tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2877112827596299512024-03-04T20:36:25.230-08:00Agent FreyJack Of All Trades, Master At NoneAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-28833186618241956422016-04-15T21:24:00.000-07:002016-04-15T21:41:25.560-07:00To Love Is To Be Vulnerable- C.S. Lewis<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: wf_segoe-ui_normal, 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe WP', Tahoma, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" type="cite">
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I’ve never known what's it's like to be vulnerable and rely on or lean </span>into<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> someone. I have been an independent my entire life and mostly proud of that fact until recently. As I sat in my car a couple years ago, engine running, waiting to meet my next client, the aloneness of that self-reliance was as thick as the heat blasting from my engine. I felt like the floor had suddenly turned to water and I was sinking. But like, with a truck tied around my ankles. Except experience had taught me I wasn’t going to drown, I just had to figure out how to cut the rope. Cutting myself loose and knowing where to wield the knife was the crisis.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">Something had clicked that night and I was done dog paddling through life to the point of exhaustion. I might work and play hard, and I may be a strong, introverted, self-sufficient mom of five, capable of doing all things -<i> but I ain't superwoman-</i> and I finally had to admit I just couldn’t do everything by myself. So I did what everyone does; I drank some whiskey, cried my face off and blubbered to God about it until I passed out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">The truth is I am a lot of things, and none of my attachments, behaviors, appearance, relationships, ideals or social status wholly defines me. My identity is constantly evolving; I am not static and neither is the world I live in. I am a fractionated rubrics cube of all parts spirit and flesh, a mish-mash of my environment and values, a contradiction of morals and choices and ship-ton of consequences. I am a hypocritical believer in a perfect Creator. I am authentically who I want you to see and the equally the girl I don’t want your mother to meet. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">And while the battle rages on between the congress of my logic, emotions, and faith, I've realized I have been addicted to comfort and security and complacency and all the trappings of family and community that have made it so cozy to stay in stagnant places for unconstitutional amounts of time. I’ve spent years convincing my head of something my heart knew was a lie and all the while allowing pieces of me to die inside. I’ve been confused and torn because I imagined my life to play out so much differently. I had made my bed and had no choice but to sleep in it. Until I realized I was living for everyone else's approval and somehow twisted my faith as being synonymously hinged on those choices. I'd beat myself up and tore myself down for over a decade before I decided I needed change more than I was afraid of the mess it would create.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I made some big, humongous, scary life changes. And though I'm not a believer in "the pursuit of happiness," I'm finally on a path of living honestly which has resulted in a peace and contentment I cannot put into words. But with this newfound happiness has </span>come<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> a lot of heartbreak. I have been mutually appalled and pleasantly surprised to reconcile with who I really am vs. who I want to be. I’ve also wrestled with immense guilt at how happy I finally am to be in this place. Emotionally, the process of change is </span>hardest<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> thing I’ve ever been through since my son died in 2004. But I’ve recognized the gamut of all these feelings has been necessary to facilitate the overhaul I needed to make. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">It’s been rumored I'm not an expressive person. I’ve heard myself described as harsh,cold, maybe a little insensitive. I can’t really argue; saying words with my mouth about my feelings is very hard and I'm often misunderstood:</span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> </span><i style="color: #181818; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">Me when confronted:</i><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> *blink* *blink* *blink*. </span><i style="color: #181818; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">Me when consoling someone:</i><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> Can I get you a cookie? Do you like pills? <br />I crack jokes at the wrong time. I'll pat you on the back when I should be giving a hug. If</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> I’m upset with someone I'll ignore them</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">...I really wish I could just write people notes to avoid all the awkwardness of conversation.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">Because regret is the worst. Nothing has haunted me more than the things I've left unsaid. When you’re stifled by a voice that refuses to speak, it's like existing in a deafening, vacuous, frustrating, dark hole where your paralyzed tongue is constantly misinterpreted. I’ve done myself a disservice saddled in this silence for so long, unwilling to trust anyone with my words. So many times I’ve been tempted to peel off the layers that cloak me in this persona I have unintentionally created so I can expose these hidden parts of me--the ugly, complicated and insecure. Except, sometimes when we reveal ourselves we lose people. <i>I didn’t want to lose my people. </i>But I had to change, I was so broken and out of order.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">Authenticity is risky business. Growth and change can be agonizing. And though time heals, time can also be soul-crushing when we delay to confront and deal with the stuff that holds us back. Pride had me pigeonholed in an alienated, unsatisfying world of mind-numbing mediocrity and monotony. </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">My shoulders weren’t designed to carry the weight of life without help.</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I wasn’t created to live this life in fenced in by stone walls. And since the deconstructing of these walls, each day, brick by brick I'm able to be a little rawer with others. It’s been the most liberating decision I’ve ever made. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.4px;">I’ve met new, amazing, people I would have never known if I’d stayed in my exclusive, private gated community, unwilling to let my guard down to allow others in and feel new feels. Though, in doing so, my worst fears have been realized, too. I’ve been rejected, disappointed and hurt by people I adored, <i>by friends old and new</i>, who at one time made me feel invincible, wanted and validated. But at the end of the day, the tears have dried, the pain hasn’t killed me and it has been worth it. I'm not broken or jaded as I feared I would be. The highs of finally breaking my silence and engaging in those hard conversations have become my present addiction. So I’ll continue to open myself up to new people, embrace different experiences and purpose to live more transparently, but it won't come without a cost. Being vulnerable is expensive, actually. I</span></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">t's not always gonna look pretty, either.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I know people will misunderstand and judge me and I’ll get hurt again, but that’s okay. Vulnerability </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> is intimidating, it can spook people away and not everyone reciprocates. Sometimes when we’re too honest with people it’s a lot like looking in a mirror, they might see bits of themselves they’re not ready to confront. Some will be frustrated because they can’t fix us. And some are just too emotionally unavailable for their own reasons. But I’ve stopped polarizing myself into corners and denying myself opportunity to change my mind just because it makes others uncomfortable. I hate my regret more than I love their approval. I don’t want to be almost dead one day wishing I’d told people what they meant to me, why I loved them or what they did that hurt me.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I’ve intentionally left the details out of this monolog because I think the theme applies to so many life challenges and unexpected plot twists, not just my personal drama. Truth be told, my hands are mired in a very sticky mess right now and it may appear I am going backward to some, but God’s Word says He is doing a thing in me. <i>I cling to that.</i> He is faithful when I am faithless. Where my failures increase, grace abounds for <i>me, also</i>. Though I wander,</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;"> I am not lost; God doesn’t lose his kids, his mercy chases after <i>me, too.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I need the humans in my life to reflect that sentiment. If there is a tribe who can stick beside me despite my flaws, different opinions or lifestyle and <i>challenge</i> me at the same time, <i>those</i> are who I want around. I want to be loved and forgiven for everything I am. And I need those people to be just as real with me. I want to know every bad thing about them so I can love them anyway. They'll have my back and I’ll have theirs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px;">I won’t lie, though, keeping people at a distance and refusing to make hard choices is much safer, I’ve lived this way most of my life but it is so very isolating and dull. No one can hurt you when your defenses are always on point, but we also deny ourselves the ultimate utopia and joy of living that comes when we’re willing to be unguarded and allow people in those darker corners. We recognize joy because we have suffered, we know peace when we've been through chaos and “Happiness only real when shared.” ― Christopher McCandless</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-84992461653923038932014-01-04T20:05:00.001-08:002014-04-02T13:01:14.230-07:00What Doesn't Cause SIDS And 6 Things Every Parent Should Do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kaden Michael Frey</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">September 12, 2003-January 04, 2004</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Ten years ago today </b>my
baby boy, Kaden, died of SIDS<b>.</b> In
all the years that have passed, I still don't think I will ever be entirely rid
of the sense of guilt a parent feels when a child dies on their watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For as many times as I have replayed all the events and
details of the night I found him lifeless in his crib, I have googled an equal
number of corresponding articles and scientific studies that accuse me of
everything I did wrong. According to statistics,
I killed my baby. And for many years I accepted that. <i>I deserved that. </i>Apparently what I did do "right" didn't
matter because I ultimately failed my son and now he is gone. I wish someone
could have convinced me what a lie that was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is hurtful that human nature’s need for answers and
someone to blame ultimately surmises that parents are responsible for these deaths. And even more
disheartening is people's dependence on a false sense of security and control that
will undoubtedly continue to perpetuate this lie for centuries to follow. Despite
that I'd nurtured and raised three infants from birth to childhood without a
hitch prior to Kaden, admittedly there is still a part of me that believes this
lie. But every year it’s just a little bit
less, and at least I can look myself in the mirror now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>SIDS wasn't even on
my radar</b> when I had Kaden. Statistically, SIDS would not visit any
of my children, so why would I worry about something that would never happen?! Besides, I was a spirit filled Christian who
fully believed in the healing power of my faith rather than the sovereignty of
my Creator. I had faith in my faith; SIDS and disease, sickness and death
happened to <i>other people</i> (there’ll be
more on this another day). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The point is, I cared for my baby boy like any loving,
doting mama would. I was designed to be his mommy and he was made just for me. I did what was individually best for each of my babies. But as a novice mom, I didn’t have a
"system" or particular routine for my infants. I didn’t follow a book
or have access to the interwebs to tell me how to raise my babies. I winged it, like so many hundreds of
generations before me. I trusted my gut, learned how to read the finite and
subtle cues of each child. I followed my instincts and sought out wiser,
seasoned moms for their advice. Until Kaden passed away, I never questioned my
ability to mother my own babies, much less keep them alive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It was the early 90’s
</b>when I had my first child. I bottle-fed Elih. I let him sleep beside me in
my floppy plastic waterbed. I let him snooze in his swing--in the other room
where I was not present. I allowed Elih to roam the house unattended in a
rolling walker and I put him on a leash when we went to the mall. I strapped
his car seat into the front passenger side of my vehicle. I didn't change his
diapers every 2 hours, either. However, I did have Elih sleep on his side, per
Doctors orders. At the time it wasn't “safe” to let babies sleep on their
backs, they could spit up and choke, or their tongue could cut off their air
supply. As an 18 years old mom, who was I to question this gospel "truth"? I'm honestly a little surprised he survived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Five years later </b>my
second child, Jared, slept in a bassinet beside our bed, because co-sleeping
could be deadly the experts told us. We would probably smother him or he would
grow up needy and co-dependent. I nursed Jared but like my first child, I
propped his bottles with a blanket to free up my hands when he started weaning.
