tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49033253435234941402024-03-14T00:59:46.111-07:00Rebecca PiRebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-18457906153241389632012-01-28T23:46:00.000-08:002012-01-28T23:51:09.506-08:00Our New Web Site!Yes! <div>It's true!</div><div>We have a family web site!</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.wix.com/rebeccapi314/smile</div><div><br /></div><div>It's still under construction, so you'll see some things not completely put together, but there's enough there that you can have fun looking around.</div><div><br /></div><div>Check out the pages with links to short movies my kids have made. Or music videos. Or fun facts about us. </div><div><br /></div><div>Coming soon: Artwork by kids, Paintings by Grandpa, Quilts by Grandma, Music written by Bethany and Josh, photography, and even some short stories! And of course, recommended books. =)</div><div><br /></div><div>We're excited to share little bits of ourselves with all of you. I hope you enjoy it!</div><div><br /></div><div>Rebecca</div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-36512756862261074252011-11-25T23:16:00.000-08:002011-11-25T23:51:26.197-08:00New ChaptersChapters in many of my favorite books end with cliffhangers. <div><br /></div><div>The police kick down the door and rush in.</div><div>She opens the mailbox to find, not the bills she expected, but a note from him!</div><div>The pirates tie the blindfold over his eyes and push him onto the plank, as the cabin boy throws off his mask and shouts, "Not so fast!"</div><div><br /></div><div>End of chapter. </div><div>I'm supposed to put down the book and go clean my room. </div><div><br /></div><div>But in my life, chapters don't <i>end</i> with cliffhangers, they begin with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>My parents decide we will be moving to Morocco right after my 16th birthday. </div><div>The doctors grab my newborn baby and rush out of the room.</div><div>My husband calls from jail in tears to ask me to bail him out.</div><div><br /></div><div>And a new chapter begins.</div><div><br /></div><div>New chapters often look dire at the beginning. As Louis L'Amour once said, "An adventure is just something you wish wasn't happening to you." And as my mom used to say about the U-Haul motto, <i>An Adventure in Moving</i>, "Who wants their move to be an adventure? I want our moves to be as unadventurous and straight forward as possible!"</div><div><br /></div><div>This from someone who once bought a mini-van from a mail-order catalog, had it delivered to a dock in Amsterdam, and drove with her husband and 6 kids through Europe to Morocco to set up house. </div><div><br /></div><div>Very unadventurous. ;)</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I find myself, once again, at a chapter opening. </div><div><br /></div><div>I open an innocent-looking email to find a copy of the employment termination notice for my ex-husband. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have no idea what this new chapter will bring. Pirates and damsels in distress? Or resourceful maids and happy endings?</div><div><br /></div><div>Let the chapter begin.</div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-32598991513534418392011-10-25T20:04:00.000-07:002011-10-25T20:42:08.392-07:00Long Time, No WriteWhat have I been up to?<div><br /></div><div>I moved. I unpacked. I lost my toaster. I bought a new toaster. I found my old toaster.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left hundreds of books in Virginia because I didn't have space for everything in one moving van.</div><div><br /></div><div>I accepted 12 chickens from a neighbor in my new town and watched Peter learn how to care for them, gather eggs, chase them around the yard, and throw his arms around me and tell me his life is complete now that he has chickens.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked around my new house and thought how strange it is that my ex won't ever see this house. </div><div><br /></div><div>I went back to Virginia for a court date on September 15th and was granted a permanent protective order.</div><div><br /></div><div>I killed a spider the size of Vermont who was living in my bathtub. (I have a large bathtub.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I figured out what my neighbor meant when she asked if I was <i>putting up</i>. me: "Putting up with what?" Pause. her: Putting up fruit? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff9900;">Light goes on.</span> "Oh! Yes! I bottled apricot juice and peaches with my mom!" I didn't tell her this was the first time in my life I'd "put up" anything, and that my peaches looked pathetic. </div><div><br /></div><div>I enrolled my children in (GASP!) school. First one. Then another. Then another. I went home, sat at the kitchen table and wondered what on earth I had just done.</div><div><br /></div><div>I ate so many raspberries that I made myself sick. I didn't know that was possible.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote an entire novel in about a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to plan a trip to Yellowstone, but remembered the kids were in school and we couldn't go anywhere. </div><div><br /></div><div>I watched as Naomi walked out the door in the morning, turned and said with a smile, "I have a backpack, a lunchbox, and a locker. I get to ride the bus and go to science class. I feel like a normal kid!" And I wondered if this made me happy or sad.</div><div><br /></div><div>I watched baby David while Rachel and Mike went to the temple with Mike's younger brother.</div><div><br /></div><div>I agreed to paint the set for <i>Cinderella</i> before finding out exactly how <b>big</b> the set is and how soon they want it done. (Holy Cow.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I took Bethany, along with Elizabeth, to the (brand new!) recording studio at BYU and helped her record a couple of songs for her album. We laughed and figured things out and scrunched in a tiny room and worked for hours and hours 'till our brains hurt. </div><div><br /></div><div>I discovered that I <i>LOVE</i> (as much as I thought I would!) having a fireplace in my bedroom!</div><div><br /></div><div>I had Joshua's birthday dinner at my house with All My Kids!</div><div><br /></div><div>I helped my mom cut out pieces for the (insane!) quilt she's making. It's going to be amazing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I cried when people asked where my husband is, and what I<i><b> do</b></i>. I discovered that a single mom is supposed to work. Not just write novels.</div><div><br /></div><div>I realized we have deep window sills, so we can put candles in the windows for Christmas and I smiled for a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hosted parties for kids from BYU, kids from school, and anyone else who showed up. We've had bonfires, roasted marshmallows, carved pumpkins, watched movies and had a jolly good time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I watched the sun set, smelled newly mown alfalfa, picked sunflowers, fed apples from our tree to the horses down the road, watched bees get drunk on apricot nectar, discovered grapes growing on the fence, watched the kids play soccer in the backyard, made bouquets of hollyhocks and snapdragons, gathered eggs, picked pumpkins, and wondered...</div><div><br /></div><div> Is this really my life? </div><div><br /></div><div>And I thanked God that things can be so wonderful. =)</div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-1518853066975778712011-06-25T07:10:00.000-07:002011-06-25T07:41:21.236-07:00The Hunt for the Perfect LocationI will be moving soon, to an <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCC33;"><b>as-yet-undisclosed (and undiscovered) location</b></span></i>. What am I hopping for? Perfection. That's it. Not much, really. Only one word. 10 letters. But, perhaps I should be more specific. What is perfection in a living location?<div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Low cost of living.</span></i></b> Housing, food and gas prices that are at the lower end of the national average, along with a community college that is either free or very close to free for highschool students. (Yes, Virginians, there is free college for highschool students in some states.) </div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Nice people. </span></i></b> Friendly, well-educated. This presupposes a low crime rate. Criminals may be friendly with each other, but I really don't want my kids hanging out with gang members. Preferably many of these nice people will homeschool their kids and enough of them will be LDS that my kids have a good dating pool to choose from.</div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Not Too far from my family members at BYU.</span></i></b> This could perhaps be an extension of "Nice People." =) I like my kids, my parents and my siblings. And grandparents are a good thing for children to have around!</div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Lots of trees, no billboards. </span></i></b> Think of the mama duck (I think it's a duck) on <i>Bambi </i>(I think it's <i>Bambi</i>) who says, "Green's good for the eye!" (Or wait. Was that <i>The Ugly Ducking</i>? Anyway, you get the idea.) Trees make me happy. Billboards make me feel like white trash. </div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Fun Stuff to Do.</span></i></b> Nearby activities that are kid and family friendly and either <i>free</i> or<i> pretty darn close to free</i> is big on my list. This could include museums (think Smithsonian), hiking, fun parks, lakes and rivers for boating/canoeing, etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Easy Homeschool Laws.</span></i></b> Some states make it easy to homeschool your kids. Some seem to have forgotten who gave birth and who didn't. I like Alaska, where, if I understand correctly, the state assumes your child will be homeschooled unless you tell them otherwise. If anyone finds a way to move Alaska a little closer to CONUS, please let me know.</div><div><br /></div><div>--<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Really, really good church congregation.</span></i></b> One with a good assortment of happy, non-cliquish teens, where home and visiting teaching happen, ward parties are fun because the people like each other, and members are generally thrilled to be with their friends on Sunday and at YM/YW. If they happened to have a Girl's Camp that was comparable to Scout Camp, I might never leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think this pretty well sums it up. Do you happen to know where I am describing? 'Cause if you do, please contact me ASAP! The hunt for the Perfect Location is on!</div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-60071950529475079462011-06-15T15:00:00.000-07:002011-06-15T15:02:24.671-07:00Yes, but-What if I look under the bed<div>To make sure they are only figments of my imagination</div><div>And they leap out</div><div>Splitting my ears with their roars</div><div>Tearing my face with their claws</div><div>Spilling my blood</div><div>In pools</div><div>On the bedroom carpet</div><div>?</div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-69598640785097382052011-06-15T14:58:00.000-07:002011-06-15T15:03:11.530-07:00Solid GroundI never notice<div>Stepping onto the shore</div><div>After a day on the lake</div><div>In my canoe</div><div><br /></div><div>But after a night on the sea</div><div>In hurricane storms</div><div>I fall to my knees</div><div>Clutch the grass in my hands</div><div>Press my face to the dirt</div><div>And thank Almighty God</div><div>For the blessing</div><div>Greater than I could have imagined</div><div>Of solid ground</div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-75291389991175779952011-06-14T22:03:00.000-07:002011-06-14T22:19:10.202-07:00What's Up?People have been asking what's up in my life lately, and... well... frankly I don't have time to answer all of them because of what's up in my life lately. So, a quick blog post will have to do.