tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55208491749735817562024-02-20T22:31:00.492-06:00chambanachikmarriage, motherhood, military, and life in the midwest.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.comBlogger878125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-85232276221223407702016-08-05T12:19:00.000-05:002016-08-05T12:19:29.068-05:00Still Writing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9z7oFx-aiJzQSXV_dpavWeVCn8I0AP9dWVgbY5Wlk7jDAj-MimrHPVVB5bVgigPxL7vwni9Bx1l9TvL9Q0OE9ZZXB_hYQ9OndJVwBCR538nh6f6JGpwCEsCEZbYhiYS_UK3PW8pnX0_U/s1600/Perez%257BMay2016%257DWEB-4148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9z7oFx-aiJzQSXV_dpavWeVCn8I0AP9dWVgbY5Wlk7jDAj-MimrHPVVB5bVgigPxL7vwni9Bx1l9TvL9Q0OE9ZZXB_hYQ9OndJVwBCR538nh6f6JGpwCEsCEZbYhiYS_UK3PW8pnX0_U/s640/Perez%257BMay2016%257DWEB-4148.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by kdarling photography}</td></tr>
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Just wanted to remind those of you who may have missed the post last year and wondered where I've been- I'm still blogging as usual, but in my new blog space, <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/">The Midwest Press</a>. So if you wanted to continue to keep up with Sky, Millie, Walter, and me, you can find us there. I hope you'll subscribe.<br />
<br />
Again, if you'd like the new links:<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><u><br /></u></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/themidwestpressblog">https://www.facebook.com/themidwestpressblog</a></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instagram: <a href="http://instagram.com/themidwestpress" style="text-decoration: none;">http://instagram.com/themidwestpress</a></span><br />Bloglovin': <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12718857" style="text-decoration: none;">http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12718857</a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px;">Twitter: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://twitter.com/mymidwestlife">https://twitter.com/mymidwestlife</a></span></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;">Email: themidwestpress(at)gmail(dot)com</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444; line-height: 18.48px;">Pinterest: </span><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/themidwestpress" style="line-height: 18.48px; text-decoration: none;">http://www.pinterest.com/themidwestpress</a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #444444;">New blog: <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com</a></span></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks.</span></div>
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-8621899081698989862014-08-16T11:11:00.003-05:002014-08-16T11:11:39.735-05:00Endings and Beginnings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqzYx2ow8Wl5A9As4bb4Q-yvzj82oblaq3ynIc5EnChVpDO6y__Ap0k-qULQwxIbAHQeopbt8GCir8Ik5jzi8Lv63JS9oiPJvSw_ONGJMHz-SdYxbgkMItCo5M5t6rehFTXgEJ8-nzPw/s1600/erika-header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqzYx2ow8Wl5A9As4bb4Q-yvzj82oblaq3ynIc5EnChVpDO6y__Ap0k-qULQwxIbAHQeopbt8GCir8Ik5jzi8Lv63JS9oiPJvSw_ONGJMHz-SdYxbgkMItCo5M5t6rehFTXgEJ8-nzPw/s1600/erika-header.jpg" height="159" width="640" /></a></div>
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This corner of the internet has been my home for the last five years. It's been a good five years here at chambanachik. But because of a foolish mistake on my part, every single picture from those years, from those 940 posts that I've written?<br />
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Poof. Gone.<br />
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There were many tears, including a few as I typed this. There was some frustration with myself. And I briefly wondered if it was a sign that I should quit blogging altogether. But as I mentioned on <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/2014/08/begin-again.html">a new post</a>, I'm not a photographer. I'm a writer.<br />
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This blog has been my home. It's been a good one. And it's with both sadness for what I'm leaving, and excitement for what's ahead, that I want everyone to know that this will be my last post at this space.<br />
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If you want to keep reading- and <i>goodness</i>, I would love it if you did- then head over to my new blog, <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/">The Midwest Press</a>. It's the same me. Same themes, same heart. Just a new space- a big, empty room ready to be filled with words. There is a new post there, waiting for you.<br />
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I dearly hope to see you there.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>For those of you who'd like my new links:</i></b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><u><br /></u></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/themidwestpressblog">https://www.facebook.com/themidwestpressblog</a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Instagram: <a href="http://instagram.com/themidwestpress">http://instagram.com/themidwestpress</a></span><br />
Bloglovin': <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12718857">http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/12718857</a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pinterest: <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/themidwestpress">http://www.pinterest.com/themidwestpress</a>/</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/themidwestpress">https://twitter.com/themidwestpress</a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Email: themidwestpress(at)gmail(dot)com <i>-or-</i> chambanachik(at)gmail(dot)com</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.479999542236328px; text-align: center;">
New blog: <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/">http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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<a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyouhXLo5Jm3w9dINoWHmnkhcc2PdVGd3UWrQGvWPk2-ANCAnwvIou5lpjevhg4Uu7xtKgZyK3qE5IAmzp7p-34CmeaHx2jB0jWN3-Cl9y_j3LE7YdRiabvanXn2TmUgaupjiSm95RtR0/s1600/MIDWEST+PRESS+BLOG+Header-HadleyRae.png" height="168" width="640" /></a></div>
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-28458509877209003152014-08-11T19:56:00.000-05:002014-08-11T20:00:34.013-05:00Eat, Drink, and Be Merry...in Chambana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.champaignparkdistrict.com/programs-events/special-events/taste"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U4wlc8SZCOY/U-kKmtuPVoI/AAAAAAAAIRc/ojnJ5C8RSCE/s1600/10610655_10153071933757977_3630883021700804685_n.png" height="235" width="640" /></a></div>
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There are certain things that Chambana families should do to make the most of a Midwest summer, and we try to do as many of them as possible. Curtis Orchard apple cider doughnuts? Definitely. The Urbana Market at the Square? Absolutely. Local swimming pools, parks, and libraries? Check, check, check. But one of my favorites on our summer list?<a href="http://www.champaignparkdistrict.com/programs-events/special-events/taste"> The Taste of Champaign-Urbana</a>.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TqBYJv9G-0c/U-kMtIv4DpI/AAAAAAAAIgA/8SFnOdf7mN4/s1600/DSC_0031-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TqBYJv9G-0c/U-kMtIv4DpI/AAAAAAAAIgA/8SFnOdf7mN4/s1600/DSC_0031-001.JPG" height="414" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's an event we attend every year. Millie goes for the more mild cuisine of macaroni and cheese, but there is something for everyone. Picture a buffet of all your favorite restaurants in town. It's so fun to pick our own meals and sit down at the park bench with a smorgasbord of ten different things. I didn't get to sample the craft beer last year because I was a week away from having Walter, so I'll make up for that this year!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_24e9d63pBQ/U-kMsvVnRPI/AAAAAAAAIf4/T51P5CYBqFE/s1600/DSC_0019-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_24e9d63pBQ/U-kMsvVnRPI/AAAAAAAAIf4/T51P5CYBqFE/s1600/DSC_0019-001.JPG" height="400" width="307" /></a></div>
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For food, I'll be hitting up The Pop Stop and Ye Olde Doughnut Shop to get an in-between snack, and The Empanadas House food truck for dinner. I'm also eager to visit the Tryptich booth for some local pale ale, and JT Walker's for some orange and blue brew. However, food is just the tip of the iceberg.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EVVcaVyB4ks/U-kMs6A3fGI/AAAAAAAAIgI/hZP47y2dBfc/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EVVcaVyB4ks/U-kMs6A3fGI/AAAAAAAAIgI/hZP47y2dBfc/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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There are dozens of activities for the little ones including a magic show, a juggling act, inflatables, a rock climbing wall, a sing along show...and did I mention <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ChampaignParkDist/photos/a.10150225154357977.374253.71565162976/10153068492227977/?type=1">zucchini car racing</a>? Millie loved the balloon animals last year, and taking a break at the West Side Park playground, as well as the lemon shakeups we shared. Is there anything better than a lemon shakeup on a humid Illinois day? <i>(The answer is no.)</i><br />
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And for the adults, in addition to the craft beer I mentioned, there are booths featuring art and handmade items for sale, a slew of fun bands playing both days, the Second Annual Pie Run, and a raffle for a new car. This isn't a dine and dash evening. This is a two day, take-your-time, relax and hang out event. And we love it.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wtpJnZQSP8Q/U-kMuQeqMPI/AAAAAAAAIgY/YN56Rk2NRmA/s1600/DSC_0035-002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wtpJnZQSP8Q/U-kMuQeqMPI/AAAAAAAAIgY/YN56Rk2NRmA/s1600/DSC_0035-002.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.champaignparkdistrict.com/programs-events/special-events/taste">The 2014 Taste</a> will run Friday from 5-11pm, and Saturday from 11-11pm, so there is plenty of opportunity to stop by, sample some local favorites, shop for crafts, and listen to the great bands on stage. Make sure you use the hashtag #tastecu when posting pictures. (Even I will!) And be on the lookout for a way to text to vote for your favorite food vendor this year.<br />
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<b>My friends at the Champaign Park District are generously giving away $25 of Taste of C-U food vendor tickets to one lucky reader! The contest will run until Friday at noon, so you will be able to use your tickets Friday evening and/or Saturday. Enter below, and good luck to everyone!</b><br />
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<a href="http://www.champaignparkdistrict.com/programs-events/special-events/taste"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xL-8uf1ez1g/U-kKm4RJanI/AAAAAAAAIRY/R67r_R5bdWo/s1600/tastelogoblue.jpg" height="200" width="168" /></a></div>
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<a class="rafl" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/f5a2697470/" id="rc-f5a2697470" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a></div>
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<script src="//widget.rafflecopter.com/load.js"></script></div>
