tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54562570640600785662024-03-13T18:41:14.594-05:00Singin' in the KitchenWHEN I WAS LITTLE, MY MOM WOULD ALWAYS SING, AND HERE WE ARE, SINGIN' IN THE KITCHEN, UPON RETURNING HOME FROM AN OUTING. SHE SANG IT TO US BECAUSE HER DAD SANG IT TO HER WHEN SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL. MY BROTHERS AND I WOULD SING THAT CATCHY REFRAIN WITH HER AS WE PULLED INTO THE GARAGE. DON'T FORGET YOUR EVERYDAY MEMORIES. THEY ARE GIFTS YOU CAN KEEP FOREVER.Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-84824042111128861712009-03-01T22:59:00.004-06:002009-03-01T23:31:42.146-06:00Another Tug on My HeartstringsFor weeks, I have been longing to go to the Twin Cities for the day. We used to go at least once a month, just for fun, visiting a combination of two or three our favorite stops, like Trader Joe's, Costco, Lego Land, Groth Music, the Science Museum, the Children's Museum, the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and Krispy Kreme, before they shut down every donut shop within 300 miles of Mitchie.<br /><br /><br />Monday morning's visit won't be just for the fun of it, however. My Uncle Skip, my dad's little brother, is staying in the hospital after suffering a massive heart attack this past Friday night. Our families have not been close for many years, but he has always had a special place in my heart for as long as I can remember. When I was little, he teamed up with Santa at Christmas times to make the holidays extra real for me. One of my most cherished hardcovers, Where the Sidewalk Ends, bears an autograph even more valuable to me than if Shel Silverstein had signed the book himself: <span style="font-style: italic;">Merry Christmas Missy, 1983. Love, Santa and Uncle Skip. </span>My dad and Uncle Skip were business partners at the gas station for many years, following in the footsteps of their father. Because our families rarely see each other, I feel the need to give him a hug, tell him I love him, and remind him to hold fast to that strong, tenacious Fluegge spirit. Whenever we do cross paths at family functions, I look forward to his sparkling eyes and strong, familiar embrace.<br /><br /><br />I believe he is going to be okay. I don't believe in anything unless I feel *really* feel it in my heart. But I appreciate your prayers for God to heal his heart and I know his family would, too.Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-17699387778833710442009-02-04T19:06:00.003-06:002009-03-01T22:58:20.518-06:00My Kids Say the Funniest ThingsSpirited Conversation among Missy, Max, and a very tired, cranky, argumentative, but still sweet Mitchell at the dinner table: <br /><br /><br /><br />Mommy: Max, you've seen him like this before. Be extra patient. Mitch is so tired he can't even think straight. <br /><br /><br /><br />Mitchie: Yes I can! Two plus two is four. Ten plus ten is twenty. Forty plus forty is eighty. See?<br /><br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-28193677684244512752009-01-18T17:20:00.001-06:002009-01-18T17:26:45.759-06:00Holding On<div style="text-align: justify;">I wonder what happened to the winter months when I opened my baking cupboard almost every day to create something wholesome or sweet for my loved ones to eat: homemade braided bread, oatmeal cookies, kahlua cakes, whole wheat coffee cake. I wonder what happened to the Monday mornings when I woke up with a smile and thought, This could be the week when I get my house clean. I wonder what happened to the summer afternoons when I took naps with my sons, cuddled together in the humid warmth of the sun and their little bodies. I wonder what happened to the nights when the babies woke up for the fourth time, and I sleepwalked to the living room with their tiny bodies in my arms, their little lips wrapped around my breast for mother's milk and mother's love. I wonder what happened to the years when my boys wore baby-sized clothes and I dressed them in the pumpkin Halloween sleeper, the velvet midnight blue overalls, the white sweater baptism outfits. I wonder what happened to the day when I cried tears of joy as the orderly pushed me to the going-home exit of the hospital, with a real, breathing, beautiful baby boy in my arms. <br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I want to go door-to-door in my neighborhood, asking each mom if she feels like she is floating, treading water, or holding on to driftwood as the current of daily life pulls her under.<br /></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-33878393934790960392009-01-16T18:24:00.002-06:002009-01-16T18:29:58.656-06:00More Questions I Can't AnswerMitchie: Do people grow in Heaven?<br /><br /><br /><br />Mommy: (picking him up, giving him a hug) I don't know, Honey. I wonder if Gabriel grows up or stays just like a baby. (long pause as I think about the other babies and search for the right words) What do you think?<br /><br /><br /><br />Mitchell: No. Because I don't want people to make fun of me for wearing diapers in Heaven.<br /><br /><br /><br />And he's off to play again, with a fresh diaper on his five year-old bottom. <br /><br /><br /><br />These kind of conversations melt me and freak me out at the same time, and not because I am worried about Mitchell wearing diapers forever. That is the least of my worries.Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-67224528030157633692008-12-01T21:28:00.003-06:002008-12-06T11:36:44.191-06:00On the First Day of Advent<div align="justify">Last year I didn't get to live the holiday season the way I wanted to experience it. I was carrying a baby that was not meant to live in this world and my body was overridden with the naseua that is mislabeled as morning sickness. My Christmas tree didn't have a single ornament hanging from its branches. I didn't bake any holiday cookies. I didn't go Christmas shopping with my brothers and Ashley. I didn't attend the annual Christmas Carol Festival at my church.<br /><br /></div><p align="justify"><br /> </p><div align="justify">This holiday season brings its own challenges, but this December I want to experience Advent in all of its splendor. I want to play in the snow with my boys. I want to sled down the hill a dozen times before 2008 comes to a close. I want to attend church services and close my eyes and feel the music inside the part of me that I don't fully understand. I want to bake a dozen holiday recipes and wander through the mall with my family and hang a memory on every single branch of the pine-scented tree. I want to honor old traditions and make new ones. I want to sit in front of the Christmas tree, in front of my favorite chair and think about Mary must have felt, holding the newborn promised child in her arms, looking into her baby's eyes the way I did with my sons. I want Advent to be really special, the way God meant it to be.<br /><br /></div><p align="justify"><br /> </p><div align="justify">We began the first day of December with a Lego Advent calendar, which is not connected meaningfully to Jesus' birth, but it sure has meaning for Max and Mitchie. Their eyes sparkled as they decided who would open the first tiny door in the box containing twenty-four small Lego models. Max won the chance to open today's miniature holiday figure made of bricks, assuring Mitchell and me, "I counted it out in bed this morning. If I open the first one, Mitchell will get to do the last one. That's fair." Max opted to create his own figure out of the dozen small bricks that were inside the tiny bag. We bought the calendar at a post-holiday clearance sale at the Mall of America (which until earlier this year Max thought was actually known as Mall of Come-erica).<br /><br /></div><p align="justify"><br /> </p><div align="justify">The boys played outside for an hour this afternoon, with me watching carefully from the foyer as I swept the floor, put away music class instruments, threw at least six pairs of shoes in the closet, and sorted through accumulated mail, asking them every five minutes, "Are you sure you're staying warm?" I was too grateful for words to hear them playing so well together, building a snow fort, and not fighting. When they came inside, they opted for Brownie Bowls instead of the hot cocoa that never gets finished after the marshmallows have been cherry-picked out of the mug. Betty Crocker, bless your soul!<br /><br /></div><p align="justify"><br /> </p><div align="justify">Before dinner, Max and I hung ornaments on the tree that we had cut down the previous day at the tree farm. Mitchell informed us, "I'm not into decorating. I'm into playing," as he continued another chapter in the daily adventures he masterminds for his "guys." He did manage to hang a handful of ornaments in between battles and mini-dramas. Max and I finished the package of 150 hooks before Max's attention span also waned. The tree looks beautiful, with its twinkling miniature white lights and bubbling 1950's-style candles, but both of us long for the tree we had two years ago, which was the fattest -- we never use that word in our family -- Christmas tree I have EVER seen in my life. We searched the far corners of Choose and Cut Fraser Firs in hopes of finding a replica of that evergreen. This seven-and-a-half footer can't hold all of our mismatched ornaments and collected memories.<br /><br /></div><p align="justify"><br /> </p><div align="justify">Our Advent plans continued at bedtime, when we shared our evening devotion -- When Jesus Comes Again in the Clouds, based on several chapters from the book of Revelations; read a holiday story -- Trouble with Trolls by Jan Brett, one of our favorites -- and sang a Christmas song. Max picked his favorite holiday melody, Deck the Halls, and we sang two verses before the boys were ready to close their eyes.<br /></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-65673652000823422192008-10-24T09:27:00.005-05:002008-10-24T10:24:14.101-05:00Take a Picture ... It Will Last Longer<div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">For years, my brothers have teased me because I take so many pictures. When we were little, we walked around Lake Harriet in late spring in the Twin Cities, my parents leading the way, me scampering back and forth from snapshot to snapshot with my little Fisher-Price 110 camera, Danny dragging along rather unhappily, and Brian smiling good-naturedly in his stroller. Never mind the fact that Danny wanted to <em>turn around</em> <em>and go back the way we came </em>when we were a quarter mile away from the car, almost all the way around the lake. We could almost see the car from our vantage point near the bandstand. Never mind the fact that Brian was too little to even remember how many pictures I took. He would have gladly made funny faces for me for a hundred more photos.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">When we get together and reminisce about good times, the subject of Lake Harriet almost always comes into the conversation. For a couple of minutes we talk about Danny's illogical request to "turn around" and walk a few miles to the car instead of a few blocks, and then my brothers craftily switch the conversation to how many pictures I took of the dozens and dozens of ducklings we saw at the lake.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><em>"How could you take a whole roll of pictures of ducks?"</em> they exclaim.</p><p align="justify"><em>"Good thing you ran out of film!"</em> they continue. The teasing goes on and on.<br /><br />And the teasing continues at every birthday, holiday, or afternoon on the patio when we are together. <em>"Take a picture, it will last longer!"</em> they used to say. They don't say it anymore because they realized I would take another picture. I ignore almost all of it, because I love taking pictures and I know my photos are good. I love taking photographs of beautiful landscapes and postcard-perfect shots. I love my photograph of the Heidelberg castle in Germany, my shot of the valley of Big Sur National Forest, looking down from the summit at sunset, the picture I took in Yellowstone National Park of the terrace at Mammoth Hot Springs, the photo I snapped of authentic Mexico in Bucerias. I love the picture I took of the view of New Ulm from atop Herman the German because it reminds me of home, somehow painting a thousand memories into one four-by-six photo.<br /><br /><br />But the pictures I love the most are the ones I didn't plan to treasure. I have so many special pictures of everyday moments that maybe didn't seem special at the time. There is the impromptu photo I snapped of my sister-in-law Christine wearing her pink and purple feather boa when she was the guest of honor at the baby shower I hosted for her. I didn't know she may have already had kidney cancer then and we would have to say goodbye to her a year later. I can't find words to explain the emotions and the trueness of Christine that I captured in that moment.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">There is the picture of Grandma Aggie holding Mitchell, him clutching her thin, bony fingers the way he always loved to do, she smiling because she loved it, too. After that, he was too heavy for her to hold, and she died the next year.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">There is the picture of ten month-old Max covered in the orange and green of his chopped avacado and macaroni and cheese, sitting naked in his high chair except for a diaper, looking so tiny and lost in that chair that he couldn't even fit in today. At the time, I had thought, <em>How am I ever going to get this kid cleaned up?