tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5448417140528738552024-03-13T01:12:41.859-06:00LIFE AS AN ADVERBMore than you ever wanted to know about usBonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.comBlogger636125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-26872042703501845992017-08-18T08:54:00.000-06:002017-08-18T08:54:02.466-06:00It's a Small World After All<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
A few days ago I was chatting with a friend when her 12-year-old daughter chimed into our conversation with, "Mom, PLEASE have another baby! PLEASE!" And then, for the convincing cherry on top she added, "It's not that hard!"</div>
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We snorted. And laughed. And I thought to myself, yeah, it's basically Disneyland. Not hard at all.</div>
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But then it occurred to me, what if pregnancy *were* a trip through Disneyland?</div>
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You'd start at Snow White's Scary Adventure, where you'd pee on a stick and see those life-altering pink lines appear. This would be followed closely by a 24/7 spin on the teacups at Mad Tea Party (because apparently, the best way to grow an entire human is to regularly empty your stomach of anything nutritious). Then it's off to Splash Mountain where you will deal with a constant waterfall from your bladder for 40 weeks.</div>
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Eventually (hopefully) the nausea will abate to the extent that you'll want to devour everything in sight on Heimlich's Chew Chew Train. And then it's time to check out little Ariel's Undersea Adventure via ultrasound (Congratulations! You're having a mermaid!) and you'll feel the first little flutters and kicks that turn you into Alice in Wonderland.</div>
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But then -- Jumpin' Jellyfish! -- the baby gets bigger and uses your bladder as a trampoline. Your house turns into Toy Story Mania as you buy books and clothes and rattles and blankies. And Dumbo the "Waddling" Elephant meets Big Thunder Mountain Railroad as you wind your way to closing time.</div>
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Guardians of the Galaxy -- Mission BREAKOUT begins, followed closely by California Screamin'. (Epidural version: Soarin' Over California). And then the finale: Buzz Lightyear's Astro Blasters. And I do mean *Astro* Blasters.</div>
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You did it! Your screaming bundle of joy is here! Welcome to Monsters, Inc.! Don't forget to stop by the ever-enjoyable postpartum bodily fluids parade, Grizzly River Rapids, on your way to the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. (Seriously, blowouts, color, consistency. You'll cover it all. And get covered in all of it).</div>
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Hey, it turns out, having a baby really *is* like going to Disneyland! And it's just as expensive!</div>
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Who knew?</div>
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Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-42907307357832241332017-08-18T08:48:00.001-06:002017-08-18T08:48:24.218-06:00Of Sisters and Shoes*This post originally appeared on www.cocoonstories.com*<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixus1_xCX_Rm1F0pluk1qiZYsLalcbE2Kd1bE06b-_LuZgpAQ4j4dgzjWl3EKi42Xe_WSlROKg9xtYS66YlhqtErfw5eOTX3iFlGs80iQq68TO3OJn4VQ3Ovv4sywu-8yXVSzwehLxdte2/s1600/IMG_4042+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixus1_xCX_Rm1F0pluk1qiZYsLalcbE2Kd1bE06b-_LuZgpAQ4j4dgzjWl3EKi42Xe_WSlROKg9xtYS66YlhqtErfw5eOTX3iFlGs80iQq68TO3OJn4VQ3Ovv4sywu-8yXVSzwehLxdte2/s320/IMG_4042+%25281%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I've had a brand new pair of pink baby shoes sitting on my bathroom counter for a week now. I had decided it was time to go through my girl baby clothes and separate items for saving, donating, or passing on to friends when I came across these shoes. My daughter never wore them. They are still in the box. Not only could I pass them on to someone, I could gift them at a baby shower. They are just the kind of adorable thing that would be fun to watch an expectant mother unwrap and have the room dissolve into a chorus of "Awwww"s.</div>
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But eight days later they are still sitting there. Every time I inch toward them I find myself thinking, "Am I really ready to give these away?"</div>
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I have four beautiful children, but getting them here was a difficult and complex process that our fertility specialist forgot to fully explain. Oh, he mentioned the needles and the hormones and the surgeries, but he left out the part that it would be like ripping your heart out of your chest <i>Temple of Doom</i> style only to send it speeding along a rickety old track while some bad guy tries to smash it with a shovel. If it ends well you'll be left hanging off the edge of a cliff by your fingers. If it doesn't, it's hello crocodiles.</div>
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So believe me when I say that I understand what it means to be given the gift of a child. <i>Any</i> child. And I absolutely adore my sons and would not trade them for anything.</div>
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And yet...</div>
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With three sisters of my own, I can't help wishing that my daughter could also experience that blessing. Because there is just <i>something</i> about a sister. There's the understanding that you share over having been raised by the same mother. There are the genes that closely correlate to yours so that when your post-childbirth hormones go bananas, you can say, "Did you experience <i>the thing</i>, too? Please tell me you know what to do about <i>the thing</i>." There are the inside jokes, the understanding talks, and the all-important pact that if one of you ever falls into a coma, one of your sisters will be there to pluck those pesty black hairs out of your chin.<br />
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From the time she could talk -- and even with a twin brother as her constant companion -- my daughter was acutely aware of the absence of sisterhood in her home. When, at the age of four, she found out I was expecting my fourth baby, she was determined -- this baby was going to be a sister. My husband and I thought so too. Even after two ultrasounds showed otherwise, I still went into the delivery room unconvinced that the baby really was another boy.<br />
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He was. And although my daughter loved her baby brother instantly and with everything she had, she still wishes for a sister. <i>I</i> still wish for her to have a sister.<br />
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There will be those who will say that this kind of longing is ungrateful, but they are mistaken. Sadness over a lost dream doesn't equal ingratitude for your reality. And for me, part of moving on is accepting that it's possible to love what is <i>and</i> mourn what isn't. It's possible to fully embrace the children I have been given and accept that there will be an occasional twinge over dreams that never came to pass.<br />
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So I'll keep the shoes for now. Not as a symbol of what I am lacking, but as a reminder of what I have been given. And someday, when I pass those little pink sneakers on, I'll do so with gratitude for all of my miracle babies.<br />
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And gratitude for the lessons I learned from a little pink pair of shoes.</div>
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Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-68673428027367592992017-03-17T10:00:00.000-06:002017-03-17T10:20:17.793-06:00The Superior Woman Strikes AgainBy now you've seen the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mh4f9AYRCZY">viral video</a> of a father being interrupted in the middle of his live spot on BBC news when his children come bouncing into the room, followed closely by their mother skating in on her socks to save the day. It was adorable, hilarious, and incredibly relatable to anyone who has ever dealt with children on a regular basis.<br />
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Of course it also set off the internet judging panel, who immediately began their chorus of boos and hisses for everything from how the professor gently pushed his daughter back to the way his wife grabbed her children "too harshly" and hauled them out of the room. People also developed a magical, osmotic ability to instantly understand the dynamics of their relationship and analyze the woman's "obvious" fear, which is kind of funny considering half of these omniscients thought she was the nanny.<br />
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But I thought we'd been able to move past the criticism. <a href="http://people.com/human-interest/working-woman-would-handle-kids-crashing-live-bbc-interview/">Until this.</a><br />
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In the parody video, which was produced for a New Zealand comedy show, we see how a woman would have handled this situation. I'll give you a hint - without missing a beat she helps the child, continues the interview, and then multitasks her way through a series of increasingly ridiculous chores without so much as a single missed word. Then, in case we have forgotten how truly superior women are, we see her buffoon of a husband interrupt the interview with a question about a lost sock. Because men are just that dumb.<br />
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Ladies, this isn't funny. It's offensive!<br />
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I can tell you how this situation would have gone down if it were me who was live on the air, and it certainly wouldn't have involved calmly setting the child on my lap and continuing the interview as if nothing were amiss. I would have behaved EXACTLY as Professor Kelly did, only I would have forgotten everything I know about everything and would have been so rattled I would have accidentally clonked the kid in the face and then said a bad word on international television.<br />
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Watching a situation unfold on your iphone is entirely different than <i>being</i> in that situation. If you think you would have handled it seamlessly and not experienced any panic you are lying to yourself. This man's job and reputation were on the line. He wasn't just skyping with his mother. When you are participating in a LIVE international broadcast, you don't say, "Excuse me darling, Daddy's in the middle of something. Go find your mommy." You don't set her on your lap and give her the opportunity to smack the keys on the keyboard and disable your webcam or launch into a yelled rendition of the ABC song. You give her a little nudge and hope like heck that she will get out of the room before she ruins your career. <br />