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" /><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Disclosure: I was provided Taste of C-U tickets in exchange for this blog post. All opinions are my own.</i></span>erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-74568397670870427482014-07-22T21:58:00.000-05:002014-07-22T21:58:00.748-05:00The Middle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mp-jeQbBO8c/U88afSPOCyI/AAAAAAAAH8M/7n5RVytlAEg/s1600/20140721_190902-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mp-jeQbBO8c/U88afSPOCyI/AAAAAAAAH8M/7n5RVytlAEg/s1600/20140721_190902-001.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1455.Ernest_Hemingway" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Ernest Hemingway quotes">Ernest Hemingway</a></div>
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School starts soon. In just a few weeks, I will be back in college for what seems like the hundredth time. Three classes this semester, three the next, and I'll earn my associate- <i><u>if</u></i>, and it is a <u>very</u> big if- I can pass all my classes, which are mostly math. Still, it's so close that I'm beginning to get excited. I've put a lot of time and energy into chasing it, and now, the end is almost in sight.<br />
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And I think that's what I like about it. The beginning, the (<i>long</i>) middle, and the end. Wrapped up with a bow. Or a cap and gown. A handshake, a diploma, and a closed door on the work it took to get there.<br />
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**</div>
Millie has been a challenge for me lately. I was tempted to write "a handful", but that is what you say in smalltalk to strangers, not friends. It's not the excess energy of a three year old that makes me laugh and shake my head at the end of the day. It's work. It's tears. It's frustration. It's things that neither of us understand. And it is so hard.<br />
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I run out of patience just about every day. And after another early bedtime, I tear up and ask myself why. Why am I not getting the hang of this mother thing yet, after nearly four years of practice? Why is everything I try failing? Why can't I figure this out? Why can't I do better?<br />
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And I'm beginning to realize that there will never be a leap across a finish line into the arms of cheering onlookers. This isn't a college degree with a notebook closed and a walk across the stage. It's not a recipe, adjusting spices by a half teaspoon until that first bite tastes perfect. Motherhood doesn't have an ending point. It's a day by day by sometimes grueling day. Some of those days will be heaven sent. Some of them will be a test of how many times I can take a breath and count to ten before I speak.<br />
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Maybe labor fooled me into thinking that the hard work would come, but it would be followed by an immediate reward. Instead, it's a million, tiny bits of happiness, interspersed by a million more prayers for help and guidance. I would give anything to earn the badge of "finally got this down", but I know it's unattainable. Because even when they are fifty, I won't be done being their mama. And thank goodness.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqbItgbvczM/U88agNHuALI/AAAAAAAAH8U/RBvOUgDYM5Y/s1600/20140722_161448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqbItgbvczM/U88agNHuALI/AAAAAAAAH8U/RBvOUgDYM5Y/s1600/20140722_161448.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I like when I can be done, when something is complete, nice and tidy, and I can dust off my hands. But this is the middle, and it always will be.<br />
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Maybe motherhood will be like a good book, one that we go back to re-read certain paragraphs because they are magic. One that we begin to mourn when we've made it to the next chapter, to the final pages. One that collects wet tears on the last few sentences, because we want it to go on and on.<br />
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I've got a lifetime of practice ahead of me, but thankfully, I still have some great paragraphs to re-read.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-17415606737606655882014-07-10T22:45:00.000-05:002014-07-10T22:46:15.282-05:00Love Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbYeJ6UFz4I/U79Qn9JKr0I/AAAAAAAAH6c/hWy96bozdfI/s1600/DSC_0029-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbYeJ6UFz4I/U79Qn9JKr0I/AAAAAAAAH6c/hWy96bozdfI/s1600/DSC_0029-001.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“I was walking along looking for somebody, and then suddenly I wasn't anymore.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">― </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/81466.A_A_Milne" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">A.A. Milne</a></div>
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There you were. Placed on my chest and, from the look of the pictures, probably crying your first cry, announcing your newness for the hospital room to hear. It's been a year ago now.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jwUIbecJaKo/U79QhgJs2sI/AAAAAAAAH58/Ko7AT7oK0VQ/s1600/DSC_0063-002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jwUIbecJaKo/U79QhgJs2sI/AAAAAAAAH58/Ko7AT7oK0VQ/s1600/DSC_0063-002.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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But in my memory, there is no sound. Just your face, and the realization that you <i>weren't</i> a girl like I was so sure of before. Here was eight pounds, ten ounces of baby boy...what did I know about boys? Behind the rush of love, the relief that you were in my arms, and the surprise of how quickly it all happened, there was a tiny part of my heart that was truly frightened. I didn't know how to be a mama to you.<br />
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I'd been a mama already, of course, but Millie meant I could match patent leather shoes with ruffled dresses, play tea parties, and do all the things I'd done before in my own childhood. All I could see, holding you in my arms, was a boy who would grow into a man. I wondered, already, when you would be too embarrassed to hug me. I thought about you finding your first love, replacing me in an instant. You were so small, with your soft tufts of hair and your sweet, kissable cheeks.<br />
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But I kept thinking about you letting go of me.<br />
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The first few weeks of your life were difficult. We rushed you to a hospital an hour away one night for a surgery, and I've never felt so helpless. I looked out the hospital window to the sparkles of the city, and wished I could fix everything for you. But, oh, you were brave, sweet boy. And through my tears, I watched your courage and felt my own grow.<br />
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Millie was always more independent and sure of things. I was surprised to have someone who seemed to need me more. You always craved me close by. You wanted to be held every moment. It was such a sweet blessing to feel that weight of you nestled up on my chest, breathing dreamy breaths and soothing my soul.<br />
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You have changed much in these twelve months; first smiles and first steps, sitting up and wobbling to stand, chatter that sounds like "mama" and "vroom"ing sounds with your cars. You are cheerful always, and your heart is so kind and so good. You will do anything to make me smile. You point to the airplanes in your room every time you wake, because all things are new with you and you want them to be new for me, too. Walter, I have been so proud to watch you grow this first year. I am so glad you will be a wonderful man someday. But for now, I am so glad that you are still my baby.<br />
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You spent this year doing many things. One of them was reassuring me.<br />
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I can't write songs, but if I could write one, it would be a love song.<br />
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And if I could write one, it would sound like you.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-27869961607041112992014-06-18T21:07:00.000-05:002014-06-18T21:07:17.703-05:00The Cherry Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lH18PSqqgQ8/U6I9oUF_6eI/AAAAAAAAH4Q/QZRhVlnH1Z4/s1600/DSC_0081-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lH18PSqqgQ8/U6I9oUF_6eI/AAAAAAAAH4Q/QZRhVlnH1Z4/s1600/DSC_0081-001.JPG" height="451" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and what is done in love is well done."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/34583.Vincent_van_Gogh" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Vincent van Gogh quotes">Vincent van Gogh</a></div>
</span><br />
There was a list of things- some written, and some only remembered- of all I wished to accomplish before I turned 30. Lofty goals and hopeful suggestions of the girl- the woman, I suppose- I would become when the calendar reads September 18th and my twenties fade out like the porch light at dawn. I don't think I have reached any of them.<br />
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But today, I baked a pie.<br />
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I'm still six classes away from earning a degree.<br /><br />But I measured, tapped, and swirled the flour, salt, and baking powder together, a cloud of white dust in a white bowl.<br />
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I'm hopeless when it comes to reading music well or learning aperture and shutter speeds, and I'm still very far from the trip to England I've dreamed of since I was little.<br />
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But I cut in the chilled shortening and dribbled the ice water into the crumbs, just how my mama advised.<br />
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Sky and I have such a long way to go before happiness.<br />
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But I looped the apron over my neck and tied it around my waist. I sprinkled the soft flour over the table, then smoothed it around the wooden rolling pin. I slowly poured the cherries tumbling into a patchwork crust, covered them with the other crust, and made a wavy zig-zag around the edge with my thumb and finger. I used a fork to make tiny holes like I was perforating a dark sky with shining, scattered stars. I closed the hot oven door, and opened it fifty minutes later to a yellowed, crumbly, sweet-smelling pie.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NVGWPRpLSsg/U6I9oPY_zQI/AAAAAAAAH4M/XGeAb1hTvwE/s1600/DSC_0072-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NVGWPRpLSsg/U6I9oPY_zQI/AAAAAAAAH4M/XGeAb1hTvwE/s1600/DSC_0072-001.JPG" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />I can't cut hair, change a flat tire on the side of the road, start a lawnmower or weed eater without thinking bad words, pick out a pair of glasses I like longer than a week, fold fitted sheets, make an efficient grocery store trip without running through the aisles for something forgotten, or learn how to let go of past hurts.<br />
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But I can sew up tears in treasured stuffed animals, and pull the weight of a red wagon and two babies behind me. I can make imperfect birthday cakes, kiss sore knees, and exclaim bright praises of finger paint pictures. I can brush hair into curly pigtails, read library books twenty times over, and find pacifiers that were tossed behind cribs. I can buy a tablecloth and candles for his party and only cry a few tears, and I can assure her that it's her turn next and she'll have presents, too. I can weigh the dreams I have with what is truly important, and let a few of them flutter away, while holding on to the ones I value and will remember when I am eighty five and reliving these precious days.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UqokZ0_neCY/U6I9oTxPFWI/AAAAAAAAH4Y/pmaivFTxGf8/s1600/DSC_0079-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UqokZ0_neCY/U6I9oTxPFWI/AAAAAAAAH4Y/pmaivFTxGf8/s1600/DSC_0079-001.JPG" height="400" width="264" /></a></div>