<div><br /></div><div>I turned on my computer tonight and found an email from my attorney that read, "You're divorced!" I stared at it for several minutes wondering if I was going to feel anything. Apparently not. But now you all know.</div><div><br /></div><div>What else has been going on? I'll see if I can remember. My car has just recovered from a month out of commission during which time my dishwasher and kitchen sink quit working, the court lost my divorce documents, my kids psychiatrist lost his medical license, Bethany had two ear infections, Naomi was uninvited to attend our church's youth group, the bank deposited my money in someone else's account, I got stranded out of town with no way to get home, an animal died somewhere in the garage (or in the walls of the garage), and the garage door fell off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty sure I'm missing several major things, but this is all I can remember right now. </div><div><br /></div><div>My apologies if I've been behind in emails, phone calls, or neighborly chats. It's not that I don't love you. I just can't remember what I'm doing. Oh yes. And we're moving. </div><div>Somewhere. </div><div>Else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rebecca =/ </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-84531019570194666452011-06-06T04:56:00.000-07:002011-06-06T05:17:22.695-07:00The Miracle of the Cell PhoneSomething like this past week at our house must have inspired<i> The Series of Unfortunate Events.</i> You know-- that book series about a family who goes through so many horrible things it's completely unbelievable? <div><br /></div><div>But in the midst of broken car parts, a broken dishwasher, wrong car parts, a broken disposal, cracked car parts, a doctor whose license was revoked, mountains of paperwork, missed appointments, and more car troubles... a miracle occurred.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bethany lost her cell phone and we turned the house upside down and inside out searching for it. I'd offered major rewards for it's recovery (to motivate Peter and Naomi to search- and search they did!) We'd stationed people all over the house, and called and called Bethany's number, even though the ringer was turned off, hoping it might make its self known to us. We'd prayed and prayed to know where to look. But nothing was working. We went through trash cans and old boxes no one had opened for years. It appeared that, along with all the other stress of the week, the phone was gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>A couple of nights ago Bethany and I were up late. She asked what she was going to do about her phone, and I told her there was not much we could do. I can't afford to get a new one. We'd just have to do without. We both went up to bed feeling depressed.</div><div><br /></div><div>A moment later Bethany was shouting, "Mom!" in a voice that made my blood run cold. Had she found one of the cats dead on her bed? This would fit with the week far too well. "It's going to be all right!" she sobbed. I opened my door and there was Bethany with her cell phone in her hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You found it?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I was praying again, telling Heavenly Father I really need help and asking Him to help me find it. And then I heard it ringing! I went into Joshua's room and there it was, under my drum set, ringing." </div><div><br /></div><div>N0w let me just say, her ringer was turned off, no one was calling, and the only alarm set on the phone was for several hours earlier. But it rang when she prayed.</div><div><br /></div><div>We hugged each other and cried. And for some reason, I knew she was right. Everything will be all right. </div><div><br /></div><div>=)</div><div> </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-73083598062393328512011-05-04T07:15:00.000-07:002011-05-04T08:21:41.905-07:00Recovering from Surgery and some Serious MisconceptionsYesterday I stood up and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d! My arms, my legs, and even my ABS! Oh the joy! The sheer elasticity of it all! Oh yes- recovery is good. <div><br /></div><div>It's been a long time coming. Frankly, I didn't believe my doctors when they said, "six weeks for recovery." I mean really. Who takes<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;"> </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">6 Weeks!</span></b> to recover? </div><div><br /></div><div>Me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I went into this thinking I'd take <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">no pain meds</span></b> and be up and running... oh... maybe a week later. I didn't expect to do CrossFit the day after surgery or anything. I'm not stupid. I'd give myself a good 4-5 days to recover.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I woke up after surgery. </div><div>My first thought: Ow. </div><div>My second thought: Oh! <i>Really OW!</i></div><div>My third thought: <i>HOLY COW! </i><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">Get me some </span></i></b><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">morphine NOW</span></i></b><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">!!! </span></i></b> </div><div><br /></div><div>I slammed the nurse call button and felt myself starting to cry-- which was NOT a good idea. Crying uses abdominal muscles. (A fact I'd never considered before) The more I hurt, the more I started to cry, the more I hurt, the more I cried... The worst (and fastest acting) vicious cycle I've ever been caught in. </div><div><br /></div><div>The nurse- a short Asian woman- informed me in halting English that she couldn't give me anything more for pain because, "You ah sensitive to pain medicine." </div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">Shocked stare from me</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"> </span> My thoughts: "<b><i>I'm</i></b> the one who told you that! And apparently I'm not <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">THAT</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;"> </span>sensitive, because I am about to <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">DIE</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"> </span></b>from <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">PAIN!" </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">What I actually did: Stare at the ceiling and try to remember some Lamaze breathing from my ancient past in order to live.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9966;">Focus. Relax. Breathe. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"> </span></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">When I could talk I told her to go get an anesthesiologist. She argued for a moment until I turned my head away from my focal point on the ceiling. We made eye contact and</span></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"> she saw the terror in my eyes. "I go wake him up." </span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Yes. Good idea.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I came home from the hospital with Tylenol 3 and a renewed appreciation for narcotics. But I still didn't take the whole recovery thing seriously. I mean, how hard could it be?</div><div><br /></div><div>For the first two weeks my <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCC00;">M</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCC00;">om was here</span></b> and I was able to rest. And rest. And rest. And at the end of those 2 weeks, I was feeling pretty darn good! I was certain I was basically recovered. Isn't it amazing what Moms can do? </div><div><br /></div><div>When she left, I figured <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">the vacation was over</span></span> and it was time to get back to real life. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so I got up, walked around, drove all over town (which is what I do- did you know driving uses your abs?), went tutoring (we DO need the money), and generally refused to rest until my body gave me no choice. Thankfully, several people brought in dinner for us, so after I'd exhausted myself, I could collapse with dinner and not have to stand up to prepare food for my 3 teens. Can I even begin to tell you how <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#009900;">wonderful</span></i> these meals were? </div><div><br /></div><div>Nope. I can't. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I am nearing the end of my 6 weeks, I humbly acknowledge my former complete incomprehension of what recovering from major surgery meant. It means <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Rest.</span></span></i> As in, lying down (fixed that grammar mistake for you Mom!), not getting up to answer the phone, let the dog in, or go to see daughter X's amazing Lego creation. It means <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Saying No</span></span></i> to things like tutoring, driving to the grocery store, and taking kids to activities. It means <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Accepting Help</span></span></i> from people who offer it. Even when you are a bit obsessively independent. And it manes a<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF6666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">ccepting</span></span></span> My Own Mortality</span></span></i> and coming to grips with the fact that sheer will-power can't force damaged cells to regrow any faster. (Darn it all!) </div><div><br /></div><div>I was asked to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">speak in church</span></span> on Sunday. (As in- give the sermon- for those of you who are not LDS) I think people at church are afraid I've gone inactive and am dropping into apostasy. Who misses church for 6 weeks in a row?</div><div><br /></div><div>People recovering from major abdominal surgery. That's who. </div><div><br /></div><div>I told them I could do that, as long as I don't have to give a traditional Mother's Day talk. I hate going home from church on Mother's Day feeling depressed because I am apparently the only mother in the world not ready to be taken up to Heaven in a <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCC00;">Chariot of Fire</span></i>. But <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#009900;">MOTHERING</span></span>, as in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">taking care of people who need help</span></i></span>-- THAT I can talk about. </div><div><br /></div><div>And recovery. </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-59772732899652400282011-04-25T19:18:00.000-07:002011-04-25T21:18:08.323-07:00Tattooed AngelI was doing it again.<div><br /></div><div>Telling myself I'd fill up the car after one more errand. And then forgetting. Again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I pulled into the garage and realized I'd have to get gas before I went to get my mom from the airport. There was no way I'd make it there and back. The Out-of-Gas light had been on for almost 2 days. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then I forgot. Until I was on 95, in the HOV lanes, just about to the Franconia exit, and the car started not responding, the dashboard lights lit up, and I realized I had forgotten one time too many. Dang it!</div><div><br /></div><div>In case you're not form Northern Virginia, a word about HOV lanes might be in order. These lanes are blocked off with cement barriers-- dedicated lanes with limited access and very limited exits. It's not like you can pull over and be anywhere. Except still stuck in the middle of the freeway.</div><div><br /></div><div>I began to pray out loud. "Please let me get to a gas station. Please, please, help me get off this road and to a gas station." I looked through the darkness at the exit in front of me. Uphill and around a curve. Both things that require more energy than my car had left. I pictured myself walking up the hill in the dark, talking to my mom on my cell phone as I explained why I was late to pick her up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why had I not filled up? And now I was expecting God to bail me out? </div><div>Yes, pretty much. At least I was hoping He might. </div><div>I prayed harder.