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So forgive me if I can't see the funny in a woman basting a turkey while she's supposed to be live on the air.<br />
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It's just that turkeys dripping in female superiority aren't all that appetizing.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-69576908873648635672017-02-28T10:46:00.000-07:002017-02-28T10:46:23.243-07:00Toddler BingoToddlers are basically little bundles of sunshine. Evil dictator sunshine.<br />
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Sure, they laugh and they snuggle and they say adorable things like, "I Lub Oooo!" but THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU.<br />
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First one to Blackout earns 15 minutes in the bathroom by themselves.<br />
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<br />Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-7911501830412577622017-02-26T10:16:00.000-07:002017-02-26T13:46:34.170-07:00I Stand at the Door and Knock<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the most recent <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference?lang=eng">LDS General Conference</a>, Jeffrey R. Holland gave a <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2016/10/emissaries-to-the-church?lang=eng">talk</a> that began with the following story:</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not long ago a single sister, whom I will call Molly, came home from work only to find two inches (5 cm) of water covering her entire basement floor. Immediately she realized that her neighbors, with whom she shared drainage lines, must have done an inordinate amount of laundry and bathing because she got the backed-up water.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">After Molly called a friend to come and help, the two began bailing and mopping. Just then the doorbell rang. Her friend cried out, “It’s your home teachers!”</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Molly laughed. “It <span style="box-sizing: border-box;">is </span>the last day of the month,” she replied, “but I can assure you it is <span style="box-sizing: border-box;">not</span> my home teachers.”</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">With bare feet, wet trousers, hair up in a bandana, and a very fashionable pair of latex gloves, Molly made her way to the door. But her stark appearance did not compare with the stark sight standing before her eyes. It <span style="box-sizing: border-box;">was</span> her home teachers!</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You could have knocked me over with a plumber’s friend!” she later told me. “This was a home teaching miracle—the kind the Brethren share in general conference talks!” She went on: “But just as I was trying to decide whether to give them a kiss or hand them a mop, they said, ‘Oh, Molly, we are sorry. We can see you are busy. We don’t want to intrude; we’ll come another time.’ And they were gone.”</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Who was it?” her friend called out from the basement.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I wanted to say, ‘It certainly wasn’t the Three Nephites,’” Molly admitted, “but I restrained myself and said very calmly, ‘It was my home teachers, but they felt this was not an opportune time to leave their message.’”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, I love me some Elder Holland, but I HATE this story. I hate it so much I kind of want to beat it up with a plunger.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">No, it doesn't upset me that Molly's home teachers left without helping her. What upsets me is that they left because <i>Molly didn't tell them she needed help</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever the reason for their arrival, Molly's home teachers were literally ringing her doorbell right as her basement was turning into a swimming pool. Imagine if she had opened the door, seen them standing there, and then, before they could say so much as "Hello" she said, "I'm so glad you're here! My basement is flooding and I really need your help!" Ten bucks says these men would have gladly dropped everything they were doing for the rest of the evening and helped her with Operation Bail Out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, you can argue that she would have said something if they had given her an opening, but how often do we have someone standing there available to help us and then we let them leave without saying a word about our predicament?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not long ago I woke up with the thought that a friend of mine was struggling and needed help. I admit, I felt rather ridiculous texting, "Are you okay? Do you need help?" because I didn't know the reason why I was figuratively standing on her doorstep. She easily could have responded, "I'm fine. Thanks for asking!" and I would have moved on with my day. But she didn't. She <i>was </i>struggling and she told me so, and now I can help her because I'm aware of what is going on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Peter, when he started sinking, wasn't like, "It's okay, Lord! I'm good! I've got this!" He called out, "Lord, save me!" and Jesus <i>immediately</i> reached out his hand and caught him. (<a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/nt/matt/14.30-31?lang=eng#29">Matthew 14:30-31</a>) How many people do we have in our lives who are also ready to catch us if we will just <i>speak up</i> when we need help<i>?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To me, that is the lesson of this story. It's not just that we need to be more aware of the needs of others or that we need to be more prayerful and in tune (though we absolutely do). It's that when you need help, it's okay to speak up, cry out, and yell down the driveway if you have to. Help is always available. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All we need to do is ask.</span></div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-70644894590471765702017-01-02T18:10:00.001-07:002017-01-02T18:10:34.204-07:00Year in Review<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Another year has passed, and it’s
time for the 2016 Overly Family Rundown:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">JANUARY:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> The year started off with
a bang known as “The Great Viral Adventure.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’d tell you about it, but the records of our experience are in a
biohazard bag stowed safely away in the bowels of the CDC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s just say that Disneyland is a lot less
fun with three different illnesses raging through -- and out of -- the family (if
you know what I mean).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">FEBRUARY: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With three birthdays within six days of each
other, the transition from January to February is basically the Cake Olympics
at our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Matthew, who turned six on
January 29<sup>th</sup>, was first out of the starting gate with an Oreo ice
cream cake, followed closely by his twin sister, Leah, who put in a great
performance with a pan of brownies topped by chocolate chip cookie dough
frosting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coming in last was Jonathan on
February 4th, who celebrated his first Cake Olympics with a traditional
chocolate cake, earning solid 9.5s from the judges for his forkless eating
technique.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">MARCH:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Jonathan learned how to open
doors, splash in toilets, and use the toilet plunger as a sword.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, Bonnie dusted off her straitjacket
(well-worn from the twins’ toddler days) and put the toilet plunger under lock
and key. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And sprayed disinfectant all
over everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">APRIL:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Matthew lost his two front teeth, Michael tried to harness the powers of
the Dark Side to ride to victory at the Pinewood Derby with his Darth Vader car
(Lesson: Evil may put in a good showing, but never wins in the end), and soccer
season started for the boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>David
finished up his spring busy season at (company), and everyone rejoiced in
having their dad back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">MAY:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Matthew presented his mom with a fill-in-the-blank Mother’s Day card which
said, “My mother is <u>921</u> pounds and <u>30</u> feet tall.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a related note, Bonnie decided to turn
down a job offer to moonlight as King Kong on account of the extensive climbing
requirements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leah performed flawlessly in
her end-of-year dance recital and everyone got incredibly lazy about all things
school-related.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Including the kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">JUNE:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After the previous travel disaster (see January), we decided to try a
California do-over and head to Oceanside for a week of family fun and
relaxation (because what could be more relaxing than taking a 16-month old
sand-eater to the beach and giving him ample opportunities to drown himself?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spent a day at SeaWorld, hit a bunch of
museums, and enjoyed boogie boarding and building sand castles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Best of all, not a single person barfed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got home just in time to celebrate our 15<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary by camping at the Overly family reunion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(As everyone knows, nothing says “romance”
more than tenting it with your in-laws, a toddler, and a couple of hole-in-the-ground
potties).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">JULY:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We deep cleaned the house room by room, hit the pool several times a
week, and enjoyed the McConkie family reunion in Brianhead, Utah, except for a