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And I can bake a pie.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-83144048803145736072014-06-05T20:50:00.002-05:002014-06-05T20:52:04.364-05:00Maybe They're Happy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vCTEsX0mtMA/U5Eb26aBeOI/AAAAAAAAH3M/is35oQ0sneU/s1600/Screenshot_2014-06-05-20-38-11-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vCTEsX0mtMA/U5Eb26aBeOI/AAAAAAAAH3M/is35oQ0sneU/s1600/Screenshot_2014-06-05-20-38-11-1.png" height="440" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"And all you want is to feel happy for them </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">because you know that if you do, then it means you’re happy, too." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/12898.Stephen_Chbosky" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Stephen Chbosky quotes">Stephen Chbosky</a></span><br />
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The truth is, seeing them happy makes me sad.<br />
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It's easy to imagine them when I'm not around, so my mind wanders, and wonders if she makes him laugh and if he makes her coffee. I wonder how often they fight, and if they make up with soft embraces or a bouquet of daises. I wonder if it is easy for them to act joyful around their children, because it isn't an act. I wonder if he dances with her in the kitchen, and if she cannot wait until he comes home at night.<br />
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I watch them recall the story of how they met with smiles, because it's a good memory that brought many more good memories later. I watch the glances they give, a secret language of knowing someone so well. I watch his hand on her waist and her arm behind his back, and how it looks so effortless and easy. I watch the way they talk, no strain in their voice from crying earlier that day. I wonder if she is content when she slides on her wedding ring in the morning.<br />
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Maybe they have had the privilege of fighting against something together as a team, as if it were them against the world. And win or lose, they made it through to the other side, a stronger bond formed because of it. Maybe it's not hard for them to sit across from each other in a cafe, and discuss their relationship, their passions, their dreams and goals. Maybe they have the pleasure of trusting that nothing will change. Maybe it feels comforting to feel for each other in the dark.<br />
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<i>Someone, somewhere</i> must have had the conversations that we have, and face the battle that we face, too.<br />
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But no one ever, <i>ever</i> talks about those things.<br />
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So instead, I look at her and at him, and study every small movement and gesture, wondering if there is any chance of being in love like that.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-33560645443861159622014-05-30T12:52:00.000-05:002014-05-30T12:52:44.598-05:00Coffee With You : 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://amamacollective.com/coffee-date/"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M_kD9xDE1FE/U4i-AKluTMI/AAAAAAAAH18/txC0p8PD4E4/s1600/coffee-talk-linkup-02.jpg.jpg" height="280" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/7970.Richard_Brautigan" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Richard Brautigan quotes">Richard Brautigan</a></div>
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It's been a while since we've had coffee together- virtual coffee, that is. In fact, the last time I wrote a true update on our family was in <a href="http://chambanachik-live.blogspot.com/2013/11/coffee-with-you.html">November</a>, and I've had coffee every morning since then. So I'm linking up with <a href="http://amamacollective.com/coffee-date/">A Mama Collective</a>, and summing up what has been happening since we've had our last heart to heart.<br />
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<i>Sky</i>-<br />
He was gone for over two months this year- his AT (annual training), usually 2 weeks long, was 3, and then at an ASQ (additional skills qualifier) for another month. I'm starting to think the Army just randomly selects initials, throws a time table on them, and makes me explain to Millie why Daddy is gone for "289SOIHERTIJLKAERH". He got back a couple weeks ago, and as far as we know, he won't have to leave for an extended period of time until next year. So he's back to his civilian job now. They give him a generous amount of vacation time (both in the summer and from Thanksgiving to Christmas), and I am daydreaming of being able to take the kids somewhere close by, like St. Louis or Chicago, for a weekend vacation. However, we're saving up every penny we can for a new car next year (ours are 20 years old), so I'm not sure if we can afford to do that. Every sweet thought of taking Millie to a zoo is interrupted by another sweet thought of being able to buy a car without getting a loan. We'll have to see how the summer goes.<br />
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<i>Millie</i>-<br />
She learned how to write her name. She can write 'Millie' completely by herself, and can write a few other words with spelling help. I bought a Razor scooter when they were on sale for about half price, and thought about giving it to her for her birthday, but that's at the end of summer and I wanted her to enjoy it this year. We decided that if she could write her full name, she could earn a surprise. She looked at the big box from Target sitting in our bedroom, got extremely excited, and worked so hard for several days until she could do it. It was the first time she's really worked towards something like that, and it was fun to see. She was wild with glee when she opened that box! She ended her first ballet class, and loved it, so we signed her up for a few weeks here and there during the summer. We can choose which weeks we attend, so we left room in the schedule for other fun summer things like garage sales and the farmer's market. She cannot wait to turn 4 in July, adores Mr. Rogers, and sings more than she talks.<br />
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<i>Walter</i>-<br />
This little pudding is cruising on furniture, as well as walking with a push toy and with Millie. He babbles often- lots of 'b' sounds, mostly- and is on the verge of so many things. I will miss him being this small and baby-ish, because it is fading more and more every second. I haven't talked about this on the blog before, but he is in physical therapy for torticollis. He was diagnosed with both torticollis (a tilted neck) and plagiocephaly (flattened head) when he was four months old (although he's had the torticollis since birth). His head shape looks perfect now because we had to hold him or carry him constantly until he could sit on his own. He goes to therapy every other week to strengthen it, and is making some progress, but still has a way to go. If you look though all his photos on Instagram, you'd probably be able to tell how his head always tilts to the right. We'll have to see what his doctor says at his check up next month. And speaking of next month- he will be one! This year went even faster than Millie's first year.<br />
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<i>Me</i>-<br />
I've been thinking about school again, nearly every day. Maybe it's because a significant portion of Champaign Urbana is renting cap and gown sets this month and moving away. I think I'm only 5 classes away from my associate now. The problems are 1- I have three math classes still to take, which is akin to climbing Mt. Everest for me, and 2- I'd have to take it in person instead of online (which I dread, because I adore online classes), so I'd have to have a babysitter three nights a week for at least four months. I'm going in to the college to speak to an advisor in a couple weeks, and will get it all figured out.<br />
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I've been reading a lot more. It started with a book I won. I didn't even love the book, but I got such a reading high. I haven't read a book through, other than school books, since Millie was little. After that, I bought a Kindle when it was on sale for $75 off. I thought I wouldn't enjoy it much, but I have had a ball with it already. Borrowing library books on the Kindle is easy, and more importantly, free, so that's how I have been reading so far. (It's terribly hard for me to pay $10 for an ebook when I could buy a used physical copy for 50 cents!) So in the last three months, I've read <i>Notes from a Blue Bike</i> by Tsh Oxenreider, <i>Unbroken</i> by Laura Hillenbrand, and today, I just finished <i>One Summer: America, 1927</i> by Bill Bryson. It feels so, so, so good to read again.<br />
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I'm also starting to think a lot about turning 30, which happens this September. I realize, while probably sounding incredibly cliche, that I'm starting to figure myself out a bit more. It's made me think about priorities, life goals, and where I'm at right now. I'll have to write a post about it.<br />
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None of this is monumental or even incredibly significant outside our little family, but a couple friends have asked me for details of these things, so here they are.<br /><br />And now, it's time to close the laptop, and open a new library book while the kids are still napping!<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-26913636245232816822014-05-07T21:12:00.000-05:002014-05-08T09:30:17.329-05:00Writing Processes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cQCsemvscbw/U2rnweKi0hI/AAAAAAAAH0g/U3tE5tDcVME/s1600/2014-05-07+08.32.10+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cQCsemvscbw/U2rnweKi0hI/AAAAAAAAH0g/U3tE5tDcVME/s1600/2014-05-07+08.32.10+2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"The great gift writing can give you is to make you a person who pays attention, </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>a person who is HERE, present & accounted for; taking notes"</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-Anne Lamott via Twitter</span></span></div>
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Ceiling fans are spinning in every room of my house tonight. The windows were flung open early in the day, and now the evening air is fighting its way into my living room. I'm too warm, but I switched on my oven for some late night <a href="http://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/tater-tot-chos">totchos</a> (because most of what I eat lately consists of Mexican food, Italian food, tater tots, or a combination thereof). I have a cold, but I'm bored with just sitting on the couch. And I'm tired, as I usually am at the end of any given day, but I want to write.<br />
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A couple of weeks ago, <a href="http://www.jessicalynnwrites.com/">Jessica Lynn</a>, a kind friend in blogland, <a href="http://www.jessicalynnwrites.com/2014/04/blog-tour-my-writing-process.html">tagged me on her blog</a> to write a post about the way I write. One of my favorite pastimes is reading about how other writers write, and what they have to say about it. Because of this, and because I think Jessica is a peach, I'm giving my answers to the questions below. I can't promise it will be very inspirational. After all, I devoted much of the first paragraph to totchos.<br />