</em> but now I want that moment back. The picture is the next best thing.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">There is the picture of Max smiling joyfully at Epcot Center, holding a very expensive Mickey-Mouse shaped cookie, standing next to an elaborate fountain. The snapshot tells nothing of the fit he threw minutes earlier inside the crowded French bakery, kicking and screaming until I had to haul all forty pounds of him out the door. But I remember, because I have the picture. There is also the picture that Troy snapped of me breastfeeding Mitchell on the ground in the next-door England section of Epcot, back when Mitchell wanted to nurse anywhere and everywhere and all the time. Amazingly and sadly (especially if you know the extent of my extended breastfeeding experience) it's one of the only photos I have of me nursing my boys.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">There are the pictures from Mother's Day earlier this year, when Mitchell was having such a tantrum at the little Mexican restaurant we went to for dinner that I had to take him out to the car. The pictures I took of his silly, tired, not-in-control faces while we waited for Max and Troy have given me a hundred smiles in the months that followed that frustrating evening.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">I have hundreds of photographs that are just as special to me as this handful of memories. (Just ask my brothers. They will gladly tell you how many gigabytes of digital photos I have.)<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">You would think that by now I would catch all of those better-take-a-picture moments, after years of practice, but sometimes I still miss the biggies. Two days ago, we returned home after being out of the house for most of the day, and when we opened the front door, the air inside the house seemed colder than the air outdoors. I went upstairs to check the thermostat, and when I saw 64 degrees on the display, I knew it was time. My days of having no heating or cooling bills were over for at least six more months. I reminded the boys that the funny furnace smell would fill the house for a few minutes the first time we turned it on for the season. In winter, our thermostat does reach 64 many times, but that night, I needed to take the chill out of the house, especially since my kiddos don't stay covered at night.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">Later that evening, as the boys were getting ready for bed, Max jumped up and down and shouted, "Hey! It's the first day of turning on the furnace! Let's take a picture!"<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">He sounded *so* much like me in that moment.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">"A picture of what?" I asked with curiosity, ignoring my brothers' taunting voices that were getting louder in my head.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">"Of us standing next to the vent and shivering," Max said. I didn't take the picture -- but now I wish I would have. Somehow, his joy that evening turned out to be one of those everyday moments that I didn't really treasure until later.<br /><br /></p>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-42384851620622348232008-10-24T08:31:00.006-05:002008-10-24T10:30:55.105-05:00Summer is Not Gone<p align="justify">Every morning this week has been cold and gray, except for glorious Monday. <em>Glorious Monday </em>is sometimes at the top of my list of oxymorons. Normally, Mondays are my laundry days, my get-a-jump-on-school-for-the-week-days, my days when my expecations for myself are way too high to meet. Mondays are also my new "start the week right" day, and for three weeks now -- it takes 21 days for something good to become a habit! -- I have woke up before everyone else, tied on my battered running shoes, turned up my favorite workout music a little too loud, and made time for running that I thought I didn't have.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">This was my best Monday morning run yet. I covered less than two miles, but I had the same euphoric feeling as if I had run eight, and I was fast. But the good feeling didn't come from me or my running ability. It came from the gifts I opened on my run. I ran past a father running his little girl down their long driveway to hop on the bus, and I felt *truly grateful* to be able to homeschool my two sons. I ran past a neighbor who smiled warmly and waved to me as he was driving, and I felt *truly grateful* I am that he survived cancer. I ran past the last brilliant red leaves of sumac hanging delicately onto their branches, and I felt *truly grateful* to be able to see those deep colors in nature's palette and experience each season of the year in its Minnesotan extremes. I ran east just in time to see the sun rise, which seemed to happen in an instant, and I felt *truly grateful* for one more day in this challenging, beautiful world, a day that would be as unique as each new sunrise. I ran home, seeing the white of my breath and feeling the sweat on my skin, and I felt *truly grateful* to be so alive.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">I had my moment of summer before the real day even began.<br /><br /></p>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-26051670691571692842008-10-16T13:30:00.003-05:002008-10-16T14:11:48.955-05:00That Queasy Anxious Feeling<div align="justify">I came close to a real panic attack today. I have lived through panic attacks through loved ones, and I don't mean to joke about such a frightening experience. Honestly. But I'm only half-joking. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Yesterday Troy brought donuts home from this yummy little bakery in Austin. Only half a dozen, thank goodness. The boys screamed so loudly, you would have thought he gave them a million dollars. This bakery happens to bake my favorite kind of donut in the whole world, the one I really can't find anywhere else, now that Krispy Kreme no longer exists in Minnesota. I'm talking about a light, fluffy roll with fluffy white creme filling in the center. The Krispy Kreme version was glazed, and the rolls from this bakery are dusted with granulated sugar. Since Austin is an hour away, it's not like I can get another donut like that whenever I want. There is -- no, there was -- one of them left in the box. I really wanted it. I knew if I didn't eat it now, someone else was going to eat it, or it would be hard in the box in the morning, instead of soft and creamy like it was right at that moment. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I had finally decided that I was not going to eat it, No Matter What, and even though I felt empowered, I also felt pretty nervous. I didn't know when I would get my next donut fix. Bravely, I cut the donut in half and commanded the boys to eat it. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">As if that weren't enough to conquer emotionally -- because most of us know that food is twenty percent nutrition and eighty percent emotion -- Mitch picked that exact moment to ask me in his sweetest voice, "Mom, how much longer am I going to be a kid?"<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">That is the moment when I should have taken a deep cleansing breath, but instead, I couldn't breathe. First, no donut. Next, my kid, <em>my baby</em>, is reminding me that he is only going to be a kid for thirteen more years. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I looked at him, sitting in the booster chair that he doesn't really need anymore, wearing the size six diaper that he doesn't really need anymore either, but he loves them both with his whole being. His blue eyes were animated and his blonde curls, a little too long. He looked so little with no other clothes on, and I smiled when I saw the curve of his little shoulders and his round tummy. For a child who doesn't even weigh forty pounds, he was asking such a big boy question. He looked at me earnestly for my response. This week we have been working on recognizing numbers, putting them in order, reading a calendar, and adding, and I knew the mathematical answer was really important to him. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I answered in my teacher voice, which came out sounding kind of like the silly high voice I use in music class, "Well, I hope you stay a kid even when you are an adult."<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I knew that answer wasn't enough , so I added, in my normal voice, "But most people say you are an adult when you are eighteen, so ... that ... gives you ............. thirteen more years," pretending to do the math, when I was really just buying time to not have to say the number out loud. I could have won an Emmy for that one-liner, because my words were matter-of-fact, even casual, completely devoid of the sad, nervous feeling that was spreading to my fingertips, my voice, my lungs. I didn't want Mitch to feel the pressure of not growing up just to keep his mom happy. If he chooses to be childlike, curious, excited, spirited, imaginative, playful, and full of big dreams for his whole life, I want him to choose that because it feels so good, not because his mom can't imagine him being all grown up. I felt that panicky feeling inside of me again, inside my chest near my heart and lungs, but maybe it was really a moment of chaos in my soul. I've heard that people see the years of their life flash before them in moments of trouble. I was trying to see the years of my life that have not yet happened: days without bathtime fights as I wash the shampoo from his hair, nights when the only teeth I brush are my own, afternoons to read a grown-up book instead of a kids' chapter book. Those are the moments that many moms wait for, especially at the end of a long day, or in the middle of a tantrum at Target. Sometimes I do that, too. But mostly I want these days to last and last and they are going too fast.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">So suddenly the donut thing wasn't such a big deal anymore. </div><div align="justify"> </div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-3713312656042166922008-10-16T10:00:00.002-05:002008-10-16T10:08:53.040-05:00Summer, Wait! I'm Not Finished With You Yet!<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The summer of 2008 was the shortest, busiest, hardest summer of my life. But I'm so sad that it's over. <br /><br />I would wish it back just to experience another five-mile run, my body drenched in sweat and sunshine; another swim in the pool, every inch of me surrounded by water and the boys' laughter; another afternoon to pick tomatoes from the garden and eat them by the handful; another week of admiring my caramel-colored skin; another match on the tennis courts when it's really too hot out to play; another dinner of grilled farmer's market veggies and tri-tip; another pitcher of margaritas when it's perfectly acceptable to have a refill; another trip to the garden center to choose a dozen shades of beautiful to plant in the dirt; another impromptu stop at the ice cream shop, where six dollars buys two big smiles that will be etched in my memory forever, even though the ice cream disappeared in minutes. The tastes, the smells, the sensations of summer make every cell in my body feel truly alive. <br /><br />Last weekend the last hope of one more summer day was washed, dried, folded, and packed into a plastic storage bin. The Easy Set pool (the oxymoron of the year) is no longer an empty eyesore in the backyard, collecting bugs and leaves and bacteria. It is stowed indoors for use next summer, which will indeed come faster than any of us can believe, even thought sunshine-filled days off feel so far away today. Fifteen thousand gallons of water holds so much promise for me.<br /><br />Do you ever have a conversation that wasn't meant to be profound, but you aren't able to ever forget it? It was like that two summers ago when both of my beautiful grandmothers came to visit. I love them so much. My dad's mom and my mom's mom were born in the same year, 1926, within three weeks of each other. We were talking about how fast that summer had passed, and how in the world did Mitchell grow into a toddler so quickly, and Max into a boy? My grandmas couldn't believe how fast their days go, from morning until evening, as they search for time and energy to do tasks like getting the mail, going to the store, checkups at the doctor, washing a load of laundry, heating up some dinner.<br /><br />"Didn't you think life really sped up after we hit fifty?" one of them asked the other.<br /><br />"Oh, yes," the other one answered. "That's when time really started going fast."<br /><br />Fifty years old? That's when time really goes fast?! I trust my grandmas one hundred percent, and I award both of them honorary doctorates in life experience. Between the two of them, they have experienced every possible challenge in life as women, mothers, and wives. <br /><br />Does that mean that the days that disappear now are actually moving slowly? How do I resolve that with my summer that said goodbye to me while I was still welcoming it to my life, inviting it to come in a stay for awhile? Just stay for coffee and sit a spell. Please. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />So today I am not mourning the end of summer, like I did last weekend, but I am wondering how to create those moments that feel like summer in all of its glory. Two of the wisest women I know told me that no matter what the calendar says, no matter what the laws of physics say, no matter that we get an extra day every four years for leap year, that time is indeed going faster every day. <br /><br />I want one moment of summer every day.</span></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-41713300830461460632008-07-29T21:08:00.005-05:002008-07-29T21:18:47.140-05:00The Feel Good Story of the Summer<div align="justify">My friend Heidi recently sent me an email with a link to the story of Christian the Lion. You have to watch this! You will have tears in your eyes and a happy tightness in your throat, just like I did. God bless the animals and the people who care for them so lovingly!<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oiGKWoJi5qM&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oiGKWoJi5qM&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div align="justify">You can learn more about Christian and other wildlife kept in the wild at <a href="http://www.bornfree.org.uk/">www.bornfree.org.uk</a>.</div><div align="justify"> </div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-13172737136157207322008-07-23T22:31:00.002-05:002008-07-23T22:37:02.660-05:00The Political Alternative Rock Star<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=8,0,0,0" width="463" height="230" title="CampaignForLiberty.com"><param name="movie" value="http://rally.campaignforliberty.com/img/widgets/countdown.swf" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><embed src="http://rally.campaignforliberty.com/img/widgets/countdown.swf" quality="high" pluginspage="http://www.adobe.com/shockwave/download/download.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="463" height="230"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://www.rallyfortherepublic.com/">Click here</a> for more information about Ron Paul's Rally in Minnesota this Septmeber!Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-962556025622327522008-07-09T17:46:00.002-05:002008-07-09T17:51:21.895-05:00How to GrillMy brother Danny sent me this humorous e-mail today. Does it apply to your situation?<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">BBQ RULES<br /></div><div align="justify"><br />We are about to enter the summer and BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking activity, as it's the only type of cooking a 'real' man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved.<br /><br />When a man volunteers to do the BBQ the following chain of events are put into motion:<br /><br />(1) The woman buys the food.<br /></div>(2) The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and makes dessert.<br /><br />(3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand.<br /><br />Here comes the important part:<br /><br />(4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.<br /><br />(5) The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery.<br /><br />(6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he deals with the situation.<br /><br />(7)THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.<br /><br />(8) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins,sauces, and brings them to the table.<br /><br />(9) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes.<br /><br />And most important of all:<br /><br />(10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.<br /><br />(11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed her 'night off.' And, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no pleasing some women....<br />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-2487153939348845332008-07-06T22:01:00.010-05:002008-07-06T22:14:55.569-05:00Sunday in Pictures: Cloudy Days Aren't Always Gray<div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220104451361616994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_05q31Mqr2LJOQPoE1jpu2zVXnAnVH2LDNCfUpjQiMJUGq6OLcars5kArRc-JH-FNKF0wAmCRrvYSjUNeazzRiwqqMCqPt-2OSUlHiez1Bu3lLLTyJzvuZILogbJp-Khn24xHo5GufnfJ/s320/IMG_4876.JPG" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220104739218913874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXdRQA_p4WQubpif-TAMSOfwGWaALbAnAhK1XaA_JpLsko_wkO3TL45zq1XhmVT1eC-OQIPX2CLRbgVipw72njN6kb3vjCpu3J7MhdvazktMXTf_oyjNrwetdfDftdjDboeltubA0CN-z/s320/IMG_4866.JPG" border="0" /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8d7YNvcDQQb5Q_60Jjq-biuDvN47_gOt2bMSdgEDtjCcbO7Sy3LLnMDIkOh75jZZJbAZ_y0I_zOALhWAKGa_OdXc6vrwLGijjOnCZyXSLvlvWp0wFRgwINXmA8xhvvfqnDvbRZ6Sv2gJb/s1600-h/IMG_4869.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220104444710345922" style="DISPLAY: block; 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TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" alt="Posted by Picasa" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" align="middle" border="0" /></a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-61258518451919961942008-07-02T19:51:00.007-05:002008-07-02T23:09:04.645-05:00Welcome Home, Bangalore Blondes!<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">T</span>his morning we met Heather, Brian, Ella, Sacia, and Zachary at the Rochester International Airport! They arrived home from India, after nearly thirty hours of traveling, at 8:30. We joined Heather's family -- her parents John and Barb, sisters Katrinna and Jill, and nephew Erik -- for a very happy reunion. <br /><br /><br />I was so happy to see my dear friend Heather and her husband, but <span style="font-size:180%;">the highlight of the hugfest</span> for me was watching the kids reunite. Two-and-a-half year-old Zachary watched everyone with keen interest. Ella and Max rekindled their friendship in a matter of seconds. Mitchell was shy at first, hiding safely behind Max, and Sacia was equally hesitant, clinging to her mom, but I took both of them in my minvian (along with lots of luggage) and soon they were old friends again. <br /><br /><br />The drive to their house was so entertaining! <span style="font-size:180%;">I loved every noisy, hilarious second of the trip</span>, including the thirty times Sacia said, "That's not my house," as we drove past other houses toward her Minnesota home. Mitchie eagerly showed Sacia his collection of current treasures, including his plastic carnival fish, double-tanked in a vending machine case and a recycled plastic jar; he carries them everywhere in his "Puerto Vallarta Purse," the striped yellow bag he has loved since our trip to Mexico when he was two. He snapped photo after photo, most of them just to squeal at the sight of the flash, with his disposable camera. Mitchell and Sacia sang songs, had a screaming contest, and spent a great deal of time discussing "poop" and bottoms and talking gibberish. The yellow daisies Mitch gave Sacia were used as a weapon, and I couldn't have been happier to confiscate the flowers; <span style="font-size:180%;">seeing those two towheads together, laughing and smiling, filled my heart with joy</span>. It was as if they had just played together yesterday, instead of ten months ago. <br /><br /><br />"I call my dad a pig," Sacia informed Mitchell. <br /><br /><br />"Then I'll call my dad a pig, too," Mitchell replied, laughing hysterically. <br /><br /><br />"I bet your dad doesn't like that," I told Sacia. <span style="font-size:180%;">They both ignored me</span>. <br /><br /><br />"Let's scream," Sacia said. <br /><br><br />"Okay," said Mitch, and the screams began. Their pitches used to match perfectly, but this time, Sacia's voice was a little higher. <br /><br /><br />For the first time in months, we explored the beautiful backyard with our friends, shared sandwiches, and watched the kids play happily together. Zachary explored his house, discovering new toys around every corner. He must have felt like he was wandering through his own personal toy store. Sacia said, "I have to go to the bathroom. Where's the toilet?" Her dad jokingly pointed to the woods, and then she managed to find her way to the real bathroom. Sacia and Mitchell played together in her bedroom with bristle blocks and Disney dolls, while Max and Ella hung out like the big kids they have become. Max was so excited to give Ella the jeweled angel pin he had bought for her months ago.<br /><br /><br />Ella easily talked me into a game of house, this time a more grown-up version than our previous sessions: She was Ellen Cook ("You can call me Miss Cook"), a pilot, ballet dancer ("It's all in the hips"), singer ("I see my future in the clouds"), and composer ("I just thought of that song right now") with a heavy British accent that she had likely mastered from one or more friends at her interational school. Ella ... <em>ahem</em>, Miss Cook ... loved wearing my wedge sandals, and they fit her even better than when she left for India last summer. <br /><br /></div><div align="justify">When it was time for the three of us to head for home, Sacia called lovingly to Mitch, <span style="font-size:180%;">"Honey, I'll see you tomorrow and we can talk silly. I love you, Mitchell!" <span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span>"I love you, too,"</span> Mitchell called from the car. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218630725899235730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLLa2g30QDFPN76RAxBUTz7ztpp8r9grTRBJvH00IDLsamOoWF1fJUyx9ayTKJScLBd5t3mGL3UA19D535RdjbBFuRZOJr64eVd83APyVE0uS8bdGSpN6aBOQKZublK-9iyro0UnOuE5Qa/s320/IMG_4620.JPG" border="0" /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLChScDLKGUUuLAAwlILP3i31PUlRRrgr6uBWUvp9K6-M-Ra-DaLLEaNlfAHGwtUCZPTFkRzDkLGqn04-5vmh2B026r-davG7wpJeHXYxOhWpBt7pjRqPbasIeFdvmiYehVBFz4SYliZs/s1600-h/IMG_4621.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218630725092469042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLChScDLKGUUuLAAwlILP3i31PUlRRrgr6uBWUvp9K6-M-Ra-DaLLEaNlfAHGwtUCZPTFkRzDkLGqn04-5vmh2B026r-davG7wpJeHXYxOhWpBt7pjRqPbasIeFdvmiYehVBFz4SYliZs/s320/IMG_4621.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLw4mmf1KA7di44Il4tPkvv5e1VnGxKqqQhUXT32ztUc9bv1Am-Gk-ab2DvintJtQ3VQs4kNiBR-vuwpXpSsRtLLiszcGteICxN2MOfK4rbKmKFsg34sxg99-qH2_7h-NtPlwdbYV6svs/s1600-h/IMG_4622.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218630725624047618" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4EeTCNMPPF_D9aig_dMVY7MRBiGeMUnP_07L1OH4_56NRJ2TBcCiKdhcRknadanWL-t8IcVK1z3oh8uFLNG9xlqR8SMpvsOP89jqRS_ct2VQ6pE6xFOnnVk5oLrdYMOppmBHcFRaGbOd/s320/IMG_4649.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQa1U4InGgzsKGIRfT2nzpenhb94Pw1CKaSihKgkovzS96Z4ZEEnOj_tG76wKB1w7qqH0cBm67M6mtrIO9ajE5jnNt3RqZGe0QoD2WLtfCQOs_hubIyKKKaOpbIIBz9C6Jj_Gl9d7Ia3x/s1600-h/IMG_4650.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218629240285875922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQa1U4InGgzsKGIRfT2nzpenhb94Pw1CKaSihKgkovzS96Z4ZEEnOj_tG76wKB1w7qqH0cBm67M6mtrIO9ajE5jnNt3RqZGe0QoD2WLtfCQOs_hubIyKKKaOpbIIBz9C6Jj_Gl9d7Ia3x/s320/IMG_4650.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZhsMKO0hA8vVqudKCJ2rrbOHvyPTt67_f5P82i9o0Jtj8e5hjTzMC_F4AZhBkitsts8W9QCOMPRCKhfthp-kul2vrG-3wIotamn_mXaAr_TV21ITSC10V7aFL_RNnkfMa2io_PqVYpQ3/s1600-h/IMG_4651.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218629247392232626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZhsMKO0hA8vVqudKCJ2rrbOHvyPTt67_f5P82i9o0Jtj8e5hjTzMC_F4AZhBkitsts8W9QCOMPRCKhfthp-kul2vrG-3wIotamn_mXaAr_TV21ITSC10V7aFL_RNnkfMa2io_PqVYpQ3/s320/IMG_4651.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-34357620726529678792008-07-01T23:27:00.006-05:002008-07-02T00:57:21.617-05:00It Feels Like Just Yesterday<div align="justify"></div><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">T</span>his is the blog entry I didn't want to write. The timing is terrible, and I prefer to share my faith in God with others in a more subtle way, talking about my blessings, my church involvement, my Bible study group. There was a time when I chuckled silently, yet listened politely, when someone said, "God told me to do this." I didn't think God did that anymore; that only happened in the Bible. I wasn't there yet. Then there was a time when I said, <span style="font-size:180%;">"Why isn't God speaking to me?"</span> I wanted to hear His words. I wanted to join that special club of people who had real conversations with God, but I didn't know how to become a member.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">Today God spoke to me.</span> <span style="font-size:180%;color:#ffffff;">It was not good timing.</span> I woke up with a migraine, and for the first time in my life, the pain migrated from the base of my skull, all the way into the right side of my jaw, like I had read about in websites and books. For the rest of the day, I battled flu-like symptoms, meanwhile taking the boys to swimming lessons, the grocery store, and a baseball game in a car with a freshly-charged air conditioner that decided today would be a good day to stop working. I forgot to bring treats and drinks for Max and his teammates after their game, as I had signed up to do a few weeks ago. I wanted to throw up but I couldn't. I had a mental to-do list that could have stretched across the unscrubbed kitchen floor.