tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90823052024-03-07T16:37:02.385-05:00Beaches' SpeechesDid you ever know that you're my hero?Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-52165359984265639352014-08-24T08:34:00.000-05:002014-08-24T08:49:52.876-05:00Catching UpHello, my name is Mia and it's been 365 days since my last post. Probably not a single one of those has passed without me thinking to myself that I really should write a quick post. I really should capture some of the insanity of these times for my future self. For my kids. But then, the kids are wired and starving - for food yes, but more so for attention. Cairn and I have barely stumbled downstairs at 9pm after a long day of work and gym and chores and kids and bedtime and tidying up.<br />
<br />
The computer is there, staring at me, goading me to keep up with this writing that I've so grossly neglected for so long, way too long to ever be able to catch up now, in the fleeting moments I have to myself before I go to bed exhausted and it all starts over again tomorrow. Sometimes the computer does get turned on but it's work that happens in that case. Always just work.<br />
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And I'm painfully aware of the family photos that are piling up on various devices around the house - needing desperately to be organized and shared and printed. Hysterically tuned in to how fast my kids are growing and how much I'll forget by not writing it down. And for all that worry, I just can't. I just can't muster it on top of everything else. And so I've decided to forgive myself. I've turned to <a href="http://instagram.com/miarodak" target="_blank">Instagram</a> in a major way. A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words. The thing is though, I miss the words. And so maybe, when the opportunity presents itself, I'll try again. Even just a few words here and there. But maybe not. Don't hold me to it just yet. After all, there will be a day, in the not so distant future, when the kids are not so demanding and the house is always quiet. And I'm willing to bet that when those days are upon me the words will still be here, ready to flow. <br />
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Speaking of the not-so-distant future, my Everley is turning two years old in less than a month. My Bella is staring Grade 1 in a week. Big deals, both. Pictures will be taken and words will be shared. Can't say how many but some. See you soon.Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-18188292785709044252013-12-18T15:38:00.000-05:002013-12-18T15:38:39.227-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 1 Year Old<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>[Author's note: This post was written in real time using my iPhone note pad on Sept. 20, 2013, a few minutes before Everley's first birthday and my 38th. I don't know why it's taken me so long to post it other than for a long time I wanted to write something different. Something longer maybe? More thought out? But in the end I like the spontaneity of this letter. To me it says everything that needs to be said.] </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Dear Everley, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrFFqH5Otk7wZU8kQgvpjp4QehsF9PEj-WXF-PIM7jTo6CeApyd_420WMdX8l6mZNbW4TtJM1aVWo08QGyXuNIVYpwliydUiE6JKZ8B8iyoeb2hpDfOxaygehlw9hXMfctCNy/s1600/cake1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrFFqH5Otk7wZU8kQgvpjp4QehsF9PEj-WXF-PIM7jTo6CeApyd_420WMdX8l6mZNbW4TtJM1aVWo08QGyXuNIVYpwliydUiE6JKZ8B8iyoeb2hpDfOxaygehlw9hXMfctCNy/s1600/cake1.jpg" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It's 11:40pm and you should be sound asleep but instead -- despite my best efforts to comfort you for the last 45 minutes -- you've been tossing around and crying out. In pain? In fear? From pure exhaustion? I don't know. I don't know why but I do know this, <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/11/everley-read-birthday-story.html" target="_blank">exactly one year ago </a>today I was doing the exact same thing. In pain, in fear, from pure exhaustion. But in my case also with excitement and with joy. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJjwL4DUNJJhgdT2JdfNKfZ-ye-iY2IfJuDbj67NEX8lMddKYYt-zMwDD2ndfGUlqjy8x6RIqwM6NNcjkQxAyB643GTFqILgF_3-VZwmUkjM4jdqTyAooA2tERd5Kr42kyunC/s1600/cupcakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJjwL4DUNJJhgdT2JdfNKfZ-ye-iY2IfJuDbj67NEX8lMddKYYt-zMwDD2ndfGUlqjy8x6RIqwM6NNcjkQxAyB643GTFqILgF_3-VZwmUkjM4jdqTyAooA2tERd5Kr42kyunC/s1600/cupcakes.jpg" /></a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Because you were on your way.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpw03a-PaGzPyNxUJTiC09swNRPwyjAkpDSOdxMuRsSjIMgc2GQWDg5EOJBj-0ysHzQPJs3G7ixr-gol5Zm01kwXWg8BK5DWeadHdoV7Rh6iAoaS4Kdw6JHsqDmz4gDhojMhyphenhyphen/s1600/chair3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpw03a-PaGzPyNxUJTiC09swNRPwyjAkpDSOdxMuRsSjIMgc2GQWDg5EOJBj-0ysHzQPJs3G7ixr-gol5Zm01kwXWg8BK5DWeadHdoV7Rh6iAoaS4Kdw6JHsqDmz4gDhojMhyphenhyphen/s1600/chair3.jpg" /></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">At 12:35am you arrived. And the relief I felt was instantaneous (at least until the stitching began). You were here. You were safe. You were beautiful. You were mine.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XlLNnxIFXrqAg9YPTJZ7V4NMv1BZZy1jUsitTaKKCUN_2TXrDatrPdRlfTfnjnvjDzu5W-XIyjjO6jEQQROF5ZUdQss_x0mckB7FQn4FXpRSu1KJKkqkSEwAxhKUdW4OckFS/s1600/cake2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XlLNnxIFXrqAg9YPTJZ7V4NMv1BZZy1jUsitTaKKCUN_2TXrDatrPdRlfTfnjnvjDzu5W-XIyjjO6jEQQROF5ZUdQss_x0mckB7FQn4FXpRSu1KJKkqkSEwAxhKUdW4OckFS/s1600/cake2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cakestash!</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"></span><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">365 days later and I know I'm utterly blessed to be able to say the same. You are here, you are safe, you are beautiful, you are mine. And I am yours. Completely.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZuVGCQqJXrpmpkrzsCoN97LVYMMUr8581XTNnUiGyFVPi2wpCwB2XwvQRqrz0QEQWUyPBYzkTi2hJBjdmfl6fI8jt_IjWYTJygzvKWS0sYyvWgyD1eL91h5Ei-KwhKbiauff/s1600/chair2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZuVGCQqJXrpmpkrzsCoN97LVYMMUr8581XTNnUiGyFVPi2wpCwB2XwvQRqrz0QEQWUyPBYzkTi2hJBjdmfl6fI8jt_IjWYTJygzvKWS0sYyvWgyD1eL91h5Ei-KwhKbiauff/s1600/chair2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please let me never forget these tiny toes.</td></tr>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I want to talk about this year. This crazy year we have had, you and I, but as I sit awake in my bed and listen to you cry from two rooms away, I just can't seem to find the words. Because what are the words that you use to describe the type of connection that you have with someone you have fed, nurtured, rocked, taught, played with, cried with, cleaned, soothed, held, moulded, laughed with, screamed at, snuggled, warmed, cooled, rocked, kissed and hugged and kissed some more? Every day. Every single day, 24 hours a day, for 365 days. How do you describe that with words? You don't.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC00x0-w5mz_xwu_cB8_DOSoX-nrXZE3xJDIr1HCP3GAKlDwprHpIN7OWFDCG19wlGts4WrUv-j6y6F8roXF8CDt7VFLePFqTR8rP4yMmhbNMSsC00URHTNMbD8PfzL62PV97v/s1600/chair1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC00x0-w5mz_xwu_cB8_DOSoX-nrXZE3xJDIr1HCP3GAKlDwprHpIN7OWFDCG19wlGts4WrUv-j6y6F8roXF8CDt7VFLePFqTR8rP4yMmhbNMSsC00URHTNMbD8PfzL62PV97v/s1600/chair1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">So I won't try. Instead I'll say this. Happy birthday Everley Read, my soul sister, sharer of birthdays and bringer of joy. I wish you would stop crying now. But if you can't, you know I will come to you, as I have every day for the past 365 days, and do my best to make it right.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS7kW_TZH-eSjGD1gEIhGHTz0JKd7xos42H7Rx22NuUCwmw0TT-U8hZidPnm_8ImEnHL7IsZTvfFiR_TDEhRK0XPaTHzDgoqZ1zKHSX4NRb_x_JKde1oflnesu_d_Z08BA7vp/s1600/momandev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS7kW_TZH-eSjGD1gEIhGHTz0JKd7xos42H7Rx22NuUCwmw0TT-U8hZidPnm_8ImEnHL7IsZTvfFiR_TDEhRK0XPaTHzDgoqZ1zKHSX4NRb_x_JKde1oflnesu_d_Z08BA7vp/s1600/momandev.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Sharers of birthdays.</td></tr>
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">No matter what and forever and ever.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIz1ws19uwDXSsm_OsoGESbZWAWa_bmnF1dQKReOyNBMZNBcIRz4c8GPGSi4AlJSvS0ZaP1XlW84WOf2g1hdPaxZZgjEecHCh9s5bxZZkKaD6-7NPyL-t3dTojaf1B8GbOT86/s1600/candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIz1ws19uwDXSsm_OsoGESbZWAWa_bmnF1dQKReOyNBMZNBcIRz4c8GPGSi4AlJSvS0ZaP1XlW84WOf2g1hdPaxZZgjEecHCh9s5bxZZkKaD6-7NPyL-t3dTojaf1B8GbOT86/s1600/candles.jpg" /></a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I love you,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Mommy</span><br />