little hike we dubbed “Satan’s Slip ‘n Slide.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortunately, no one fell off a cliff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">AUGUST:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After an entire summer of the kids practicing to be lawyers (“I’M not
touching her, my SPOON is touching her!”) school finally started again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With three out of four kids in full-day
school (Michael in 4<sup>th</sup> grade and Matthew and Leah in 1<sup>st</sup>),
Bonnie finally had time to get to her to-do list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Sit on the couch in silence while Jonathan
naps?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eat a brownie without having to share?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Check.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>David’s summer busy season was a little more mild than usual, which was
awesome because it meant he could come home for dinner occasionally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">SEPTEMBER:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything started again – “forgetting” to
set alarm clocks, soccer, dance, scouts, avoiding piano practice, whining about
homework…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To get her away from it all, David
sent Bonnie to New York City on a surprise getaway with her sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(#McSistersEatManhattan)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she was gone he not only played Super
Dad at home, but, with a little help from Grandpa and his tools, installed bead
board on the living room walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Husband. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">OCTOBER:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Halloween the kids collected so much candy
that we should have emergency-sugar food storage until 2035.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Notice I say “should” have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In reality, we expect it to last till about
next Tuesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(We regret nothing).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">NOVEMBER:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The long-awaited day arrived and David
finally moved to his company’s downtown office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is loving the change and grateful for the shorter commute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus it’s just down the block from the new
Eccles Theater, so we had to take advantage of his conveniently located parking
pass and get season tickets to their Broadway series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(We wouldn’t want a perfectly usable parking
pass to go to waste…)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">DECEMBER:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With three kids in the French immersion
program we’ve had a lot of Christmas carols being sung en francais around
here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael turned 10 at the beginning
of the month, and the kids are all counting down the days till Christmas,
wishing for more snow, and punching each other in the arm occasionally just to
keep things real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We are so grateful to know you
and hope you have a wonderful Christmas and Happy New Year!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Love, The Overlys<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-70348592669554463972016-11-09T10:50:00.000-07:002016-11-10T13:05:35.885-07:00The Kindness Challenge<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The presidential election has been decided, and Donald Trump has been declared the winner. I never thought I would be typing those words, but there they are. In actual letters. On my actual computer screen. (A friend of mine summed up the situation best when he quoted the immortal words of Clark Griswold: "If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn't be more surprised than I am right now.")</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But if this election has taught me anything, it's this: Words have power. For good or evil, they have power. Which means that <i>I</i> have power. And I'm going to use it for good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As Thomas S. Monson said, "Life is perfect for none of us. Rather than being judgmental and critical of each other, may we have the pure love of Christ for our fellow travelers in this journey through life. May we recognize that each one is doing her best to deal with the challenges which come her way, and may we strive to do <i>our</i> best to help out."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We need to choose kindness over judgment. Compassion over indifference. Love over anger and understanding over hate. We need to recognize that none of us can truly know what's in another's heart, and that we should not speak of their decisions as though we do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We need to make America kind again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Want to join me? Here's the challenge:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For the next two weeks until Thanksgiving, act on the good. When you have a kind thought about someone, say something to them. When a friend needs help, do something for them. When a stranger needs their grocery cart taken back to the stall, take it back for them. Make a phone call, write a thank you note, and let someone merge in front of you. In the words of Camilla Kimball, "Never suppress a generous thought."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the flip side, if you have an uncharitable or unkind thought about someone -- whether it's their political views, their life choices, or their personality quirks that are using your nerves as a banjo -- keep it to yourself. Don't add to the pile when others are throwing stones; only add to the good.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;">As Dieter F. Uchtdorf said, "As we extend our hands and hearts toward others in Christlike love, something wonderful happens to us. Our own spirits become healed, more refined, and stronger. We become happier, more peaceful, and more receptive to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit." </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">If we want healing, this is where we will find it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Two weeks of kindness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who's in?</span></div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-75266367386599044992016-10-03T13:11:00.000-06:002016-10-03T13:11:06.158-06:00Kindness For PresidentYou might have noticed by now that it's an election year. If, by the grace of God you forget this fact for three blissful seconds, don't worry... Facebook will remind you.<br />
<br />
The choices -- according to an informal poll of my newsfeed -- are your drunk uncle Donald, who got his start in politics when he saw that the Misogynist Party was not properly represented (votes for boobs!... I mean women!) and career criminal Hillary McMob Boss. If you really want to flush America down the toilet, you can "throw away your vote" by backing Gary "Weed for Aleppo" Johnson or Evan "San Dimas High School Football Rules!" McMullin, who threw his hat in the ring for Junior Class President and accidentally ended up on the presidential ballot.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
The point is, there's a lot of name calling going on. A LOT of name calling. Like, <i>if my Facebook feed were my children, they would all get sent to their rooms for approximately 365 years</i> level of name calling. Which is decidedly uncool. I mean, if you can't support your candidate without saying "All [other candidate's] supporters deserve to be slowly devoured by flesh eating bacteria" then there is something very, very wrong with you.<br />
<br />
So I'll let you in on a little secret. Ready...? <i>I don't care</i> which candidate you support in the election. Like, not even a little. You know what I care about?<br />
<br />
What kind of person you are.<br />
<br />
Are you compassionate? Are you kind? Do you try to understand where others are coming from? When someone's views conflict with your own, do you malign their character and insult their intelligence? Or do you listen and consider and learn?<br />
<br />
The fact is that there are good people who support Clinton and there are good people who support Trump. And no matter which candidate you vote for, we can all be friends. We can all choose kindness. We can all choose to listen. We can all choose to love and to help and uplift.<br />
<br />
So let's throw away the pitchforks. Choose kindness.<br />
<br />
It wins every time.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-10403945293872083142016-09-12T14:51:00.000-06:002016-09-12T14:51:04.470-06:00Anxiety and a Telephone Walked Into a Bar...I don't like making phone calls. I don't like thinking about making phone calls. I don't like answering the phone, listening to my voicemail, or calling people back. There are only a handful of people on this planet that I will regularly answer the phone for -- my husband, my sisters, my mom, and my friend, Kristin. If you are not one of those people and you are trying to get ahold of me, I'm sorry, I'm hiding in my bed recovering from the shock of your calling me WITHOUT ANY WARNING and scaring the bejeebers out of me.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not that I'm a wimp. It's just that only hateful, horrible people still use phone calls to communicate. (Kidding! Kidding! Sort of...)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So you can imagine how being a parent and calling doctors and dentists and schools because my kids "can't do it themselves" (gosh, Jonathan, you're 19 months old! Make your own appointment!) gives me anxiety comparable to what a normal person might experience if they were about to have their head chopped off with a sword. Because of that, I only make these phone calls when I really need to. The problem is, I never know when I really need to.<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For example:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Once Michael was running a fever on and off and complaining about his throat hurting for several days. I called the doctor and arrived for the appointment, whereupon Michael's symptoms magically disappeared as soon as we stepped over the threshold of the waiting room and I got to sit there feeling stupid while the doctor looked him over and pronounced him "perfectly fine."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The next time Michael had similar symptoms I thought, it's not that bad. I don't need to call the doctor. And then he developed a mysterious rash all over his body, so I made an appointment and the doctor said, "He has scarlet fever! Why didn't you bring him in three days ago??"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sigh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But seriously, you send your kid to school with an upset stomach and he vomits all over his desk. You keep the same kid home and he's bouncing off the walls three minutes after the tardy bell rings. No matter what, there will be phone calls. And no matter what, you'll be wrong.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which is why I think the entire world should operate solely by text and email. Communication in loco phonentis. Who's with me?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