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">In the midst of our normal daily summer activities, we spent the day thinking about and discussing <span style="font-size:180%;">the event of the year</span> in our family: Heather and her family's return to Rochester. Heather, her husband Brian, and their sweet children Ella, Sacia, and Zachary, some of our very closest friends in the world, have spent the past ten months <strong>across the world</strong> from us, immersed in Indian culture in Bangalore, India. They will be home in eight hours for an extended visit. We are so excited to see them, hug them, hear about their travel adventures, and resume our at-least-twice-a-week playdates and shared mealtimes. For nearly a year, we have exchanged emails, gifts, webcam chats, and phone conversations, <span style="font-size:180%;">all the while wondering</span> when they would return home.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">In the morning, we will meet them at the airport, joining their family to welcome them back to the States. The boys have been counting down the hours for three days now, and they both have special gifts to give their little friends, and I'm sure they will be awake shortly after dawn in anticipation of the big homecoming. Mitchie decided tonight after bedtime prayers and stories that he would give Sacia a big "<strong>licky kiss</strong>," one of his Mitchell Specialties he has been practicing on the webcam for Sacia for months, but I think I managed to convince him to offer his little world-traveling sweetheart a regular kiss instead of the licky version. Max used his own money to buy his beloved Ella a sparkling guardian angel pin. <span style="font-size:180%;">("Do you think it's made out of real diamonds, Mom?")</span><br /></p><p align="justify">For several days, I have been thinking with amazement how quickly these past ten months have passed. When Heather told me early last year that they were indeed taking a special assignment to India through Brian's job, I couldn't imagine how we would spend so many months without our friends. When they left the States for a short "survey trip" to acquaint themselves with their area of India, <span style="font-size:180%;">I cried sad tears</span> as I thought of what the real goodbye would be like when they would be gone for a year or more. When they left, we watched for their plane to fly over our house, calling their names into the sky. When New Year's Eve ended 2007 without our friends with us to share a champagne toast and fireworks (I went to bed early that night), I thought, <span style="font-size:180%;">How Much Longer?</span><em> </em>and now, <span style="font-size:180%;">finally, suddenly,</span> they are coming home. The time passed so quickly. <em><span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday</span></em> they were leaving for India, another world to us.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">I wondered where the time went, much the same way I wonder how Max grew into an eight-year old (<em>it feels like just yesterday</em> that he was born, after twelve hours of labor), and when Mitchell became a soon-to-be kindergartener (<em>it feels like just yesterday</em> that _he_ was born, after five hours of labor), and how in the world I have been out of high school for two reunion's worth of years (<em>it feels like just yesterday</em> I was saying hi to friends in the hallways). I kept thinking about one of my favorite Bible verses, the one that brought me great comfort after baby Gabriel's death ten years ago, 2 Peter 3:8, which states,<br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">"But forget not this one thing, beloved, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day."</span><br /><br /></p><p align="justify">At that challenging time in my life, I interpreted that scripture to mean it would feel like forever to me until I would see my baby again, yet to the Lord, the time would be short. I was comforted. Since then, I have learned <a href="http://www.apologeticspress.org/articles/2169">a more complex and accurate interpretation of that verse</a>, yet I still take comfort in the many reminders of the promise of Heaven and the way those words reassured me when I was feeling lost in this world.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">I don't mean to compare a ten-month separation from dear friends to losing a loved one from this world. I know it's not the same as losing a parent, a grandparent, a child, a best friend, or another someone special. I knew we had a chance to say goodbye. I knew our reunion would be sooner, rather than later. I knew my friends were safe and happy across the world from me. I could see their faces on my computer; I could hear their voices over the telephone. Being separated from a loved one by death can feel like forever, especially for people who may not believe in God or for those who question if Heaven is real. Even for those of us who believe in God with as much faith as humanly possible (which is still <a href="http://www.tgm.org/MustardSeed.html">smaller than a mustard seed</a>, though we can ask God to help us become stronger), the almost-magical idea of Heaven can be hard to comprehend. Those painful, grief-stricken days can be filled with the worst kind of darkness imaginable.<br /><br /></p><p align="justify">Yet today I couldn't help but think, This must be what it will be like to be reunited with loved ones in Heaven. I couldn't help but think ...<br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><em>Someday I will hold my babies and say,</em> <em><span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday I carried you inside of me!</span></em><br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><em>Someday I will kiss my uncle and say, <span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday you were making me treasures out of wood and holding me on your lap and making everyone smile!</span><br /><br /></em></p><p align="justify"><em>Someday I will embrace my friend and say,</em> <em><span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday I watched you play hockey and listened to you laugh!</span></em><br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><em>Someday I will greet my friend's parents and say,</em> <em><span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday I was at your house, hanging out with your daughter and watching PG-13 videos!</span></em><br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><em>Someday I will hug my friend's husband and say,</em> <em><span style="font-size:180%;">It feels like just yesterday you gave me one of your big, strong bear hugs!</span></em><br /><br /></p><p align="justify"><a href="http://www.lcms.org/pages/internal.asp?NavID=2670">On that glorious day, when we are reunited with our loved ones in Heaven</a>, just like the special "practice" reunion two families will share in the morning, the miles and the months and the lonely times will disappear in a collection of hugs and happy tears. That is what Gold told me today.</p>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-46572188090228953942008-06-28T12:45:00.007-05:002009-01-28T23:05:41.172-06:00Rochesterfest: Best of Times 2008<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm missing summer days and sunshine tonight. Enjoy a memory with me! Spring is 50 days away and sundress season is 123 days and counting. We went to Rochesterfest last summer wtih friends, enjoying the parade, cotton candy, and the bouncy castle. <br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3fF2aMXiJbjB9n2qGv3ML7Ii0_eS1yMPX4h4Po8lEtfIYBaIrsXzFqfPyH5tAgwUJBTt4xRR9199kiFAtavDHuE2vkPOKLgb0dSeUBp6HF8a3l3DwEy_u4nE2-K-Tqw8FxMA4ViZq9vD/s1600-h/IMG_4511.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216992732594771986" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3fF2aMXiJbjB9n2qGv3ML7Ii0_eS1yMPX4h4Po8lEtfIYBaIrsXzFqfPyH5tAgwUJBTt4xRR9199kiFAtavDHuE2vkPOKLgb0dSeUBp6HF8a3l3DwEy_u4nE2-K-Tqw8FxMA4ViZq9vD/s320/IMG_4511.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyzlx59ZYQDbp6uFDN6uOhJMZHrtCa3hhTS8i2kjBAjv6IuWJbIFvMlZ59mlCAs9r6C2GsKdc_v3Hftl3v4c3lnhhwKb1TMMyeQhGViKzvhuJYvjnj2Dp7t_KHgGM5VwNSXpzR6_Qi52Y/s1600-h/IMG_4512.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216992741650366082" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVeZjENMwSqi3EjDCd131lYUgiHx4fMOwtWTaP7iLDJWjgiaDebKP-rp529Z6jgcYNfmbKJfAvULKAxs-9ntX96WZRfGDxJW8W1XQiycxn9yNwAIWDO1DGr_4lsU80os1GuMkp608UYq54/s320/IMG_4532.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTQMRvGQq_7zLSyC4A_mzovBqklDzccocLEZm_oqmZ7wisjZu6GUPjHcx6-b70qlkTzUF-Tb9xhIjDWhEZ0TogK0OxgwlVzgeFbrHNCcDMUIJ5rPbBs57fI9DEQ2M1e42hylAuJ231VH4/s1600-h/IMG_4533.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216991183702705282" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTQMRvGQq_7zLSyC4A_mzovBqklDzccocLEZm_oqmZ7wisjZu6GUPjHcx6-b70qlkTzUF-Tb9xhIjDWhEZ0TogK0OxgwlVzgeFbrHNCcDMUIJ5rPbBs57fI9DEQ2M1e42hylAuJ231VH4/s320/IMG_4533.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvr8Ue_hyGwcSX7QZjXvB_inYJuKLx25dTsBdvtv_XNTBWNlLJa0klZRnVO5om1HKPbQ8JkxGXmcumxrNvzP2SU91VJ3L_Zru0rTvl55YNPA_xiiRUayHW3hTIbi9Ks2a0Z3rQEd9qtTnt/s1600-h/IMG_4534.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216991184322120818" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvr8Ue_hyGwcSX7QZjXvB_inYJuKLx25dTsBdvtv_XNTBWNlLJa0klZRnVO5om1HKPbQ8JkxGXmcumxrNvzP2SU91VJ3L_Zru0rTvl55YNPA_xiiRUayHW3hTIbi9Ks2a0Z3rQEd9qtTnt/s320/IMG_4534.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIypOZwz5KlfVfUr5eVO9HniciP_cImR5UUFnoMHIQHPPReFpIf_CusfUl9-unSl5E-LEbOHl3IqulktVZhSbSMST9ZTJMuN48HLYSFSmdaD9zl0IR18-dikM2ghLl_IHRBjZf1ceKQsEJ/s1600-h/IMG_4535.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216991189990111426" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIypOZwz5KlfVfUr5eVO9HniciP_cImR5UUFnoMHIQHPPReFpIf_CusfUl9-unSl5E-LEbOHl3IqulktVZhSbSMST9ZTJMuN48HLYSFSmdaD9zl0IR18-dikM2ghLl_IHRBjZf1ceKQsEJ/s320/IMG_4535.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-79835945314759469022008-06-26T23:59:00.000-05:002008-06-27T00:17:04.301-05:00Queen For A Day<span style="font-size:180%;">T</span>oday was a <strong>really</strong> tough day. I don't feel like posting about my troubles -- they will make a great blog story when I am able to look back and laugh about them -- so I decided to pull a happy day out of my magic hat of unfinished blog drafts.<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">Way back on May 21, over a month ago the boys and I had a magical day. I got to take a million pictures (okay, a couple hundred), play my favorite sport with my favorite boys, go shopping, and plant flowers.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">The three of us played tennis for the first time this season, and Max and Mitchie thought I was the most awesome tennis player they had ever seen. (I probably was, since they haven't seen many tennis players.) The praise flowed endlessly from their sweet little lips, and it was yummier to me than a chocolate fountain. I soaked it all up, and when I was worried they were done giving out free compliments, I showed them my serve. Back in my tennis glory days, the first official serve of the first day of practice was very important to me; as silly as it sounds now, I was convinced then it was the best predictor of the outcome of my season. (Back then, I also wasted a little energy thinking about horoscopes and black cats crossing my path.) On this hot, sunny afternoon, I smoked an ace across the court as they watched with wide, amazed eyes. That hour on the court made up for a dozen bedtime struggles and at least a week's worth of, "I am not going to eat <em>that</em> for dinner!"<br /><br /></div>After our tennis time and visit to the adjacent playground, we stopped at Lowe's so the boys could choose flowers from the garden center for their pots. They chose their favorites and we had so much fun planting them early that evening.<br /><br /><br />It was good to be queen that day (and my mom says I'm always A Princess).<br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACmk23b4s4J7ut4wYuQvnH73fbySiJlFwrft8_f5zRQqrPgli7Q4lLrrbvcgfRFhYr9xvj1Hbum3vLsE1uarSP266vlOt_eUwaqPzynlNY1utMZgkSmYYL0EC-YHZneTWX5nAF2Y8MG0/s1600-h/IMG_3279.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203407841790267490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACmk23b4s4J7ut4wYuQvnH73fbySiJlFwrft8_f5zRQqrPgli7Q4lLrrbvcgfRFhYr9xvj1Hbum3vLsE1uarSP266vlOt_eUwaqPzynlNY1utMZgkSmYYL0EC-YHZneTWX5nAF2Y8MG0/s320/IMG_3279.JPG" border="0" /></a><em> Mitchell picked me the hugest dandelion I have ever seen.<br /></em></div><div align="center"><em>I saved it in a vase until it smelled so awful that I couldn't keep it any longer.<br /></em></div><div align="center"><em>I saved the memory forever with this closeup.</em><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoc3VQdc9A2MjRXyE6ZJE8b2qOE5i4tkwFp9-Rt82_gD6rbn_02yBB-ieenHCjMUoYanN1so7yYGtokaSSVDYNyuntSFj25b-d5worIgA9_UqGM2r1xEIM9jFL9zhyx-qfUbqovtHckgo/s1600-h/IMG_3292.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203407850380202098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoc3VQdc9A2MjRXyE6ZJE8b2qOE5i4tkwFp9-Rt82_gD6rbn_02yBB-ieenHCjMUoYanN1so7yYGtokaSSVDYNyuntSFj25b-d5worIgA9_UqGM2r1xEIM9jFL9zhyx-qfUbqovtHckgo/s320/IMG_3292.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Isn't Minnie the cutest dog ever?<br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF61QKTF9zbdQfcuC2TaybIueUANXcFCal8lSs6Ag1SJsgrIptZppq5iET7ExMRa4V4gDUpWcAqAu34L-2XVjeTksyJq3Tdm0udg0fqgTldtEYJTZp5xitKVP2a7xgYKwrgLMIcND0Qiw/s1600-h/IMG_3303.