We also let Jared bounce in his Johnny jump-up, scarcely jerry-rigged from the
door frame. Studies hadn't emerged yet that we were the worst parents
ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>We'd never owned a
baby monitor</b> until our 3rd child, Jamey.
By this time I’d managed to do some things "right," but mostly
I still did what I thought was best for <i>him</i>.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We had Jamey sleep on his back because now science said it
was tummy sleeping that would kill him. Even though he was projectile puker and
could possibly choke to death, we took the risk in the name of "new"
research. Oh, and we co-slept because studies <i>now</i> said it would make him a more grounded and trusting human… <i>Ok that's a lie; really I was just lazy and didn’t
want to get out of bed for midnight feedings</i>. But because Jamey couldn’t keep anything down
(besides the fact he was horrible at nursing), at two months of age I began supplementing
breast milk with a rice and formula mix in his bottle. By then we’d eighty-sixed
the rolling walker and Johnny-jump up and instead let him spend the first half
of his life in his activity bouncer. Clearly, we were improving.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>By the time we had
our fourth son</b>, Kaden, I had 12 years of parenting under my belt. I felt
pretty confident to tackle raising another baby. And like all his brothers before him,
Kaden loved his pacifier. And oh, we loved how that magical latex plug gave us a few precious moments of peace. Unfortunately, this little guy came out of the gate
lactose intolerant. Nothing was more peculiar to me than a newborn with stinky
farts, it was almost adorable. However, he was nursing exclusively so it meant
I had to make concessions in <i>my</i> diet and I tried to eat what the internets told
me to eat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the time he was 3 1/2 months old, he was plumping up
nicely. He wasn't a puker and was pro at nursing. But due to his chronic tummy bubbles, I would
occasionally allow him to sleep on his belly. Sometimes that was the </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">only</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> way he would go to sleep. On those
nights I would wait till he was in a deep coma before I would return him to his backside. Besides the intercom system we used to monitor his sleeping, I'd developed a good habit of checking in on my kids periodically while they slept. I still do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Life couldn't have been better. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">My business was doing well and clients got a kick out of Kaden tagging along with me. Our big new and improved family was just wrapping up our </span>first<span style="font-family: inherit;"> holiday season together. By all appearances, doctor visits and vaccinations, our little boy was a perfectly healthy and normal 15
1/2 pound chunk of squishy goodness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then one night, he just died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The medical examiner called
it SIDS,</b> sudden infant death syndrome.
On the phone, as we combed over his autopsy report together, she
lamented that there was absolutely no reason for his death. He definitely didn't
suffocate or choke, she reassured. All his little baby pieces were perfect. <i>I'm so sorry</i>, she said. <i>He was a beautiful, healthy boy</i>, she
said. She went on to try and console and convince me there's nothing we could
have done to prevent his senseless death. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>If science knew what
caused SIDS it wouldn't be called SIDS.</b> All the studies available are just
a bunch of guesses and correlations, nothing else. She explained that the
medical profession suspects the cause of SIDS is more likely a trigger, <i>or lack thereof</i>, in the brain that
causes or the heart and lungs to shut down simultaneously. She apologized for our loss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And so began my
relentless voyage on the Googles</b>. For every study or scientific “evidence”
that claimed one method caused SIDS, there was another or ten that disputed it. According to research, smoking and drinking
parents better beware! But if tummy sleeping really caused SIDS, where was the
epidemic in the 70's, when tummy sleeping was the rule? Back and side sleeping are also highly debated and none of the hypothesis’ are of any solace to the moms whose babies died in
their arms or the dad’s who lost their child asleep on their laps. But <i>good news</i>? Statistics show nursing
babies are at the <i>least</i> risk! Really? Then where are the mass graves of all the
bottle-fed baby boomers that should have died from formula?! And God forbid you vaccinate or don't vaccinate or
give your child a pacifier! Or wait, <i>what
was that?</i> Pacifiers now prevent SIDS? Ok, got it. *eye roll*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The only definitive correlation I have found is that SIDS is
more common in male </span>Caucasians of<span style="font-family: inherit;"> European descent, between the ages of two months
to a year, most commonly happening around the third through fifth months. So if we use
conventional internet wisdom, and you have a white baby boy the age of 4
months, he is in the gravest danger of getting SIDS. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And that’s when I called bull$#*%.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The insanity of SIDS is that one can’t <i>contrac</i>t it, it is not a disease or virus or malady or curse.
Neither can <i>you</i> cause it, because the
very nature of the assignment of this condition is that it is<i> unknown</i>. SIDS is only assigned when an analysis of the
death of a baby is inconclusive, where no reasonable cause can be determined. Don’t be fooled by all the current research
and studies out there, they only offer correlations at best, <i>not causes</i>. They are mere observations, <i>not reasons.</i> If a baby’s death is caused
by suffocation, it is <i>not</i> SIDS. If an
infant dies of choking, it is <i>not</i>
SIDS. If you lose your child to a diagnosis, it is <i>not</i> SIDS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>All frustration aside</b>,
I do believe with all my heart there <i>is</i>
a scientific reason for SIDS and I even donate to medical research in hopes
they find the actual origination of it. <i>Is it hereditary, is it preventable, is it a
birth defect? Does anything actually "cause" it?</i> These are the most emergent questions still left
unanswered. Meanwhile, we who have lost and paid the ultimate price of SIDS,
are constantly being patronized, reminded and accused of all the hundred different
ways we possibly killed our babies. While cautiously nervous and proactive new parents
of infants are being placated with inaccurate data offering them a false sense
of security, suggesting they have some fictitious element of control. They are also
being barraged with conflicting propaganda, trying to sell them the latest
gadget or book that will “prevent” something that can’t be prevented.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>It needs to stop.</i></b> For these reasons I don’t speak much on the
topic of SIDS, though I do love to talk about my son. But even ten years after his
passing, it's still too close to home to mull over the sorted details of his
death. Instead I prefer to remember his life and focus on how much he changed
mine. Grieving Kaden for the rest of my life is the currency I pay for the short 115
days we had him, and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. Asking why,
beating myself up, regretting the woulda-coulda-shoulda's is not something I'm willing to do anymore. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My prayer</b> is that
these few words I have to offer will be some measure of comfort for someone else who has lost their baby for no explainable reason: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Forgive yourself.</b> It's not your
fault. <i>No, it's not</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don't allow fear to steal</b> away the
gift of another child if one day you decide to open your heart to having
another baby.<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Losing a child doesn't define you</b>.
If anything, it strips us of our preconceptions and widens our boundaries.