If you're with me, please send me a text.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Only hateful people make phone calls.</div>
</div>
</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-28088895207574693372016-08-18T15:42:00.000-06:002016-08-18T19:26:26.075-06:00Olympics Bingo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
After watching the women of Team USA spend their entire pursuit of Olympic Beach Volleyball glory picking their swimsuits out of their butt cracks, I thought, "This should be a drinking game!" ("Kerri Walsh-Jennings saves it! And pauses once again to stop her bikini from performing a colonoscopy!"...)</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I don't drink. So I made Olympics Bingo instead.</div>
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You're welcome.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_ADvvH0lMWCpPSSzjQzWMExzyrGPtPSa6-tu763jgpM_KvvDFTFeQJrKwZLU91g60GCPE_reg_RsboBu5jIGWUkHRNAmDeVmdyxwivkk3W28xUaxoTXsVRP0dDvBl1De-mF4SG01BEYF/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn_ADvvH0lMWCpPSSzjQzWMExzyrGPtPSa6-tu763jgpM_KvvDFTFeQJrKwZLU91g60GCPE_reg_RsboBu5jIGWUkHRNAmDeVmdyxwivkk3W28xUaxoTXsVRP0dDvBl1De-mF4SG01BEYF/s400/FullSizeRender+%252814%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-84724148493042027762016-08-02T14:53:00.000-06:002016-08-02T17:47:58.096-06:00Picture PerfectI keep getting tagged on Facebook in those love-your-spouse-rah-rah-marriage things. Which is awesome because I love my spouse and I love marriage and I especially love snorting my way through everyone's photographic evidence of Aquanet and wedding dresses with shoulder pads. (I mean, how is it that nobody in the eighties looked in the mirror and thought, good heavens, WE SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS?)<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
Marriage is awesome! And my husband is particularly awesome! But we aren't perfect people and our marriage takes work. Which is why this is my all-time-favorite photo of the two of us together: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-OBpDd-uhSYJnk3q0KyQT_Lxjn6hjLglgaBBHeTnz2x9flepwCKVmXPVkiANnQ2FaCCeWSuZg_tWT9QHjsy-Lh3KrxzX3tw4QzIaZtR0ow67a-fEaUrG31K56eNks-kturdcd8XIjcVP/s1600/davidbonniepic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-OBpDd-uhSYJnk3q0KyQT_Lxjn6hjLglgaBBHeTnz2x9flepwCKVmXPVkiANnQ2FaCCeWSuZg_tWT9QHjsy-Lh3KrxzX3tw4QzIaZtR0ow67a-fEaUrG31K56eNks-kturdcd8XIjcVP/s320/davidbonniepic.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Awww. Isn't that adorable? </div>
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<br /></div>
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But the reason it's my favorite picture isn't because of what you <i>can </i>see, it's because of what you <i>can't</i> see.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
If you could slip through the camera lens into this memory, you'd see my 19-month-old twins screaming and crying as they tried to climb up my legs. You'd see a four-year-old dumping an entire bottle of water inside my diaper bag as he searched for a fruit snack. You'd see that it was a cold day in October and that my pants were covered in snot because both babies had bad colds and had been using my legs as a kleenex for the entire photoshoot. You'd see that the reason we were laughing is because there is nothing less romantic than two screaming toddlers trying to claw their way up your thighs as a photographer says things like, "Look like you love you each other!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But in this picture you see none of that. You don't even see how red my nose was from the chilly temperatures, thanks to a quick switch from color to sepia tones. What you see is only <i>part</i> of the story, captured from only <i>one</i> angle. And isn't that the case with all of our marriages? We have perfect moments, and perfect snapshots, and we tend to share only those perfect portions of our lives with others. But what we share is never the whole picture.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And the whole of this picture is what makes me love it. Knowing what we've worked for and been through and survived and that right there in the center of our family's little universe my husband and I will be laughing and crying and sticking it out together for the rest of eternity. Because family IS the whole picture.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Imperfect parts and all.</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-58561533742700975542016-05-17T16:02:00.000-06:002016-05-17T16:02:39.945-06:00The Church of the Holy Toddler of TerrorChurch is at 1:00. I have a toddler. Combining these two things is basically like taking a jar of highly unstable anti-matter out for a game of kickball and hoping it won't break open and destroy the known universe.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
LDS <a href="https://www.mormon.org/">(Mormon)</a> congregations are divided by geographical boundaries, and are assigned a meeting time that rotates yearly. In our meetinghouse, one year you have meetings at 9:00, the next at 11:00, and the next at 1:00. In our case, due to our large size (which necessitates the use of every single classroom in the building), we are stuck on a permanent hell-cycle of 1:00 church for the foreseeable future. </div>
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Huzzah.</div>
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Okay, I love church. I really do. It's where I need to be every Sunday, and it's where my kids need to be -- even the one who has to miss his nap. I have no doubts about this, which is why I go. The blessings of church attendance are real, and the gospel is true, even if you don't get to hear a word that is said. But have you been to church with a toddler in the middle of his regular nap time? Because it's about the only thing that makes me consider taking up drinking.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Every week is mostly the same. The only thing that really varies is how much Excedrin I need after the meetings are over. Every once in awhile I find myself hearing one sentence of what must be a really good lesson and thinking, "Wow, no one is bothering me.... INCOMING!" and then I have to duck as my toddler tries to whack me in the head with his sippy cup.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Last Sunday I pulled a book out of The Church Bag (what goes in The Church Bag stays in The Church Bag until the following Sunday), opened it, and my oldest son looked at it quizzically and then slowly peeled back what appeared to be a perfectly preserved specimen of a fruit snack from the cenozoic era. Approximate quiet time afforded by said book: 30 seconds.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Each week is a variation on how long The Church Bag can ensure quietness. You pull out another book or quiet toy, but the toddler rejects it by throwing it at the person in front of him. You apologize. Then three seconds later you apologize for the fact that he just pulled that person's hair. He tries to escape down the aisle and you block his exit only to have him crumble to the ground and shriek like he is being devoured by piranhas. You hand him a piece of cheese to shut him up, but remember too late that breaking a whole food item into pieces causes the food to undergo a chemical change that makes it taste like cat pee. Your toddler reacts accordingly. Your other kids pick this moment to renew their fight over who gets to sit on Mom's lap.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Just before the passing of the sacrament, your toddler develops a strange sensation behind his eyelids that causes him to whine and claw at his eyeballs like someone filled them with flesh-eating sand. He wipes a combo of snot and graham cracker crumbs up the entire length of your navy blue sleeve. Gah, why did you wear navy blue? That's a rookie mistake. He squawks like a dying parrot. Your husband takes him out in the hall. Your other kids dive onto your now-vacant lap like it's the gold medal in an Olympic sport.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your husband returns ten minutes later with a sleeping toddler drooling down the arm of his suit coat. You think, "I should really get that suit coat dry cleaned." You touch it up with a wipie instead. Your toddler snoozes till the closing hymn and then wakes up with a disease I like to call Angry Waking Syndrome. <br />
<br />
You hand him a toy, he yells. You hand him some food, he tries to slap it out of your hand. You open a book, he throws it. You take him out in the hall and he falls to the floor and wails. Even if a miracle occurs and he decides he's happy, he's happy at too loud of a level. Minus the short sleeping period on Dad's shoulder, you repeat this scenario for the next two hours. You consider it a win if nobody hauls you out in a straitjacket by the end. You mark another survival X on your calendar -- THREE MORE MONTHS TILL HE IS OLD ENOUGH FOR NURSERY CLASS.<br />
<br />
It's hard. And it's flat-out awful sometimes. I mean, the highlight of my meetings this past Sunday was when Jonathan gagged himself on a piece of cheese stick and I had to run him out of Relief Society just in time to catch the first heave of his stomach in my hands as he threw up all over the floor. Bless those beautiful ladies who came running out after me and used their powers of helpfulness to grab my diaper bag and paper towels, offer support, and help me CLEAN VOMIT OUT OF THE CARPET. (I think this act alone assures someone a place in the Celestial Kingdom. Bless you, Kim!) But I'll keep going. And I'll keep doing it. Because church on Sunday is where I need to be.<br />
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Straitjacket and all.</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-42695519006187255772016-04-29T13:29:00.000-06:002016-04-29T13:29:05.586-06:00Me, Myself, and WhineMeghann Foye, author of <i>Meternity</i> has something to say:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nypost.com/2016/04/28/i-want-all-the-perks-of-maternity-leave-without-having-any-kids/?utm_campaign=SocialFlow&utm_source=NYPFacebook&utm_medium=SocialFlow">"I want all the perks of maternity leave -- without having any kids."</a><br />