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<b><i>What am I working on?</i></b><br />
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This makes it sound like I should give a professional answer, but the truth is very obvious; I'm not a professional. I'm what every blog sidebar in America describes: a twenty-something girl who writes and likes coffee and loves fall. I don't have a writing project, although I dream about things like that. I used to write quite a bit of poetry, but that's rare now. Most of my writing is done nightly, in the tiny spaces of Millie and Walter's one line a day memory books. And some, as you know, is done here.<br />
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<b><i>How does my work differ from others of its genre?</i></b><br />
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I'm not sure what genre I'm in anymore. I write about the military, but not enough to feel like a mil-blog. I adore my children, and loathe the term "mommy blogger". I suppose how I <i>hope</i> to differ is in the way I tell you a story that anyone could tell you. What I say is not particularly revolutionary, but I hope to say it in a way that makes you feel as if I wrote it just for you, as if we were talking over lattes, and use language that is descriptive enough to paint the steam rising from our cups.<br />
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<b><i>Why do I write what I do?</i></b><br />
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The lack of transparency I often see in blogs makes me determined to be honest. There are a very few things that I may never be able to share, because those stories belong to other people, but as much as is possible, I want to show you around every corner of my heart. Whether it's a beautiful day at a park with our family, a night that I'm struggling with motherhood, a personal victory, or a heartache of marriage, I write those things because they are all a part of me. There are plenty of blogs for recipes, and crafts, and fashion ideas, and I think all of those are wonderful (and I read them!). But that was never the mission of this blog. Like I've said in the past, this place is like a diary. Years from now, I hope to marvel at how far I've come.<br />
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<b><i>How does my writing process work?</i></b><br />
<br />
Writing and editing should not be combined- I learned that <a href="http://storylineblog.com/2014/04/16/your-story-is-not-as-beautiful-as-it-could-be/?utm_content=buffer84fbe&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer">after reading this</a>. That only makes me feel slightly better about what I'm going to tell you.<br />
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My process is barely a process at all. Most of my blog posts are written on post-it notes and scrap paper, and in places like the car. Sometimes an idea hits me in the shower, and I repeat the concept or phrase in my mind until I've slipped into pajamas. Occasionally, they come to me at night, and I type hurried notes on my phone and email them to myself before I fall asleep. There are moments of mad dashes to the laptop, and there are other moments of tears that spill onto the keys without any thought at all. When I feel compelled to write- when the motivation in overwhelming and the words are unrelenting- then I write. When I have nothing to say, I am quiet. I begin most posts with a single sentence that won't leave my mind, and expand on it later.<br />
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This is the main problem with my dream of publishing a book someday. I would be atrocious at handling a deadline. Writing on a whim, on pure inspiration and feeling, is what suits me. Writing 20 pages a day would be a challenge. I am fairly sure I would be an editor's nightmare, and I can't say I would blame them.<br />
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So there you have it. My writing. I'll probably describe it a little more in one of my next posts (which is actually about reading).<br />
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I would love to know <i>your</i> answers to these questions!<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-90814523564202996932014-05-01T21:07:00.000-05:002014-05-01T21:07:43.578-05:00Nightly Prayers<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dNaQeCeODws/U2L9Vn7L74I/AAAAAAAAHz8/XiTQ6zFvlhg/s1600/2014-05-01+09.01.38+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dNaQeCeODws/U2L9Vn7L74I/AAAAAAAAHz8/XiTQ6zFvlhg/s1600/2014-05-01+09.01.38+1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/13661.Victor_Hugo" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Victor Hugo quotes">Victor Hugo</a></div>
</span><br />
In this house, we pray.<br />
<br />
We pray before meals- usually Millie asks a quick blessing, spoon in hand. We pray at bedtime, when we draw the covers to her chin and make sure she has her stuffed monkey. And we pray when someone we love is sick, or when Walter tumbles and bumps his head. Last week, Millie asked to pray after hearing the sirens outside from a train/tractor collision. It's done without ceremony, and with confidence.<br />
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At night, when soft white stars appear across a navy blue sky, I close my eyes and whisper a few words of my own before my breath slows into sleep. Usually, it's for Millie and Walter. Sometimes, it's for my marriage. And nearly always, it's for me to be a better mother tomorrow than the mother I was today.<br />
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Tonight, my prayers are sips of lemon ginger tea with extra honey. They are a sore head and achy bones. They are something metal pinging in the dryer. They are pages of the new book I've started and lost myself in. They are lips that are empty, with no more energy to carry words. They are pillows flattened against my spine. They are the reasons I go on when I cannot go a second more. They are the hope for better things ahead.<br />
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I am sure He created this heart. I know He hears the heartbeats.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-22758225071663064572014-04-27T09:30:00.000-05:002014-04-27T09:30:03.777-05:00The Airport<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CyhbClYvGAM/U10SL5CYkII/AAAAAAAAHzo/UfwkmCYwSeE/s1600/2014-04-27+08.36.54+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CyhbClYvGAM/U10SL5CYkII/AAAAAAAAHzo/UfwkmCYwSeE/s1600/2014-04-27+08.36.54+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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The act of going to the airport to say goodbye.<br />
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The weight over your chest as you drive the curving streets that wind their way to the terminal, with the silver wings of an airplane obstructing the view of the sherbet colored sunrise. The way you carefully craft words and phrases to explain to her why he has to go, and how long he will be gone, and know it won't be enough at bedtime next Tuesday when it sinks in that he isn't there to pray and read a story. The reason one hug or ten won't matter when he slips though security and you need another. The innocence of the baby swaddled in his pale blue blanket, completely unaware of what this means. The moment she asks you why you're crying, and you don't know what to tell her because you don't even know. The tension in your jaw that settles in because you're doing this without him again, and you've done it before, and you still feel a little lost.<br />
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The curious looks from strangers who eye his uniform and doubtless assume that he's going to or coming from war. And you want to explain to them, in a shaking voice, that leaving is leaving and that pain occurs no matter where he's going.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-24468165401512444772014-04-10T13:18:00.001-05:002014-04-10T13:18:36.112-05:00Daily Bread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MhefgAhDH7s/U0bfEyHIvDI/AAAAAAAAHyo/Uxy3ZV11cR4/s1600/IMG_20140409_161128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MhefgAhDH7s/U0bfEyHIvDI/AAAAAAAAHyo/Uxy3ZV11cR4/s1600/IMG_20140409_161128.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/854076.Robert_Louis_Stevenson" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Robert Louis Stevenson quotes">Robert Louis Stevenson</a></div>
</span><br />
The laundry is tumbling in the dryer- his just-washed uniform, her little pink nightgown with the teddy bear print, and baby pajamas that still have breakfast stains down the front. The scent of cooling cherry bars on the stovetop circles around our apartment, mingling with the chilly breeze blowing through the screen door. The little ones are asleep. He is at drill.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S3znCtzKs8w/U0bfEdOi3zI/AAAAAAAAHyk/gW5r0Ix6aO8/s1600/IMG_20140407_112122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S3znCtzKs8w/U0bfEdOi3zI/AAAAAAAAHyk/gW5r0Ix6aO8/s1600/IMG_20140407_112122.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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And about five hundred times in the moments between waking and closing my eyes again, I look around at this house. At the Legos covering every inch of our living room floor. At the dishes I need to wash by hand. At the grocery list that needs to be written, and the beds that need to be made, too. At the bits of cereal still stuck to his tiny cheek, or the hair clip that threatens to fall from her hair. So much to do every day. All of it undone.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GY59G8Y0YRQ/U0bfEQdq_II/AAAAAAAAHyg/JWHpP5SRnxI/s1600/IMG_20140407_110302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GY59G8Y0YRQ/U0bfEQdq_II/AAAAAAAAHyg/JWHpP5SRnxI/s1600/IMG_20140407_110302.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Five hundred times, I look at it all, and want to forget about it for a little while. Five hundred sighs.<br />
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And five hundred times more, I whisper a 'thank you' underneath my breath, raising my hands in thankfulness that these tasks were meant for me.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-65357034959723646792014-03-31T21:38:00.001-05:002014-03-31T21:38:57.034-05:00The Silence Between<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6XR3pPeYMn8/UzoiA-w4Z1I/AAAAAAAAHxs/HyW-_XClUbQ/s1600/2014-03-31+09.13.32+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6XR3pPeYMn8/UzoiA-w4Z1I/AAAAAAAAHxs/HyW-_XClUbQ/s1600/2014-03-31+09.13.32+1.jpg" height="320" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"The music is not in the notes,</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">but in the silence between." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">— Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart</span></div>
<br />
Open Blogger. Watch the line blink at me. Type out of order notes on posts I'll get to later. Close Blogger.<br />
<br />
This is all I've accomplished with blogging for two weeks now. It's an eternity in blog land (because heaven forbid we mess up virtual stats in some far away virtual world). Some readers probably wondered if I was still alive. Or if I was about to write the ominous post that announced I was quitting blogging forever.<br />
<br />
I have things I want to say. But lately, I don't have the words to say them. There are stories in my heart that I want to tell you, and yet, I can't seem to gather them together and put them on this page. And to be truthful, I <i>have</i> been thinking a lot about giving blogging up for good. Some people- <u>many</u> people- blog long after the words have run dry, and I don't want to be that girl.<br />