Now <i>live like you mean it.<o:p></o:p></i></span></li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And to the parents of precious new littles born every day</b>, my hope for you is
this:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don't be anxious about what hasn't happened.</b> Live in the present, enjoy your babies!!! </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t make fear based choices</b> or live in trepidation of something
you have <u>no</u> power to control. <i>No, you don't.</i><o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>IF SIDS happens to you</b> (and it
probably wont) you’ll be grateful for the sacred time you spent with your
baby not wasted on worrying. And you’ll be left with all the carefree memories
you made while they were here. </span><o:p></o:p></li>
</ol>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-69359546517805398782013-11-11T18:33:00.002-08:002013-11-24T22:36:18.337-08:004 Reasons Why Introverts Don't Want To Go To your "Team Building" Seminar and 7 Ways You Can Possibly Manipulate Us Into Going<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>1. As a true blooded introvert, <i>forced socialization is draining.</i></b> Now multiply that by thrusting me into a contrived scenario, purely for the sake of drawing me out of my "shell," breaking down my "walls" and bonding my inner child to yours; I will find the experience <i>excruciating</i>.</span><br>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Believe me, this personality trait makes being a believer in Jesus very, super duper hard, because the whole foundation of my faith rests on the nonnegotiable fact that I am called to be a servant to <i>others</i>, that God works <i>through</i> me and that absolutely involves <i>interacting </i>with <i>people</i>. And Lord as my witness, merely attending corporate church services is a mighty act of courage and ginormous leap of faith for me-- <i>to which</i> <i>I'm positive God awards me extra heaps of brownie points for participating</i> (I kid).</span></span><br>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>2. I don't want to be caught dead in a situation that is embarrassing or makes me feel uncomfortable or awkward.</b> And who does, really? But the nature of these group gatherings are notorious for doing just that. Most introverts don't wear their hearts on their sleeves and small talk rates the same on our fun-list as sanding our teeth on a rock. Unfortunately, these "Team Builders" usually necessitate exercising both criteria to be deemed "successful." And to many of my emotionally extroverted peeps, getting someone to cry is the holy freaking grail.</span></span><br>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br></span>
<br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2013/11/4-reasons-why-introverts-dont-want-to.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-46648840261317590972013-10-29T20:47:00.000-07:002013-11-14T12:41:28.958-08:0010 Reasons Why Moms Should Do ALL The Laundry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UBoBk6NqHY0/UnB_r_UsbLI/AAAAAAAAA0E/_ioltVUw5eI/s1600/PicsArt_1383102979472-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UBoBk6NqHY0/UnB_r_UsbLI/AAAAAAAAA0E/_ioltVUw5eI/s320/PicsArt_1383102979472-1.jpg" width="264"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A really smart blogger mom-friend of mine once posted on the Facebook, "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">If you have a kid who is old enough to operate a tablet/video game/smart phone and you are still doing their laundry for them, <i>you're doing this parent thing wrong.</i>"<i> </i></span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><i><br></i></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><i>Humph! </i>I thought. <i>After 21 years of parenting, I suppose I'll never have this mom-thing figured out.</i></span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br>
But, as I was tenderly bleaching my son's socks yesterday, it finally came to me. And you know what, <i>my highly respected mom-diva friend</i>, washing my kid's laundry actually makes me an even <i>more better</i> parent-<i>and wife! </i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>(And by "more-better," I mean, better than "less-gooder.")</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br><br>Here's why:</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2013/10/10-reasons-why-moms-should-do-all.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-69010700554954455052013-10-25T12:51:00.002-07:002013-11-20T12:58:38.447-08:00Conquering The Dread Gremlins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Qyq8gECrjAgXhFo1sr2VdMikrF_gTYjU-g4dzIdV-p6Waf7_P9qwd1q0tZHPOpLYci2XQ74t5rwey5zXm6o7kw4fuxv-DgsG50883D0cajRratRs_Xa5SLrUWVVT81OywtCIehzt_V59/s1600/dread+gremlin+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Qyq8gECrjAgXhFo1sr2VdMikrF_gTYjU-g4dzIdV-p6Waf7_P9qwd1q0tZHPOpLYci2XQ74t5rwey5zXm6o7kw4fuxv-DgsG50883D0cajRratRs_Xa5SLrUWVVT81OywtCIehzt_V59/s640/dread+gremlin+.jpg" width="640"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, they are real, let me tell you! If I don't hit that pillow dead-dog-tired and I allow myself one iota of contemplative reflection, those little demons rise up from under my bed and plunge their claws of damnation right into my soul.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>
It happened again last night. I knew better than to read that article before bed! *Face-palm.* The snarly sadistic voices went into a rage, this time lambasting me for throwing my kids into the lions-den of public schoolery only to have them brainwashed by our government into narcissistic, co-dependent little communist trolls. WHAT HAVE I DONE, <i>what am I doing??!!</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>
Then I caught myself.<i> </i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br></i>
<i>Lisa, BE NICE! Stop talking like that. Wait for the morning, it'll be OK. </i>It took about an hour of convincing myself to step away from the ledge before I fell asleep, concluding yet another episode of what I call the "Night Dreads."</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>
You see, during the day, I'm a pretty optimistic and reasonable person. I usually make informed, prayerful decisions concerning my personal life and family. Though I tend to fly by the seat of my pants, I trust my gut, lean towards logic, follow the golden rule and try not to sweat the small stuff. I think I have pretty great coping skills and I'm generally even-tempered. But at night, when the gremlins creep in, I transform into a confused, irrational, self-loathing crybaby.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>
When I start to hear their sneering accusations, I become instantly rigid. My gut balls up, a slight sweat breaks out and my heart begins to race. My mind starts flashing scenes from everything I'd screwed up in the last 24 hours. In those moments, anything can be challenged-- my beliefs, my convictions, I become utterly hornswoggled that all my major life decisions were wrong-Wrong-<i>WRONG!</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>
The gremlins stand over my bed tormenting me, whispering that all my kids are going to rebel and reject everything we ever taught them. They predict that one day our house will burn down and that I'll probably get murdered in my sleep. I start believing no one will ever buy or sell another house through me, <i>that ship has sailed, sister! </i>I need to start applying for a REAL job...but nobody's gonna hire me. And by-the-way, my silly dreams and trifle hobbies are pointless,<i> I'm wasting my life</i>. The gremlins remind me how unorganized, inconsistent, uncultured, uneducated, mediocre, not-enough and emotionally incapable I am of sharing my deepest, truest self with anyone, <i>it's no wonder</i> I have no friends. I don't even have my own 401K and <i>Oh my Gawd</i>, I haven't hugged my middle child in over a week! And guess what else, <i>Lisa,</i> YOU forgot to pay the sewer bill and we're probably not going to have running water in the morning. Not to mention, Armageddon is upon us and we are SO. Unprepared<i>.</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2013/10/conquering-dread-gremlins.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-34794671767622455562013-10-17T16:47:00.001-07:002013-11-13T21:52:55.875-08:00"Regret" Is Not A Dirty Word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Word studies. I have been doing a few of them lately because there is such rampant embracing and regurgitation of totally ignorant and socially accepted sentiments running a muck in social media. I keep coming across these picture memes and quotables that I imagine were generated by entitled, hormonal, co-dependant teens or college kids who've never encountered a dictionary. What really blows my mind though, is how the social masses lap up these trite little proverbs as "truth." Seems like everyone is drinking the koolaid so I realize challenging popular word-sentiments could incite an onslaught of hater feedback but this needs to be done, people. Words are powerful and vocabulary sometimes has to be rescued from our abuse and lackadaisical tossing it about. So the first word I'd like to unpack is none other than, <i>REGRET</i>. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span></div>
<h2 class="me" style="display: inline; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
re·gret</span></span></h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="bottom: 1ex; color: #333333; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"> </span><span class="pronset" style="color: #333333;"><span audio="http://static.sfdict.com/dictstatic/dictionary/audio/luna/R01/R0163700.mp3" default="http://dictionary.reference.com/audio.html/lunaWAV/R01/R0163700"></span> <span class="show_spellpr" style="display: inline;"><span class="prondelim">[</span><span class="pron" style="display: inline;">ri-<span class="boldface" style="font-weight: 700;">gret</span></span><span class="prondelim">]</span><span class="pron_toggle" style="display: inline;"> </span></span></span><span class="pg" style="color: #333333; display: inline; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; padding-right: 3px;"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">verb,</span> </span></span><span class="secondary-bf" style="color: #333333; display: inline; font-weight: bold;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">re·gret·ted,</span> </span><span class="secondary-bf" style="color: #333333; display: inline; font-weight: bold;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">re·gret·ting,</span> </span><span class="pg" style="color: #333333; display: inline; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; padding-right: 3px;"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">noun</span></span></span></span><br>
<div class="body" style="color: #333333; margin: 0em 0px 0em 0em; padding: 0px;">