<br />
She is advocating a "meternity" leave ("meternity" as in "me me me") to balance out the apparent unfairness of women leaving the office to take advantage of that "socially mandated time and space for self-reflection" we call "maternity leave." <br />
<br />
Hahahahaha! This is a joke, right? Really, it must be. Because, let's clear up a few things. The "perks" of maternity leave are as follows:<br />
<br />
*Not having the extra burden of clocking in at the office added to the ten thousand other responsibilities you now have<br />
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Now for the non-perks:<br />
<br />
*A human being making an excruciating exit of your body in one of two graceful ways: bulldozing its way out of your nether regions with all the tenderness of a mack truck, or being yanked unceremoniously through your sliced-in-half abdominal muscles. Take your pick.<br />
*The painful aftermath and recovery from said excruciating childbirth<br />
*A squalling, helpless infant who is completely dependent on you for EVERYTHING at every hour of the day<br />
*Minimal and constantly interrupted sleep<br />
*Bodily fluids everywhere (yours and the baby's)<br />
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Honestly, time for self-reflection is pretty hard to come by when you have a human piranha attached to your nipples 20 hours a day and when you are dealing with what looks and feels like the aftermath of Shark Week in your hospital-issue mesh panties.<br />
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You want this to be fair, do you, Ms. Foye? In that case you are going to need to set aside a significant amount of time in your "meternity" leave to get intimately acquainted with the following: Bleeding, swelling, stitches, hemorrhoids, stool softeners, bleeding, cracked nipples, hormonal upheaval, night sweats, more bleeding, mastitis, poop, vomit, and colic. You are not allowed to sleep more than two hours at a time, you still have to manage basic household tasks, and you must host family members and friends who want to see the Cute Little Sabbatical, even if you are not up for it.<br />
<br />
Sounds like a vacation to me.<br />
<br />
Look, I have no problem with Ms. Foye's argument that everyone can use an extended break from work now and then. What I have a problem with is her assumption that she is owed this break because women who have just grown and delivered new human beings to Planet Earth are getting an unfair perk by having time off to adjust and recover. Growing, birthing, and caring for a newborn is not the same as sitting by a pool enjoying introspective chill time as you contemplate your place in the universe. If you want a sabbatical, fine, but no one owes you one.<br />
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Least of all new mothers who already have enough to do.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-4228812572726678332016-04-28T10:32:00.000-06:002016-04-28T10:32:09.527-06:00Becoming A month or so ago I read <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/hysterectomy-grief/">this article</a> on Scary Mommy. I felt every word of it. Though I am not facing a hysterectomy, my husband and I consider our family of three sons and one daughter to be complete. And yet... it isn't complete. At least not for me.<br />
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You see, I have three sisters who are the most hilarious, fun, faithful, and kind women you could ever hope to meet. We share our lives with each other in one continuous text conversation that regularly causes me to cry with hilarity. I wish everyone could have sisters like them. Including my daughter.<br />
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But, she is the only girl. And she'll <i>be</i> the only girl. I know this, and I accept this, and yet, it's still hard.<br />
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So when I read through the dozens of comments trailing Scary Mommy's Facebook post, many of them searing and judgmental, I felt their impact deeply. "What are you complaining about? You have three sons!" said one woman. "You should be more grateful for what you have!" said another.<br />
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And I thought, how have we come to this? How can someone share the vulnerability of their deepest longings only to have their grief brushed aside as if it belongs in the trash bin? The fact is, the loss of a dream is still a loss. And no sadness is correctly judged by someone else's Pain Assessment Scale.<br />
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The <a href="https://www.mormon.org/beliefs/book-of-mormon">Book of Mormon</a> prophet, Alma, <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/mosiah/18.9?lang=eng#8">taught</a> that those who desired to join the church of Christ must be willing to bear each other's burdens, mourn with those who mourn, and comfort those who stand in need of comfort. No qualifiers. No exceptions. He didn't say to mourn only with those who, in your personal estimation, have good reason to mourn, or to comfort only those whose personal decisions you agree with or whom you consider deserving of your charity. Mourn with those who <i>mourn</i>. Comfort those who need <i>comfort</i>. Even if -- especially if -- you don't understand why they feel the way they do.<br />
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If years of infertility and grueling treatments taught me anything, it's that buried grief can turn in on itself and cause a person to grow bitter and cold. But grief that is allowed the sunlight of a listening ear can blossom into something beautiful, because grief that is allowed to <i>be</i> can <i>become. </i>It can transform into love and understanding. It can change into empathy and compassion. It can grow tall as a noble tree whose branches can provide shelter for the broken and aching hearts of others.<br />
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So <i>be</i> that listening ear. Be that kind word. Be that diamond of compassion glistening in the landfill of harsh internet judgment. Reach out to serve and love and support. We are all children of God, and we all deserve to feel His love. <br />
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No qualifiers, no exceptions.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-27575500425852825442016-02-24T10:32:00.000-07:002016-02-24T10:32:11.369-07:00Only the Thin Shall Pass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's swimsuit prep season. If you aren't hitting the gym hard, you're not going to be ready for summer!</div>
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Did you hear me? YOU WON'T BE READY! You'll look less-than-perfect in a swimsuit! LESS THAN PERFECT! IN A SWIMSUIT!</div>
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What greater embarrassment could there be??</div>
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Well, my name is Bonnie. My body has grown four human beings, I have stretch marks that could double as a topographical map of the Grand Canyon, and I currently wear a size 12. </div>
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I have a summer body.</div>
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Yep, you heard me. A summer body. A swimsuit-worthy, frolic-in-the-pool body. Would the internet agree? Of course not, but here's the thing:</div>
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I DON'T CARE.</div>
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In my day, I've seen too many beautiful women of all shapes and sizes sitting poolside in a full length cover-up because they think they are "too fat" to be seen in a swimsuit. As if the only woman worthy of a swimsuit is one who could grace the cover of Sports Illustrated in her spare time. As if a lack of bodily perfection cancels out the right to have fun. </div>
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That. Is. Madness!</div>
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Ladies, you already <i>have </i>a summer body. You already <i>are</i> swimsuit ready. Because putting on a swimsuit is not some kind of test where the only passing grade is between size 0 and 2. It's <i>wearing a swimsuit. </i>That's it. That's all. And if anyone tries to make you feel bad about that (yourself included) they are wrong. You hear me? WRONG.</div>
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A swimsuit is not a medal that you only get to wear once you've dedicated the proper amount of time to burpees and weight training. It's not a Certificate of Achievement you are granted once you've achieved the modern ideal for fitness. It's clothing to wear in the pool. The end. </div>
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You are more than numbers on a scale. You are more than inches around a waist. You are more than the sum of your workouts and you are more than a reflection in a mirror.</div>
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You already <i>have</i> a summer body.</div>
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So get up and make a splash!</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-43229110614835747992016-02-02T14:20:00.001-07:002016-02-02T14:20:29.867-07:00Mr. Toad's Wild Ride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week we went to Disneyland! And by "went" I mean "spent a significant amount of time sitting on benches" at Disneyland.<br />
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It was kind of a disaster. But what's that they say? It isn't a family vacation unless you come home with a laundry bag marked "biohazard"?<br />
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Seriously, the stomach flu is the worst! And that's not even taking into consideration the horrible sore throat illness that left Leah sobbing for more medicine every hour for nights on end and hammered Matthew into a fevered and wheezing mess for three days, or the cold that required me to use half a box of Puffs and gave my baby a fountain-nose and a fever of 103.<br />
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Basically our trip to Disneyland was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, complete with extended Hell sequence. But, we learned a few things:<br />
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-- When your husband has a two-bucket stomach flu that is so bad it overwhelms the poor toilet (who did nothing to deserve this), don't fret. If you saunter down to the front desk at 1 AM and ask for a plunger using the words "husband" and "violently ill", they won't ask any more questions.<br />
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-- If you are afflicted with the above-mentioned double decker flu, always take your barf bowl to the bathroom with you or you might end up vomiting into a towel, which you'll then have to wash out the best you can in the tub. And then you'll have to leave the maids a really big tip. And an Ebola suit for clean-up.<br />