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But I know myself this much: that I will need a moment to be still. To live life without any thought of blogging it later. To step back and choose my words intentionally and deliberately. To savor the way that they taste in my mouth, the way they feel in my hand, the way they appear in tiny black lines and curves. Give me this time- this night, or these few days, or another week.<br />
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And then, I will need to write again. Because to announce that I will not write is to announce that I will not breathe anymore. I started with pink journals, the kind with the tiny locks on them to hold in all the secrets, when I was nine years old. I wrote in them for years, and then began writing poetry. And I've blogged before it was ever socially acceptable to admit that I had a blog. Writing is a compulsion, not a hobby. <br /><br />Until then, as Will Rogers said- "<i>Never miss a good chance to shut up.</i>"<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-79681303061946786332014-03-17T10:29:00.000-05:002014-03-17T10:29:51.437-05:00Come Soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kWv8uNjup5M/UyTxCH7znMI/AAAAAAAAHwU/NriikRFHcs4/s1600/2014-03-14+11.54.34+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kWv8uNjup5M/UyTxCH7znMI/AAAAAAAAHwU/NriikRFHcs4/s1600/2014-03-14+11.54.34+2.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Soil, ready for tiny seedlings and sprouts, for tall green stocks and fluttering leaves.<br />
Skies, hopeful for clouds to fill with rain and then to shatter, for rays of sun that gingerly reach for the ground.<br />
Me, longing to be enveloped in the buzz of brand new. Ready to be surrounded in warmth and blue robin eggs tucked away in nests, fitted in high branches of a flowering tree.<br />
<br />
Come soon, spring. Come soon.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-84599457705351670752014-03-15T20:42:00.001-05:002014-03-15T20:42:41.523-05:00A Visit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TwbEC72ADQY/UyT70_N-xPI/AAAAAAAAHxU/UiK8C-kXxOc/s1600/2014-03-09+08.54.04+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TwbEC72ADQY/UyT70_N-xPI/AAAAAAAAHxU/UiK8C-kXxOc/s1600/2014-03-09+08.54.04+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Mama's love had always been the kind that acted itself out with soup pot and sewing basket. " </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/102203.Corrie_ten_Boom" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Corrie ten Boom quotes">Corrie ten Boom</a></div>
</span><br />
My mama was here this week, visiting from Oregon. She read a million stories, morning, noon, and night.<br />
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She read them to fairies or princesses, and little boys with chubby hands.</div>
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She rocked and soothed, hugged and snuggled.</div>
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She baked a cake and cooked homemade spaghetti sauce, as only she can.</div>
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She gave more than one tea party, with tiny china cups and important conversations.<br />
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And she brushed teeth, said prayers, and tucked in for the night.<br />
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<br />
My life as a mother matters so greatly. <br />I know this without a doubt,<br />
because this lady who gave me my name matters so greatly to me.<br />
<br />And I know it all the more because of how much I am missing her tonight.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-54443135905034538252014-03-01T16:56:00.000-06:002014-03-01T16:56:00.451-06:00Pink Carnations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Be of good cheer. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Do not think of today's failures, but of the success that may come tomorrow. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">You have set yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere; </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/7275.Helen_Keller" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Helen Keller quotes">Helen Keller</a></div>
</span><br />
On Thursday, I bought pink carnations.<br />
<br />
As Millie and I passed the display of four dollar bouquets at the grocery store, I suddenly found myself reaching towards the rows of flowers. Normally, I would feel guilty spending money on something unnecessary, but on a Thursday morning before a snowstorm, they felt necessary. I pulled out two choices- creamy, white daisies with bright yellow centers, or the carnations, and Millie's heart was set on pink. She carried them carefully in her small hands. We found a blue Mason jar for the kitchen table, and a tiny vase for her room, and filled them both with the bright buds. I explained to Millie that it would take a few days for some of them to open. Then, I leaned back against the wall, feeling like I had accomplished something just by snipping the green stems and dipping them into the water.<br />
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I am trying to consciously, intentionally make an effort to be more focused on joy. Both giving it and receiving it. Creating it and resting in it. I want to make good things a priority. I want to celebrate beauty and minimize the negative.<br />
<br />
Until recently, joy has always felt frivolous to me. I can't quite pinpoint why, to tell you the truth. But it's been a long winter. I've found myself wanting color, pining for good things. Green, growing things. Newness and life and hope, instead of snow covered and forgotten. I want to place more value on the condition of my heart and the well being of my spirit. I want to make the place I'm in a better one, for myself and for those who are a part of my life, even in small ways. It should matter. It <i><u>does</u></i> matter.<br />
<br />
And I bought pink carnations.<br />
<br />
And life was beautiful.<br /><br />And this was supposed to be the end of the blog post. Neat and tidy, wrapped up and simple.<br />
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But then, I lost my temper with Millie. More than once and over things I didn't know how to fix. Walter was clingy, which is normally quite nice, but not convenient when I'm also battling a three year old. I dropped things. I hadn't been able to reach Sky when I had hoped. I didn't feel like cooking, and after I did, Millie had a wild melt down in the middle of her grilled cheese sandwich, even though it's her favorite.<br />
<br />
I looked at the flowers as if they were to blame, frustrated thoughts running through my mind. "<i>I don't even know why I bother. Flowers are stupid. <u>This day</u> is stupid. And it's a good thing I'm only thinking this stuff, because Millie would grab a hold of the word 'stupid' and I'd never hear an end to it and that's the <b>last</b> thing I need right now.</i>" I was reduced to blaming flowers. Blaming everything.<br />
<br />
Beauty doesn't happen overnight. The blossoms happened on my table as soon as I gathered them into that glass, but before that, they were grown. And it happened over time.<br />
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I can't turn on a switch and make my life a dreamy, sunlit landscape with no problems. But I can buy a bouquet of pink carnations. I can pause before I speak. I can find joy in small things. I can mail a surprise to a friend. I can write when I need to and be silent when I don't. I can light a candle in the evening and use a favorite mug in the morning. I can make spaghetti for dinner and use extra Parmesan. I can take a breath after I stop two babies from crying and be thankful, <u>even then</u>, that they are healthy and they are (usually) sweet and they are mine.<br />
<br />
That is beauty. That is joy. A process. A quest. Carnations bloom slowly, and so do most good things. The time, in fact, is part of what makes it so beautiful. That it took a while. That it wasn't a snap of the fingers. That it required many things, and patience most of all.<br />
<br />
Flowers are never necessary. Except maybe they are. Especially pink carnations. So I will take the joy they give, and the joy I will work to create, and slowly, daily, it will grow.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-15342090350213228802014-02-24T22:28:00.000-06:002014-02-24T22:28:55.365-06:00Navigating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The realization came to me this morning, before the coffee had even finished brewing in the kitchen.<br /><br /><i>I always clean first.</i><br />
<br />
He tossed his bags into one side of the car, with Walter peeking out of his seat from the other side. When we reached the airport, he waited in line at the ticket counter, the only one in line wearing camouflage and boots. He leaned down to tell Walter goodbye one more time, and then told me, and then he was gone- away for more courses and training. I drove home with a tightness in my chest, biting my lip and wondering exactly what I was feeling.<br />
<br />
And then, I shut the door and started to clean. It's become a habit, a tradition that surfaces every time he leaves. He has been gone so many times now, there are traditions in his absence.<br />
<br />
I wiped the counters with a dishcloth, and cleared off the kitchen table. I vacuumed and hand washed the dishes in the sink, leftover from the chicken I made us before he left. There was a pair of his sunglasses here, some of his papers there, and I scooped up everything and put it away. Twenty four hours ago, the house was covered in various things in various shades of Army green. Now, it's like it never was.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to figure out how this works. What it looks like to be apart with the state lines drawn between us. What it feels like to have that physical distance while we steer through so many emotions. All the articles talk about the long nights pining away and the sweet homecomings with new dresses. They never mention the fight.<br />
<br />
While he's away, navigating new places with his new compass, I am here. And there are no maps. The compass is a worn Bible. The shelter is this clean house, with his toothbrush gone and his towel tumbling in the dryer. I'm looking around at what's left.<br />
<br />
The bed is made up on his side. I should be sleeping.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-12877023688003794722014-02-18T22:08:00.001-06:002014-02-18T22:08:17.419-06:00Love/Do Not Love {No. 6}<div style="text-align: center;">
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This month has been flying by, and it's time to write my list before the month is up. so here we go!<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I love...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
- <b>Thundersnow</b>. We had some yesterday- the first I can ever remember. I've had my fill of regular snow this year, but this was an interesting change. In case you are wondering, the correct response to it involves shutting off the vacuum and yelling "<i><u>Thundersnow!</u></i>" in the hallway in case anyone cared. Seeing flashes of lighting while giant snowflakes are coming down is a bit unnerving, by the way.<br />
- <b>Baby snuggles</b>. Millie had no time to cuddle when she was a baby. It usually only happened when she was sick. Walter, on the other hand, wants to be snuggled a lot, and loves sleeping in my arms. And, <i>oh</i>, do I love that.<br />
- <b>Ben & Jerry's Half Baked ice cream</b>. Brownie batter, cookie dough, and ice cream- i.e., all the basic food groups in a pint.<br />
- Also, <b>ice cream in general</b> these days. Is there a diet where you just eat ice cream? Because I want to be on it.<br />
- Also...<b>cookie dough in general</b>.<br />