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, in case you are wondering (and if you know me very well, you are not wondering. you already know) ... this was not the first time I'd run out of gas in my Prius. I'm sorry to say, I was already well-acquainted with what my little car could do on battery power alone. The answer is: Not Much. A few hundred feet if the road was level. No corners. Definitely no hills. Unless we were coasting down them. </div><div><br /></div><div> I got to the hill saying, "Come on! Please let me make it!" And the car kept going. And going! Right up the hill... and around the corner! The light at the top of the hill changed to yellow and my car actually picked up speed and made it through the light! I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to look behind me to see who was pushing, but I was too busy praying and looking for a gas station. </div><div><br /></div><div>There wasn't one. I was on Franconia and took the first exit-- downhill-- praying all the way that a gas station might appear in front of me. I had never taken this particular HOV exit before and wasn't sure exactly where it ended. And then suddenly I was at...</div><div><br /></div><div>the metro stop?</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh crumb. I knew exactly where I was. And I was pretty darn sure there was no gas station anywhere nearby. "Come on! Keep going! Please help me keep going!" </div><div><br /></div><div>The car slowed and coasted to a stop just <i>before,</i>but not quite in, a stripped bit of the road where I could safely leave it. I put the car in neutral, opened the door and tried pushing it 50 feet into the safe zone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ha. Right. Like I can push a Prius. </div><div><br /></div><div>I looked up and there was a guy. One guy. With a backpack. Walking up from the metro. I waved and said, "Excuse me? Could you help me push my car into that stripped area?" (technical term)</div><div><br /></div><div>He pushed and I steered and we got it out of the way of oncoming city busses. I got out to thank him and he said, "Run out of gas?" (Nope. I just like pushing my car around.) "Do you have someone coming to help you?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I'd ben thinking about this, and I'd already decided I was not calling for help. I was far enough from home that it would take anyone as long to get to me as it would for me to hike to a gas station. Besides, talk about embarrassing. I'm not a damsel in distress. I can handle it. Whatever "it" is.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I said, "No." And he gave me an Are-You Kidding? look. I shrugged. "I can walk." He pulled his backpack up onto his shoulder and said, "I just live right there," pointing to the apartments across the street. "And I have a gas can. Give me a few minutes. I'll be back." He had a cigarette tucked behind one ear, a knit cap on his head and an impressive array of tattoo artwork across his arms and neck. I considered the situation. "Are you sure?" He nodded. "I promise. I'll be back. Give me 15-- no, better say 20 minutes. I really will be back." I considered the possible things he might be back for, but at the same time felt certain this was fine. He was just a helpful guy with a gas can. Not a rapist. I smiled. "Thank you. That would be really good."</div><div><br /></div><div>I got back in my car and looked at the time on my phone. 20 minutes. I turned off my lights so the battery wouldn't die and watched busses swerve to avoid hitting me. And I thought. How had I made it here? Up the hill, around the corner, through the light, off the main road, onto a safe bit of ground, right in front of a guy who lives across the street with a gas can. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wow.</div><div><br /></div><div>My phone rang and it was my mom. Surprise! Her plane had landed early! I was embarrassed to tell her where I was, but she took it in stride. Perhaps she knows me. I told her a guy had gone to get a gas can. I didn't mention the cigarette or the tattoos. I pulled out my wallet to see how much cash I had. Since my bank account had $0, I figured I'd better be prepared to offer this guy something for his troubles, while making sure I had enough left to get gas to make it home. </div><div><br /></div><div>At 21 minutes I saw him in my rearview mirror. He was in a car and he pulled up in front of me and jumped out, gas can in hand. "I ran to the gas station and got a couple of gallons." I stared at him for a full 30 seconds before I remembered to say, "Thank you!" and open the gas cap. He poured in the gas while I stood by feeling silly and noticing his tattoos were of Celtic patterns. Not that I'm a fan of tattoos, but if I were... </div><div><br /></div><div>He finished with the gas and I pulled out my wallet. "How much can I pay you?" "Nothing." I laughed. "No really," I said. "You ran home and to the gas station and bought gas. At least let me pay you for the gas." But he shook his head. "No. It's all right." He gave me directions to the nearest gas station, told me to have a good night, and was gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>I drove to the gas station and put in a couple more dollars' worth, all the while thinking how he didn't look anything like I'd pictured angels, and wondering about the angels sent to push my car up the hill, around the corner, through the light and right in front of this guy. Do they have tattoos too? </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-12719451125401848232011-04-19T11:05:00.000-07:002011-04-19T13:22:10.309-07:00Brave GirlTwenty-one years ago today was... Amazing.<div><br /></div><div>I was going into the hospital to be induced, and the night before I'd gone into the baby's room to pick out an outfit- something cute to bring her home in. Except that... I didn't think I was going to be bringing her home. I held up one outfit after another, unable to shake the feeling that had been with me for months. Something was not right. This baby was not going to come home with me in any of the cotton sleepers I was trying to select. I thought of leaving them all home. But what if I was wrong? What would I tell the nurses and doctors if I had nothing for her to wear? I chose something and shoved it in my bag. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe everything would be just fine.</div><div><br /></div><div>One long night and about 5 hours of labor later, baby Elizabeth was born. She was beautiful and she cried with healthy lungs and I kept saying "Is she all right?" "Is she ok?" over and over as they washed her and dried her and handed her to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I held her and looked at her. She was here! She was--</div><div><br /></div><div>Someone took her from me, saying she was too blue and needed to be suctioned. But it took too long, and suddenly there were people everywhere. Doctors, more doctors, and they were calling for help, and they took my beautiful baby and ran out of the room. All of them. And I lay there on the bed. Alone in the delivery room. And waited. And wondered what was happening. </div><div><br /></div><div>I reached for the bedside phone and called my mom. I told her the baby was born, but during our call my o.b. came back in the room. He said "Something is wrong with her heart. I think it might be transposition of the great vessels, but I'm not sure. They've called for a helicopter. I'll send someone to get you." And then he was gone. I stared at the door. At the empty room. Hadn't I told him something was wrong with her heart? Hadn't I asked him to check? He'd said everything was fine. That all mothers are nervous about their baby being healthy. I thought of the cotton sleeper in my bag.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom and I cried together. And after I hung up I waited. And waited. I finally got up out of bed and made my way into the hall. Down the hall. Holding the wall for support. Because if my baby was going to be flown out on a helicopter, I was going to see her before she left.</div><div><br /></div><div>A nurse saw me making my way down the hall and gasped, "What are you DOING?!" She grabbed a wheelchair and we went to find Elizabeth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Elizabeth was in the middle of a room, lying on a flat surface with doctors around her. I watched them work. Our pediatrician was there and said he was putting in an arterial line through her umbilical cord. They'd taken x-rays and said they were pretty sure it was transposition of the great vessels, but they wouldn't know for sure until she got to Primary Children's. I had no idea what they were talking about. A helicopter team arrived and they began loading equipment and getting my tiny newborn ready for her first ride anywhere. I stopped a team member and asked what their training was. He told me. I asked if they would take good care of her and he assured me they would. And then they were gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lay in my hospital bed and cried and tried not to listen to the squeaking of little nursery beds being wheeled down the halls to their mothers. My phone rang and it was a heart surgeon from Primary Children's. She told me it was definitely transposition of the great vessels and that they had to do surgery immediately if there was any chance of saving my baby's life. Would I give her permission over the phone- a verbal signature- for them to do the surgery? She explained that they would go in with a catheter and make a hole in her heart between the right and left sides so a little bit of oxygenated blood could get to her body. That was about all I understood. She was hurrying, wanting me to understand but also wanting to know right away if she could do the surgery. I gave her permission, then repeated the same thing on the phone to two more people, so there were 3 witnesses that I gave permission. They said they would call when the surgery was done. I think it took forever.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day I was released from the hospital and Mike drove me directly to Primary Children's Medical Center (PCMC). It was the old PCMC downtown in a crumbling brick building with yellowed walls. I found my baby in a tiny bassinet with a breathing tube and IVs and not a stitch of clothing whatsoever. The nurses explained that they were giving her a medication that made her skin hurt if it was touched- thus the lack of clothing. I reached out a hand to her fingers and was told "no." Even my touch would cause her pain, and that would increase the stress on her heart. I could talk to her, sing to her, sit with her, but not touch her. At all.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other mothers came over to meet me. The room was not very big and there were tiny bassinets and rocking chairs lining the walls. Someone asked where I lived and I gave them my address. They all stared at me with blank looks. Then one mom said, "Do you mean here? In Salt Lake?" I nodded and they all proceeded to tell me where they were from. Wyoming, Idaho, Arizona, Nevada... I was shocked. "Where do you sleep?" "Here in the rocking chairs." "Don't they have beds for you?" "Only for the most critical patients in the hospital. We're glad they are not for us."</div><div><br /></div><div>I told the nurse I was amazed at how dark-skinned Elizabeth was. She looked Native American. The nurse said, "She's actually very fair-skinned. It's just that she's blue from lack of oxygen." I stared and stared at my tiny baby, wishing I could feel her fingers wrap around my own.