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-- It turns out I can only handle one kid at a time if one of them is under the age of one and can't stop puking for five hours. That means the kid whose bad sore throat doesn't involve expelling any bodily fluids has to sit next to me and wail about me not loving her as much as I love the baby. Which brings me to some good news --<br />
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-- You can even get your baby to puke in a bowl by the 8th or 9th time it happens. Sure, there will be some casualties of blankies and jammies along the way, but a not-quite-one-year-old heaving into a bowl is quite a feat, people. *takes a bow*<br />
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-- Yelled prayers work. By the third sleepless night of a whole bunch of sick children and a baby who wouldn't stop crying, I yell-prayed that we were all exhausted and MY BABY HAD TO SLEEP! It totally worked! Jonathan stopped crying instantly and slept for a couple hours. Apparently my angry voice works better on God than it does on my children...<br />
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Thankfully Jonathan and David were the only ones to get smitten down by the Puking Illness of Doom, and even though I felt like I spent the next four days with my neck stretched out under the dangling blade of a guillotine, no one else barfed. Except for that kid whose mother moved my stroller from its guardianship spot for the parade and let him puke right behind it. (Normally I'm a pretty sympathetic person, but if you want to see my angry face, this situation will do it).<br />
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We did manage to have fun as well thanks to the makers of ibuprofen, immodium, and albuterol, a rented extra stroller, and the security of a full-body change of clothes for everyone and a ziploc bag in every pocket. (If you think Snow White's Scary Adventure was frightening before, just wait until you have a kid say, "Mom, my stomach hurts!" while you're waiting in line...)<br />
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Peace out, Mr. Toad. It's been real.<br />
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Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-60221187378045918302016-01-06T09:25:00.000-07:002016-01-06T14:53:55.868-07:00Do I Really Have to Say This?Yesterday morning I was cleaning my bathroom. Matthew and Leah were helping by wiping down the mirrors and Jonathan was wandering around sucking on various bath toys and hair clips and whatever else he could find. Everyone seemed decently occupied, so I slipped out for approximately 15 seconds to grab the broom and dustpan out of the kitchen pantry. When I returned, Matthew was sitting on the floor next to Jonathan, spraying Windex over his entire body.<br />
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"WHAT ARE YOU DOING???" I exclaimed. "DON'T SPRAY WINDEX ON THE BABY!!!"</div>
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And there it is. The sum of all parenting: Spending your entire life saying things that really shouldn't need saying.</div>
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I mean, Matthew is nearly six. He's been working with glass cleaner for awhile now and we've had plenty of discussions about cleaning products and how to use them safely, but apparently they haven't been sinking in. Or maybe it's just that you hand a kid a spray bottle and his brain turns off. (Even my very intelligent nine-year-old is like, ooooh, spray bottle! and immediately regresses to about age three.)</div>
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I put Jonathan in the tub and washed him off. He didn't seem bothered by the experience (he hadn't even been crying when I walked in the bathroom) and he loves any excuse for a bath, so I wasn't too concerned. Fast forward to dinner time when I was telling David what happened and Leah piped up, "Matthew sprayed it in Jonathan's mouth, too!" Well, that would have been good to know eight hours ago... But, on the plus side, Jonathan is still alive and happy, and besides, maybe it will cure his cold. (I watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" and know that Windex cures almost everything).</div>
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Yesterday also gave me an opportunity to share other important concepts with my kids, like "Stop using my arm as a kleenex!" "Don't play in the garbage can!" and "Don't put your hand in the toilet!" I also made breadsticks to go with our dinner of chef salad using this container of salt:</div>
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If that seems like a strange thing to have written on your salt container, you must not have a son who gets bored and starts sticking random things in little holes. When it originally happened I asked him why he'd done it. "I don't know," he said. "It was just there." Which is the same thing he said a few years ago when I discovered he'd been peeing in the bathroom garbage can. Apparently some things never change...</div>
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So now every time I make dinner I get excited wondering if <i>this</i> will be the time I win the salt lottery and get rewarded with a clear pushpin. It's practically like being on a gameshow! And the grand prize is not having to go on an agonizing trip to the emergency room with a pushpin stuck somewhere in your lower intestine.</div>
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Yeah, I could throw the salt away but I paid like $1.79 for it! That's two or three candy bars I can stash under the sink for when I'm "going to the bathroom." "Sorry kids, I'm going potty! I'll be out as soon as I'm done with this Snickers bar!"</div>
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"Don't spray the baby with Windex while I'm gone!"</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-74183297086574615972015-12-15T22:39:00.001-07:002015-12-15T22:39:30.444-07:00Wife Swap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My husband posted the most hilarious meme on Facebook today:</div>
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All of his friends were like, "Hahahaha! I know, right?!" which made me feel really great about myself. I mean, there's no self-esteem boost like having the man you married -- the man who is supposed to love and honor and care for you -- mock you in front of his friends.</div>
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Then it snowballed and his friends started posting their favorite memes, and everyone was laughing and giving each other virtual slaps on the back like "Yeah man, women are RIDICULOUS!" See for yourself:</div>
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What, you don't believe this actually happened? (Good, because my husband is the kindest man I know and would never do such a thing!) But, switch the word "wife" to "husband" (or "women" to "men") and you have yourself a regular day on Facebook. </div>
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All of these memes (which my sister helpfully modified for me) are real male-bashing memes that have been posted by my female friends and acquaintances. Memes that were laughed at and shared and snickered over by women who supposedly love their husbands.</div>
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"Oh, come on Bonnie," you say. "Can't you take a joke?" Well, when it comes to husband bashing, no, I can't. Because, as a wife, the number one person I should be defending is my husband. The number one person I should be loving is my husband. No one should show him more kindness than I do, and that includes when I talk about him on social media.</div>
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Is my husband perfect? Of course not, but neither am I! And he is an amazing person who does so many wonderful things! Why, when I love him so much, would I reduce him to some kind of male-buffoon caricature and mock him in front of my friends?</div>
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We all have faults and quirks and idiosyncrasies, and it's okay to see the humor in that. But, to paraphrase my sister, sometimes women focus so much on the fact that their husbands can't get their dirty clothes in the hamper that they forget to be grateful for the work their husbands do in providing clothes for the entire family.</div>
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It's time to move past the dirty laundry, ladies.</div>
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And it's time to stop hanging our husbands out to dry.</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-11085384567158874662015-12-02T07:26:00.000-07:002015-12-02T08:05:19.898-07:00Close Encounters of the Boob KindYears ago we were attending a family reunion at Aspen Grove, which is as close to camping as I ever like to get. You get a minimalist A-frame cabin and you have to walk to the bathroom BUT THERE IS A BATHROOM and it equipped with flushing toilets and hot showers. These are camping necessities, in my opinion. (I think if our ancestors knew that people actually left their homes for a little "vacation" in a tent and a stinkhole of an outhouse, they'd check us into a mental institution). <br />
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But I digress. Anyway, this particular year at Aspen Grove there was a nursing mother whom we dubbed "The Boob Lady." Why, you ask? Well, she was one of those women who felt the need to expose her entire breast while nursing, so you'd walk around a corner and suddenly be confronted with this lady's giant breast. It was like Captain Ahab meets the Great White Boob.</div>
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So when I saw <a href="http://www.people.com/article/mom-breastfeeding-uncovered-photo-viral">this article</a> pop up in my newsfeed yesterday, I was like, "Hey, it's The Boob Lady!" Now, is it actually the same lady? Probably not, but I can't be sure -- I have trouble remembering faces when someone's boobs are staring me in the face. (If I were male this would make me a chauvinist, but thankfully I'm a female so this just makes me human).</div>
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This New Boob Lady's breast feeding photo has gone viral, not because she's breast feeding, but because she is involved in a staredown with some prudish lady who feels that she is a little too exposed. (Such Puritanism! Pshaw!)</div>
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Now look, I have zero problem with this lady breast feeding her baby in a crowded restaurant. Zero. I don't even care if I see a little boob, or a lot of boob for that matter. If her sole purpose is to feed her baby, I don't care if she is entirely shirtless. Breasts are made for feeding babies. No big deal. </div>