- <b>Millie as a ballerina</b>. She gets <u>so excited</u> before every class. I love that there is something we do that is just about her and for her. Watching her listen so carefully to the teacher and interact with the students is wonderful. We coaxed her into introducing herself to another little girl last week, and it was just plain adorable.<br />
- <b>New shirts</b> in the winter that aren't wool sweaters. Polka dots and lighter shades and a breath of spring.<br />
- <b>Brian Williams</b>. I was reminded of this because I think of him when I think of Jimmy Fallon, who has been newsworthy lately. Brian Williams is a cool guy. Did you know he was a volunteer firefighter for a few years?<br />
- <b>Bowling and pizza</b>. We went as a family on Valentine's Day. It was Millie's first time, and she beat me. (Let's not talk about that.) I am <u>the worst</u> at it, but it was so much fun. Next time? Bumpers for me.<br />
- <b>Lipstick</b>. I've probably worn it a total of five times in my life, but I have a couple times lately, and felt very grown up and fancy. And sometimes, it's nice feeling grown up.<br />
- <b>Millie's hair in pigtails</b>. It's finally long enough, and guys? It's pretty cute.<br />
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<i>And now, a few things I do not love...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
- <b>My hair cut</b>. Actually, I <u>loved</u> my hair cut until the stylist finished snipping and trimming. She kept telling me how it suited me, and how easy it would be. Then she leaned in a little and gave me a knowing look. "I mean, so easy, which is nice. <i>Especially</i>," her eyes narrowing, "since you're <b><u>a mom to two</u></b>." Burn. Did I just get a mom haircut? Is she telling me that's what this is? <i>Insecurity.</i><br />
Also, my dad said I look, "Older. But younger. In good way. And taller." Thank you, Dad.<br />
- <b>Nesting tables</b>. I don't understand them.<br />
- <b>February</b>. It's when winter starts to feel desperate. Especially this year.<br />
- <b>Walter crawling</b>. I do like that he's doing what he's supposed to do, and that I have a chance to see one of my babies crawl (Millie bounced- yes, really), but he's into everything, everywhere, all the time. I'm scared to turn around!<br />
- <b>Giant chocolate chip cookies</b> in the grocery store bakery. You know the type, with the icing and confetti sprinkles poured on top. In my head, it sounds like a wonderful concept. But they are not good. Not at all.<br />
- <b>Fashion poses</b>. No one looks natural. I don't care if you have a ten inch thigh gap or can twist your neck in some crazy angle. Just stand there, slouching or chewing gum or checking your phone, like the rest of us.<br />
- The term "<b>life hacks</b>". No. Do me a favor; just say it's a better way to chop an onion.<br />
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As always, leave your link if you join in!<br />
<br />
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-71368451272161316812014-02-10T20:50:00.000-06:002014-02-10T20:50:42.329-06:00Currently.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
<i> Currently...</i><br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 21.125px; margin-bottom: 2.6rem; padding: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: #757578;">Thinking about:</span> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Marriage. We've been going to counseling for a few weeks now, and it's gone past introductions and the "tell me about your childhood" type of stuff, and into the stuff that makes the five minute ride home feel like five hundred minutes. I need it to help. I need everything to be fixed. But every part of me dreads these appointments. Sky will be leaving for a couple months soon, and we won't be able to do phone or internet counseling sessions, so there will be a break from it. And really, I don't even know what I think about that. It's uncomfortable to keep writing about this, to tell you truthfully, but writing is what I do when </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">things hurt. </span><br />
<span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Also? Thinking about winter. I'm ready to fold it up and put it away. Time for weather chilly enough for a Snuggie, but warm enough that my breath doesn't freeze instantly and hit me in the face.</span></span><br />
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #757578; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700;">Reading: </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Im-Taking-Trip-My-Train/dp/0688158331">I'm Taking a Trip on My Train</a>". It's a book Millie got from the library, and she can't get enough of it. I don't read for myself these days, other than a few blogs. I miss it- miss it terribly some days- but I've decided if I only have limited time, I need to spend it catching up with the bloggers I care about and writing for myself, because those things do my heart a lot of good. Soon enough, Millie and Walter will grow, and there will be time for more than a poem here or there, or a frenzied spree through Goodreads quotes. That's what I should buy right now, come to think of it- poetry. Commence Amazon browsing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #757578; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700;">Listening to: </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">A train rumble by our house. And before that, a message on my phone from a friend cheering me up. And before that, Millie reading that danged book. But overall, I've been listening to some Regina Spektor on my own, and lots of oldies when the kids are up. I have noticed that keeping music on for part of the day greatly improves all of our moods, and oldies are good because A- they generally have decent lyrics, and B- most songs are familiar to me and easy to learn for Millie. Today, I sang while she drummed with Tinker Toys. Walter seemed to appreciate the atmosphere, as he usually does.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #757578; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700;">Watching: </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">Downton Abbey. Other than that, I couldn't name five other shows on TV right now. It's not that I don't love getting lost in a good movie plot or TV script; it's that there are so few I've even liked lately, let alone loved. It has been ages since I've been to the theater and felt like it was worth paying $9 to see a show. I'm sure that sounds incredibly old, but I'm turning 30 in September. Youngsters and their shows these </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">days.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #757578; font-family: 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700;">Thankful for: </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit;">Coffee. Friends who exchange emails, texts, and Vox messages with me. The easy days with Millie. Pizza and Mexican food. A quiet house at the end of the day. Jesus. The feeling that comes from a random act of kindness. Pineapple upside down cake that my dad baked. Finding new favorite recipes. Every single expression Walter makes. My mom letting me cry on the phone sometimes. Bud Light. Comfy-skinny-baggy sweatpants. The <u><i>very rare</i></u> days it isn't snowing/ -20 degrees here. The promise of spring. Starbucks, which saves many a day. A Snuggie, which is my new favorite thing (only about 5 or 10 years behind trends!). Getting photos taken this week, which is a combination of Walter's extremely late 6 month photos, catching up with Millie's photos, and maybe a couple of all of together. <i>(We're getting them done with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KDarlingDesignPhotography">the same lady</a> who did my maternity pictures and Walter's hospital pictures, and I can't say enough great things about her.</i>)</span></div>
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<a href="http://amamacollective.com/category/currently/" style="background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;" target="blank"><img alt="A Mama Collective" src="http://amamacollective.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/currently-link-up1.png" nbsp="" title="A Mama Collective" /></a></div>
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{Linking up with <a href="http://amamacollective.com/category/currently/">A Mama Collective</a> today. Do check out the blog- they've been so sweet in featuring some of my posts, and I've loved what the girls have written, as well as the posts from other blogs they often share.}<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-55240319218144171222014-02-05T09:26:00.000-06:002014-02-05T14:00:30.790-06:00A Warmer Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0EmxYsXeS-M/UvJTm13vvNI/AAAAAAAAHpg/xDNgaz5OjeE/s1600/2014-02-04+03.46.27+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0EmxYsXeS-M/UvJTm13vvNI/AAAAAAAAHpg/xDNgaz5OjeE/s1600/2014-02-04+03.46.27+2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature -- </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/15332.Rachel_Carson" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Rachel Carson quotes">Rachel Carson</a></span></div>
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Sometimes, we dismiss the winter metaphors.<br />
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The ones that say, "Spring is coming. Soon, the cold days that open and close in harsh darkness will fade into sunlight. Soon, the birds will fly back to their branches and sing for you. Soon, the heavy clouds will break and the stars will be there, ready to shine. Soon, the scent of flowers and sight of lush greenness will make you forget the months of waiting and chapped cheeks."<br />
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The ones that whisper, "<i>Be patient. Hold on.</i>" The ones that remind us how there will be goodness after the stark outlines of leafless trees and the gray cold that sinks into our bones. The ones that assure us there is a reason for the ache of it. There is a purpose in it all.<br />
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Sometimes, we brush them off.<br />
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But sometimes, we cling to that hope.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-28300803049503315472014-01-29T23:02:00.000-06:002014-01-29T23:02:29.133-06:0011 O'Clock Thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Maybe I have nothing better to do.<br />
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Maybe it's the cold, trapping me indoors and trapping my thoughts, too.<br />
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Maybe I'm tired of listening to myself talk.<br />
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Maybe it's my age.<br />
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Maybe I'm hibernating.<br />
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Maybe I'm sad about things, happy about others, and neither of the two feels worthy of writing.<br />
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But I've been introspective lately.<br />
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I want to minimize my life: the material things, the distractions, the need to keep up. I want to stop reading 500 blog posts from strangers, and instead read 10 from good friends. I want to be in the here and now of whatever my life consists of; and right now, it consists of mothering, and making macaroni and cheese, and running my hands over a beautiful mug at Target, and taking five minutes to write in this space when the streetlamps blink on and the house is silent.<br />