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went home that night to sleep in my bed and to comfort my little Rachel who wanted to know when her new sister was coming home. And I thought of all those other moms sleeping in their rocking chairs beside their tiny newborns. </div><div><br /></div><div>The following Monday PCMC was moving to the new hospital up on the mountain beside the U of U Hospital, and Elizabeth was scheduled to be the first patient moved into the new facility. We were waiting for her to be strong enough to live through the open-heart reconstructive surgery she needed. We'd been told she might be ready when she was about a week old. But she was still not breathing on her own, a sign that she was too weak for the major surgery. I signed release papers for her to be photographed for newspapers as the first patient in the new hospital and prayed for her to take a breath on her own. </div><div><br /></div><div>On Sunday morning we went to see Elizabeth before church and-- the breathing tube was gone! The doctors said she had begun breathing on her own that morning, taking breaths when the machine was not pumping air into her lungs. I could hardly believe it. I still could not touch her, but I felt like my spirit was holding her, hugging her to me, cheering for her little tiny breaths.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we walked into church, a 12 year old girl named Angela came to talk to me. "How is Elizabeth doing?" I told her the amazing news that she was breathing on her own! Angela smiled and said, "I knew she would get better today. I'm fasting for her today." I cried.</div><div><br /></div><div>Surgery was scheduled for Elizabeth's 7th day of life. We were there early in the morning, waiting for them to come take her to the ER. And waiting. And waiting. And finally a doctor came and said they could not do the surgery because there was a problem with the air conditioning system in the brand new OR. I couldn't believe they would postpone a baby's surgery because of something as trivial as air conditioning, and said so. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was then that I got a full understanding of exactly what they were going to do to my daughter. In order to rebuild her heart, they had to put her on bypass, meaning the blood would bypass her heart and be pumped by an artificial pump during surgery. But, the tiny capillaries that feed the heart's main vessels can not be sewn back together if blood is flowing at all. So for part of the surgery, they would turn the bypass off and let Elizabeth "die," no blood being pumped through her tiny body at all, so they could see what they were doing. In order to be able to revive her after this, they would need the room to be very cold, and her body would be packed in ice for the surgery. </div><div> </div><div>Oh.</div><div><br /></div><div>They flew in engineers from Minnesota to fix the cooling system of the OR. But if they didn't have it fixed in 2 days, the doctors said they would fly Elizabeth to Boston, to the place this brand-new surgery had first been performed just a few years earlier. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two days later, on Friday morning, the air conditioning was fixed and Elizabeth had her seven-hour open heart surgery. That night the hospital staff offered me one of the beds for parents in the hospital.</div><div><br /></div><div>She was in the post-op ICU. A tiny person nearly lost in the dizzying wall of tubes and monitors and wires. She had several nurses dedicated only to her. The surgeon had videos of her monitors linked to his house so he could go home and still see how she was doing. There was an area the size of a large room filled with equipment connected to her tiny self. </div><div><br /></div><div>A nurse from another patient walked by and looked at her. "Is this Doctor X's arterial switch?" Someone said yes. The nurse looked at Elizabeth for a moment and then said, "Huh. He's getting better at his switches." </div><div><br /></div><div>(I am so ashamed that I cannot remember her surgeon's name. Sometimes I can. Right now it's not coming to me.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Two weeks later Elizabeth came home for the first time. She was only home for a day before she had to go back in for heart failure, but she came home again for a bit longer, and then for a bit longer, until she was off oxygen, recovered from heart failure and doing well. She managed to stay home a whole month- from 3 months old to 4 months old- and we decided it was all right to leave her for about an hour with a babysitter- a girl we trusted from church. When we got home the babysitter had shaken her and dropped her on the kitchen floor and that evening Elizabeth had brain surgery because of hemorrhaging. We were told she would probably never learn to read or write and that she may never learn to speak. </div><div><br /></div><div>********** ********** ********** ********** **********</div><div><br /></div><div>They were wrong. Elizabeth laughed and talked at early ages. She was not behind in anything. I came out of the bathroom one day to find she'd completed a 30 piece puzzle on the floor while I was in the shower. She was not quite 3 at the time. She loved books and learned to read early. Sometimes I found myself wondering what she would have been like without the brain surgery! But most of all, Elizabeth was kind. She loved everyone and had the tender heart of a peacemaker. </div><div><br /></div><div>She was also afraid of some things. Like worms-- gummy or real-- and slippery slides. Yet she had a bravado about her little blond, pig-tailed self that was wonderful to see. I brought home gummy worms for the girls one day and Rachel ate hers and asked she could eat Elizabeth's. Elizabeth was sitting at the table on eye-level with the worms. "No," she said. "I'm going to eat them. Just not yet." I smiled and went to fold laundry. I came back almost an our later and there was Elizabeth, still eye-level with the worms. She finally let Rachel eat them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Elizabeth would sit at the top of slippery slides for forever, staring down the slide as the kids behind her shouted, "Hurry up!" It was after one of these playground days that she told me, "You don't have to call me Elizabeth any more. You can just call me<i> </i><b><i>Brave Girl</i></b>."</div><div><br /></div><div>And she WAS brave! She overcame her fear of worms and slippery slides. She became Rachel's protector, going with her to ask for more napkins at McDonald's, going before Rachel into the dark bedroom, making Rachel's phone calls when Rachel was too shy, and all-around proving she was Brave Girl. </div><div><br /></div><div>When she was four, she was back in the hospital with Cat Scratch Fever. We didn't know what she had- it took weeks to figure it out- and we were living in Saudi Arabia at the time. The CDC flew a doctor to Utah to examine Elizabeth, since everyone was afraid she might have brought some strange, new disease into the US. I was pregnant with Bethany at the time and kept crying about everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elizabeth's IV blew in her arm and they moved it to her left had- a much more sensitive spot. She smiled after the IV was in and said, "The good thing about having my IV in my left hand is, I can still color!" The next day, on her way to some testing, her nurse accidentally ran over her IV with the wheelchair and pulled it out. They took her back to her room and put the IV in her right hand. Elizabeth stared at her crayons as they put in the IV. After it was in, Elizabeth looked at it for a moment. Then she said, "The good thing about having my IV in my right hand is... I don't have to taste the yucky medicine!" I burst into tears just as the doctor flown in from the CDC walked into the room to meet us. After several attempts to talk to me, during which time I kept catching my breath, only to begin sobbing again, he finally said, "Why don't I come back at a better time." </div><div><br /></div><div>When he was gone, Elizabeth comforted me.</div><div><br /></div><div>She grew tall and graceful and even more kind. Her medical trials continued. As she said one day a couple of years ago, "I must have signed up for the Medical Adventure Life." She played with her doll house and asked if we could get a wheel chair for the doll family. She turned their shed into the hospital and the doll children spent a lot of time having surgery and visiting the cardiologist. Elizabeth said she wanted to be a cardiologist or surgeon when she grew up. </div><div><br /></div><div>And she told stories. Laugh-out-loud, side splitting stories, touching stories, silly stories, and thoughtful stories. On the way home from the dentist one day she told us, Bill Cosby-style,<i> The Truth About the Dentist</i>. I laughed so hard I had to pull over on the side of the road. When she got older, she began writing her stories down. </div><div><br /></div><div>And she drew pictures. Amazing, pictures. I wish that I had framed several of them. She shows people in relationships in her pictures, often with rain. Her skill with a pencil or paintbrush is as great as her skill with words.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now she is twenty-one! Brave Girl, lovely as Cinderella, a dreamer making her dreams come true, an incredibly hard worker, creative in everything she does, with a heart as kind as anyone who has ever walked the earth. I still wonder, as I did so many times when she was little, how I could be the mother of someone as amazing as she is. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Birthday Elizabeth. I love you.</div><div><br /></div><div>=) </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-6573258106369531602011-03-29T21:25:00.000-07:002011-03-29T21:41:16.716-07:00What Runs 'Round in my Head<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Surgery is rescheduled for April 4<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Did I mention that already?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Naomi and Bethany are downstairs watching “Flipped” while Peter is upstairs practicing the violin and crying because he’s not watching the movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Am I just mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t feel sorry for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Am I supposed to? Instead of doing his school list today, while I was at the doctor he was on the phone-- for almost an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Peter is grounded from the phone. And has been for several weeks. </p><p class="MsoNormal">What is happening to my life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I feel like I’m falling into a black hole, things are getting weirder and weirder, the world is turning upside down, and all the while, I’m too dazed to do anything but tumble downward, heels over head, with a vague feeling that I might be about to crash into a nasty ending, or become spaghettified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And then I wander off to look for toenail clippers and wonder if there is anything for dinner, and if we really have to eat, or if we might just all float away.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Will I be stuck here forever?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I used to think there was a happy ending coming up- any moment now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Prince Charming was about to carry me off to his castle in the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or at least in southern France.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His staff would clean the bathrooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My children would attend private schools with programs that would make Bethany smile, Naomi recover from kleptomania, and Peter become the charming young man he was meant to be. Prince Charming’s money would pay for it all. And I would wear cotton dresses and entertain guests in the gazebo out back after a day of horseback riding along the beach with my husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At night we would lie in bed and hold each other and it would be amazing because we were so in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On holidays we would take little trips to Turkey and the Maldives.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m afraid that’s not happened.