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203407854675169410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF61QKTF9zbdQfcuC2TaybIueUANXcFCal8lSs6Ag1SJsgrIptZppq5iET7ExMRa4V4gDUpWcAqAu34L-2XVjeTksyJq3Tdm0udg0fqgTldtEYJTZp5xitKVP2a7xgYKwrgLMIcND0Qiw/s320/IMG_3303.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Max enjoys his own bit of magic as he scatters dandelion seeds and makes a wish.</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8oCR6pHAdCB0fWzkFKaMVtZZV3EYHWHzXQmS8SjPbz1LzK6LUG6HgPEcjULrK_aTATHctl8uXJQkQqaac8sgVVswgzLMVLYcnDWcvm7I2Yx05eqzivnXq4HT9BSUyEj6tZ5cvfiyntk/s1600-h/IMG_3308.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203407858970136722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8oCR6pHAdCB0fWzkFKaMVtZZV3EYHWHzXQmS8SjPbz1LzK6LUG6HgPEcjULrK_aTATHctl8uXJQkQqaac8sgVVswgzLMVLYcnDWcvm7I2Yx05eqzivnXq4HT9BSUyEj6tZ5cvfiyntk/s320/IMG_3308.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQcCtQpOz4ZGFDZr1yXx1guEZs36nQMZHI_g5S7lBKANP-OhYO3edMLCocYr7UZZeXgGsa09NodGIBBzPaikyYTEDm92Fi8khRFd4R4mo4yJMAiFUFIRh5AYeBeE73YqsotEcpqvdgSk/s1600-h/IMG_3315.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203407858970136738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQcCtQpOz4ZGFDZr1yXx1guEZs36nQMZHI_g5S7lBKANP-OhYO3edMLCocYr7UZZeXgGsa09NodGIBBzPaikyYTEDm92Fi8khRFd4R4mo4yJMAiFUFIRh5AYeBeE73YqsotEcpqvdgSk/s320/IMG_3315.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOZRVP1U59GzBpCHiXSP8mQEMBi_G8aMSeYEQC4dcW2kG7IeB3mlpO6Bewjd-uYIZNjpuCiN41sRFcIPYeZUGpd7gBGLnr4ZArcXYNz5vuBqfH8OUSh8rZysu0pE0jb4wZIRQKPSkIo0/s1600-h/IMG_3326.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408228337324210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOZRVP1U59GzBpCHiXSP8mQEMBi_G8aMSeYEQC4dcW2kG7IeB3mlpO6Bewjd-uYIZNjpuCiN41sRFcIPYeZUGpd7gBGLnr4ZArcXYNz5vuBqfH8OUSh8rZysu0pE0jb4wZIRQKPSkIo0/s320/IMG_3326.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Mitchell loves to play</em> The Foolish Game<em>. He invented it with Max. </em><p align="center"><em>Mitchie climbs onto playground equipment, puts his little body in a precarious pose,<br /></em></p><p align="center"><em>and says to me,<br /></em></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><em>"Look, Mama, how foolish I am!"</em><br /></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5pgW5uAtLsBH9ne6bTfpqi5DcqLfsKWQVoaDZIrabhLhOG6_8LuP4puwtLmbJvKuOISnxnnN0HnBshxYGvFn_F9_BaL_ioJUNnh2gwhKKldiNZ2_UQ9fDpEWznZxsI6tA5c1Kp-jso0/s1600-h/IMG_3331.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408232632291522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5pgW5uAtLsBH9ne6bTfpqi5DcqLfsKWQVoaDZIrabhLhOG6_8LuP4puwtLmbJvKuOISnxnnN0HnBshxYGvFn_F9_BaL_ioJUNnh2gwhKKldiNZ2_UQ9fDpEWznZxsI6tA5c1Kp-jso0/s320/IMG_3331.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhd9u4-0t_8srXSAmt7DjEj-yVgPg9XnBdr_txd6vn_PZOXPX8mXeFBtIZX5JCt36uRpsLq-vy_W4uU_V0wwHaCiNh7ylPBIWkRS9DozFyrZ7BXj1xV4BXCvOvy6wDKBfKNitLVsBe5xc/s1600-h/IMG_3333.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408232632291538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhd9u4-0t_8srXSAmt7DjEj-yVgPg9XnBdr_txd6vn_PZOXPX8mXeFBtIZX5JCt36uRpsLq-vy_W4uU_V0wwHaCiNh7ylPBIWkRS9DozFyrZ7BXj1xV4BXCvOvy6wDKBfKNitLVsBe5xc/s320/IMG_3333.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>Max finds treasures wherever we go, including this half walnut shell<br /></em><p align="center"><em>he wanted to bring home to feed our "pet squirrel."</em><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFifut8g5Sb2IsWrKlMqFuGmn9KYCU1yPlfFMriLQ1uwjAcVReHBcESdGGwXHO1z6lCuMIThmlV4cpcy-eA9FNxw1F2CkThvd74u_vQ3u1jbI7EsqWt6Vi67FKXAwtDraOFVISceUBSXc/s1600-h/IMG_3345.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408236927258850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFifut8g5Sb2IsWrKlMqFuGmn9KYCU1yPlfFMriLQ1uwjAcVReHBcESdGGwXHO1z6lCuMIThmlV4cpcy-eA9FNxw1F2CkThvd74u_vQ3u1jbI7EsqWt6Vi67FKXAwtDraOFVISceUBSXc/s320/IMG_3345.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZyjegQN9cEnyeUHJ4fPZrhkG5X2hNw16GaDhHa1FTlKLLHgL-n5hxG983AE9teVlXQVcya6quODSo0fvO4FytMLrIdkeDwO-NdnO1XSlb8SgrjIJnPW9wYp856UMOyf0KHR8ZNPqzt0/s1600-h/IMG_3350.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408241222226162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZyjegQN9cEnyeUHJ4fPZrhkG5X2hNw16GaDhHa1FTlKLLHgL-n5hxG983AE9teVlXQVcya6quODSo0fvO4FytMLrIdkeDwO-NdnO1XSlb8SgrjIJnPW9wYp856UMOyf0KHR8ZNPqzt0/s320/IMG_3350.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisLOHq4aQAdG22UkBurPDAAwCWBXoH72tdj7ccWUNOdU75YuRrI4e259lrq5lUWqO8coB2WFi6YhWNaxuyHhbWcmlr0RoQ6EHGKbaWJ0bgTganT2HMnFQVI7w6H33LHq-7zzPMPiA8jdw/s1600-h/IMG_3354.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408984251568386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisLOHq4aQAdG22UkBurPDAAwCWBXoH72tdj7ccWUNOdU75YuRrI4e259lrq5lUWqO8coB2WFi6YhWNaxuyHhbWcmlr0RoQ6EHGKbaWJ0bgTganT2HMnFQVI7w6H33LHq-7zzPMPiA8jdw/s320/IMG_3354.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC04bhOenffcq14poBEl_0yJpITbHRqFg2HjvSbfwv3dTtalDo4xkF8_-_bOrHJOTdpeMO180Gk0stzjBt2z8TSHhyphenhyphen_Jr3VxJ_BYkki0tvkoyfgnHtIvZB-hk1ZNjENKLSbaVnC19_lrM/s1600-h/IMG_3361.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408988546535698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC04bhOenffcq14poBEl_0yJpITbHRqFg2HjvSbfwv3dTtalDo4xkF8_-_bOrHJOTdpeMO180Gk0stzjBt2z8TSHhyphenhyphen_Jr3VxJ_BYkki0tvkoyfgnHtIvZB-hk1ZNjENKLSbaVnC19_lrM/s320/IMG_3361.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNN8Nc5khxIG3wM0HCCheFaXuH7no1snxLhlllq1n8EB2jnmwCAElgmTYJtXK_yfFqvY1ZCZBbNTLTWtCNOWEmHDQUpiXGTenPoVP8uNGvdtFtoFA3N3xRR1lhIKROz7icETyguzlQuU/s1600-h/IMG_3370.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408988546535714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNN8Nc5khxIG3wM0HCCheFaXuH7no1snxLhlllq1n8EB2jnmwCAElgmTYJtXK_yfFqvY1ZCZBbNTLTWtCNOWEmHDQUpiXGTenPoVP8uNGvdtFtoFA3N3xRR1lhIKROz7icETyguzlQuU/s320/IMG_3370.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkIdwdQwAi5c9F2MGN5B9j3Xj3f7BS_b1adMMEaGOmtYfLuTuxwFL_LfLtHGcZTOkIGWM9x4nJF2vD0ezaYguiALyJZuSW5viL9Drw1EGhl-LxKEbjQASeQnyM41Wea77ffboBMK8XWA/s1600-h/IMG_3384.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408992841503026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkIdwdQwAi5c9F2MGN5B9j3Xj3f7BS_b1adMMEaGOmtYfLuTuxwFL_LfLtHGcZTOkIGWM9x4nJF2vD0ezaYguiALyJZuSW5viL9Drw1EGhl-LxKEbjQASeQnyM41Wea77ffboBMK8XWA/s320/IMG_3384.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_ffCEDPIxZ-Nu1prgQFrzKAmNN8jl4JMUJA7RE6roia6wH1X2U4El2inO8TUVhSjvJUvDP2o2Pm9onn6rb6uf0Q72053kg5elbrn55Xl4HNMttr_6ncxz0eyA0y6NNaBsZddAYT8vU8/s1600-h/IMG_3385.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203408992841503042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_ffCEDPIxZ-Nu1prgQFrzKAmNN8jl4JMUJA7RE6roia6wH1X2U4El2inO8TUVhSjvJUvDP2o2Pm9onn6rb6uf0Q72053kg5elbrn55Xl4HNMttr_6ncxz0eyA0y6NNaBsZddAYT8vU8/s320/IMG_3385.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyYrBYbaxSrHM003gu_Jw0jJgy2Wa70FA3tpgZWblcgiheAH_7Jm0FNU6S9QlHNCIOMPGJQxwh7h0Zs_s0YK9T91qeGQopH5yEoaYzD9ah9SmwbmZ311z6yEbfcgC4fMqlPDFbzGNUJw/s1600-h/IMG_3387.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203409615611760978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyYrBYbaxSrHM003gu_Jw0jJgy2Wa70FA3tpgZWblcgiheAH_7Jm0FNU6S9QlHNCIOMPGJQxwh7h0Zs_s0YK9T91qeGQopH5yEoaYzD9ah9SmwbmZ311z6yEbfcgC4fMqlPDFbzGNUJw/s320/IMG_3387.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrkZ8bhsXJ_sSDX8oeQ_z2sM36F4d1X2zuTEvathBN9fXKwhsK9HVAaQyYUYJBDMCQs1X5wF2BF5kcXvtAJeYkrjNPmf7J1vftujXWDHSSoSKl33jVM7tH9Hn9LEa0luz9O1fnvFrqdU/s1600-h/IMG_3394.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203409619906728290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrkZ8bhsXJ_sSDX8oeQ_z2sM36F4d1X2zuTEvathBN9fXKwhsK9HVAaQyYUYJBDMCQs1X5wF2BF5kcXvtAJeYkrjNPmf7J1vftujXWDHSSoSKl33jVM7tH9Hn9LEa0luz9O1fnvFrqdU/s320/IMG_3394.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYZvYNVCoLZobdYB4DS5AwHE_A5fC48ULEgVIB533oInnrHV5YUU4OqyzmN3GOkOnjG077-jRBcbJJeoTz4749xIsg6a4dDUBVqiM7hhGTUy6OuHsW84bH_klN5Nq-KSw6omBtyD_5qI/s1600-h/IMG_3399.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203409619906728306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYZvYNVCoLZobdYB4DS5AwHE_A5fC48ULEgVIB533oInnrHV5YUU4OqyzmN3GOkOnjG077-jRBcbJJeoTz4749xIsg6a4dDUBVqiM7hhGTUy6OuHsW84bH_klN5Nq-KSw6omBtyD_5qI/s320/IMG_3399.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSw2DqwC_4BMcWHL52pjmuRoQ34XEwg8H9-aXfmFp8EYxBw_tOGX6LMeSE4eoHqVqRvs6O9LnGpyQkqV2hTxcIKGi5pyJpmCZveNZ0vjZokUSDH59B3Z3M0eUzmkiOeRyHH7fStPblp0/s1600-h/IMG_3410.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203409619906728322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSw2DqwC_4BMcWHL52pjmuRoQ34XEwg8H9-aXfmFp8EYxBw_tOGX6LMeSE4eoHqVqRvs6O9LnGpyQkqV2hTxcIKGi5pyJpmCZveNZ0vjZokUSDH59B3Z3M0eUzmkiOeRyHH7fStPblp0/s320/IMG_3410.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfGgYQXPC3Rfyysd7eiIP6rKhVqbgZpRp9kYNwztAjLSReY2HQgornE6U0XKTQeTcQ4nbd5yCkmFzIQ7QwjIl0W017igLamDIlyvx0H7XAjOkVdbbhrMRszbnU2vDtShdBjzS91PEIzE/s1600-h/IMG_3417.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203409624201695634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfGgYQXPC3Rfyysd7eiIP6rKhVqbgZpRp9kYNwztAjLSReY2HQgornE6U0XKTQeTcQ4nbd5yCkmFzIQ7QwjIl0W017igLamDIlyvx0H7XAjOkVdbbhrMRszbnU2vDtShdBjzS91PEIzE/s320/IMG_3417.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em><br />Mitch never falls asleep in the car. As my family likes to say, he was pooped out!</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMzF8e7WiCzA57RmM_nfsZdJCbmA9JKvn1IY-vFYEG7h3vgQD1HOEtqzyiSqJ0OX1H3OrSNM9gW8xdXmAauQTmy_yZOm2Ald9SeIHsAd5Ksiiw3DFXGEAGlLG3j_Yyh3kvEXhzn_yEWE/s1600-h/IMG_3423.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203410685058617762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMzF8e7WiCzA57RmM_nfsZdJCbmA9JKvn1IY-vFYEG7h3vgQD1HOEtqzyiSqJ0OX1H3OrSNM9gW8xdXmAauQTmy_yZOm2Ald9SeIHsAd5Ksiiw3DFXGEAGlLG3j_Yyh3kvEXhzn_yEWE/s320/IMG_3423.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTWjv4rsMUPP1LRkrxnNgbUUpn03FDFOuTKLA-__GFcxpKxCmB0i-SCJaFvsUxq406rgEA6CbECxxemk_Bkoxjd7nXuaPISsFvbYHCqNbfpzr1zrPgQyf7Vhz3tt4j0x3XA-zc46OaZE/s1600-h/IMG_3424.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203410689353585074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTWjv4rsMUPP1LRkrxnNgbUUpn03FDFOuTKLA-__GFcxpKxCmB0i-SCJaFvsUxq406rgEA6CbECxxemk_Bkoxjd7nXuaPISsFvbYHCqNbfpzr1zrPgQyf7Vhz3tt4j0x3XA-zc46OaZE/s320/IMG_3424.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a></p><em>The wrestling is always just a moment away.</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW1_uyiRgEosP6Bjflf2e-r0XVPP11Hpe9yKPhXRrdmZo0zsOZgbTFYmCCBSU0QvgulWoKbaK3J9P23_qwPyPj1KIMKLU9KsLYN3JJBhmmRK-yMny2q6ndsUbRaPvQOiPYxd9kRIQp24/s1600-h/IMG_3430.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203410689353585090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW1_uyiRgEosP6Bjflf2e-r0XVPP11Hpe9yKPhXRrdmZo0zsOZgbTFYmCCBSU0QvgulWoKbaK3J9P23_qwPyPj1KIMKLU9KsLYN3JJBhmmRK-yMny2q6ndsUbRaPvQOiPYxd9kRIQp24/s320/IMG_3430.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsm76PIvsl9Ozmv7XnyQlFW-bHg_Th8HVDuIWjRDYVue2VTBMW81qJSB1HvgKjzuFSHS65gIv0IqVSIlM1liU-J6hUwqG9MZcmO2uqpKZ7UaXF4uuADw9C7Dam5Qo1c-4vElYI0KQf6zQ/s1600-h/IMG_3435.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203410693648552402" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFyzuR4CqnMTB5NpIMwq0V8SsfdhL1-2AHAxO-8XUVaz8HuXbq0jjCAiAfC8aVIpF214UmeHGulE_uLsNwxPEC_jDOwJ4rKVFTQ_Al-3Qe3z0ZEbjcmUedHGjnLGdE7Zz2-4HDb71Ukg/s320/IMG_3441.JPG" border="0" /></a>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-52194538869860118672008-06-22T01:24:00.007-05:002008-06-22T01:32:39.370-05:00Saturday in Pictures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNNzxXa1n9zmh1wqZlli9YNXfx-MMySUfNxYD1QeX_3sFH3kv14VIQ_0gTI8WlAo5FAz7MtB7RBhkGWInO_bXNPyZWFsMYFRybAckyrCE-T6S2ETexGvuKXj-ffCk45N-YhL1PkCi_T36/s1600-h/IMG_4218.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214589831557092674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNNzxXa1n9zmh1wqZlli9YNXfx-MMySUfNxYD1QeX_3sFH3kv14VIQ_0gTI8WlAo5FAz7MtB7RBhkGWInO_bXNPyZWFsMYFRybAckyrCE-T6S2ETexGvuKXj-ffCk45N-YhL1PkCi_T36/s320/IMG_4218.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejQlSHkj5rT-Sx9s-TfPD10NNiSdsWtZDOKQ2FvKkxZ7JCfFMT3WGsPm8U7yqV7tDOrm_npvi7uzejgwumaqMMflzPxQD5A2Q9Nkb8CVjdkQIsoadU9ag8pMq8hbSVQhyphenhyphenIAtDJE3EfA_K/s1600-h/IMG_4221.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214589838224641810" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLiOuI2cBBrNvcPn7UNNMARcjBxlrqpBrKCwCmpR0O1AhWtLMNjqo9a_bPiIhw1z9bczYVVjQVgJdhmE4y9n2zIsgcuqMXaxDQK9UNs0uC5vpc2xjtXD7oFOvQa2WijmkSQlqiR7qgEI7/s320/IMG_4286.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5X7xoEsNYwDQ8zN15ZBhtwZRcqi3pF9VWsRSb8ENyKrt6gv3-DkO2U6o6EnyOgyY0jtTzWkDE6r8ybhejpoUEfXdrTZd54jhZsiV72WESMeWBtaGBn29RmIOtNXveF7FBsQ4enSoIFS3/s1600-h/IMG_4290.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214588205532924226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5X7xoEsNYwDQ8zN15ZBhtwZRcqi3pF9VWsRSb8ENyKrt6gv3-DkO2U6o6EnyOgyY0jtTzWkDE6r8ybhejpoUEfXdrTZd54jhZsiV72WESMeWBtaGBn29RmIOtNXveF7FBsQ4enSoIFS3/s320/IMG_4290.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGU-Tns7dizkozJbAcBxiQr9EhgisNIyPGwctP1dF40GnaomDXE6G_iiq7txSgD4nerbb2H-_u97kwF0qCqP-AGsIDl5oEQGwcaFI8wu-tcCF5BxZhpKsxCXVFM4sAN499vd3S9y0qhMea/s1600-h/IMG_4292.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214588211568855554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGU-Tns7dizkozJbAcBxiQr9EhgisNIyPGwctP1dF40GnaomDXE6G_iiq7txSgD4nerbb2H-_u97kwF0qCqP-AGsIDl5oEQGwcaFI8wu-tcCF5BxZhpKsxCXVFM4sAN499vd3S9y0qhMea/s320/IMG_4292.