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I want to write the way Carl Sandburg wrote about the city up the road; I want to know something that deeply and love it that poetically. I want to feel something good that much. I want to connect to something like that. I want to be passionate in a way that bubbles up when someone presses me, instead of shouting what I love and what I hate to whoever will listen. I want to rid my sight of shallow things. I want to be focused. I want to hold on to some mystery.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zFHSeVVYYLA/UunaNjog_-I/AAAAAAAAHo4/4TSsVs7g8UQ/s1600/20131214_111050-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zFHSeVVYYLA/UunaNjog_-I/AAAAAAAAHo4/4TSsVs7g8UQ/s1600/20131214_111050-001.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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I want to quit being angry. I want to break the anger and mistrust that the past four years has woven through me. I want to be at peace- with myself, with others, and with what the world hands me. I want to stop being jealous of people who are happy. I want to be happy for them. I want to love them how I would want to be loved. I want to be the kind of mother that these two can remember as joyful. I want to exhale more. I want to give myself room for quiet, and learn how to appreciate the chaos and noise in our home.<br />
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I want to stop settling for things I like, and go after what I love. I want to eat something with more calories if it tastes better. I want to buy the nicer pair of shoes. I want to hold on to old things that are better than new ones. I want to stop looking at people with beautiful lives and make my own life beautiful. I want to ignore what's in style. I want to stop imitating. I want to cultivate my own good taste and make my own way.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x_hpKOZFJU4/UunaT-WU8rI/AAAAAAAAHpA/HHfkVwhE8gM/s1600/20131231_130424-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x_hpKOZFJU4/UunaT-WU8rI/AAAAAAAAHpA/HHfkVwhE8gM/s1600/20131231_130424-001.jpg" height="473" width="640" /></a></div>
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I want to learn something. I want to make a paper crane from the origami book I bought ten years ago and never took down from the bookshelf. I want to do something with my hands, something that I can show Walter and Millie someday, something that is useful and makes our house more beautiful or blesses someone else or tastes better or keeps some lost art from being completely lost altogether. I want to take pleasure in something small. I want to remember what my handwriting looks like. I want to use more stamps and envelopes.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VzgYs5D1IU0/UunbDdxRf4I/AAAAAAAAHpI/xs8VDcdJdeY/s1600/20140129_142225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VzgYs5D1IU0/UunbDdxRf4I/AAAAAAAAHpI/xs8VDcdJdeY/s1600/20140129_142225.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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I want to remember my roots. That my father was a fireman and my mother was a nurse. That I was named for my mother's twin brother. That I grew up between these squares of soybeans and corn, and that they look like a patchwork quilt from an airplane window. That I'm a nearly thirty year old woman without a degree in a town full of perpetual caps and gowns, and that it's okay. That I'm not like everyone else just because I like Starbucks and scarves and drinks in Mason jars. That I have a good heart, and need to demonstrate it more often. That I love how I feel when I write, even if it's not published in a small newspaper or glossy magazine. That I had 25 years of hopes and mistakes and fears and loves before Amelia and Walter.<br />
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I don't really know what I want.<br />
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But I think it's something like this.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-83228769516660957572014-01-25T16:19:00.000-06:002014-01-25T16:19:09.556-06:00Chicago Pizza and Other Important Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zv0b1Bvfkgk/UuQ3XbPD0NI/AAAAAAAAHoY/G-P9sNikQuU/s1600/2014-01-25+04.11.29+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zv0b1Bvfkgk/UuQ3XbPD0NI/AAAAAAAAHoY/G-P9sNikQuU/s1600/2014-01-25+04.11.29+1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24.375px;">Some bloggers feel that they should keep posting through those inevitable moments of writer's block or lack of inspiration</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 24.375px;">. I'm of the opinion that I should put my pen down when the words aren't there. Because of this, and because life sometimes gets in the way of writing, it's been a whole week since my last post. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">But </span></span><a href="http://www.freeborboleta.com/2014/01/liebster-award/" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 24.375px;">Fran recently tagged me</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;"> in one of her posts, and had a few questions for me. It's a quiet afternoon of laundry tossing around in the dryer and sipping (mostly) decaf coffee. Walter is sleeping, and Millie is playing at her Grandpa's house. I think it is the perfect time to stretch my legs across the ottoman, slouch into the middle of the couch, and let the world know my pizza </span></span><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">preference</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">, among other things.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i><u><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">Fran's </span></span><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">questions</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">:</span></span></u></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">1. If you had to move to a city </span></span><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">you've</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;"> never been to, which one would you choose?</span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 24.375px;">I'd like to live in Chicago for a while, and I adored Seattle, but I've been to both of them before, of course. Maybe London, or a little English village? I've never been to England, and it's safe to say that I could be quite content in any part of it.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24.375px;">2. What’s your favorite thing to order from Starbucks?</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Child, I could order about 20 different things and be happy. I suppose I'm usually a mocha in the winter, frappuccino in the summer kind of girl. Mocha cookie crumble </span>frappuccinos<span style="font-family: inherit;"> were the best </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">until they got rid of them</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (and now I settle for java chip). I don't understand why Starbucks stops making drinks. (shakes fists) I also recently tried their almond </span>croissant<span style="font-family: inherit;">, and I am undecided on how I feel about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24.375px;">3. Pie or cake? And which kind?</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think it's mean to make someone choose, Fran. However, if it came down to it, I would pick cherry pie. Followed by chocolate cake without icing. Followed by more pie. And maybe more cake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">4. You’ve won an all-paid trip of your dreams, where would you go?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd professed my love of England so much. But if I could go somewhere after that, I would pick Italy. I love the sound of the language, the rich history, and the food. I judge most places based on food and accents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">5. Which book would you like to insert yourself in and why?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first book that came to mind is To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm not sure I would really want to live in it, though. Maybe Sense and Sensibility. I've always felt a kinship with Elinor. That, and I like those dresses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">6. Name 1 historical figure or fictional character with whom you’d like to have dinner. Why him/her?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My immediate answer is usually Abraham Lincoln. I think he's </span>fascinating<span style="font-family: inherit;">. There are a lot of writers I love, but writers tend to be kind of moody and introverted as a group, and probably wouldn't make the best dinner guests. They also tend to drink a lot. Also, imagine the pressure- "Make sure you </span>vacuum<span style="font-family: inherit;"> one more time; Charles Dickens will be here any minute!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">7. Which time-period would you like to live in?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Funny you should mention this. Michelle just wrote <a href="http://michellesncheese.blogspot.com/2014/01/its-not-that-im-antisocial-its-just.html">a post</a> describing how she starting panicking about how she would deal with a situation in a book, and realized it's something that will never happen in real life. I do the same thing with going back in time. I read something by Charlotte Bronte, for example, and have very real worries about how I can live without medicine, my straightening iron, hot showers, MY COFFEE MAKER. I get a little worked up just thinking about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">8. Chicago Style pizza or New York style pizza? You will be judged based on this answer.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know I am safe from judgement on this because Fran (rightfully) likes Chicago pizza. I do not like Chicago style pizza because I'm from Illinois; I like it because it is correct. New York "pizza" is a floppy grease circle that you have to fold up to eat before tasting it. Chicago pizza is the way God intended pizza to be. It's a meal. It's an experience. And it's a waste of my time to eat something thinner than a phone book. <i>(Related note: why do they still make phone books?)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">9. What’s your favorite recipe?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh dear. That's a tough one. I most enjoy eating Italian food, which doesn't require very complicated recipes. My mom and I made a orangey/citrusy/liquor cake while I was visiting her at Christmas a few years ago, so I will say that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">10. If you could rid the world of one thing, what would it be?</span></span><br />
There are so many things I begin to write, but every one of them made me stop. Because as trite as it sounds, even the bad things have a purpose, and there can be so much good come from them. There are things I wish people didn't struggle with or have to go through, but I think I'm not wise enough to choose something like that.<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24.375px;" /></i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 24.375px;">11. If you had to dye your hair a crazy, non-conventional color, what color would you choose?</span></span><br />
My natural one. And only if I <i>had</i> to. It's crazy (i.e., horrid) enough.<br />
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And now, I'm craving pizza. Chicago style, of course.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-12072972972959913922014-01-18T16:24:00.000-06:002014-01-18T16:24:33.459-06:00Fudgy Chocolate Mug Cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xdMAfikamuc/UtdCC5RJBXI/AAAAAAAAHnw/PuG75MTBzkY/s1600/IMG_20140107_211458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xdMAfikamuc/UtdCC5RJBXI/AAAAAAAAHnw/PuG75MTBzkY/s1600/IMG_20140107_211458.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"Let's face it, a nice creamy chocolate cake does a lot for a lot of people; it does for me." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/692403.Audrey_Hepburn" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Audrey Hepburn quotes">Audrey Hepburn</a></div>