<div class="pbk" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span class="pg" style="display: inline; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; padding-right: 3px;"><span id="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">verb</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">(used</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">with</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">object)</span></span></span></div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;">1.</span></span></div>
<div class="dndata" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="hotword"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">to</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">feel</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">sorrow</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">remorse</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">for</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">(an</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">act,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">fault,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">disappointment,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">etc.)</span></span><span name="hotword" style="background-color: white;">:</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span><span class="ital-inline" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-style: italic;"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">He</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">no</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">sooner</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">spoke</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">than</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">he </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword">regretted</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">it.</span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;">2.</span></span></div>
<div class="dndata" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="hotword"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">to</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">think</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">with</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">sense</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword"><span style="background-color: yellow;">loss</span><span style="background-color: white;">:</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span><span class="ital-inline" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-style: italic;"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">to</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">regret</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">one's</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">vanished</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">youth.</span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="pbk" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span class="pg" style="display: inline; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; padding-right: 3px;"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;">noun</span></span></span></div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;">3.</span></span></div>
<div class="dndata" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px;">
<span id="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; font-family: inherit;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">a</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">sense</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">of</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">loss,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">disappointment,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">dissatisfaction,</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">etc.</span></span></div>
</div>
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<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword" style="font-family: inherit;">4.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: yellow;">a</span></span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">feeling</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">of</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">sorrow</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">or</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">remorse</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">for</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">a</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">fault,</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">act,</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;">loss,</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333; cursor: default;">disappointment,</span><span style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333;"> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="background-color: yellow; color: #333333; cursor: default;">etc.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
Notice, <i>self-hate, self pity, feeling shame, condemnation</i> or a belief I am<i> less-than</i> is <i><b><u>not</u></b></i> in this definition?! So, what exactly, is so <i>wrong</i> about feeling <i>sorrow or remorseful </i>for something we've done? Has humanity degenerated so much that it's considered demeaning to feel <i>disappointed</i> in ourselves? I've heard it said "never regret" because the choices we've made are what "make us into the person we are." Well, aren't <i>sorrow, disappointment, remorse, admitting fault</i> the very convictions that spurn us to do and behave better, to learn and grow from our actions, which in turn "make us who we are"? I thought life lessons were a good thing.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To illustrate my frustration, I've put a few of these picture memes into personal context. (I hope you'll still respect me after I've exposed myself.)</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BDw_5zdXiaE/UWMLS8vLXtI/AAAAAAAAAvs/as0fVlTdwFc/s1600/never+regret.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BDw_5zdXiaE/UWMLS8vLXtI/AAAAAAAAAvs/as0fVlTdwFc/s400/never+regret.png" width="400"></span></a></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll never regret throwing that puppy down a flight of stairs, over and over again, <i>because at one time it was exactly what I wanted. </i>What 6yo wouldn't think that was hilarious?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll never regret that time I stole swimsuits from a department store after drinking that classy Boones Farm Strawberry Hill, getting strip-searched, handcuffed, arrested and fined<i> because at one time it was exactly what I wanted. </i>I did my time in the slammer, why do you think I'm so hard, <i>durr.</i></span></li>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2013/10/regret-is-not-dirty-word.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-38893814883240182252013-03-28T14:52:00.000-07:002014-01-30T15:51:10.898-08:00Faith and Angst <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">and why I need my Crutches.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZJsl7pgA0_Y/UVIPJ4FE8lI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/k2TS4etWBgY/s1600/faith+probs.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZJsl7pgA0_Y/UVIPJ4FE8lI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/k2TS4etWBgY/s400/faith+probs.png" height="280" width="400"></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've spent the last week flopping around in a torrent of emotion. I know,<i> weird,</i> right? I think my eyes even got watery at one point last Tuesday. It's really boiled down to a matter of where my heart and my head have been, <i>colliding.</i> Or maybe it <i>is</i> just hormones as usual, but as I slog through some unfamiliar feelings cluttering my judgement, I hold fast to this, Christ is <i>in</i> me. <i>He</i> is the only thing <i>holy</i> about Lisa Frey. The rest of me is a sanctified mess. Sometimes it's like I'm on the edge of a cliff and the only thing between me and certain free-fall is this chain of commitment to God and Family tethered around my neck. I'm either gonna hang myself with it or it's going to save my life.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, I'm all about introspection and self-improvement but I snarked at author, Donald Miller's, challenge to his subscribers the other day to confess their three biggest faults on Facebook. Being the proud person I am, I'm pretty sure my first thought, <i>Hell no!, </i>was audible.<i> Although</i>, I <i>have</i> noticed some sketchy things materialize in myself lately that, I suppose, have been dormant for years. The challenge gnawed at me. I tossed and turned all night and decided, <i>why not? You want people to know the authentic Lisa, right?</i> Yeah, okay, well here are<i> four</i>...</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><span style="font-size: large;">Like I said, </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">I'm prideful.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hate being embarrassed. My fear of it is physically crippling and I will avoid humiliation at all costs, even if that means missing opportunities or feeling regret over never attempting something. I mean, I can laugh at myself with the rest of you... <i>right?</i> Is it <i>not</i> entertaining<i> enough</i> that I fall down and spill stuff, daily? I <i>know</i> my absence of rhythm and coordination are <i>hilarious</i>. I've even learned to <i>own</i> my pigeon toes. But what I lack in physical grace, I make up for in self dignity. I think I was born with some blue DNA though, because I crave respect more than a desire to be liked and I've developed this all-sufficient attitude that inhibits me from submitting to anyone or thing. I'm not going to burden anybody with my complaints or needs. I keep my walls high and expectations of people low to avoid disappointment. And <i>sometimes,</i> *gasp* I might only do the right thing because I just don't want to have to apologize later.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I want what I want.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I'm not even talking about material things. Sometimes I feel more obligated to my commitments than a <i>desire</i> to be committed. There are days I get claustrophobic by my own life-choices despite that I have everything a girl could ask for, I still find myself daydreaming over what I <i>can't</i> have, even envious over those who seem content with much less. Discontentment. Or is it,<i> restlessness? </i>I've been 29 years old for a decade now, maybe it's the onset of mid-life crisis... I'm seriously considering a career change or taking up some adrenaline infused hobby... Anyway, I've made my bed, but there are nights I just don't wanna lay in it. Yeah, yeah, <i>Somebody call the</i> <i>whaaambulance.</i></span><br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2013/03/faith-and-angst.