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div></div></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-24889291745958040122008-06-20T19:25:00.009-05:002008-06-24T23:12:40.837-05:00I Wish I Didn't Feel Scared<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:180%;">T</span>oday I went to the cemetery to water the flowers that bloom in honor of my babies. As the boys and I neared the heavy wrought-iron gates, I drove on the left side of the street to make room for an older gentleman on his bicycle who was also headed toward the cemetery. The boys waited in the air-conditioned comfort of the minivan during my quick stop, allowing themselves more time to play at nearby Mayo Park when I was done watering the flowers.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I filled the watering can with cold water from the spout that looks just like the one at the cemetery in New Ulm that I remember from times I went with my mom and my Nana to water the flowers they had planted at Grandpa Burdorf's and Uncle Dale's graves. Now so many of my cherished friends are buried nearby my grandather and my uncle: my cousin Nicole Rae Burdorf, born still years ago that seem like yesterday; my friend Chet Petersen, who died of a heart attack, when he was 31 -- my age now; my friend Jeremy Booth who died in a motorcycle accident like my uncle; my childhood idol Laura Kastmann, a beautiful cheerleader and gifted writer; Melissa Larsen's dad, an amazing pastor who died during our senior year; Ted and Jim's mom, Bettianne Wirtz, who wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life; Molly Mammen's dad, Harlan, who raised one of my best friends from high school; Erica Reiger, my classmate; Missy Linbo's parents. I bring all of them flowers in the summer. Thank goodness for the promise of Heaven.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">After I finished watering my flowers, I used the leftover water to fill the pots of nearby plants. Parents or grandparents had brought geraniums, petunias, daises, pansies, and even a potted rose bush to honor the babies they missed so much. Three families I know well also have babies in this part of the cemetery. As I returned to the water spout for to fill the watering can again, I was startled to see a man wearing a bike helmet waiting there. I had not even noticed him watching me. Lost deep in thought, and concerned about my boys in the car, I didn't realize he was the same man on the bike we had passed a few minutes ago, and I didn't realize he was waiting for the watering can.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I'm waiting to use that," he said. "Do you water all the flowers here?"<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I wasn't sure if he was asking out of curiosity or impatience. "Sometimes," I told him. I felt ill-at-ease for the sake of my boys in the car. I was glad my body was in between this stranger and my vehicle. I thought I would be faster than he would.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Are all these babies?" he asked increduously. This time, the curiosity was evident in his voice.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Most of them," I answered. "Some of them are older."<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Are there any five year-olds?" He wondered aloud.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I could tell something was different about him, from his questions and his body language. "I don't think so," I said. "Some of the children buried here are two or three years old." I spoke those words like an old pro, not letting the pain of my answer reach my heart today. Babies. Two year-olds. Buried here. Most of the time, it's easier to think about watering flowers than to think about why.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"There is another baby section at the cemetery," I told him. "Up that way," I said, pointing to the center of the cemetery.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"More babies," he said as a statement, rather than a question.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I'm going to water my relatives' flowers," he said. "Some of the flowers died, so my relatives planted artificial flowers instead."<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I bet they look pretty," I answered. <br /><br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Do you mind if I fill this once more?" I asked, gesturing to the watering can. "Then you can use it." There were a few more pots with drooping, thirsty flowers, and it would only take a minute to give them a drink. I was hoping some parents would be surprised and gladdened when they came to water their plants, realizing that someone had already remembered their flowers <em>and</em> their baby.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I can water some of the flowers, too," he offered sincerely. He continued, "Do you have a baby here?"<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I have three babies here," I answered, my voice mixed with pride and sadness.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"What happened?" He asked me with genuine interest. His voice stumbled over the words, yet he lacked the discomfort that many adults show when they talk with parents whose children have died out of turn.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"One of them didn't have any kidneys," I explained. That's hard for anyone to understand, yet he seemed to grasp it without question.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Oh," he said.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"The other two babies were miscarriages," I continued.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I passed him the watering can.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"There's still some water left," he noted.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I wanted to ask him about his relatives.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">He tried to find the right words to ask me one more question. "Did you get any kids out of it?"<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"I have two sweet, healthy boys in the car," I answered with a smile.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"How old are they?" he asked.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">"Eight and four. I am so blessed to have them."<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I watched him walk to one grave, then another, slowly pouring water onto the blossoming flowers. I knew I would come back next time and find out who he missed. I would walk to those graves and read the names. I would pray for that man. I wished that I didn't have to feel scared when I met a kind soul at the cemetery. I coveted his peaceful manner. I wanted to ask him to tell me a story of the person he was remembering today. I wondered if he was missing his mom or his dad or someone else who was very, very dear to him. I wondered if I would ever feel safe talking to a stranger in a cemetery. I wished society hadn't forced me to worry about personal safety and self-defense. I wanted to thank him for asking about my babies.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">I am so blessed. Blessed because God has given me three angel babies in Heaven who are waiting to meet me someday; blessed because God has answered my prayers, sending me his two sweetest angels to care for on this Earth; and blessed because God sends me other angels, unexpectedly, when I need them to teach me about this amazing world. </div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-39595843292719176292008-06-13T22:37:00.009-05:002008-06-15T00:44:40.490-05:00Take Me Out to the Ballgame!<div align="justify">Last Tuesday evening, Max had his first baseball game of the season. Earlier that night, we went shopping at Dick's Sporting Goods for cleats, and we left the store with a pair of size 2.5 Nike's -- Max and Mitchell were absolutely entralled with the color swatch inserts that change the color of the Nike Swoosh to match your team's colors -- and the most adorable pair of size large youth baseball pants and two pairs of blue-and-white baseball socks, which are different than the stirrups and knee-highs I remember my dad wearing when he used to pitch in a softball league.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1K_RU9CQg7PKQcrsohugoEUpDZUKJ29y9a7DDm_m0F2nP0kkEt1Gp39rFwVR8j9e3ZIIyZjnhh-pk6lXVHzif3-D4agWSPJeDMPYvG-QZW30wdrHffyvQCc8olRAZet4RmuWJu3NgDCgi/s1600-h/IMG_3891.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577506996682322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1K_RU9CQg7PKQcrsohugoEUpDZUKJ29y9a7DDm_m0F2nP0kkEt1Gp39rFwVR8j9e3ZIIyZjnhh-pk6lXVHzif3-D4agWSPJeDMPYvG-QZW30wdrHffyvQCc8olRAZet4RmuWJu3NgDCgi/s400/IMG_3891.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center">Sweet, sweet, SWEET!<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIgqVvWo-kVqourEOz_fx12hwRaCOb9oCIazpWl4USSkwuiAvfc7Qx2sWoW5g7eRWM1ZJLbYPDx9Za1bLcc_oWAbmTTiWxzgFjGyrbP6kPyE2ZxnIEOQlI5vd1bJCXB1SKyGOeVQzNxli/s1600-h/IMG_3892.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577514687185442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIgqVvWo-kVqourEOz_fx12hwRaCOb9oCIazpWl4USSkwuiAvfc7Qx2sWoW5g7eRWM1ZJLbYPDx9Za1bLcc_oWAbmTTiWxzgFjGyrbP6kPyE2ZxnIEOQlI5vd1bJCXB1SKyGOeVQzNxli/s400/IMG_3892.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTQAut5fxLeHszQM-5Yoy36B-Rk7f3U1lVd_QkTZJl2CtgW00pNQmHXzv1nuFvMtBgCI-t7UCNlPlA7buY-d6Z4e3loWFcg3VCbMprycWP3GNxMJNA4ZeofNAt-Z6oBrDkEFperepf8a2/s1600-h/IMG_3893.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211576720957955938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTQAut5fxLeHszQM-5Yoy36B-Rk7f3U1lVd_QkTZJl2CtgW00pNQmHXzv1nuFvMtBgCI-t7UCNlPlA7buY-d6Z4e3loWFcg3VCbMprycWP3GNxMJNA4ZeofNAt-Z6oBrDkEFperepf8a2/s320/IMG_3893.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>Max hit hard both times at bat, and as he was about to take his first swing, Mitchell called out impulsively, "I LOVE YOU, MAX!" His sweet, loud voice melted my heart and the hearts of all the moms within hearing distance. Perhaps Max was equally inspired, because on his first hit of the season, he had enough time to advance the bases, one at a time, and get back home for a score. His fielding skills have really improved, and he has impeccable aim with his throws. Troy thoroughly enjoyed his debut as third base coach, especially when one of the neighbor boys confided in him, "This is the farthest I have ever gotten! I am so excited, I think I am going to throw up!" We were so happy to see him reach home base triumphantly!<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2szmyEOIrBdmSj-JowWOWfaCrmUn2sKnXUHvb0qhQnV-U7Yj-73EnFodd3ZJYQyQ2UvYjWXeOaz1aNCnSlHCIVT8ul2j0w5aLWqr1u82XtopXemHyBnNG4zHYDcqt0B8bsfVFFI8IPEc/s1600-h/IMG_3898.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577934252878082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2szmyEOIrBdmSj-JowWOWfaCrmUn2sKnXUHvb0qhQnV-U7Yj-73EnFodd3ZJYQyQ2UvYjWXeOaz1aNCnSlHCIVT8ul2j0w5aLWqr1u82XtopXemHyBnNG4zHYDcqt0B8bsfVFFI8IPEc/s320/IMG_3898.JPG" border="0" /></a> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211778897115141618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIEOvjdG1zB3sYw7lCKINoKcl_mLTXUURlDynFZ5vBnOGllOGwbzBOy2R0Y-dAyhLbm5CsM6cFvgUNtinjhLkREbJ_rVO8dm0faUr1TEVBwUEsf5PVzkGtSWRJD2zFL2lpWjDQBp8dQq8/s320/IMG_3913B4x6.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="justify">Max waits attentively for some action in the infield. His favorite position is playing the outfield, perhaps because he has time to think, watch the game, and even daydream, and he doesn't have to wear any of that heavy catcher's gear out there. Last year when he played the infield, his favorite pasttime was "making smoke," as Mitchell calls it, by kicking the sand and watching the dust fly. Coach Darrin's number one rule is "Have Fun" and the number two rule is "Be Ready" in the field, with gloves and eyes waiting to field the ball. Max was the most "ready" I have ever seen him during his first game as a future third-grader.</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211778904189148610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwOlVIjghJkRNQv3z6ofO85xo1k4GeigQ2drz1cewQtvpOGdhKC5E1zyOoul30_8Ul70FjAUA7RkNAUv2S11Dptb1lEK6GNrU5Zux4AkkjnOUmhmvw6CzFZOhYLOw_gCVWbdaePH0RmPn/s320/IMG_3915B4x6.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211779254293134210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWCFvo51MPHbBVudz0leoX_RCGe2e-l4Zc4WhFFjNU3sE9FQfT7I4NhtiyrYL-xCM6zU9qVZsGGx8xA8sn8JNvQxdNUid-rbkmD9iPJZD3isA8tXq-zp1wQJseH4u57QxnPgivSUFzgGWI/s320/IMG_3916B4x6.