing this out for every bit it’s worth, and, yes, I’ll remind Pace what I did for him when I need an upper hand.<br /><br />I purchased a dairy-free book. It was pretty much soy replacements everywhere. Not quite what I was looking for, although I don’t know why I thought it would be different. And then I found a vegan cookbook. The Amazon reviews raved about it, especially over the “Mac & Cheeze” recipe, stating that recipe was worth the price of the book.<br /><br />I used some of her soup & Mexican recipes (no soy in sight - yeah!) and all have been delicious, but because it was summertime I used that as my excuse not to try the Mac & Cheeze. I didn’t want to heat up the kitchen...plus, I feared the gag reflex: my families and my own. <br /><br />With a resolution to make my family healthier and to incorporate more vegetarian & vegan meals in our weekly diets I decided to give the Mac & Cheeze a try last night. To my delight it didn’t have any soy cheese or milk in the ingredients list. Instead it was nuts & veggies that made the “cheeze” sauce. I have to admit I did worry when I poured it over the macaroni and I was very hesitant as I dished it out on to our plates, even though it looked exactly like mac & cheese as we know it. <br /><br />The first test – Savannah: "Mmmmm. This is soooo good!" as she stuffed another bite in her mouth.<br />(She still has no clue there was no cheese in it, so sssshhhhh!)<br /><br />Next up – Sarah: "I no want it!"<br />(She wouldn’t want it even if it had <em>real</em> cheese in it, so no surprise there.)<br /><br />I had the next taste: "Wow!" Seriously! It was so good. Not cheesy and gooey, but moist and very tasty, and it had a slight sweet flavor to it as well from the pureed onions & carrots.<br /><br />Then came the big guy, the carnivore, the past Atkins follower: "Oh man. What a great meal!"<br /><br />That’s right folks, the vegan Mac & Cheeze was a hit in the home of a meat-loving, dairy-guzzling family! I’m so impressed I have to tell you the name of the book:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Quick-Easy-Vegan-Comfort-Food/dp/1615190058/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1296060565&sr=1-1">“Quick and Easy Comfort Food” by Alicia C Simpson</a>. <br /><br />She seriously rocks! Check out her book. You won’t be disappointed.<br /><br />You can always do what I did and serve your vegan side dish with pork chops & and green beans cooked with bacon. Kind of an oxymoron, right?<br /><br /><br /><br />I know what you’re thinking…<br /><br /><em>Who the hell are you? And why are you coming back so nonchalant, like you haven't been missing for weeks???</em><br /><br />I realize you were tempted to put my face on a milk carton, but just trust me when I say that things have been crazy and pretty much hellish.<br /><br />I sure did miss you, though.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2407343576801293478.post-83756592167356770882011-01-06T16:10:00.000-06:002011-01-06T16:21:47.045-06:00MamaI admire my mother for many reasons. <br /><br />She’s immensely talented in music and word.<br /><br />She’s highly intelligent.<br /><br />She can laugh at herself.<br /><br />She found her calling after having kids.<br /><br />She’s a pioneer in her career.<br /><br />She‘s given several of the best sermons I’ve ever heard.<br /><br />She’s a calming presence.<br /><br />And one thing that gives me hope: she found a way to live out a dream after she qualified for a Senior’s Blue Plate Special. <br /><br />My mother has had a love affair with England for many, many years. Throughout my childhood and teen years Sunday nights were reserved for British comedies. There was no getting around it, no matter how badly I tried. <br /><br />She wanted to travel to England throughout her life, but first came college, then came love, then came babies, and then came a career with a not-so-high salary. Dreams of travel drifted further and further away.<br /><br />Then one day after retirement she heard of a program that sent retired preacher’s to the UK. She applied and, of course, was accepted. A year living in England followed. And she had the time of her life – aside from all of the amazing times she’s had with me, of course; frustrating teen angst and all.<br /><br />Being a tall, elegant, American lady, she was treated like the Queen herself. Who wouldn’t love that? She lived by the Black Sea, whipped around the roundabouts (going the wrong way, I might add!) in a Mr. Bean car, developed many lasting friendships, and fell in love.<br /><br />Of course her favorite time that year was when Savannah and I came to stay with her for two weeks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xO6JkaD0FRuoSDv3zz44_YhFa0sGqeE-jYYyPlXIauPVMHPpJCsGdg0X2A0PH8PndLlVk018Uuy195lcmbjFeWG_cLW8eTdCg25u0BxX0qCGQI0YrPCFHKlRbgeEzV-0eAkqw0rhYw/s1600/Sav+%2526+Me+in+England.bmp"><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/AVvXsEi2xO6JkaD0FRuoSDv3zz44_YhFa0sGqeE-jYYyPlXIauPVMHPpJCsGdg0X2A0PH8PndLlVk018Uuy195lcmbjFeWG_cLW8eTdCg25u0BxX0qCGQI0YrPCFHKlRbgeEzV-0eAkqw0rhYw/s400/Sav+%2526+Me+in+England.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559199351337710562" /></a><br />(I love this picture of Savananah @ 4!)<br /><br />She’s given me hope that those dreams I’ve yet to accomplish may still come true.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsVSzxSP0lo1V0QB461sSYMswCrRiUsMfzF4SReKBal1HGTvUAfYPdtqeFePjgFVOjYzPqG7qIjJohmIKuIkc8-AyCO36kvqv57ksa386A0w0BqeoOEWVCrf7DM7uL-iLXEz9Zm8_0Q/s1600/Mom+Xmas+2010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 204px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsVSzxSP0lo1V0QB461sSYMswCrRiUsMfzF4SReKBal1HGTvUAfYPdtqeFePjgFVOjYzPqG7qIjJohmIKuIkc8-AyCO36kvqv57ksa386A0w0BqeoOEWVCrf7DM7uL-iLXEz9Zm8_0Q/s400/Mom+Xmas+2010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559200594441442322" /></a><br /><br /><br />One other thing - she’s showered me with love my entire life.<br /><br />I love you, Mama.<br /><br />Happy birthday!Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11760147863199247868noreply@blogger.com0