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-38290878983551542462012-11-09T14:37:00.001-08:002013-11-14T13:54:40.383-08:00The Dirty Truth About Youth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In March I posted on <a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/03/tmi.html#more" target="_blank">confessions</a>, and *whew*, did that feel <i>good! </i>So I thought I'd follow it up with a "part II" and put this shallow topic of vanity to bed. In the next few paragraphs I'll come mostly the rest of the way out of my closet (<i>the one I keep all my skeletons in) </i>and throw you a couple more bones<i> </i>I've been keeping to myself.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They say the "secret" to success is not to blab all your secrets but I just celebrated the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday and honestly, staying 29 forever is a LOT of work! It takes commitment and almost having to be down right OCD about it. So because some of you have asked about my routines, others have been just plain nosy and because I think everyone should be able to stay 29 if they want to, here's <i>my</i> formula:</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XukyZBZYxKl5i2YvGCYCD8s5MxcxlvlwImnQMHuYkGk9XCGQ5q1rTiqqt2cP1BhxMy_MmWO5K1YlhN_2qxFzwSn0Q0gvIsXtWkRvuxe16xx1q3sW7vIO7jz4ZegMPGlqaqRmoIPry46D/s1600/bfoer+after+lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XukyZBZYxKl5i2YvGCYCD8s5MxcxlvlwImnQMHuYkGk9XCGQ5q1rTiqqt2cP1BhxMy_MmWO5K1YlhN_2qxFzwSn0Q0gvIsXtWkRvuxe16xx1q3sW7vIO7jz4ZegMPGlqaqRmoIPry46D/s400/bfoer+after+lisa.jpg" width="400"></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-dirty-truth-about-youth.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-51955863186883780732012-05-05T14:22:00.000-07:002013-11-27T23:40:43.098-08:00Don't Forget To Take Your Happy Pill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5iBHVfKrfCvuwLJensCG4bEVOlRUNAnc4QogJspLUyE0rQr6_0_rA8vB_h0QEluzeFTtDhGlX1AtjZ-EdhWKIiyFBaZJsqGY6ziV6rL2pEzSLWDNSGNx-vzTWes5f0iivkANqCxuaWtMb/s1600/happy_pills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5iBHVfKrfCvuwLJensCG4bEVOlRUNAnc4QogJspLUyE0rQr6_0_rA8vB_h0QEluzeFTtDhGlX1AtjZ-EdhWKIiyFBaZJsqGY6ziV6rL2pEzSLWDNSGNx-vzTWes5f0iivkANqCxuaWtMb/s400/happy_pills.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have another confession, while I'm feeling all vulnerable and transparent again...</span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>Some of you might recall my post about <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=287711282759629951#editor/target=post;postID=1872734648070619558" target="_blank">Pre-Murder-Syndrome</a>, awhile back? Well, it was all the rage for about seven minutes. Anyway, PMS has been a seriously debilitating issue for me these past few years and I wanted to give you a little update on my recovery. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>After trying all sorts of conventional methods to treat my homicidal condition, I am happy to announce I have finally found a solution that works! <i>Wait for it...</i></span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br></i></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Prozac.</i> </span><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There. I said it. After much meditation, prayer, exorcisms, exercise, dietetic and homeopathic trials, I have settled on a <i>drug</i>. </span>Let the shock ruminate a little and continue reading, please. I can justify.<br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/05/dont-forget-to-take-your-happy-pill.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-37888411085317285762012-03-24T20:09:00.008-07:002013-12-04T00:13:11.946-08:00TMI?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Integrity" was the topic of discussion at small group last night. Someone asked the question, would our spouse describe our character the same as our church friends? Well <i>that's</i> a toughy, because I wear multiple hats.<i> </i>So the deeper question I had to ask myself was, <i>am I willing to allow my entire sphere to see what I look like in all those hats? How transparent am I, really? </i><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I figure, this blog is as good a place as any to start letting a few bones out of my closet. But first, I had to build up some nerve. So I scanned the internet for gritty, unedited honesty...along the lines of cluttered bedrooms, botox reveals, and dinner disasters. Except, all I found were people pinning ideas on how to be amazing, or facebooking how fabulous their lives are.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5PUVuW7qf5E/T1a0Pp7JLUI/AAAAAAAAAZA/EG87xZUROXQ/s1600/facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5PUVuW7qf5E/T1a0Pp7JLUI/AAAAAAAAAZA/EG87xZUROXQ/s400/facebook.jpg" width="400"></a><br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/03/tmi.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-73152037380694379292012-03-17T18:45:00.003-07:002013-11-14T13:23:44.623-08:00Accidental Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The unfinished story of Lisa and Christina</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4covdjLQ6IA/T2U06BzgFEI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/lPMxkDHd1j8/s1600/menchristina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4covdjLQ6IA/T2U06BzgFEI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/lPMxkDHd1j8/s400/menchristina.jpg" width="400"></a><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">At our first practice, I</span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> didn't recognize the short little plain-looking girl </span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">wearing a Disney T-shirt with her hair all slicked back in a pony tail</span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">. </span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">I was told her name was Christina and <i>she'd</i> filled the most recent alto position on our church worship team. </span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> I was brought on the team as her alternate. Then I heard her sing, and I understood <i>why</i>. There was nothing plain or little about her voice. She was jazz meets gospel, a classic tone and vibrato gelled with contemporary R&B style. And c</span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">ome </span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">Sunday</span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;"> morning,</span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> she cleaned up very nice! A pretty blouse replaced her Minnie-mouse tee. U</span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">nleashed from its pony tail, was</span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> a perfectly manicured, shiny, thick, brunette mane permitted to float around her shoulders framing her adorable, freshly powdered face. She was cute as a button. Then she'd proceed blow the roof off the church building with her ginormous voice.</span></span></span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/03/accidental-friends.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-89541837635240665802012-02-28T14:52:00.006-08:002013-12-03T00:50:13.758-08:00Pity Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oXKyYG3BsE/T01Da_67JkI/AAAAAAAAAY4/Lwd27U1-jmw/s1600/Self-Pity+Card+Saying+close+up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5oXKyYG3BsE/T01Da_67JkI/AAAAAAAAAY4/Lwd27U1-jmw/s320/Self-Pity+Card+Saying+close+up.JPG" width="320"></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://christyssliceolife.blogspot.com/2010/08/new-card-i-made-self-pity-card-and-bad.html">Click here to see more by this artist</a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I like to joke a lot about being mediocre, but sometimes, being average just gets to me. My self confidence seems to be fair-weathered. I have to nurture it like a tender flower or, before too long, I'll find myself sulking in a pool of self-loathing, in danger of drowning in my own hypothetical tears. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will spare you the whoa-is-me details of my latest episode, but seriously! What is this thing with self pity? Why do I get this way sometimes and what can I learn from it? </span><br>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br>It's not depression or even insecurity. It's more of a general sense of not being sparkly-enough. It's mixed feelings of being scrutinized and forgotten, feeling unnecessary yet entitled. At the same time, I don't <i>want</i> to care what the world thinks about who I am, so it drives me nuts when I find myself practically addicted to everybody else's reassurance and approval. I wish there was a pill to get rid of pride. I would swallow it with a big bite of humble pie and chase it down with a gulp of suck-it-up. I want God to be proud of me, <i>not people.</i> </span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/02/pity-party.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-14954802176450971302012-02-18T17:00:00.003-08:002013-11-14T12:36:55.973-08:00Jesus Loves Them So Why Do I Have To?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i4hDXOWfRjY/T0BI-Hu_t3I/AAAAAAAAAYo/yP9QOlrZho4/s1600/christianartdotcom.png"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.christart.com/">ChristArt</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><br>
</span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The other day I dove head first into a facebook debate. I knew it was a bad idea but I did it anyway. I just couldn't resist the topic. I deflowered that conversation like a cheap box of chocolates. I've always fancied<i> </i>a good debate. What sets me apart, however, is my cheeky way of turning a serious argument into a three ring circus. Watching people explode into flaming tirades has always been a source of entertainment for me. Instead of getting mad, I flippantly antagonize. It's a contest. I feel like if I can make the opponent lose their temper and act a fool, I've won. Sinister, I tell you.</span><br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/02/jesus-loves-them-so-why-do-i-have-to.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-58339697283350371272012-02-15T16:43:00.005-08:002013-12-12T00:46:00.954-08:005 Survival Tips For Dating a Mama's Boy<span style="font-family: inherit;">This post comes to you as a cautionary notice, so before you get all gaga over my son(s) <i>(and how could you not?). </i>I want you to know a few things<i>, </i>because<i> </i>you<i> </i>are in for a treat if they're considering <i>you</i> to join our tribe.