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211779258407505858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLb0vEUpIPYJ9UwDYx0NuC4P2XX5vetH3TvvZc_BWXaBGAO1wMjaQOL4rkACPyU9W7MyJ6bzYpLrHGD82Xlt_8PsyUG5499WILBidyUu210G6RShPzeAJ-9db7ZBSj8ejAKM_PHvSRo94/s320/IMG_3918B4x6.jpg" border="0" />Earlier in the day, I had exhausted almost every tool in my parenting toolbox with Little Mitchie. My last resort was taking away his ritual trip to the concession stand, located conveniently in the center of the four ballfields and stocked with lots of sugary treats, including Mitchell's favorites: ring pops and rope licorices that are long enough to jump rope. I didn't think I would actually have to take away that privilege, but I had to do that, as well as take away his post-game trip to Dairy Queen when he didn't eat more than two bites of dinner. By the second inning of the game, Mitchell was tired of playing catch with me, so to pass the time away, he was happy to make lots of silly faces while I snapped photo after photo, until the batteries in my camera were out of power. I have said this before, but we have The Cutest Boys Ever! (No offense if you have the Cutest Boys Ever, too!) <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211576736374526882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA99rbm7aelBpC6D-YkpyfOlCd6Y55e335_9sRaR6yILrJ8y1h7lk-xeXlLuKk5-ztiRq-AQwCX_fCJ5kII_1Gc8116fW1sZRADAqOi69bg7vOtXiwHwuYopQr1bgXNB5wxrDY0m1QAsKU/s320/IMG_3897.JPG" border="0" /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9faux-ebCLONtBq1gLbEZJwIXV7MAYtAQJJQG35Pl9lAjl4Re6dyUTKyvIHh7uF7R3fieE90-TfSKLadGBy_hVkAeN28lbf8OoOn6UbmYR18MfEYOkIwzGn8jFq7dlYg60jNejv0py8B/s1600-h/IMG_3899.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577931964117666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9faux-ebCLONtBq1gLbEZJwIXV7MAYtAQJJQG35Pl9lAjl4Re6dyUTKyvIHh7uF7R3fieE90-TfSKLadGBy_hVkAeN28lbf8OoOn6UbmYR18MfEYOkIwzGn8jFq7dlYg60jNejv0py8B/s320/IMG_3899.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfw_WPLi7Oj9zOAVQVQYehQBJ0cOQU1Kmvx37vfVurb-6GrkFyTkdWTAvgHVZQgsCsNLMg_QImVIEsvpCgbXHTmgoiYoJmGwVQYb2SdirjYcN3ty8u2MIA93OLi0DMiwt6_E7NCvYh9xT4/s1600-h/IMG_3901.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577939704245202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfw_WPLi7Oj9zOAVQVQYehQBJ0cOQU1Kmvx37vfVurb-6GrkFyTkdWTAvgHVZQgsCsNLMg_QImVIEsvpCgbXHTmgoiYoJmGwVQYb2SdirjYcN3ty8u2MIA93OLi0DMiwt6_E7NCvYh9xT4/s320/IMG_3901.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWWH15XCSDT4nNUqGTK1TKCtCaMM62bMOpyIzGAkqcDxpp2opcXRYpXpo0YApbt4s7YPXxeAa92GNo7__Bi3uQHoh0AmMyAucEHmoE5Fi1BwyHC_9UofUpGDr4F7ZvF69yu4FmphWCRUu/s1600-h/IMG_3903.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577946305388146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWWH15XCSDT4nNUqGTK1TKCtCaMM62bMOpyIzGAkqcDxpp2opcXRYpXpo0YApbt4s7YPXxeAa92GNo7__Bi3uQHoh0AmMyAucEHmoE5Fi1BwyHC_9UofUpGDr4F7ZvF69yu4FmphWCRUu/s320/IMG_3903.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmFHoZ5gkW2OKmHRnnEvnfXc2Tmh4ofL6N8iWCOKjNa0_L8c214uaULHILqxFwTy_BllJfZlfZOzy_1cK2lfpq7O9IRYryV7hY7IvKrUmpgwLlL1vptwRMDDRCdUKSqe8hO48zgJ7NJN8/s1600-h/IMG_3904.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211577949822642994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmFHoZ5gkW2OKmHRnnEvnfXc2Tmh4ofL6N8iWCOKjNa0_L8c214uaULHILqxFwTy_BllJfZlfZOzy_1cK2lfpq7O9IRYryV7hY7IvKrUmpgwLlL1vptwRMDDRCdUKSqe8hO48zgJ7NJN8/s320/IMG_3904.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WVfIN2HaxfFWLSdWh9qJqW1t8YmuCcXdgQK12ifmy9Q4LvGOki4MKIHJPO60o19J6xRhU8BGM48t65CZIYmvogpmffjvIBdK-BcGsMOaM_LkKdUh-Z_8UsItKrF_lqfKmLUNhPT3hZHC/s1600-h/IMG_3905.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211778888928375170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WVfIN2HaxfFWLSdWh9qJqW1t8YmuCcXdgQK12ifmy9Q4LvGOki4MKIHJPO60o19J6xRhU8BGM48t65CZIYmvogpmffjvIBdK-BcGsMOaM_LkKdUh-Z_8UsItKrF_lqfKmLUNhPT3hZHC/s320/IMG_3905.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjxkykHv1yJpiaeBxsi0GaoqK7MrwiLxxpEkeUbvS_zA3jLnWVoOzbGkPITxNTAlq_icwYZXT9CDhFBH0Q9_CAO2Pfh8LE6yUm7Reh-JEJm0tq32Shcdislq6IpkA-VZVclwqoGJFkJ9N/s1600-h/IMG_3910.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211778895966613106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjxkykHv1yJpiaeBxsi0GaoqK7MrwiLxxpEkeUbvS_zA3jLnWVoOzbGkPITxNTAlq_icwYZXT9CDhFBH0Q9_CAO2Pfh8LE6yUm7Reh-JEJm0tq32Shcdislq6IpkA-VZVclwqoGJFkJ9N/s320/IMG_3910.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbh5fHb3qKdc4Mchl9lbTSClU1TbZc1DSDOMePHk-KJsR0bZWm7Jav1e5JRCP5ix9u5sPaUSS2Dnz6QDajJXpIq_9290_s-TY1iCSS8Mh_37OG6PtCgdzJv6ivFzknplfF4nihQTsR0qB/s1600-h/IMG_3912B.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211778899808353538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbh5fHb3qKdc4Mchl9lbTSClU1TbZc1DSDOMePHk-KJsR0bZWm7Jav1e5JRCP5ix9u5sPaUSS2Dnz6QDajJXpIq_9290_s-TY1iCSS8Mh_37OG6PtCgdzJv6ivFzknplfF4nihQTsR0qB/s320/IMG_3912B.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>The game ended with boys from both teams hurrying to give high-fives as chilly raindrops fell from picture-perfect clouds. The rain passed quickly, and the resulting sunset was beautiful. The purples and peaches were pierced with angry screams as Mitchell kicked my seat _hard_ while we waited in the drive-through lane at Dairy Queen for Max's Butterfinger and Cookie Dough Blizzard. He really wanted to share it with Mitch but I have learned that sometimes being a mom means being the bad guy. I hope to post great pictures after next week's game of Mitchell happily eating every last drip of a sugary Star Kiss ... or 'Tar Kiss, as he calls it!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cklOtPINhGm78QoW3ed1CYnbzDYkxmptBM5e9CyA-malT3EYXVW9OXfQ3KCg1BtRhyphenhyphenoN8K8t8uznPx2K3hzvPbrTTnHgvqlkf0fj0XrBZsyljPupWBBj-MBME4OOoREp4T0PHdig8zwd/s1600-h/IMG_3919C.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211779265590583762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cklOtPINhGm78QoW3ed1CYnbzDYkxmptBM5e9CyA-malT3EYXVW9OXfQ3KCg1BtRhyphenhyphenoN8K8t8uznPx2K3hzvPbrTTnHgvqlkf0fj0XrBZsyljPupWBBj-MBME4OOoREp4T0PHdig8zwd/s320/IMG_3919C.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2K9BsT5E-UHS6z1kc5oO8kSpHUETgcKFihFxSNQS_Y0hE1TqisfDBcUOBgNV-be7rLPlOhBI-bJc4-bvMD_I5n1xPQGE9WbyIIoXvs7h4auN5dXfmb4jmMNHQMYq_qpiVimwGVFw0z8sP/s1600-h/IMG_3920.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211779262893400306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2K9BsT5E-UHS6z1kc5oO8kSpHUETgcKFihFxSNQS_Y0hE1TqisfDBcUOBgNV-be7rLPlOhBI-bJc4-bvMD_I5n1xPQGE9WbyIIoXvs7h4auN5dXfmb4jmMNHQMYq_qpiVimwGVFw0z8sP/s320/IMG_3920.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGBvP7K-KbsTKsSLCfCOdMGGgIQtvPGFJarGSWJUCpgBlY2HOVSWSdNthkVbpZOi6AUMHqGE1TWym4GKbvCGLryjpVPjuEqZDi960tdgp3GDqNLQSx7bp_9ln8JQ8HXTqfciwPfpTkTZP/s1600-h/IMG_3922.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211779270517020546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGBvP7K-KbsTKsSLCfCOdMGGgIQtvPGFJarGSWJUCpgBlY2HOVSWSdNthkVbpZOi6AUMHqGE1TWym4GKbvCGLryjpVPjuEqZDi960tdgp3GDqNLQSx7bp_9ln8JQ8HXTqfciwPfpTkTZP/s320/IMG_3922.JPG" border="0" /></a></p>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-71271264966319014072008-06-13T21:13:00.006-05:002008-06-13T22:34:11.907-05:00N-E-W-U-L-M<div align="justify">This past Sunday, the boys and I traveled to New Ulm to attend my friend Katie's graduation open house. Her sister Jenna graduated last year. I am so proud of both of them! I am blessed to know their family and to have been friends with their big brother Chet, who died of a heart attack two years ago at the age of 31. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJbP0Vq3aupZC8pULPNexO4HRy_ShNMENvmQQ5sYMITcAnvilQDpmBzvyQWwuV-ZOiXlUMgF4NltRDrMQVsLobhd5rPbv8xrGr1aQ7beXmhbOMFbQxx8Zj1-ae0mjDlqf0GF62W2mmUbZ/s1600-h/IMG_3833B5x7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211560919453877058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJbP0Vq3aupZC8pULPNexO4HRy_ShNMENvmQQ5sYMITcAnvilQDpmBzvyQWwuV-ZOiXlUMgF4NltRDrMQVsLobhd5rPbv8xrGr1aQ7beXmhbOMFbQxx8Zj1-ae0mjDlqf0GF62W2mmUbZ/s320/IMG_3833B5x7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdj1XZz0tJuFyyRdy9_KJI4RU9iU_I9D5doNc_h-YeNzbg_Sfb9Hfd-y2VOo5YG9EM5AsjaXe0v2jH3q712lu7skY8zyThbuh6q0MkzkyR-jO5rpT6fYNf9RMdTXxwuI9GQp1h2gC3uAG/s1600-h/IMG_3834B.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211560931560771026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFdj1XZz0tJuFyyRdy9_KJI4RU9iU_I9D5doNc_h-YeNzbg_Sfb9Hfd-y2VOo5YG9EM5AsjaXe0v2jH3q712lu7skY8zyThbuh6q0MkzkyR-jO5rpT6fYNf9RMdTXxwuI9GQp1h2gC3uAG/s320/IMG_3834B.jpg" border="0" /></a> Later that night, Danny, Ashley, and I visited Brian at <a href="http://ottosnewulm.com/bar_menu.html">Otto's</a>, the bar Brian manages in New Ulm. We almost had the place to ourselves: the only other patrons were Brian's co-workers who were hanging out at their workplace on their night off (What can I say -- My brother is one cool guy!), a couple of fifty-ish out-of-towners, and Chris the Bartender, who makes delicious drinks. As Brian explained The Mug Club to me, pointing out the long rows of glass mugs hanging from hooks above the bar, and his friend "gambled" for free drinks with the bottlecaps from <a href="http://lakemaidbeer.com/#home">Lakemaid Beer</a>, another genius brainchild of New Ulm's own <a href="http://www.schellsbrewery.com/home.php">Schell's Brewery</a>, I felt like we were starring in our own episode of Cheers.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">The next day, the boys played with their favorite New Ulm toys, inlcuding the play-doh fridge set, Uncle Brian's old-school Fisher-Price Western Town, and the new, all-time, play-all-day-if-they-could favorite, Uncle Danny's <a href="http://www.directgametables.com/barvideogames.html">bar top touch-screen video game system</a>. I don't even know what it's called, but everyone loves it, except perhaps for my mom, who would really like it better if it were somewhere other than her kitchen countertop. He bought the machine on ebay, and it's identical to the video game systems you find at bars; choose your game, put in a quarter (Danny says BRING YOUR OWN but we use his!) and get ready for some fun screen time.<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2O2buGSbbhbnnEl0JJ_mgEP5GtPGnBuXh_NRm-O0Wh2UPED_01s08nIjQHv151Qi80eqsReCEYDNtaIP9dX1EMcvSPB-9A_wfBpGOguI6wLYdTxEHejRXEOOW84rW0eVero4iJThcgrD5/s1600-h/IMG_3840.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211560968527221106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2O2buGSbbhbnnEl0JJ_mgEP5GtPGnBuXh_NRm-O0Wh2UPED_01s08nIjQHv151Qi80eqsReCEYDNtaIP9dX1EMcvSPB-9A_wfBpGOguI6wLYdTxEHejRXEOOW84rW0eVero4iJThcgrD5/s320/IMG_3840.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>On Monday afternoon, we visited Lincoln Park, which has undergone major changes since the days I used to play there for Vacation Bible School and junior high tennis practice. The trails I used to explore with friends are still there, and along those same wooded trails nestled in between backyards, the boys collected armloads of unique rocks to bring home.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbbd1IuokRAaY9tWdV3Yvoy_nMIbDnIIH7eanFV4qPH8J1XGflYdisE4ECPnJ6MIxDXIdqMu9hBP62jG0RQh2mxmjJ84tlH4NKxpfBX1nFHi4MnRJnId93Y7lNLHg1yi_s0i1esUk-l6G/s1600-h/IMG_3841.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211560966839755538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbbd1IuokRAaY9tWdV3Yvoy_nMIbDnIIH7eanFV4qPH8J1XGflYdisE4ECPnJ6MIxDXIdqMu9hBP62jG0RQh2mxmjJ84tlH4NKxpfBX1nFHi4MnRJnId93Y7lNLHg1yi_s0i1esUk-l6G/s320/IMG_3841.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjemBd0UBWRo44f3pCSJ6jrWTSu1CjvwjAhn8aWAOM09HPdl5UUUHCAFwz05Y3u7vunW-7tqrhXhtwSnH7XI3QZYTfCjqPWiXHsG1X8ZXzIR4GD8MTing1eUCtXn0VcNx0Mzk7Rb2UqdEK/s1600-h/IMG_3842.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211561474894790258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjemBd0UBWRo44f3pCSJ6jrWTSu1CjvwjAhn8aWAOM09HPdl5UUUHCAFwz05Y3u7vunW-7tqrhXhtwSnH7XI3QZYTfCjqPWiXHsG1X8ZXzIR4GD8MTing1eUCtXn0VcNx0Mzk7Rb2UqdEK/s320/IMG_3842.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Y7HVWF2mXLY36xkHOT09A_MH6fFL84hLVG5u9EunvSFbXl1hfgzCQldnKSY6YTbru6eioh5_ErtL4viEJZ2SRuhPgdIYFCfdwOwi8G9eWiOJW11ZcF1OhTQSE882Xvok-JNTASC5tI1m/s1600-h/IMG_3843.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211561479002257282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Y7HVWF2mXLY36xkHOT09A_MH6fFL84hLVG5u9EunvSFbXl1hfgzCQldnKSY6YTbru6eioh5_ErtL4viEJZ2SRuhPgdIYFCfdwOwi8G9eWiOJW11ZcF1OhTQSE882Xvok-JNTASC5tI1m/s320/IMG_3843.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cu0K-ZfpV8_EnIb7HyK-165JFdPqt08MUCqT9LUl9CHnGtguCelsgmR9f0cwIXBTblCx6RVZgHco9eQo449_QXh6xqgILReSv5r-oW2MjctJeSN-4j6UUgRYv20kurURInPBbgv6TycW/s1600-h/IMG_3849.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211561481062353330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Cu0K-ZfpV8_EnIb7HyK-165JFdPqt08MUCqT9LUl9CHnGtguCelsgmR9f0cwIXBTblCx6RVZgHco9eQo449_QXh6xqgILReSv5r-oW2MjctJeSN-4j6UUgRYv20kurURInPBbgv6TycW/s320/IMG_3849.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>Max holds on tight to Mitchie, worried that his little brother might slide down the hill. Below, Max shows off some of his prized finds.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKcaFH_edBvtX1_F4auQPiZ1AwV4AeDZnCHTUvbfh3olFclanU75juT7ERHpuF2MxVLtKku3is-VGrNdw3r5H1EE0D0V-FYdb87C3BUZgGueNxgVGqBRcjQiVkQaRhV02AwBXjpCnOGyD/s1600-h/IMG_3854.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211561491103290658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKcaFH_edBvtX1_F4auQPiZ1AwV4AeDZnCHTUvbfh3olFclanU75juT7ERHpuF2MxVLtKku3is-VGrNdw3r5H1EE0D0V-FYdb87C3BUZgGueNxgVGqBRcjQiVkQaRhV02AwBXjpCnOGyD/s320/IMG_3854.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyAIR592xChojKylrM67K5VlUMNygmxHIeAimO_U2ufUtFqcCdQdu8OyCSSQyVBkL-yZ4RO2k6ugcrGWRzunlBvAmZgFgJaBjby_y73i2VcrRL-fikvkz7Ncbv2q3GZVQzLmo_RcNOtC6/s1600-h/IMG_3855.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211561490160222034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyAIR592xChojKylrM67K5VlUMNygmxHIeAimO_U2ufUtFqcCdQdu8OyCSSQyVBkL-yZ4RO2k6ugcrGWRzunlBvAmZgFgJaBjby_y73i2VcrRL-fikvkz7Ncbv2q3GZVQzLmo_RcNOtC6/s320/IMG_3855.