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The problem is not that she is feeding her infant. The problem is her screw-you attitude and the here's-my-middle-finger staredown she's giving to the lady who feels uncomfortable guessing her cup size. Moms who just want to feed their babies? Fine. Moms who want to use their babies to act like jerks? Not fine.</div>
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Now, how do I know this is her attitude? Well, I'll let you in on a little breast feeding secret: With the shirt she is wearing, there is absolutely no reason whatsoever that she needs to pull it down from the top to feed her baby. NONE. I know this because I have breast fed four infants myself. And I currently have a baby who absolutely refuses to be covered while nursing -- he'll bat at the cover and wiggle and whine until I take it off, so I only use it in public these days to latch him on, and then I'll let him breathe. Do you want to see what it looks like while I'm nursing uncovered? Be ready because this is a close-up and it's really offensive:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QzYedATHi6fJj5IZFhzOaz1IIuUEzhbvjqNcwtIXyn2bFU0G_Ur6KlYG1luVgZDbm72nQOklruFcNFBa3frG0tp560lMaBlIjqiEMK8o_WmfHvRAzbsc5OK5rD5Y6QS643Uhk9vkZRxO/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QzYedATHi6fJj5IZFhzOaz1IIuUEzhbvjqNcwtIXyn2bFU0G_Ur6KlYG1luVgZDbm72nQOklruFcNFBa3frG0tp560lMaBlIjqiEMK8o_WmfHvRAzbsc5OK5rD5Y6QS643Uhk9vkZRxO/s320/FullSizeRender+%252811%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Awww, isn't that a sweet picture of a baby <strike>napping</strike> nursing? What's that? You couldn't tell the difference? Imagine that!</div>
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I'm not sure why it is that so many women feel the need to make a statement about breast feeding. You want to make an impact? Just freaking be kind already! Be polite! Recognize that the universe does not revolve around you or your baby, and that anything you can do to be a decent human being is a good thing. And then, if someone is a jerk to you about it, they are a jerk. But don't <i>you</i> be one. Rudeness begets rudeness. Kindness begets kindness. </div>
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There now, is that so hard?</div>
Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-9901664740354261412015-11-11T17:22:00.000-07:002015-11-12T08:48:43.345-07:00Signs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This afternoon, I was stopped at a stoplight behind a car with a yellow "Baby on Board" sign suction-cupped to their rear window. Confession: these signs used to annoy me. "Oh my gosh, who cares that you have a baby?!" I would think to myself every time I saw one. They were right up there with that perfect-looking stick figure family that made we want to get <a href="http://www.amazon.com/FIGURE-FAMILY-Delicious-Nobody-Sticker/dp/B00EI6CKVE">one of these</a> for my car window.<br />
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But that was before I learned the purpose for these signs -- in case of an accident, they are a signal to emergency responders that they should look for an infant in the back seat of the car. Not so annoying now, are they?<br />
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More information changed my perspective.<br />
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Not long ago I was sitting in a ward council (a group of male and female leaders in our local church congregation that meets together regularly to discuss the needs of the ward) and one man shared this thought that struck me deeply: "Imagine we are all climbing a rock wall," he said. "How often do we look at those who are struggling to climb next to us and say things like, 'What is wrong with you? Why aren't you climbing faster? How come you keep falling? Why can't you reach the next foothold? Why aren't you higher already?' when what we should be saying is, 'Here, let me help you! The next foothold is right there -- you can do it! Don't worry, I'll catch you! Take your time, I'll wait for you. It's okay, you can start over. I'm right behind you!'"<br />
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We never know what is going on in someone's life or in someone's heart. Even if we have walked a similar path, we haven't walked it in the same shoes. Imagine if we looked at others' signs and, instead of saying, "What is wrong with you?" or firmly declaring that we would never act that way or make those decisions, we said, "I'm here for you. I love you. Take my hand and I'll help you."<br />
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Anyone can read a yellow sign, but not everyone knows its true meaning. For example, how many of you thought this blog post was going to be a pregnancy announcement? (Be honest...) There is always more to the story than we can see.<br />
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Especially when we refuse to look beyond the first page.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-32736824076923297212015-07-13T13:48:00.000-06:002015-07-13T13:48:28.914-06:00Life's Little IndignitiesWomanhood is so undignified sometimes. I mean, the guys complain about the turn and cough thing, but seriously, fingers UP your nether regions? We'll see your inguinal hernia check and raise you an annual date with a speculum. To say nothing of motherhood, which basically takes every last shred of dignity you were holding onto and forces you to watch it burn. "We'll just do a quick check of your cervix today, Mrs. Overly. If we find your dignity up there we'll let you know..."<br />
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Even after you make it through the whole nine months of pregnancy and all the embarrassments of childbirth they <i>still</i> want to check <i>all of the things</i>. "I just need to take a look at your nipples." "I'm here to check your bleeding." "Any trouble with hemorrhoids?" and one of my personal favorites, "Have you had a bowel movement yet?" which is just a "polite" way of saying, "Have you pooped today?" and we all know that that is not a polite question at all. Luckily I read Miss Manners and she says it's perfectly okay to rebuff nosy strangers, which is is why I started responding, "It's kind of you to be so concerned about my private life..." followed by a withering glare. (Miss Manners says you can always end with a withering glare, as long as you say something polite first).<br />
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Fortunately, they do let you out of the hospital eventually. Unfortunately the indignities do not end there. Soon you find yourself sitting on a couch, hooked up to a machine that literally <i>milks you --</i> like, literally sucks milk from your body as if you were a Jersey cow. (Go on, try to feel dignified while doing this. I DARE YOU). Besides eating, your baby's only priority is to claim you as his mother by coating your entire wardrobe in his bodily fluids. ("She's <i>my</i> mom! Can't you see my vomit on her shoulder?") <br />
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Of course this is probably more dignified than when your baby hits the crawling age and decides that no matter what happens, <i>you must never go to the bathroom alone</i>. This phase lasts until he is at least eight, possibly longer. (I'm not sure because my oldest is eight. For all I know this phase will last until he's 25). Even when you lock yourself in he has to stand there with his toes under the door and ask for help with things that obviously can't be done while you are on the toilet. "Mom, can you make lunch?" "Will you get me a band-aid?" "Can you jump on the trampoline?"<br />
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Why yes, son, I <i>can</i> sit on the toilet and jump on the trampoline at the same time. I am just that amazing!<br />
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But, in spite of four kids who make it their daily mission to embarrass me, I thought I had successfully started the process of regaining my grip on dignity. Then I discovered that I had spent half the day with baby poop on the front of my pants and my shirt inside out. The next morning Leah made a valiant effort to permanently strip me of any last vestiges of dignity when she appeared with my cell phone while I was taking a shower. "What are you doing with my cell phone, Leah?" I asked.<br />
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"I'm taking pictures of you in the shower!" she answered cheerfully.<br />
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Oh GREAT. Naked pictures. Of me. One little button away from being posted to Facebook.<br />
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"PUT THE CELL PHONE DOWN RIGHT NOW AND BACK AWAY, LEAH."<br />
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"Why, Mom?"<br />
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Oh, I don't know. Maybe something about the fact that we don't take naked pictures of people. Or push one button and traumatize the entire internet. (I gave birth to twins, you guys. I have stretch marks that are basically canyons).<br />
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"Mom's dignity, Leah."<br />
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"What's dignity, Mom? How do you spell it?"<br />
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"C-L-O-T-H-E-S O-N."<br />
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Seriously, it's good advice for life.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-57558656973640188722015-06-29T11:18:00.000-06:002015-06-29T11:18:01.246-06:00Something to Stand ForAfter a weekend of watching my Facebook feed turn into a battle between Somewhere Over the Rainbow and the We-Think-We're-Righteous Brothers I feel the need to share some simple truths:<div>
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* No person has ever had their mind changed by a Facebook avatar. Not one. It is simply not possible to change someone's heart by using your profile picture or your status update to say I'M RIGHT AND YOU'RE WRONG.</div>
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* If you think that all of your friends share your view of the world, you don't know your friends. Name-calling and ascribing evil motives to anyone who disagrees with you damages people, and it damages your friends. It doesn't matter what side of an argument you are on; being right is never more important than being kind.</div>
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* It's more important for you to love people than to correct them. Correcting them is not your job. Loving them <i>is.</i></div>
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* The world will not end if it is deprived of your opinion on every issue.</div>
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* It is usually more important to have open ears than an open mouth.</div>