</span><br>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otWH8nRJJFk/TzxQ_Znby-I/AAAAAAAAAYc/Ln6J7XshQ9s/s1600/mommy-baby-tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-otWH8nRJJFk/TzxQ_Znby-I/AAAAAAAAAYc/Ln6J7XshQ9s/s320/mommy-baby-tattoo.jpg" width="320"></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My boys' dad is the poster child of how to respect, serve, adore and listen to a woman. They have grown up knowing what it looks like to love a woman. Meanwhile, I've devoted my days to strategically investing </span>exorbitant<span style="font-family: inherit;"> amounts of quality time with our sons, revealing to them all things girl-confidential. It is my aim to de-mystify the female creature and do my best to teach my boys our body language, subtle nuances and decode any passive aggressive girl-speak. I warn them about our instinctive urges to control and undermine. I teach them to resist our blubbery tears and fluttering puppy dog lashes. I coach them on how to recognize when a girl is twisting an argument in attempt to reverse blame. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I've done my job, my sons will be immune to whining and nagging know how to dodge girls who use these bags of tricks. Hopefully by the time I'm finished galvanizing their spines, my boys will become men able to resist bewitching Delilah-like powers of fruit-scented Jezebels. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ladies, you will thank me later. Because, I'm really helping</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> you</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, you know, weeding out the tramps and the manipulators, preserving my man child for a nice girl he can bring home to mama. <i>You're a nice girl, aren't you?</i></span><br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/02/dear-future-prospective-wives-of-my.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-67063301020793785132012-01-22T19:02:00.005-08:002013-11-14T12:41:28.966-08:00Bad Words: 140 Alternative Ways to Cuss Politely<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">I was raised by parents who didn't believe in saying dirty-words. I think I heard my dad say "damn" once or twice in my entire life, but he usually emphasized his point with "shoot," "Dang-it," or "Darn-it!" When he was mad, he was "ticked" or "chapped" and when he hammered his thumb with one of his tools (which was often) he would shout, "son-of-a-biscuit-eater!" We didn't use Jesus or God's name in vain, we said "jeez" and "gosh." And if we had 'acceptable' family cuss words they were, "crap" and "ca-ca." In fact, I hadn't realized potty-talk was so controversial until I was an adult and one of the parents of a child I was sitting requested I not use it in front of their kid (never-mind that she and her husband practiced prolific profanity on a daily basis). </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">I suppose curse words are culturally and morally relative and vary in potency from person to person. For instance, I was never allowed to say the alternate word for urine. And as much as I hear my Christian friends use the "p" word in their daily vocabulary, I still cant bring myself to say it. </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">I was taught that it takes more intellect to be creative and <i>not</i> use profanity, that<i> even mentally-challenged people know how to cuss.</i></span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"> </i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">But since I've grown-up, I've realized some situations necessitate the power that swear-words evoke-<i>-when used sparingly and in the right context, of course</i>. I think my parents understood this need as well and perhaps that is why they allowed us to use </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">curse-word</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"> euphemisms. </span></span><br>
</div></div><a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/01/bad-words-141-alternative-ways-to-cuss.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com172tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-21146773119561046412012-01-10T01:47:00.001-08:002013-11-14T12:53:54.809-08:00The Incidental Family Menu Board<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm no domesticated engineering genius but I sure am proud of my little creation...</span><br>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m5-5_UH6sfY/TwvUuA0H3sI/AAAAAAAAAXo/NNespERFrCs/s1600/100_5681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m5-5_UH6sfY/TwvUuA0H3sI/AAAAAAAAAXo/NNespERFrCs/s640/100_5681.JPG" width="640"></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, I am a Stay At Home <i>Employed</i> Mom, which means I have to split my attentions betwixt Real Estate matters and homemaker duties. I used to be pretty dang awesome at the wifey-mom stuff before I started bringing home some of the bacon. Now I'm scrambling just to stay mediocre at it. So, this chart became a necessity. </span><br>
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Before you slather me in all your gooey praise for my lucky stroke of brilliance, allow me to take it down a notch or five and admit this calender was actually birthed out of my <i>detest </i>for the question "what's for dinner?" You may as well shave my fingertips through a cheese grater than blurt those whiny, presumptuous words in my ears. I hate them almost as much as the phrase<i> "I'm bored."</i> Deciding what to make for dinner requires planning and motivation. Neither of which I give any forethought until one of my starving kids deliriously begs <i>"what's for dinner?" </i>By then it's usually around 7PM and the S.A.H.M. in me feels a slight hunger-pang of empathy for the child so I answer, <i>"food!"</i> And out of guilt, I'm finally forced to <i>think</i> about it. <i>Ugh.</i></span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/01/incidental-family-menu-tentative-meal.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-72137746939502241132012-01-04T16:04:00.000-08:002013-11-14T13:25:55.606-08:00Kaden's "Angel" Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sunrise: Septemper 12, 2003 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sunset: January 4, 2004</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been eight years ago today since my baby boy died. Whenever this day comes, I feel like I should <i>say something...</i>to commemorate him...preserve his memory...continue his legacy. But the reality is, I don't know <i>what</i> to say. No words are worthy-enough. So some years I don't <i>say</i> anything. Honestly, I don't know what good it will do or <i>why</i> it even has to '<i>do'</i> any 'good'. I don't want to be melodramatic, I don't want pity, I shrivel at <i>that kind</i> of attention. Fact is, I <i>celebrate</i> Kaden every year on his <i>Birthday.</i> (He is 8yrs, 3mo and 3wks old now, btw.) <i>That</i> is always a happy day for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is nothing to celebrate today. After all,<i> this day</i> is not really not about Kaden. It's a glaring stamp in time that more represents me, my family, and what we're missing. A child we'll never get to love on, make memories with, or watch grow into a man. I struggle with this day because it <i>shouldn't</i> be about me. This is <i>his </i>anniversary, it's<i> Kaden's</i> 'Angel Day'. In my mind, this day is <i>monumental</i>. So, <i>if </i> I'm going to<i> 'go there'</i> and<i> mention</i> my son, I <i>expect</i> the world to stand down and take notice of him. <i>If</i> I say <i>anything</i>, I only want my words to give more purpose to his short little life...but then again, it's not my job to define it. Kaden <i>already</i> <i>has</i> purpose, it doesn't matter whether you or I will ever understand what that is, exactly. </span></div>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2012/01/kadens-angel-day.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-87860888010618033952011-12-12T12:38:00.002-08:002013-11-14T12:57:55.915-08:0021st Century's Ordinary Wife's Guide<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My Personal Revisions to the Original "Good Wife's Guide"<br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I did not particularly care for this 1955 version of how to be a good wife. I thought it needed some updating so I've swept off the cob-webs and condensed the finer points of this Article's 19 guidelines down to just 11 rules. My changes correlate alphabetically below the originals. Follow at your own risk, <a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/03/pre-murder-syndrome.html">I'm not in a very good mood today</a>...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">1) Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A) Text him that you've had a very hard day at work and/or being domestic and the prospect of him picking up some Taco Bell on his way home would really be awesome. This way he will know you have been thinking of him and are concerned that you both get fed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">2) Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">B) Put your sweats and T-shirt on, wash your face and throw your hair up in a bun when you get home from work. This way maybe he won’t get the idea to attempt any funny-business while you're trying to relax. You're weary from working and/or watching his kids all day, <i>but he has needs</i> so perhaps an exchange can be negotiated? Suggest retiring to the boudoir early for a little procreation ‘trade’ should he be inclined to give you a foot rub or, if he is really ‘in the mood’, have him clean your bathroom. After all, that's the kind of thing that actually turns a wife on.</span><br>
</div><a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/12/21st-centurys-11-rules-of-being.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-22274403055804069242011-11-30T20:51:00.003-08:002013-11-14T12:58:31.843-08:00Somewhere Between Miss and Ma'am<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My <strike style="text-align: center;">knee-jerk </strike><strike style="text-align: center;">response</strike><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: center;"> rebuttal to Lynda's, </span><a href="http://www.ifonlyshehadappliedherself.com/2011/09/25-is-not-new-45.html" style="text-align: center;">"45 Is NOT the New 25"</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I found a new blogger I'm in <i>lurve</i> with. My other bloggie friend, <a href="http://christina-estes.blogspot.com/">Christina</a>, turned me on to <a href="http://www.ifonlyshehadappliedherself.com/">Lynda</a>, and <i>she</i> <i>is a hoot</i>. We share some core beliefs on snarcasm, self abasement and <a href="http://www.ifonlyshehadappliedherself.com/2011/11/theyre-all-harper-valley-hypocrites.html">child education</a>. I think we would make good friends if we were not three-thousand miles apart. Lynda has a moderate following of 80 or 4,000 readers, so that makes her pretty popular in blog-land. She probably is so busy writing her next post right now to notice my little crumb of the blog pie. I don't expect she has time to read what I think and I'm counting on that based on what I'm about to say (hiding safely in my little inconspicuous corner of her territory). For I am a chicken and in no way seasoned enough to challenge this woman personally.