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Frozen pizzas and moldy caulking have been my lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I don’t see an end in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m beginning to feel as if I’m waking form a dream of published novels and cute little houses (let alone southern France) and seeing that if I don’t get a real job, we are going to starve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’ve dropped all the kids’ classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No more music, dance or online history classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t even usually check their schoolwork. We are dangerously close to unschooling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I find myself thinking that a day on the computer with a guitar playing Taylor Swift songs might pass as a good education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What will become of these kids?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I started homeschooling because I thought public school was a joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My kids needed something more rigorous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now I’m happy if they put in a good half hour with a workbook.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">But what is the alternative?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Traditional life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We all leave in the morning and come home exhausted at night to eat our frozen pizza, take a shower with the moldy caulking and drop into bed exhausted, just to get up with a buzzer and do it all again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I believe I would lose the particle of sanity I have managed to hide away under my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And covered in dog hair though it is, I don’t want to lose it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I dream of running away to Europe and living out of a suitcase as we travel from place to place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No mortgage payment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But also no solitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When would I be alone?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How could I ever write anything?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then I imagine a lighthouse on the shore where we pick blueberries and the kids climb about on the beach while I write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Notice the lack of school in these fantasies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Notice the lack of dinner and laundry and reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am still a dreamer, wandering down the road, late, but unaware of clocks and mundane things like money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The clouds are lovely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And perhaps those pink blossoms could fall, spinning, like rain or stars, and light my path, carpet my world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I hear water running and remember the kitchen ceiling leaks if water falls on the kids’ bathroom floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not only do I not know how to fix it, I do not have time nor money to fix it, and I don’t even want to fix it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is something romantic about having to put a pot on the kitchen counter every time someone showers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Eventually the ceiling will rot and fall into a pot of tomato soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But perhaps by then I will have moved out.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">Reality. If</span> I pretend it is not real, perhaps it will go away. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then we’re back to the dreams of Prince Charming, southern France, touring Europe and lighthouses in Maine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And the reality that depending on how the divorce settlement goes, I might be right here—leaky ceiling and all—for the rest of my life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve got to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to go order church magazines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One tiny step for reading material.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One giant leap in the right direction.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; ">(sigh) at least I hope it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-33693453841155807522011-03-15T19:50:00.000-07:002011-03-15T20:00:24.624-07:00Surgery. Or not.<p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Have you ever noticed how sometimes things don't go as planned?</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I got to Potomac Hospital at 6 am and changed into a cute little dress with ties at the back, a pair of leg-strangling tights with holes on the soles (for what?) and totally stylish blue paper slippers. A nurse made four (4!) attempts at getting the IV in my arm, and finally got blood to flow freely. Others poked and prodded and took blood and hooked up monitors.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And then the anesthesiologist came in. He's probably a reasonably intelligent guy. After all, he did make it through medical school. But we were having a communication problem. Somehow the message that my doctor had already checked with Potomac's anesthesiology department about my issues with medications, and that there was "No Problem," did not get passed along to this guy. Or maybe he wasn't listening when they told him. I'm betting on the "Not listening" option, since that's what he did with me. I tried explaining my history, and he repeated a garbled version back to me. I tried correcting him and he interrupted. Eventually he summed up his understanding. "You want me not to give you anything, but you still want to be unconscious for the surgery." No! I told him that was not it at all! I just need smaller doses. A lot smaller. And there are a few things I can't have at all. But only a few. Not most.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He left and I hoped he was Googling what to do with me. If he'd brought me a computer, I could have shown him. When he returned he announced he had a solution. He would do an epidural. I blinked and said, "There is something else you should know. I have really bad scoliosis." He told me to bend forward so he could see my back as I explained that I have four curves, that I don't know the degree of any of them anymore, but that they're not single digits. He ran his finger along my spine and exclaimed. Then he left the room again.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He did not come back.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">It was my doctor came in and said, "The anesthesiologist is saying we have to cancel your surgery. He won't sedate you. I can't sedate you. I can't make him sedate you. And I can't operate with you awake." </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I had seen it coming. I asked if I could talk to my mom for a minute. The doctor said yes, and left my mom and I alone.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Now, let me explain something. Yesterday (was it really only one day ago?) I got a call in the morning from my doctor's nurse asking if I'd heard that my surgery was canceled. I hit the roof of my car and proceeded to tell her that not only did I not know that, but my mom was about to board a plane in Salt Lake to be here for the surgery. She said she'd ask the doctor to call me. I didn't wait for the call. I hit the gas and tried not to run any red lights as I called my mom and told her not to get on the plane while driving to my doctor's office, where I demanded to see the doctor RIGHT NOW!</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">She came in and explained that she'd misread my ultrasound and could not do the surgery she'd explained to me, and did not want to switch procedures without checking with me, had not pulled my chart to remember who I was or what the situation was, and simply told the nurse to reschedule so we could have a chance to "chat." But, since I had conveniently shown up in her office, (!!!) we could go ahead on Tuesday, as long as I was ok with a different procedure. She was very apologetic, and I agreed that the surgery needed to be done. I called my mom, told her to go ahead and get on the plane, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Big mess fixed. Or so I thought. </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Now, I looked at my mom. "What can we do? You came all the way out here." She pointed out that there was nothing we could do about that now. And really, if the guy has no idea what to do with me, it's better for him to admit it now, rather than when I'm dead.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I called my doctor back in and said the only thing I could. "Ok. I'll go home."</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">She said I should "probably go to a major medical center, where they... um... I don't want to say they know more. But they might... umm... well, be better prepared to handle..."</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I just nodded. Right. </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">So, now I'm home. And my mom is here for two weeks. Tomorrow I'm picking up the records of whatever it was that happened today. It should be interesting to read the official version. "Psycho woman tried to convince me to let her into the OR without any anesthesia." Whatever. I'll take them with me when I go to meet with anesthesiologists at other hospitals in the area, on my quest to find someone who knows how to knock me out so my internal organs can be removed.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Ok. Maybe the psycho part isn't too far off. </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">But at least I get to have my mom here! And if I'm not on bed rest for the whole time, maybe we can go do something fun together. =)</p>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-21076544044135678122010-11-30T13:37:00.000-08:002010-11-30T13:42:26.721-08:00Ugh! Templates!So, just a quick rant. I am not a computer programmer, but neither am I completely technically challenged. That said, I am having serious difficulties with my blog templates.<div><br /></div><div>Cutest Blog on the Block is where I usually get my templates, but a few months back this stopped working. I didn't have time to struggle with it, so I went with a boring and generic template from blogger.com.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, however, I took some time to try to get this worked out, since I really do want a cute Christmas background. </div><div><br /></div><div>AND</div><div>IT </div><div>IS </div><div>NOT </div><div>WORKING!</div><div><br /></div><div>Ugh. Anyone have any ideas? </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-76506766348588426122010-11-30T12:35:00.000-08:002010-11-30T13:18:40.598-08:00On Getting DivorcedIt has been quite a while since I have posted here, not because nothing has happened, or because I don't have time to write, or because I don't want to share my thoughts. Actually, tons of things have been going on, I write for several hours most days, and I would love to share my thoughts.<div><br /></div><div>But I censor myself. All the time. In everything. For example:</div><div><br /></div><div>I filed for divorce last month. This was a major life event (clearly)- along the magnitude of marriage, a birth or death in the family. But what would I say on a blog, where the whole world can read it, that would not offend or hurt someone, somewhere? I mean- someone I know personally and care about. (I realize people in China that I don't know- I'm not referring here to the people in China I care about very much- read my blog, (I'm not sure why, but they are welcome) and if I offend them with my thoughts on marriage and divorce, well, life goes on.) But how about my family? My in-laws? My kids? </div><div><br /></div><div>And so I am silent. As I have been on many subjects. For many years. As I write this I hear Taylor Swift in the back of my mind saying, "Speak Now!" Yes, well. She's not getting divorced, is she? If she ever does, I expect she will make millions selling albums about it. And I will buy them and sing along with her and cry. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, what have I been doing? Thinking? Not talking about?</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been wondering how to settle a divorce. What do I ask for? What do I accept is just not going to happen? What is worth fighting for- if anything- and what is not? Do I have to have an attorney with me along the way? Or can we work this out ourselves in a way that won't hurt me and the kids in the long run, and bring the attorneys in to sign everything off at the end?</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been trying to come to grips with life as a single mother. Some things I expected as part of this package deal- like doing the laundry myself. (Mike used to wash and dry the clothes.) And some things I've been surprised by- like the hollow feeling I get when I fill out a form and the "Father" information side stays blank. Or the way people look at my left hand, and then at my kids, and give me a look that says they have misjudged my entire life in 15 seconds and placed me into a box where I don't belong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or, where I hope I don't belong.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been cleaning out the house. Getting ready for the inevitable move that has to come some time. Throwing away some of the junk we accumulate by living in the same house for 8 years. When we moved here, it was the 21st house we had lived in, and we had been married 18 years. (Counting every place we lived for 3 months or longer) It's amazing how much junk we can hold onto when we are not forced to clear it out. Do you know I still had baby socks in the sock bucket? And my youngest turns 13 next week! </div><div><br /></div><div>I have been looking at families. Watching husbands and wives interact. Comparing and measuring myself against them. Did I speak that kindly to my husband when he was here? Am I gentle like that with my children? Where do I need to improve? What will my kids remember when they are my age? And I've been keeping a careful mental thermometer on my kids, watching for signs of distress in the midst of their lives being turned upside down. Ready as I can be with the emotional Tylenol and hugs. Hoping I can do this all myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have spent a lot of time thinking. A bit of time crying. Much time in prayer. Several hours in the car with my kids and heavy doses of Taylor Swift. Not as much time as I should spend cleaning the house. A few hours a day writing- usually my endless YA novel, but occasionally something else sneaks in. At least a few hours each month in the temple. A sprinkling of moments, like sugar dusted on cake, visiting with friends in person or via email. And moments here and there staring at the sky and wondering how life got so wonderful. And complicated. And painful. And perfect. All at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>And being surprised that I can feel peace and happiness these days. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's what I have been up to. How about you?</div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-2517563746726577482010-09-26T20:43:00.000-07:002010-09-26T22:02:43.503-07:00Extreme Multitasking!When I was in Morocco in highschool I thought I had multitasking down. I could curl my hair with one hand while tying my shoe with the other, and pause to spray a cockroach with hairspray, all while singing along with my cassette. Yes. It kills them. The hairspray.<div><br /></div><div>And when my kids were little, I could fix dinner while listening to a rambling story from a three year old ("Let me tell you about when I was 26!"), watch the child at the table do her homework, and write a grocery list all at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then came the mom-of-teens, homeschooling years. (I'm still in this stage.) And I found this was a skill that could be taken to new levels. Teach them to drive while taking someone to dance, while texting the daughter at home to see if dinner is in the oven, while making sure junior in the back seat is doing his math.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then... throw in being a single mom! And what do you get? <b><i>Extreme Multitasking!</i></b> The all new, high thrill sport for moms with negative time!</div><div><br /></div><div>Consider Saturday.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plans had already been derailed by 9 am when I realized Bethany had to see a doctor asap for her asthma. The pediatrician's phone was totally not working- so plan A (call for a refill of her inhaler Rx) was not going to work. We put plan B into effect: Insta Care place. Should be quick. All we need is a script for an inhaler. </div><div><br /></div><div>After over an hour sitting in the room waiting for the doctor and listening to my daughter wheeze, I stick my head in the hall to find the doctor lounging with the nurse, going through an iHop menu. But I digress. My point is not about doctors and nurses and iHop-- although that could be a subject for another post. The point is, we missed the violin group lesson we were supposed to be to, and by that afternoon I realized the inhaler was not going to be enough. She needed a trip to the ER for nebulizer meds and steroids. </div><div><br /></div><div>I figured all this out about 1 pm as I was putting dinner in the oven. (New meal plan! More on this later.) And at 2 pm I was supposed to be meeting for the first time with the girl I will be tutoring this year. First impressions being what they are, I didn't want to start off the year with, "Umm... I'll be a little late. Or, actually, probably very late. Depending on the doctors at the ER. And the iHop menu." But I also didn't want to leave Bethany home, unable to breathe. "Just call 911, sweetie, if you get any worse. Or text me. I should be home soon." </div><div><br /></div><div>My plan? Throw all three kids in the car, call the tutoring family while driving to their house and ask if I can stop by a little early (a better first impression than being several hours late), then call a friend to see if the younger two can hang out with her while we're at the ER. Drop the kids off at the friend's house after the tutoring meeting, then hit the ER. </div><div><br /></div><div>I tell kids to get on shoes and grab books to read while dialing my friend. I get her answering machine and start leaving a message, wondering if she's home but couldn't find the phone. Where could she be? Then, mid-sentence- I remember. She's gone for the day and asked me to take her dogs out around lunch time or 1 o'clock! I sputter something about having a good day and hang up, then run upstairs and grab the DS games. Apparently the kids are<i> all</i> going to the ER. Whoopie! </div><div><br /></div><div>In the car, I call the tutoring family, who sounds a bit confused but says, "Umm, sure. I guess now would be fine." Thank heavens.</div><div><br /></div><div>I park 5 houses down in the only spot of shade on the street and leave the key with Bethany and instructions to turn on the AC if it gets too hot. She's wheezing, but nods. I sprint past 5 houses and tell the grandma watering her roses, who looks like she's expecting me to stop and talk, that I'm just borrowing her neighbor's shade, and that her tiny white dog with a pink bow in its hair is cute. </div><div><br /></div><div>The tutoring family is great. Nice daughter. Nice mom. Really nice house. 15 minutes later I'm back out the door, past Grandma, the roses, and Poopsie, and in the car. Bethany's eyes are closed. I peal out of there, heading to my friend's to take out the dogs before the ER. </div><div><br /></div><div>But... As I'm driving up Cardinal I suddenly see my oven in my mind. And the casserole I'd put in the oven just before realizing Bethany needed to go to the ER. Ack! </div><div><br /></div><div>I drive home, watching for police in my rear-view mirror, run inside and grab the casserole out of the over. It was only slightly more brown than was intended. I set it on the counter and stared at it. Do my kids actually need to eat? </div><div><br /></div><div>This is where I explain our new meal plan. We eat our big meal-- the all-together-dinner-type thing-- around 3 or 4 pm. This makes sense for lots of reasons, not the least of which is because that's the only time we're all home. Then we have cookies and milk or microwave popcorn or a quick frozen pizza around 9 pm when we're hungry again. It works for us. At least that's the theory. I just started it on Saturday. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I'm staring at the casserole. Chicken and broccoli. I run through all the possible scenarios in my mind, and decide the best plan is to just take it with us.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I grab a couple of dish towels to put it on, pick up the Costco-sized bag of paper plates (no time to count them out), grap a handful of plastic forks and one plastic spoon, and run back to the kids waiting in the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What are you doing?"</div><div>"Bringing dinner. Why?"</div><div>"Do you expect us to walk into the ER with a casserole?"</div><div>"Don't be silly. We're going to eat it while taking out our friend's dogs."</div><div>"If there is any left over, can I bring it to the hospital? I'll eat quietly."</div><div><br /></div><div>We let the dogs out while eating our casserole on paper plates in our friend's house while Bethany lay on their couch and wheezed and I calculated how much I'd make from tutoring and called back the electrician about the lights in the front room while watching out the window to see if the dogs had done their thing yet. The plastic spoon made a decent serving spoon, and the tiny size kept our portions small. I made a mental note to try this at home for myself as I told Peter to refill the dogs' water dish, told Naomi to call the dogs inside, and I checked to make sure Bethany was still breathing. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I thought about the fact that, although I really miss my calling in the stake Relief Society, I was glad I was not one of the people in charge of the reception that evening. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is my life. Not too unusual. For our house, anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>When Bethany was well-medicated, the casserole was gone, and the kids were back home with instructions to practice the violin songs they'd missed at the group lesson that morning, I put on a skirt and went to the reception. I arrived just as it was ending and wondered if my hair was still sticking out in back like Bethany had said it was in the ER. Probably so. </div><div>My friends smiled and said, "How are you?" </div><div>And I smiled and said, "Fine. Kind of a crazy day." </div><div>And they nodded. "I know what you mean." </div><div>And I wondered if they really did. </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-70154830887885673382010-09-20T04:42:00.000-07:002010-09-20T05:34:49.767-07:00The Story of CarlyMy cat is curled up beside me, resting her tiny chin on my foot. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is in slow little breaths. At moments like this, even if my computer is about to die because it's not plugged in, or I am so desperate to go to the bathroom that I'm squirming, or the pizza is burning in the oven, I look at her and think, "But I don't want to disturb her!" <div><br /></div><div>I know people get carried away with their pets. Dogs getting manicures and cats with an entire wing of the house to themselves seem a bit much when we are not the ones in love. </div><div><br /></div><div>This particular cat came to us in an unusual way. We drove to church one Sunday morning in April, and after services, we drove home again. When we got out of the car, my family members said, "What is that noise in the engine?" I groaned. Car trouble. Great. I informed them that I did not even want to know about it and went inside to change out of my dress. A moment later one of my kids was banging on my bedroom door shouting, "Mom! You've <b><i>got</i></b> to come see! It's a cat!" My eyes flew to the bedroom door. Oh, this is going to be a mess, I thought. A cat got stuck in our engine? And the kids are down there to see it? I steeled myself, prepared to be the brave mother who holds her traumatized children as they weep over dismembered kitty parts. </div><div><br /></div><div>But when I got downstairs, there was my husband, leaning into the greasy car engine in his white church shirt, saying, "It's all right, kitty kitty." This is the same man who had claimed for years not to like cats. Until he rescued our grey cat, Brigitta, who had been hit by a car, and spent thousands of dollars to have her restored to health. His story that he couldn't stand cats began to unravel after that. And now he coaxed a tiny, tiny kitten out of the engine of our car, where she had been sitting in one of the few places where she could have lived on the five mile ride home. I breathed a sigh of relief. She was all in one piece. </div><div><br /></div><div>And she was tiny! I mean, even for a kitten. She fit in the palm of a child's hand and mewed so pitifully that we were all making little squeaky sounds back at her out of sympathy. Someone got some milk and someone else got a few bits of cat food. The kitten tried to eat a piece of the food, but she was so small that it was like watching a two-year-old try to fit a whole Five Guys hamburger in their mouth and then chew. I did some quick emotional calculations and realized there was no way this kitten was going anywhere. Darn it all. </div><div><br /></div><div>We already had two cats and a dog, and though I was feeling animal overload, I felt like we were still within the "normal" limits of animal ownership. But THREE cats? That's getting a bit fanatic. And yet, look at her! they all exclaimed. She fit in a tea cup. I know, because they put her in one and took pictures. Rachel carried her in the pocket of her bathrobe, where the kitten slept with her head just poking out, resting on the lip of the pocket. And Bethany claimed ownership, bringing the kitten to sleep on her bed with her. How could I say, after she lived through a ride home in our engine and had been fed milk with an eye dropper and slept on Rachel's pocket, "Nah. Take her back to the field beside the church. Or drop her off at the shelter." So, we acquired a third cat. We named her Carly, since she was found in the engine of the car. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something about being raised by people made Carly into a different beast. She is fine with having people maul her. Her paws, which most cats will not let anyone touch, are so soft, and she just lays in our arms like a baby and closes her eyes as we stroke them. She talks to us, mewing and making little sounds in her throat to communicate things like, "Milk would be good! It's right in this fridge!" and if she gets stuck in the garage overnight or shut in the bathroom for too long, she tells us all about it when she gets out, talking and talking and asking to be held and comforted after her traumatic ordeal. She loves our dog, Heidi, and rolls all over Heidi's muzzle and licks Heidi's face until the dog can stand no more and gets up to walk away. And anytime we're gathered as a family, Carly comes to join us. She is there for scripture reading, bedtime stories, songs and prayers, and any other time we are all together, curled up beside us with her eyes closed, looking like the world is a good place. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is still small for a full-grown cat, although it's been a few years since we found her. And Bethany still hauls her around, snuggling her and exclaiming, "She is so CUTE!" when she find sher asleep somewhere. Right now, Carly is curled beside my feet, looking like she is sound asleep-- until I lean over to look at her more closely. Then her ears turn toward me and I know she's just resting, apparently enjoying my company as much as I enjoy hers. </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-34326075656653497082010-08-26T14:37:00.000-07:002010-08-26T14:55:01.062-07:00Wild Hat in the LoCA while ago I was in the Library of Congress and noticed- I could hardly <i>not</i> notice- a woman's hat. It was sprouting flowers and sparkly things and feathers in the brightest colors, and was so completely out of place sitting on top of the short, dumpy woman in the calico house dress. I stared at her on the steps, couldn't take my eyes off her in the upstairs hall, and was surprised by her again in the special display on Native Americans. I began to think I should say something, since she must have noticed me staring. But, what?<div><br /></div><div>I went to use the restroom, and when I came out of the stall, there she was, horrific hat and all, washing her hands. I decided I would speak to her. I couldn't say I liked her hat- that would be too blatant a lie. I decided on, "Your hat is so interesting!" Which was very, very true. But, as I opened my mouth to speak...</div><div><br /></div><div>She bent over and pulled from her bra two large, hard-back books! My jaw hit the sink and I stared at her. How was that possible? She rearranged herself, tucked the books back in, and walked out of the bathroom, all while I stared, the hat all but forgotten.</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw her again, as I was leaving the library. She was going through security just before me. She opened her bag and the security officer poked his stick around looking for stolen books, nodded his approval, and she walked out the door, wild hat, books in her bra, and all. I wanted to say, "Um, sir? I think there is somewhere else you should check!" But I didn't. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ask. What would you do? </div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-20462532530717852632010-08-21T18:01:00.000-07:002010-08-21T18:02:14.271-07:00Dizzy<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">My toes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Turning on the grass</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My dress</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Rippling, floating</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My arms</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Stretching out, palms up</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My hair</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Flying in the wind</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look toward</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My fingers </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Reaching toward the sky</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Where the birds fly </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Into the clouds that spin</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Against the blueness that blurs</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And the stars that shine</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And the night that falls</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Like moonbeams</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Onto my skin</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I tumble</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Into the grass</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That might be the sky</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And try to remember</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which way is up</p> <!--EndFragment-->Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-19819767746443724342010-07-12T16:02:00.000-07:002010-07-12T17:15:54.038-07:00Taylor Swift, Dr. Laura and My Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_p9K-AIAZ6kQ/TDugc_g1XDI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/vGqpjb6qxmE/s1600/TAylor+Swift+Tim+McGraw.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_p9K-AIAZ6kQ/TDugc_g1XDI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/vGqpjb6qxmE/s320/TAylor+Swift+Tim+McGraw.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493160590454381618" /></a><br />I went to the Taylor Swift concert with Bethany last month and had a ton of fun! We jumped up and down and sang all the songs along with Taylor Swift, and bought concert t-shirts, and went home totally exhausted and happy. We brought several friends with us, and Josh took a date- but didn't get to sit by us because we had tickets in different sections. All in all, a great evening!<div><br /></div><div>While I was there, I was looking around at the other concert-goers and was amazed at the ages represented. There were 2-year-olds in cowboy boots and sun dresses with their moms. There were teens and pre-teens, and college students, and 40-somethings, and even a few boys! (One was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Because my girlfriend loves her!" Haha! Understood.) I</div><div> wondered, as I looked around, what it was that made so many girls, of so many ages, love taylor Swift.</div><div><br /></div><div>And here's what I've concluded.</div><div><br /></div><div>First: She's just SO good! Her songs are well written, fun to sing along with, and they cover the gamut, from "Today was a Fairy Tale" to "I'm not a princess... This ain't a fairy tale." From "You're just another picture to burn!" to "Can he tell that I can't breathe?" If you have a boyfriend, used to have a boyfriend, wish you had a boyfriend, or might one day grow up to have a boy friend, she has written a song about where you are. And if your ex-boyfriend (or husband) was a jerk-- well! She has a whole album for you. =)</div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_p9K-AIAZ6kQ/TDukdaKKKII/AAAAAAAAAKY/qCOKzDnyIgU/s320/Taylor+Swift+Shouldn%27t+do+bad+things+(forever+and+Always).JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493164995653544066" /></div><div>Which brings me to point #2: She encourages girls to be girls-- and to expect boys to treat them like princesses. She curls her hair, wears cute dresses, loves sparkly things, and announces from stage to sold-out audiences everywhere that boys "Shouldn't do bad things!" and that if they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">do</span></span> bad things to her, they can expect to be written up. In a song, that is. </div><div><br /></div><div>She showed a mock <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCR8ZZ8oRtI">interview</a> in which a middle-aged woman quizzed Taylor about the way Taylor treated her ex-boyfriends. The woman said she was concerned. "If you are naming the guys you dated in your songs, why would any guy want to date you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Taylor said, "Well...If guys don't want me to write bad songs about them... they shouldn't do bad things!" The stage lights went out and words began scribbling themselves all over the set saying, "They shouldn't do bad things. They shouldn't do bad things. They shouldn't..." The crowd- of almost entirely women and girls, remember- went wild! I wish I'd thought to look around and see what the few men were doing. I'd love to know. Did they jump up and down and scream, "WooHoo!"? Or were they looking at their shoes wondering how they'd gotten themselves into this situation? (Not you, Josh. I don't think you were looking at your shoes.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I know what I was thinking. After Screaming and thinking, "YES!" and wiping my eyes, I thought, "Dr. Laura would like this girl!"</div><div><br /></div><div>An odd thing to think in the middle of a Taylor Swift concert? Maybe. But maybe not. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been reading <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">10 Stupid things Women Do To Mess Up Their Lives</span>, by Dr. Laura Schlessinger, and thinking a lot about it. Yes, she can be offensive on the radio, and no I don't listen to her regularly. I don't listen to the radio at all, actually. But I have heard her from time to time, and I agree with what you're thinking. She should get some tact. But I also agree with what <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">she's</span> thinking. And saying. Almost 100% of the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>She has several points in the book- but many of them can be summed up in this statement: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Girls, get a life! </span> </div><div><br /></div><div>She believes that if girls (or women) set goals for themselves and work toward achieving them, they will see that they are actually, in Taylor Swifts words, princesses. And that they deserve to be treated as such. Then they will stand up to the men in their lives and insist that they "shouldn't do bad things!" She suggests that, instead of waiting to be chosen by a boy, girls go out and do the choosing themselves. What a novel concept! </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought a lot about this. From the time girls are small we are told to wait for boys to choose us. The very fact that Sadie Hawkins dances exist, and that they announce "This next song is girl's choice" means that the rest of the time we are supposed to stand on the side and hope we are-- what? Cute enough? Smiling at the right moment? Dressed right? So that a boy will choose us. We are not supposed to ask the guy out on a date. Or even call him! That would be too forward. And have you ever heard of a girl proposing to a guy? I haven't. And I bet if you have it stuck out in your memory because of how totally unusual it is!</div><div><br /></div><div>What does all of this say about girls? To be honest, I don't have the answer to that. But I do know that I like the idea of girls being someone they, themselves, can feel good about, so that they are choosing, at the very least, to say Yes to the princes out there and No to the jerks. and when they kiss the prince and discover he is, in fact a frog, they can dump him back in the swamp, wipe off their mouths, and say, "Yuck! He shouldn't have done those bad things!" And walk away. Instead of moving into the swamp with the frog.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rebecca =)</div><div>who recommends <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Graceling</span> by Kristin Cashore</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-27316766622784222762010-02-18T22:49:00.000-08:002010-02-18T23:08:04.481-08:00Awake!You'd think, after almost no sleep for a couple of days, and driving for 12 hours straight today, that I would be exhausted enough to sleep. But no.<div><br /></div><div>I lie awake in the dark hotel room, alternately closing my eyes and staring at the patterns of light made by the gaps in the curtains and wondering why my brain won't shut off. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then thinking, of course my brain won't shut off. Did I really wonder that? What a stupid question. (sigh) It's 12:13 am.</div><div><br /></div><div>I turn over and try laying on the other side. </div><div><br /></div><div>and then turn back over.</div><div><br /></div><div>and then stare at the ceiling some more.</div><div><br /></div><div>and then go to the bathroom, just for something to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>and then lay down and close my eyes again.</div><div><br /></div><div>and then open my eyes. The patterns of light have not changed. It's 1:26 am. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps while driving all day, my brain has to keep alert about traffic and road conditions, and listen to the kids, and think about exits, and listen to the book on CD (Fablehaven, today) and try to stay awake, and perhaps with all that it does not have time to sort through all the other things going on in my life, and so, when I lay down in a dark hotel room, and there is... nothing... it can finally begin to sort through real life. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have a court date next week. And another next month. And What if Mike looses his job? Where will our pets live? Where will we live? Scenes from the past replay over and over in my mind. a phrase here. a snippet there. What did that mean? What will we do? I try to tell my brian to do Yoga Nidra, but it keeps wandering to everything else. I bring it back to focusing on the left side of my mouth, (yes, it's a little weird, but it usually works!) and then realize I've drifted back into life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, I get up, undo the velcro on my laptop bag (very loud in a silent, dark hotel room with 4 kids asleep), tell Bethany to lie back down, and go sit in the bathroom, on the toilet seat lid, and turn on my laptop for the first time on this trip. </div><div><br /></div><div>After checking my email, posting a sleepless status on Facebook, and writing on my blog, I am out of things to do. Perhaps I will try going back to bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is 2:10 am.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rebecca :0 </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-44961458672366041042010-02-02T19:44:00.001-08:002010-02-02T19:52:22.928-08:00PreperationsTomorrow morning we leave for Utah. <div><br /></div><div>I am not running away</div><div>Not really</div><div>or at least</div><div>Not forever</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm just getting a break</div><div>And seeing Rachel!</div><div>And Elizabeth!</div><div>And Michael! =)</div><div>And Grandma and Grandpa and Sadie and Polly and Dan...</div><div><br /></div><div>=)</div><div><br /></div><div>And I'm not being here</div><div>for February</div><div>14th</div><div>Which probably</div><div>Will make life easier</div><div><br /></div><div>But at the same time</div><div>being gone</div><div>tastes</div><div>like</div><div>Really</div><div>Really</div><div>dark </div><div>chocolate</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-9703621437478179772010-02-01T17:35:00.000-08:002010-02-01T17:38:06.014-08:00Like CinderellaI feel<div>like Cinderella</div><div>standing </div><div>on the empty</div><div>ballroom floor</div><div>holding</div><div>both my slippers</div><div>and wondering </div><div>what </div><div>to</div><div>do</div><div>now</div><div><br /></div><div>This was not</div><div>how the story</div><div>was </div><div>supposed</div><div>to </div><div>end</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-86695724548492528942009-12-21T18:10:00.000-08:002009-12-21T18:13:10.142-08:00Pausing for Snow<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I open the door<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And the cat</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Usually so anxious for escape</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Stops</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Nose in the wind</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sniffing the unfamiliar whiteness</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">One paw suspended </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">She reconsiders</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">He opens the garage</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">To a flurry of cold</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And a gusty unexpected breath</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">His black shoes</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Become dusted in white</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">He is surprised</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">At the deepness he sees</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">From here</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Of drifts piled </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Where the door had been</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">He sets down his briefcase</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And fumbles</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">For the phone in his pocket</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">She bounces from the window</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Across the room</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Still in her pajamas</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Collared shirt and blue slacks</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Forgotten</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Excitement </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">In every leap</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">She hollers</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Downstairs</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">That the spelling test</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Won’t happen</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Today</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I close the door</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">On chills </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And shovels scraping </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And squeals</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">About fast rides</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Down steep hills</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Into the empty street</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Carefully</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I make my way </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Over piles </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Of crumpled hats</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Damp mittens</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And puddles</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Of melted boot tracks</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">To pull a blanket </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Over my lap</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And open my book</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Almost forgotten</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The cat is curled</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Beside my feet</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">While the world</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Pauses</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">For snow</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903325343523494140.post-6052396305735279702009-10-14T08:31:00.000-07:002009-10-14T08:52:58.310-07:00A poem is never finished, only abandoned.<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px; ">I found a great translation of a quote that I love on </span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://tumblr.austinkleon.com/post/33559683/a-poem-is-never-finished-only-abandoned-on">http://www.austinkleon.com/</a><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;">"In the eyes of those who anxiously seek perfection, a work is never truly completed- a word that for them has no sense- but abandoned." Paul Valery </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;">I have been editing and rewriting and editing and rewriting some more, and the more I do, the more I see that needs to be done. Sort of like cleaning the house. If I start scrubbing places like under the fridge and in the corners of the window wells, I find more and more dirt until I eventually realize I must either abandon all other pursuits in my life and devote my entire existence to housecleaning, or go to bed and give up on the project entirely. I'm not ready to abandon this novel yet. There are still things- the written equivalent of wiping off the kitchen counters- that simply must be done. But it is truly impossible, I am convinced, for any mortal to ever "Complete" a work of fiction. One word could always be better, one phrase more enlightening. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;">sigh.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;">I keep writing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;">=) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div>Rebecca =)http://www.blogger.com/profile/07611376318852111553noreply@blogger.com3