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* And finally, God loves all of His children. ALL of them. You should do the same. </div>
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There will never be a time when every person will agree on everything. We are different people with different backgrounds, different experiences, and different beliefs. But whether we are pro-life or pro-choice, pro-gay marriage or pro-traditional marriage, all of us can -- and should -- be one thing:</div>
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Pro-kindness.</div>
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Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-9647480717286684412015-06-03T09:35:00.000-06:002015-06-03T09:35:10.615-06:00Swearing InLooking back over my life I can divide it into distinct eras. There was the cute pinafore era, the perm-that-took-over-New-York era, the everything-that-happens-in-high-school-is-the-end-of-the-world-era... you get the drift. And then there was that era of self-righteousness that accompanied the BC years (Before Children). You know, the ones where you say things like, "When I have kids I will never let them [fill in the blank]."<br />
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Then you actually have kids and you're like, who was that ridiculous woman who said she would never let her children eat cereal for dinner? See, that's the great thing about parenting, you learn things. Mostly things about karma and what it means for something to bite you in the rear. <br />
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In the BC years of my life I thought I would never yell. And I definitely thought I would never swear if one of my children managed to disable the entire computer with one smack of a fist to the keyboard while I was trying to print out my notes for a Relief Society meeting. (Thank heavens for smart phones and google because the solution for that one happened to be holding down control, option, shift, down arrow, and clicking my mouse 3 times while saying "There's no place like the Apple Store," which is about as intuitive as learning Chinese). <br />
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When it comes to parenting, there will be a moment -- it may not come on day one, but it <i>will</i> come -- when you will want to swear like a sailor. And I say this as someone who never said anything worse than "Dang!" for the first 25 years of her life. (Except for that time when I was about four-years-old and one of my childhood friends graciously taught me how to say the F-word, but THAT WASN'T MY FAULT). <br />
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If you haven't had your parental "swearing in" yet, just wait until you're up for the fortieth time in one night and you accidentally bonk your finally-sleeping baby's head on the door frame. Not even Mormon swear words (Holy fetchin' filibuster!) are good enough for this situation, I'm telling you.<br />
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Not that I'm saying you should let the salty language fly (self-control, people!), but if you've ever been so tired that you put one of your twins back in his crib only to discover you just laid him right on top of his (formerly) sleeping sister, well...<br />
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Holy fetchin' filibuster, indeed.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-39911688773152743152015-05-05T09:30:00.000-06:002015-05-05T09:30:27.146-06:00AfterbirthIn case you haven't heard by now, The Duchess of Cambridge recently gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, after which she showed the world what all mothers look like ten hours after having their lady bits bulldozed by an eight pound bowling ball.<br />
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What, you didn't look like a TRESemme commercial? What is wrong with you?<br />
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Sure, Duchess Catherine had a team of blow dryers and mascara appliers to help her out, but judging by the comments attached to the "First Pictures!" news articles, all it takes to prance out of the hospital looking runway fresh in your size 4 pants is not being a lazy slob for your entire pregnancy. Seriously, if you would have just gotten off your fat behind and not indulged yourself with foods-with-actual-calories the entire pregnancy, childbirth would be a breeze.<br />
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Stitches or no stitches.<br />
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This makes me realize two things:<br />
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1. I should not read comments on news articles. Ever. <br />
2. I hate women.<br />
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Look, Duchess Kate was lovely. Like, better-than-I-will-ever-look lovely. And I am so happy that she was able to pull it off (Can you imagine the pressure of appearing before a billion flashbulbs when you feel like a Grizzly Bear attacked the entrance to what is now Niagara Falls?) But this has nothing to do with me, my life experience, or how I felt after childbirth. (Hint: less Fashion Week and more Seventh-Circle-of-Hell). I mean, if I had had to appear in public 10 hours after giving birth, I would have sent a selfie to the AP. Of the baby. ("Here she is, yo, peace out!")<br />
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But I simply cannot believe how incredibly judgmental women are when it comes to other women. Did you personally experience my pregnancy or give birth to my baby? Do you know exactly what it is like to inhabit my body or live my life? No? Then kindly zip it.<br />
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If you are tempted to make a judgy comment about another woman's body, pregnancy, or health habits, remember, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE HER. None. Your pregnancy may have been as easy as Venus standing on her clam shell. Your birth experience may have been as strenuous as blinking. But that is your experience and yours alone.<br />
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If being a woman has taught me anything, it's that we all need a lot more support than we let on. We all need someone to say, "You look beautiful" when we know darn well that we don't. We need someone to offer encouragement when we want to quit, and to say, "You are amazing!" when we are falling short. We beat ourselves up enough. We don't need other women to join in the fray. <br />
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Especially after the physical and emotional trauma that is childbirth.Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-544841714052873855.post-27106633033163818862015-04-07T15:10:00.000-06:002015-04-07T16:21:18.399-06:00Why You Should Have More Than One KidThis is Jonathan:<br />
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He is two months old and thinks sleep is best accomplished in ten minute stretches, which, coincidentally, is about the amount of time he goes between diaper fillings. (Seriously, we should buy stock in Huggies). Before he was born I thought I would have him on a nice schedule right off the bat (after all, he is my fourth kid... this isn't my first rodeo). But from the beginning he wouldn't sleep in his own bed for more than a few minutes at a time, and then there was the c-section to recover from, I got a cold, he got a cold, I got the stomach flu, he got RSV (it was like playing Hot Potato with diseases straight from the Mouth of Hell), and somewhere in there my resolve went out the window. I mean, it is one thing to say you'll make your baby sleep in his own bed, and it's another when he is screaming every ten minutes for the 30th night in a row and you're like OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY JUST GET IN MY BED AND SLEEP!!<br />
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And that is exactly why you should have more than one kid, if it is possible. Because every parent can benefit from the equal doses of relief and humility that stem from learning it's not you, it's <i>them</i>.<br />
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Jonathan's big sister, for example, earned her first angelic halo by sleeping through the night at four months without a single ounce of prodding from me. (She also didn't scream in the carseat like it was a Venus Fly Trap trying to devour her, which I've got to say is preferable to the current situation). Some kids are more mellow than others, and some kids are just better sleepers. It has nothing to do with how good their parents are.<br />
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Granted, you can (and should) teach your children to behave in certain ways. But let's be real here. For some kids, the teaching is easier. You can pat yourself on the back all you want when one of your children is doing well at something, but the fact is that some kids will potty-train at the age of two and some will resist all of your efforts until you decide to bag the whole thing and just let their college roommates train them. If I had one kid I could say "I'm such a great parent! I potty trained my two-year-old in one week!" But you have to shut your mouth once you have another kid who can't get past the idea that the world (including the living room carpet and the pantry) is his urinal.<br />
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Another example? My oldest son is very self-motivated and super organized. He cleans his room daily without my having to say a word. His younger brother, on the other hand... nothing short of standing at his door with a flame thrower will get him to clean his room. And by "clean" I mean dilly-dally his way through a process that usually consists of stuffing half his lego bin and seven pairs of dirty underwear under his dresser.<br />
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Does their behavior have anything to do with the way I parent? Not in the least. Both boys are required to clean their rooms daily, and both rooms are required to pass inspection. But for one kid it's a five minute process that he undertakes voluntarily. For the other it involves the above-mentioned flame thrower, a 3:1 ratio of whining to cleaning, and about fourteen inspections before the job is done satisfactorily.<br />
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This is also why you shouldn't get down on yourself as a parent. Each kid is easy in some ways and difficult in others. If you're trying your best to be a good parent, you're doing fine. Having more than one child helps you to recognize this fact and be more compassionate when other parents are struggling.<br />
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And besides, there is nothing cuter than siblings.<br />
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Bonniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10137880910015843613noreply@blogger.com0