<br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">From what I've read and far as I can tell, Lynda and I probably don't disagree on much, except this one<i> <a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2010/11/ive-fallen-and-i-cant-get-up.html">teensy thing</a></i>. In September she posted a manifesto on <a href="http://www.ifonlyshehadappliedherself.com/2011/09/25-is-not-new-45.html">acting like a forty-something</a> and I was intrigued to read her summation on what will be expected of me during an age that will surely be the dregs of my mid-life crisis. You see, Forty is rapidly hunting me down like a ravenous beast and fast as I'm being chased by its imminent approach, <i>running in my flip- flops</i> <i>(or Toms depending on the weather)</i>, I will go down thumping the forty year old monster like a scared little bunny rabbit donned in lip gloss, slightly impeded by my tight trendy jeans and sparkly low cut T-shirt. This is where Linda and I part ways. While she solemnly intends to abide by her self imposed rules for women over forty and though her vehement suggestions are all good and well for<i> her,</i> I could not miss the stern mother-tone in her pitch that implied the whole lot of us girls over forty <strike>ought to</strike> better follow suit. Now, I happen to agree with a <i>few</i> of her proposals so to save time I will just give you the bullet points to which I cowardly raise the gauntlet.</span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/11/somewhere-between-miss-and-maam.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-11316928850744785672011-11-29T11:34:00.003-08:002013-11-14T13:00:00.163-08:00Being Misunderstood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's easy to make assumptions about people. I am a master profiler myself (hold on while I snicker smugly and flick the lint off my shoulder). I learn a lot about folks just by the way they carry themselves, and I ask questions. If you didn't already know, I'm a Realtor from nine to five,<i> it's my job</i> to read people and get 'in their business'. I like to think of myself as more of a noticer than nosy. It's always been easy for me to pick up on subtle nuances in tone, inflections, body language and mood patterns. Mostly because I have radar ears and x-ray vision and I can smell a secret smothered in peanut-butter and buried in dog poo. It's a gift, really. I'm always searching for what's missing from the puzzle, taking notes on what you're not doing, listening for what I <i>didn't</i> hear you say, generally looking for what's out of character. It's how I bust my kids every. time.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But for someone who possesses such keen sensory superpowers as I, it's taken me twenty-plus years to realize that sometimes my E.S.P. aint so popular with others. Folks pretty much don't want to be figured out, psychoanalized or dissected. It makes them kind of, "uncomfortable". I've noticed most people don't show a lot of gratitude when I'm pulling the rug out from under them either. Calling someone out is no way to get brownie points, I have discovered.</span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/11/view-from-my-slippery-soapbox.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-46807785922687624422011-11-25T16:50:00.001-08:002013-11-14T13:24:02.003-08:00Viva la Mexi-No No<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I recently returned from my first vacay out of the country. The hubs and I flew to Cancun with some friends. I took some notes and here's what I ended up with.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon exiting the plane, I instantly felt the tropics in my hair as every fiber of it frizzed in the warm salty breeze. We had arrived to the promised-land. I was expecting the pungent fragrance of a palm tree and pina colada nirvana, so as I drew the humid air in through my nostrils I was totally unprepared for the assault on my olfactories. Cancun smelt like a basement. Since this was our friend's fifth trip to Mexico, I asked them about the musty odor wafting through the airport and they replied something like "ahhh, that's the sweet scent of Paradise, you'll grow to love it!" Cancun didn't look much like paradise from behind the windshield wipers sloshing through torrential downpour so our friends were eager to divert our attention towards it's more positive attributes and show us the heart of downtown,<i> roads less traveled by most tourists. </i>A few miles beyond the hotel zone we saw <i>why</i> they were less-traveled.</span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/11/viva-la-mexi-no-no.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-33149442093636692562011-08-16T12:57:00.001-07:002013-11-14T13:02:21.119-08:00Learning The Hard Way<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This post wont come as any breaking news to those who know me up close. And for those who don't, well just wipe the drool off your mouth because I'm not about to disclose anything scandalous either. However, I broach today's topic with a little trepidation. <i>Regret.</i> Talking about regret means I have to admit stuff. Although my past is not weaved with the seduction of Reality-TV fodder (well, maybe a <i>little</i>), neither is it a chaste and innocuous tale I'll be sharing with my kids anytime never. Whether the details of it are unsavory or mundane, some of it just plain embarrasses me. Indeed, there is a price I've paid for every choice, good and bad, and lord knows there's not enough room on my blog to illuminate <i>all</i> of the glorious details but I'll give you a peek inside my past--<i>of what not to do</i>-- because I have a point here, I'm sure.<br>
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A LITTLE HISTORY</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent my entire educational career obsessed with something totally unrelated to academia. Pulling a 'C' average was just a means to maintain my social life, 'cause Monday through Friday it was my personal mission to snag me a boyfriend! This private manifesto began in kindergarten with a boy named Chris (<i>who would never let me lay my nap-mat next to him),</i> and was galvanized by Joey in 2nd grade (<i>who I always chased and kicked in the nuts because I thought it was "flirting"</i>), and eventually scrawled over 300 tear-stained pages of my high school diary. Unfortunately (or fortunately) boys didn't like me until I was about fifteen years old. I was a lanky, underdeveloped, freckle faced, red-head with braces. I knew the odds were stacked against me, so I had to compensate. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In middle school I probably wasted the bulk of my paper-route money on aqua-net and wet-n-wild cosmetics in attempts to make myself beautimus for all those boys who had no interest in me. Freshman year, I spent all four-hundred dollars of my baby-sitting cash on a brand-name wardrobe that was <i>sure</i> to catch their eye. To my horror, I found out labels didn't have the same boyfriend currency in high school as they did in 8th grade. I was sixteen years old before I finally went steady with someone longer than a week and, as irony had it, he attended our rival school. </span><br>
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<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/08/learning-hard-way.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-82268580290824435082011-07-21T16:45:00.001-07:002013-11-14T13:24:02.017-08:00Confessions & Whatnot<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been going through a sort of bloggers-block lately. I don't have any poignant thoughts to share but I do not want to lose my audience, so I'm hoping this post will placate you until I ponder something a little more enriching </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Remember when the <a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2009/01/25-random-things-about-ms-frey.html">"25 Random Things About Me"</a> was circulating on Facebook in 2009? Well, I revisited my old list and noticed this and that has changed some. So in typical narcissistic fashion, I decided an update was in order. </span><br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I struggle with the classic dichotomy of appetite vs. vanity. My sister, Sarah, suggested I call the disorder "Burgers & Bicycles" or "Donuts & Diet Coke." She is an excellent writer and I wish she'd start a blog. Truth is, I'm just a self-loathing glutton with a gym membership.<br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I pronounce the word "bag," like "beg", and "lackadaisical," like " laxidasical" and "topography," like "top-oh-graffy." Sometimes I just make up my own words...I don't like people bringing this to my attention, it makes me feel bad about myself.<br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I continue to maintain a big bag (not beg) of candy stashed in my closet. I also keep a refrigerator in my closet.<br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wear fake tanner. It's part of my ever growing makeup/<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2010/11/ive-fallen-and-i-cant-get-up.html">preserve my youth</a> routine--spray face and decollete, blow dry, moisturize. I plan to introduce formaldehyde to my skin care repertoire soon. Staying young is all about balance.<br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I take humongous bites of food as if someone's going to steal my food and then I swallow really fast, sometimes it gets stuck in my chest and I get the hiccups.<br>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had my <a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/02/why-i-was-forced-to-tattoo-my-face.html">eyebrows tattooed</a> on.</span></li></ol><a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/07/confessions-whatnot.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-4952531184831983512011-06-28T18:09:00.000-07:002013-11-14T13:24:02.006-08:0010 Things That Happened While I Was On Holiday...<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have finally stolen a few moments to mind-dump from a very momentous vacation of firsts. Destination: Kona, Hawaii at the Bff's place. During my ten days away from the mainland I experienced some things and learned a couple things. All of which I shall unload forthwith on you...</span><br>
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<b>1. Experience:</b> This was my first solo trip away from home for more than 4 days, a chance to clear my head, break away from the monotony of daily hum-drum, spend quality time with the bff, focus on my goals...</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Lesson: </b> Ten days is too long to be away from my family. I missed the chaos that is my house... Jamey's theatrical hysterics, Audrey's incessant prattling, Jared's jokes and Jeff pining after me (yes, he pines).</span><br>
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<b>2. Experience:</b> Audrey, the last child to exit my womb, lost her first tooth while I was gone and I wasn't there to yank it out. This first loss of tooth also commences her gangly-kid stage. I might not be taking very many pics of her for the next year or so...</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Lesson:</b> I felt like a deadbeat tooth-fairy. She got $5.00 and Dada gloated in all the glorious credit. I am sad she will have her grown-up teeth soon and my baby wont be a baby anymore.</span><br>