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>On the way back to the playground area of the park, Max and Mitch fought about who got to carry the plastic bag full of heavy rocks. I convinced Max to let Mitchell have the first turn, and after Mitchie hauled the rocks a few feet, the argument was settled, and Max got to carry the bag ... until the bottom tore open, and then I got to carry it.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1maFHfCxrrDV88sb62XVdgTdHjdFG6ptixQQHdE-v7fNw6BtY4xQPv6d-voUNA-avm7zV0PRawI5HlwrpdI82O3ytvaNn1XhK2RfYDGuBHTiuWlLtYm4Wbsg4nA-0vjcXQi8pRE70z-X/s1600-h/IMG_3856.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562036342043202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1maFHfCxrrDV88sb62XVdgTdHjdFG6ptixQQHdE-v7fNw6BtY4xQPv6d-voUNA-avm7zV0PRawI5HlwrpdI82O3ytvaNn1XhK2RfYDGuBHTiuWlLtYm4Wbsg4nA-0vjcXQi8pRE70z-X/s320/IMG_3856.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc3MoYILKFzHYDWqc7znbK5bkgdlSFlUPp8GamQrKiR7Fyg7TH07_6eWEHfZ_GbN-vXuyhO8s6uvVuROVpenrEl3obZN0I_4sN3IrcScIkcjpAbSrK5YfQZ7-ytJGcP11T-AgkToKsH3j/s1600-h/IMG_3858.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562048106398930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc3MoYILKFzHYDWqc7znbK5bkgdlSFlUPp8GamQrKiR7Fyg7TH07_6eWEHfZ_GbN-vXuyhO8s6uvVuROVpenrEl3obZN0I_4sN3IrcScIkcjpAbSrK5YfQZ7-ytJGcP11T-AgkToKsH3j/s320/IMG_3858.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1K79aENvPynblzF-loCM2PHrznWsYWpyL_is8AyVeWmQ98pd7rIlJRddiAi9bzOjMpvEyu3wWE21t_Jy05OoD9872NdJPMMzsrx_eSvcexcPPwtlZLHyWOT_BeVb7hfN8yI6lg4UYT3v/s1600-h/IMG_3864.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562053457420386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq1K79aENvPynblzF-loCM2PHrznWsYWpyL_is8AyVeWmQ98pd7rIlJRddiAi9bzOjMpvEyu3wWE21t_Jy05OoD9872NdJPMMzsrx_eSvcexcPPwtlZLHyWOT_BeVb7hfN8yI6lg4UYT3v/s320/IMG_3864.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1MEqbpwz_zaurDLnfsATOqT2fL5oIq2i59irzRP9_KdGlx67sPCrvFOsK60geGH5yjjR7WuDdJC64r5-T-vdwKJKi6KWhtvQAWRtlAQkk9FrvSQ2xZ9d-AyskAYX3oxC9RdAeH-ESTuH/s1600-h/IMG_3867.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562056947830882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1MEqbpwz_zaurDLnfsATOqT2fL5oIq2i59irzRP9_KdGlx67sPCrvFOsK60geGH5yjjR7WuDdJC64r5-T-vdwKJKi6KWhtvQAWRtlAQkk9FrvSQ2xZ9d-AyskAYX3oxC9RdAeH-ESTuH/s320/IMG_3867.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a>Max and Mitch pose for a picture with Nana Fluegge.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOkXNDNjbQvi8-_MNNrRbq-FGsjzrBxZ1EsIynFArYcaGRdKCqfSUUIbewm0NIs4bshuSBkGLOqQ3xHoNsE_Y2hyC7wntZ01KNKqHUzSVGYWw0kqqj34f9ZdvDkDPbqIL2cfWtc_J6Yr-/s1600-h/IMG_3888.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562062065499506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOkXNDNjbQvi8-_MNNrRbq-FGsjzrBxZ1EsIynFArYcaGRdKCqfSUUIbewm0NIs4bshuSBkGLOqQ3xHoNsE_Y2hyC7wntZ01KNKqHUzSVGYWw0kqqj34f9ZdvDkDPbqIL2cfWtc_J6Yr-/s320/IMG_3888.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="justify"></a>That night, Nana Burdorf and I drove to Swany's Pizza in Courtland to pick up a yummy dinner. I learned that Swany's is owned by one of my cousins on the Fluegge side of the family. Their pizza is among the best I have ever tasted. I ate too much pepperoni and pineapple! Max and Mitch stood still just long enough to snap a photo with Nana Burdorf before she went home that evening.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkExkRXqrB4cFfn6FSS6mNVN56P092dTfObjn5zQmc6c6kwwUDZIm9z4S1i2uvTHGEgP85rnjXZCbafbP3yisVglrsgqCScznhVvkddowbjUztsYGGS8WPj3vCQ0685ogel_Dvk_ldgecx/s1600-h/IMG_3889.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562474515873666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkExkRXqrB4cFfn6FSS6mNVN56P092dTfObjn5zQmc6c6kwwUDZIm9z4S1i2uvTHGEgP85rnjXZCbafbP3yisVglrsgqCScznhVvkddowbjUztsYGGS8WPj3vCQ0685ogel_Dvk_ldgecx/s320/IMG_3889.JPG" border="0" /></p><p align="justify"></a>On our way out of town the next day, as one of our New Ulm traditions, we stopped at Grandpa Steve's gas station, SSL Auto Service Center, to fill the tank and choose candy for the ride home. Grandpa bought the treats ... but not the gas!</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdqqK7wc5naRP4lRer7JNjk5ZGa_Zys1eobC_iHt1wGsARMgXhKT3PoKaFmCObQ8D3lT-a_Mo-RAp-eO94YwZl0V-F0dJWyP3-nfVb9mFfRnpvWaF6yI10n_eqenHPA3_5kX2KdpDd8a0/s1600-h/IMG_3890.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211562484250771554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdqqK7wc5naRP4lRer7JNjk5ZGa_Zys1eobC_iHt1wGsARMgXhKT3PoKaFmCObQ8D3lT-a_Mo-RAp-eO94YwZl0V-F0dJWyP3-nfVb9mFfRnpvWaF6yI10n_eqenHPA3_5kX2KdpDd8a0/s320/IMG_3890.JPG" border="0" /></a>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-50205406867580683102008-06-11T12:06:00.006-05:002008-06-13T22:37:36.769-05:00Good TimesTomorrow is a daycare day with our friends Elleana and Maverick. Last week they came over twice and we had so much fun. Last Monday, Maverick fell asleep during lunch, and on Tuesday evening, the four kids shared air-popped popcorn and watched a Cordoruy the Bear video, cuddled together on the loveseat. Maverick thought it would be a great night to climb the little red chair <em>and</em> scale the glass table for the first time. When Max played with him on the floor, he laughed so hard, to the point of exhaustion. When was the last time you can say you laughed until your stomach hurt? When we began taking care of the kids last year, Maverick had just learned to roll over. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLwKkk6mqKJ5rYfbFZA7oG5-Tqr44h8Y1LaEw4cuGTv9J_S4QU9nQ_-w6cDUmBp2RnggJnez3JDc_hJuGEr3RRMGAs7r38UNOY5nWemkYTaaTg2IGNnt2SXqZ3-L3HyAE5FIzsPjj9ypj/s1600-h/IMG_3729.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210672352016024562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLwKkk6mqKJ5rYfbFZA7oG5-Tqr44h8Y1LaEw4cuGTv9J_S4QU9nQ_-w6cDUmBp2RnggJnez3JDc_hJuGEr3RRMGAs7r38UNOY5nWemkYTaaTg2IGNnt2SXqZ3-L3HyAE5FIzsPjj9ypj/s320/IMG_3729.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixip47NfC4lZ68ndBx60-OA-_mJZi_r_UAlJA14Wn89j7RfhxfOhKtCu83bjxgloyxoDHPcj2gqBXb_E4qktCGfrcsErKQOMFXXRRnOpxVNt6fHwtVhUmYFKrnDDKWkELnvgla8Blrr1B5/s1600-h/IMG_3730.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210672361910907986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixip47NfC4lZ68ndBx60-OA-_mJZi_r_UAlJA14Wn89j7RfhxfOhKtCu83bjxgloyxoDHPcj2gqBXb_E4qktCGfrcsErKQOMFXXRRnOpxVNt6fHwtVhUmYFKrnDDKWkELnvgla8Blrr1B5/s320/IMG_3730.JPG" border="0" /></a><em> Strawberries on Monday, more strawberries on Tuesday ...<br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xH-4b69_mAkQh36NEkTWcrEEcyXiiLe_L2pTmS64brqjJeamXMhgjBzLD1ICZxeoXUDoh6fs1hS3nNUCuLcVNEa_3GeM6cWtLmY9rJ38gaRTAEn6OCzBsAHmzIDjG0fKbGcPbr9-YINB/s1600-h/IMG_3738.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210672364428335810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xH-4b69_mAkQh36NEkTWcrEEcyXiiLe_L2pTmS64brqjJeamXMhgjBzLD1ICZxeoXUDoh6fs1hS3nNUCuLcVNEa_3GeM6cWtLmY9rJ38gaRTAEn6OCzBsAHmzIDjG0fKbGcPbr9-YINB/s320/IMG_3738.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT96FUIINFormpgQAgV0ZtMEgKEELPNT5hDOFUR_WuoYZerVxElGRCBLPF6676frxun9EqFbt2bEvfJATVSiDdX6pTE1MvlfrfP2fQ7FukxMUK8etxCUB6YeKTeyOKSsBgaDci8fOgLHN6/s1600-h/IMG_3739.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210672365240659186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT96FUIINFormpgQAgV0ZtMEgKEELPNT5hDOFUR_WuoYZerVxElGRCBLPF6676frxun9EqFbt2bEvfJATVSiDdX6pTE1MvlfrfP2fQ7FukxMUK8etxCUB6YeKTeyOKSsBgaDci8fOgLHN6/s320/IMG_3739.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC5EPagX1TVHWOuL-S46DJ3shKthoZ5YODn4JjWrwHrs_nMCIjKfkBWRcmfJZoRHP0_RVlPOaKvMInYdOQYz1YwS6WnNIGYL_nx9ZWoXslfzbsR_0yiiK8yw4sA_GH8hiO2O6JRxdzz5lZ/s1600-h/IMG_3742.JPG"></a><em>Give Maverick a remote or a real phone, and you will see the happiest baby ever!</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211211487425433570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bgQDOumirrHnVl6Xw0QH8SCt5PtV0qRg0QO8FR2sEC1_VdYSOlD1nWpo0UEHGuaPBFa0r_tkDPfr8zOzvgW7mVCE-8XoaH9L6TAtIWvtUcCBBo0CKwvdnBzaTzdkwYdg9wlinOU8W8PT/s320/IMG_3743.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>Sleepyheads!!!</em></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211211496158353106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-2AAqWONUYqawySA-JU_cQShVTEWmnN0tAIwRoiluk0-kBqBl9feqSnZO4WOfsTGInYD27HeQVHwX4GAzNXkvxsINx3VF5XdOudr5bi-CZ8nVimctR25SQGRFavIkgdLSEvf4PxPIO9S/s320/IMG_3745.JPG" border="0" />Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-38161330121864120002008-06-11T08:25:00.005-05:002008-06-11T09:05:55.533-05:00After the Rain<div align="justify">I won't join the throngs of Minnesotans complaining about the seemingly endless rainy, cloudy days that mark the beginning of our summer. I love the smell of rain, and those cloudy afternoons are perfect for taking pictures. I captured these images this past Saturday night, in between storms. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210617646030758786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMx7evk6i7SDBy-dW5PEDfR77-AOZwMhFgonI1YfittBGjUtumsuwAb25sGJmcaRTQr_t1gjcyII9dlMGnEF4gx6FC4vrIX5qb-OKEZCGGhy23tXozO8NUNI91JNxwlsNWzulIxxkBmSe/s320/IMG_3812.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210617650416124274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS9qwpzB3VmDcYt_r_YCCWVFKiRAcaTILNXIhjb8hNACFIvn_o5O0-8QUaWSe9wHmE0v2VlFVAEHyRLBb1i0YX6M-5FekDUsDQqy7r4YZOCkp99zuuAzW5PTMO2DusZ9Em9Lt6ibq2ml-S/s320/IMG_3813.JPG" border="0" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurELuW_I0DWWENWcLuo7yGwVTLGHWwyEi4x6GkX3OP7WKwUO6orm01kAtWHefz7pbdVo2bzzV3J1p30yJrFdTr4ZmxRMQs313qRgiSbRSj-hNYRuNhz1LPnQoS3nc-oM5-PWyJkYU7A1p/s1600-h/IMG_3775B.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210617646166158818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurELuW_I0DWWENWcLuo7yGwVTLGHWwyEi4x6GkX3OP7WKwUO6orm01kAtWHefz7pbdVo2bzzV3J1p30yJrFdTr4ZmxRMQs313qRgiSbRSj-hNYRuNhz1LPnQoS3nc-oM5-PWyJkYU7A1p/s320/IMG_3775B.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8qU8S0us0VvxiBkIt2BGZcA-t6GFxesjtR4qdECvio4-QKRFGaIPzRb1T5HK8kzAYgg3YBy-QOCuAKyyORQ8FzTF2PZfpoANaZiHzdENDLnQN-Gw0_ywF9ZpYsWfHhvtaF1Jvi2IXneZ/s1600-h/IMG_3784.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210617656296114850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8qU8S0us0VvxiBkIt2BGZcA-t6GFxesjtR4qdECvio4-QKRFGaIPzRb1T5HK8kzAYgg3YBy-QOCuAKyyORQ8FzTF2PZfpoANaZiHzdENDLnQN-Gw0_ywF9ZpYsWfHhvtaF1Jvi2IXneZ/s320/IMG_3784.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnf-CdkY4g-nAkCS0If5eUh8I37pfldRYvyBzre6UybrdoEKUBq48Bc_7ZExxvu4BJK6M-x-wxLDpIubCTL9swqhQNrKpL90QHCyzpP0Sg4Kpdzz0Rx6J95pT_2nTsGKPoVs8ocnI6eEy/s1600-h/IMG_3789.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210617655436972754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnf-CdkY4g-nAkCS0If5eUh8I37pfldRYvyBzre6UybrdoEKUBq48Bc_7ZExxvu4BJK6M-x-wxLDpIubCTL9swqhQNrKpL90QHCyzpP0Sg4Kpdzz0Rx6J95pT_2nTsGKPoVs8ocnI6eEy/s320/IMG_3789.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210616455327377730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbQuZgdZFCOPi5KBDdjdCxm2uiLaB1YsxOEe8B1f77yD008Js1kmViWWQkhOC0Rvc02uxDRYxPRqqZliBJb6X0ig0IDmlY8inkS7ulmYp9DGKeCOXSgjbYIDWboI8WRCZuUdOH6yI7gC5/s320/IMG_3797.JPG" border="0" /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZc4V1ECo5eeDBsm44EzRuknqqxYoymG_uhCSiAJQdAdxcXHJinROvtzNKI9L9AfRe72RGg3_IlMmjgbgl8MrGaRksIk_ifPKmAu9bw_RBBP8F6HeDFAFpEwA9ikKEC3jy5suOYd2spDBz/s1600-h/IMG_3824.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210616449911202962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZc4V1ECo5eeDBsm44EzRuknqqxYoymG_uhCSiAJQdAdxcXHJinROvtzNKI9L9AfRe72RGg3_IlMmjgbgl8MrGaRksIk_ifPKmAu9bw_RBBP8F6HeDFAFpEwA9ikKEC3jy5suOYd2spDBz/s320/IMG_3824.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210616452798158322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdeJ74KhnzxYZvimeMYURgjWufRJRm8B6DCaoSvaKTEUzal1hF2Ajm0LZif8Id5hKF_6c_Gqr2l3DJ_PCLPC6vz-hM_gOMR3nsZfi8CZ22uUD5tFQs3V0lQ2DoR9-1nUFzXopErSkWsRc/s320/IMG_3816B.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210616445389679586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiye-5IbVPVqCDw66TIuIkpkLLmzdT5PMsyiMWc-XGC35qxAIT2uClYrs7JU4284_1lSXeOf8RLRX8Km-m9EhOqtVctE2HG9-3SeOjYOAiMN7-632LidBtvEf-oZewuzDq2EFQPIo10kZNc/s320/IMG_3825.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210616369379690162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoh1LteoijOhcvM0XZUbwIZmwQT-AmfXHaQFtmyeyW_OOct_OvaJDinVhKrXT6xVfKmN5AEJU8JlGEI1O7HY4sWbntB5Sh5Yy5Lj-6neiC1_QMuIv7G-axr2XnnPJif64Wu1uMFsKWLBbQ/s320/IMG_3831B.JPG" border="0" /><br /></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456257064060078566.post-74267396800611952372008-06-10T16:52:00.001-05:002008-06-10T16:55:46.390-05:00Health Food for Thought<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">Y</span>ou gain <span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">strength</span>, <span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">courage</span> and <span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">confidence</span> <br /></div><div align="center">by every experience <br /></div><div align="center">in which you really stop to look fear in the face. <br /></div><div align="center">You must do the thing you think you cannot do. <br /><br /></div><div align="center">~ Eleanor Roosevelt <br /></div>Missyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01370702835324876839noreply@blogger.com0