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Some things just aren't good for me. This cake is one of those things.<br />
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I can justify it by saying I'm not making a whole pan of brownies that will tempt me every time I pass the kitchen. But it is dangerously easy. I paged through several recipes that all involved as many ingredients as baking an actual, full size cake, and finally came across this one. Simple.<br />
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Especially on these Midwestern winter nights, a warm, gooey chocolate cake is the <i>best</i> kind of dessert. After everyone else is "pajama-ed" as Millie says, and tucked away into their beds, it's time for me to exhale and spill onto the couch. I find the softest blanket, click into great blogs or roam Pinterest, and sometimes, sneak a mug of fudgy cake. Once, I made a little one for Millie as a special treat, and she was amazed that we were eating cake from a cup. It's right up there next to corn dogs on sticks.<br />
<br />
So. This is not Paleo or low carb or gluten free or 'clean' or anything remotely close. But it is a perfect way to satisfy that sudden, intense chocolate craving we've all been known to get.<br />
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The only note I should make is that this is <u>not</u> the time to be a gourmet cook- one, because this is a microwave cake, for goodness sake, but two, because you need to measure this out. Don't do a dash of this and a bit of that. Not that I would know from experience.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(I originally found the recipe (if you can even call it that) <a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/quick-and-moist-microwave-cake-474886">here</a>.)</span></i><br />
<b>Fudgy Chocolate Mug Cake </b><br />
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- 4 tablespoons of brownie mix<br />
- 2 tablespoons milk or water <i>(I've only made this with milk)</i><br />
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Pour both ingredients into a fairly wide-mouthed coffee mug. Stir until there are no big lumps/dry spots of mix. Microwave for about 60 seconds, adding 10 seconds more at a time if needed (mine takes about 70 seconds). Do not overcook- it's much better underdone than overdone. The top should look moist but cake-like. You could top the cake with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, or even a bit of frosting, but I prefer mine as is.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-47037428091240271752014-01-16T00:00:00.000-06:002014-01-16T00:00:00.370-06:00We're Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x2KZgnE24oI/UtdLvnUzH_I/AAAAAAAAHoE/dK9AiqCMSRk/s1600/250029_2113716361309_1197660031_32608567_1559358_n-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x2KZgnE24oI/UtdLvnUzH_I/AAAAAAAAHoE/dK9AiqCMSRk/s1600/250029_2113716361309_1197660031_32608567_1559358_n-001.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"The same night that whitens the same trees.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">We, we who were, we are the same no longer."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">― <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4026.Pablo_Neruda" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Pablo Neruda</a></span></div>
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Today, Sky and I have been married for four years. Four years from that snowy, January day when we made so many promises, and went out for Italian food that night to celebrate. Four years of everyday. Four years of striving. Four years of memories, both beautiful and broken.<br />
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I am the kind of girl who craves fanfare on milestone days. Whether it's a holiday, birthday, or anniversary, I want the decorations or the food or whatever it is that comes along with the celebration. But Sky is working a lot of overtime this week and next; I mentioned that his civilian job was basically that of a drill sergeant, and the new recruits just started, so he's only been home to sleep a few hours before he goes back for another long day.<br />
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And then, of course, there is where we've been lately. A lonely, confused place. I asked him a few nights ago if we'd ever had a happy anniversary. "No," he said quietly.<br />
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A dear friend is going through marriage problems. And she talked about celebrating her anniversary in a quiet way. A way that hopes more than expects. A way that doesn't make unnecessary demands on the day, but simply says, "We've arrived at this day. We're<i> here</i>." In some way, maybe that's more meaningful than celebrating four years of easy happiness. It took so much of my heart- no, <i>all</i> of it- to make it this far. It took all my strength to be here.<br />
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Today, Sky and I will be apart. There won't be a romantic candlelit dinner, bouquet of roses, or a sentimental Hallmark card. But there will be the beginning of another year of marriage. Another year of being a family. That's still significant.<br />
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I hope our life together gets sweeter. I hope our days get happier. I hope we remember how our hands fit together again, and how it felt on that first day of promises.<br />
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For now, we're here. And for today, that's enough.<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5520849174973581756.post-21959422921804148912014-01-11T21:42:00.000-06:002014-01-11T22:25:39.789-06:00A Star is Born<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yGeckGD-jE/UtIE-ilEH5I/AAAAAAAAHnc/bWAnqzccHGE/s1600/2014-01-11+09.09.35+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yGeckGD-jE/UtIE-ilEH5I/AAAAAAAAHnc/bWAnqzccHGE/s1600/2014-01-11+09.09.35+4.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"There are shortcuts to happiness and dancing is one of them." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/389468.Vicki_Baum" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Vicki Baum quotes">Vicki Baum</a></span></div>
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Finally.</div>
<br />
She'd waited patiently since December 25, when Santa Claus gave her a little gift box with that pink uniform. But it was such a long wait.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0QTeYeyv8Ec/UtIE0cAI-jI/AAAAAAAAHmc/xEUNiicI4yU/s1600/2013-12-21+09.36.49+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0QTeYeyv8Ec/UtIE0cAI-jI/AAAAAAAAHmc/xEUNiicI4yU/s1600/2013-12-21+09.36.49+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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And at last, it was time to become a ballerina.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7SJuSSA_z4/UtIE4mmpfkI/AAAAAAAAHms/RF8vO7rHo-A/s1600/2014-01-11+01.59.27+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J7SJuSSA_z4/UtIE4mmpfkI/AAAAAAAAHms/RF8vO7rHo-A/s1600/2014-01-11+01.59.27+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">She slipped on her tiny leotard and tights, and pink leather shoes like a real ballerina wears.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jvP66zOA2UU/UtIEza-_IFI/AAAAAAAAHmY/Rc-DioNdppI/s1600/2014-01-11+01.57.01+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jvP66zOA2UU/UtIEza-_IFI/AAAAAAAAHmY/Rc-DioNdppI/s1600/2014-01-11+01.57.01+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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I whisked her thin hair up into a little knot of a bun. As I swept up a section here and there, gathering it into my hands, it seemed as if every movement made her a little older. As if she was growing up three times as fast this morning.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pHEifl7tUoE/UtIE0ctFLvI/AAAAAAAAHmU/Cg-Ou6Zz0W0/s1600/2014-01-11+01.58.54+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pHEifl7tUoE/UtIE0ctFLvI/AAAAAAAAHmU/Cg-Ou6Zz0W0/s1600/2014-01-11+01.58.54+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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And yet, when we arrived and she stepped into line in that chilly studio, she found herself the smallest of the other girls, despite being so tall. They must have been the four year olds. But Millie held her own.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S38Hw9JP8MI/UtIE6fXDsdI/AAAAAAAAHm4/vKJnZM1hyF0/s1600/2014-01-11+02.00.41+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S38Hw9JP8MI/UtIE6fXDsdI/AAAAAAAAHm4/vKJnZM1hyF0/s1600/2014-01-11+02.00.41+2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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After we pinned on the name tag to the front of her uniform, she tried chatting with nearly every student, even though most were too shy to respond. She shook the teacher's hand, and giggled to me once she had. After all, it was like meeting a celebrity. <i>A real ballerina.</i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vSwGhEweGo/UtIE7HH2YCI/AAAAAAAAHnA/B_G6Tdox8RM/s1600/2014-01-11+02.03.34+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vSwGhEweGo/UtIE7HH2YCI/AAAAAAAAHnA/B_G6Tdox8RM/s1600/2014-01-11+02.03.34+2.jpg" height="640" width="370" /></span></a></div>
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The class began, and I could only watch through a little window crowded with other parents. Every few minutes, she would remember I was there, turning to give me a big wave and a smile. It's the kind of moment I imagined the first time I held her. I just didn't imagine such a small gesture could make me cry.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GIg6e3ggIU0/UtIE5-R8cWI/AAAAAAAAHm0/9nzJPg41nlE/s1600/2014-01-11+02.01.58+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GIg6e3ggIU0/UtIE5-R8cWI/AAAAAAAAHm0/9nzJPg41nlE/s1600/2014-01-11+02.01.58+2.jpg" height="536" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<br />
I watched her stretch and spin, skip and clap, and take a big bow with the rest of the class.<br />
My heart was bursting through it all.<br />
She was a miniature Degas painting, twirling in pastels.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uXBRZlKZmgw/UtIE9Qk68hI/AAAAAAAAHnM/B4utnCYHqhA/s1600/2014-01-11+02.06.48+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uXBRZlKZmgw/UtIE9Qk68hI/AAAAAAAAHnM/B4utnCYHqhA/s1600/2014-01-11+02.06.48+2.jpg" height="640" width="456" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I write so much about her brother. But this special day was Millie's day. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">I want to remember that time won't stop for her, either. To remember that she's still little and to treasure it while I can. I want to celebrate her. To encourage her. To show her grace. To find the grace in her.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8VozAhCCQcE/UtIE9Yw0MeI/AAAAAAAAHnQ/euFOzuT4rkE/s1600/2014-01-11+02.05.27+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8VozAhCCQcE/UtIE9Yw0MeI/AAAAAAAAHnQ/euFOzuT4rkE/s1600/2014-01-11+02.05.27+2.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">And to be proud of this little girl in pink- the one with the impish grin and the hand waving desperately for the teacher's attention.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">And to be so grateful she belongs to me.</span><br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIufPy1hRWIjYl5LbHZ-seS3ry3a0DwUM9q7qufhcxR7Bsy9abzhkzaOb1V3KAB8gFPVLNjXte-kBlZPpLDCtlQLa6okNL1O9tOCAIQAM1TLhyWPElAk2D3nK-m-wzR8G2mTC0HCCfDBe/s1600/erika-signature.png" />
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