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<b>3. Experience:</b> I swam with manta ray sharks at night in the dark black sea. Perhaps these giant monsters wouldn't have been so intimidating had I not been floating prostrate atop the ocean waves peering down into the abyss while the behemoths charged at us like UFOs with their mouths gaping open, looking all ravenous and able to swallow a baby elephant if they so desired.</span><br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZls6bi2jRo75sBwxWoI5am6pP8f69fKoFJrWMj_wQyTpLh7sNK0jXjKs2tfczkgZwUwv5kki3ckWBdB4IAteZWOeCqAMz_1T7XeCvQNRNGZjQd3QSD1w-5_eak0c8BKGB-NwwmMdLUH0X/s1600/manta+night+swim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZls6bi2jRo75sBwxWoI5am6pP8f69fKoFJrWMj_wQyTpLh7sNK0jXjKs2tfczkgZwUwv5kki3ckWBdB4IAteZWOeCqAMz_1T7XeCvQNRNGZjQd3QSD1w-5_eak0c8BKGB-NwwmMdLUH0X/s400/manta+night+swim.jpg" width="400"></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b> Lesson:</b> The scary mantas were actually quite amazing and docile. Despite my attractive plankton-colored skin and terrified screams, they did <i>not</i> eat me. For this I am grateful.</span><br>
<a href="http://agentfrey.blogspot.com/2011/06/10-things-that-happened-while-i-was-on.html#more">Read more »</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-287711282759629951.post-57724134410098281302011-05-21T19:30:00.000-07:002013-11-14T13:04:51.056-08:00How Not To Be A Soccer Mom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week was Audrey’s 1st kindergarten music performance...<i>Arrrrrgh</i>. As much as I want to be ‘into’ my children‘s school programs I’m just so over the stuffy, crowded gymnasium thing these days. Don’t get me wrong, <i>I mean</i>, I still gush watching my kids show off and all. That night was no exception, Audrey delivered as usual, animated as ever in her lavender chiffon dress and gaudy plastic hi-heels. You couldn’t miss her distinct bellow above all four combined classes of kindergartners. She was the one flailing her arms flashing her red food-color stained jazz hands at every inappropriate moment. Entertaining as it was, after fifteen years of these multi-annual school functions, I've become disenchanted.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once upon about seven years ago I used to be one of ‘those’ moms, <i>you know</i>, the kind that drives a mini van and chauffeurs her kids to soccer games. Except <i>I</i> rocked a station wagon and drove the runts to little league. For the better part of my first twelve years as a mom, I tried to replicate the domestic bliss I saw my peers institute within their families. As former wardrobe Gestapo and a recovering food Nazi that<i> lorded </i>over my children, <i>back in the day</i>, I had the stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) thing figured out. I had rule boards, chore charts, weekly menu plans, and our monthly budget on Excel spreadsheets. I rewarded the kids with gold stars and allowance and punished them with a wooden spoon and time-outs. I used a pay scale for good grades and packed their sack lunches with nutritious goodies and handwritten love notes. I taxied to piano, dance lessons and church twice a week and saw to it my bubbies had proper clothes and shoes for whatever or whomever needed impressing. Gathering the family at our table for four-course dinners every night was our mainstay. I did the whole T-ball, cub-scout routine, chaperoned field trips, hosted umpteen birthday parties, brought cupcakes to the kids’ classroom, <i>paid my dues</i> at Chucky Cheese, clocked serious hours at the park, on play dates and pulled through multiple slumber parties with vim and vigor. I even ran a small in-home baby daycare for extra cash. For social time, I sang in the church choir and hosted dinners for our small group <i>every</i> Friday night. By the time our fourth child was a year old, we had built and moved into our second home, sold the station wagon for an SUV and had very little debt. Call me Suzie or Martha, or Supermom, I was the shizzle. Go me!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then I got my real estate license. Shortly after that, tragedy struck my tight little ship and everything went to crap.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Funny thing how the twists and turns of life will do an overhaul on people. The demands of my new career coupled with having to deal with devastating loss, literally turned all of us into hamburger for a while. By the time little Audrey was born, she was welcomed into a completely remodeled family. Our oldest, Alley and Elih, moved out before she could remember they lived here. And after all the blood, sweat, tears, threats and ‘creative’ discipline we used on those two guinea pigs, they ended up being their own freewheeling selves <i>anyway</i>. Both of them were barely legal when they went in directions we didn’t anticipate and as gut wrenching as their autonomous decisions were,<i> it didn't kill us! </i> I think what surprised Jeff and I the <i>most</i> was how<i> little</i> we had to do with how <i>awesome</i> they actually turned out. Now they protest how 'unfair' it is the <i>other</i> kids don't have to suffer like <i>they</i> did...hee hee.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've since taken off my cape, hung the proverbial white flag from my front porch and chalked my efforts up to a lesson learned: <i>Don't pretend to be someone you're not, Lisa</i>. However, most of my SAHM friends still do stuff like home school, churn butter, can fish, scrapbook and make jam. They’re into fancy things like organics, gardening, and drinking raw milk. My SAHM's friends are still good influences on me. Some are so organized I have to bribe them with lattes to come over and fix my piles. Others have taught me how to pinch pennies hard enough to make Abe Lincoln cry. A couple of them go to the gym like it’s church and their dedication and unrelenting invites sometimes guilt me in to going with them. I've been tricked more than once into debasing myself during a hip-hop or cardio class that (<i>unbeknownst to me)</i> demanded my physical coordination. They <i>knew</i> balance and rhythm were not my thing! I'm convinced sometimes my friends set me up just to laugh at me. But in all fairness, these women are masters of their craft, <i>out of my league</i>, and I've never been able to attain their Utopian grasp on SAHMhood. Probably because I was trying too hard, but more probably because<i> </i>I <i>had</i> to try so hard<i>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i>The honest truth was, I just <i>didn't like</i> home economics. You never would have guessed it though, I didn't complain or drudge through the motions. I was grateful and am <i>still</i> grateful to be privileged to stay home with my babies. I just assumed the ‘fun’ of it would eventually kick in as I plowed the course. What I discovered on the course though, is that my favorite parts of parenting are the baby and teenage years, it's where I shine! But to my chagrin, Jeff turned out to be the better 'mom' to our offspring aged four to thirteen.<i> </i>So we’ve adjusted, exchanged some roles<i> </i>and the way<i> </i>I do<i> </i>SAHM stuff now looks nothing like my first twelve years of parenting. I don’t think that whipper-snapper was any ‘better’at it than I am today, we just don’t see eye to eye anymore. Now that I've raised two full-grown children and have three left in my nest, I’m sitting on a different branch of the tree with a broader perspective of how this mother hen thing works and I've become more confident, less persnickety, this is especially true when it comes to domestic engineering.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These days our 'other' kids eat one or maybe two-course meals at the kitchen counter, <i>with or without</i> their siblings. Their dad doesn't get off work until after seven and we don’t believe making them starve till he gets home is such a practical idea (<i>anymore)</i>. Once a week we have FFY for dinner, it means ‘fend for yourself.’ Frankly, I just don’t care if Audrey eats clam chowder for breakfast or has an occasional cup of coffee, she's six, she knows what she likes and if mashed potatoes make Jamey gag, I won’t make him eat them...not after watching more than one of my kids throw up on their plate. Some battles aren't worth winning. I’ve even become a fan of bribing the kids with soda and candy once in a while. Gone are the chore charts and menu plans, our kids consult a white board now. The rules are pretty general: <i><b>1.</b> Don't be an idiot. <b>2.</b> You get one (or three) warning(s). <b>3.</b> If I get quiet it means you're in deep ****. </i> The excel spreadsheets became obsolete by way of the pile of bills that linger on my desk. I allow the younger kids to ride their bikes to school now. In fact, I <i>made</i> Jared ride his bike to Karate lessons during his last two years until he retired a brown belt last summer. I've virtually eliminated spankings in favor of giving my children lots of liberty and gadgets. I let them have cell phones so I can track them on GPS and call them home or text them from the bathroom whenever I want something. It's like having room service. Toys make for much better persuasion when I threaten to snatch them from their sticky, clenched fingers. If they’re especially naughty I’ll just take their bedroom doors off the hinges or ground them from their favorite clothes. Their privacy and whatever they value is all fair game.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Perfection isn't the standard I aim to set any longer because sometimes I’m the jerk that has to apologize. I've decided it’s OK to let them see me trip once in a while. I’m more concerned about setting a good example, showing them what genuineness, integrity and living by faith looks like…which means <i>I've</i> got to behave and that’s a lot of pressure. So I've lowered the bar and given myself some grace. I let a lot of things go that I didn’t used to and changed my mind on just about every parenting philosophy I would at one time have vehemently defended. I've humbly learned <i>never to say never</i> and that having children is God's big scheme to teach us all, <i>kids and parents</i>, an unquantifiable lesson in people skills, forgiveness and tolerance. My priorities now are making sure I spend lots of one-on-one time with each child, whether that’s a trip to the grocery store or a getaway to somewhere on an airplane. After nineteen+ years of parenting I've come to grips with the reality that I live in the land of "everything nice I own gets broken, where ‘Nobody’ does it". I’d probably get a C+ if Mommery were graded. But all things considered, I like my life <i>better</i> this way. I like<i> me</i> better this way. And I’m enjoying my little people more than ever.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058601197807748377noreply@blogger.com6