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Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-44767140746930414232013-09-20T20:40:00.000-05:002013-09-20T20:40:14.154-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 11 Months OldDear Everley,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlRHQETuVpSnykaTBZB2tMzdZQgrVgrOZYxFUwU6x-tKwP-QTQAoVitn9FC6KAzSWxZgxWHmOf16SNBBgHvjrJXPR6xarMnpxiR6NY7LlG0_IjbjDdAUDRdCYT1Ayw-RKoKhG/s1600/11mos2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlRHQETuVpSnykaTBZB2tMzdZQgrVgrOZYxFUwU6x-tKwP-QTQAoVitn9FC6KAzSWxZgxWHmOf16SNBBgHvjrJXPR6xarMnpxiR6NY7LlG0_IjbjDdAUDRdCYT1Ayw-RKoKhG/s1600/11mos2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
You'll be 11 months old for about, oh, three more hours. I'm squeaking this one in just under the wire and as such we're going to let the photos do the talking. I will just say this, we spent a lot of your 11th month in Ipperwash, basking in the sunshine with family and friends. It was a glorious month. The kind of summer that in my dreams we would enjoy every year. It was so special and so precious to me. I hope that you'll remember it just as fondly when you look back at this one day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VG5Bty4Oo5aEF1OZE0nxCeM2v_sLa0QbVTjWLzgaAhnux3hL_gS1yBHRw8Tkm5CgFWqQ5nQhKJQbklgFAqgkhyphenhyphenJM6stIQnFVHhRmX6KmVLT21QxR3rUjZ8M3sKs9Gk9OUHIa/s1600/swings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VG5Bty4Oo5aEF1OZE0nxCeM2v_sLa0QbVTjWLzgaAhnux3hL_gS1yBHRw8Tkm5CgFWqQ5nQhKJQbklgFAqgkhyphenhyphenJM6stIQnFVHhRmX6KmVLT21QxR3rUjZ8M3sKs9Gk9OUHIa/s1600/swings.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We also monkeyed around on the swings. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-s2Ag0tXQJeEjnOgQ3ONw-1CMnt3oDUN5tbIulohh3bCDVoQaaweOd_sIQh7su8iob9PxtvzvZ7VPvTjrmQ8KDMWUbR68AYeBkvD9whpCe8TNYqJC1bc0rC_INtLpPS_rYe7/s1600/boating.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-s2Ag0tXQJeEjnOgQ3ONw-1CMnt3oDUN5tbIulohh3bCDVoQaaweOd_sIQh7su8iob9PxtvzvZ7VPvTjrmQ8KDMWUbR68AYeBkvD9whpCe8TNYqJC1bc0rC_INtLpPS_rYe7/s1600/boating.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And took a speed boat ride around Lake Rosseau. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETXqT70HzD2Erqf63JToT0EsEiElRqVowkODlxGGnDyN-yWs-GXAIiNwmvS5xnKnAw64I-omi7P9YvZ4k7ODNNf8d-kGP90PI5tcF54I6G2cCaUEtrVrZI1_r33wvS99QSBJR/s1600/hearts.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETXqT70HzD2Erqf63JToT0EsEiElRqVowkODlxGGnDyN-yWs-GXAIiNwmvS5xnKnAw64I-omi7P9YvZ4k7ODNNf8d-kGP90PI5tcF54I6G2cCaUEtrVrZI1_r33wvS99QSBJR/s1600/hearts.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But mostly we lazed on the beach and took in the view. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mmmkoABqxOMjxPGKYU4ioPK5E3lwu2DStRxHBRhdd5lpFfq9aNTnxG8Rkak9aWj8EAn8VSLn8kP4E20iRING7mRomlr7VC2sfs01FPQAKSN33sshTYrUvQTTSbfRTeUN4buU/s1600/withMatty.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mmmkoABqxOMjxPGKYU4ioPK5E3lwu2DStRxHBRhdd5lpFfq9aNTnxG8Rkak9aWj8EAn8VSLn8kP4E20iRING7mRomlr7VC2sfs01FPQAKSN33sshTYrUvQTTSbfRTeUN4buU/s1600/withMatty.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did some digging with Uncle Matt. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCZ0FBj5SeRkhs-cSoQebIwnDnEwF0lYNYVzVKkNvkMZ8rXmps-CqhyhpHNJdu6fpwIymFK6f03BcqlsIgW-ASMCKz_9ZS6VmVBtwTH_3w5K5saSaDBwq3KZYCcvGwobqJqqn/s1600/crawling.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCZ0FBj5SeRkhs-cSoQebIwnDnEwF0lYNYVzVKkNvkMZ8rXmps-CqhyhpHNJdu6fpwIymFK6f03BcqlsIgW-ASMCKz_9ZS6VmVBtwTH_3w5K5saSaDBwq3KZYCcvGwobqJqqn/s1600/crawling.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And explored the sand (and ate the sand). </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVyPrtMHYdldil8ZhPCd8yGfnk_l4eqYl9tQ9-X3S432KguqiEO-bPq-k3Jogihs8FsWgImaXCsnRtT5Z05HlJipvHDhpDnEOu2ZT6c3CurR7IOfNz72-aGtHOyyuv_GsuiNy/s1600/nap.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVyPrtMHYdldil8ZhPCd8yGfnk_l4eqYl9tQ9-X3S432KguqiEO-bPq-k3Jogihs8FsWgImaXCsnRtT5Z05HlJipvHDhpDnEOu2ZT6c3CurR7IOfNz72-aGtHOyyuv_GsuiNy/s1600/nap.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And also, there were naps. Such glorious, warm, summertime naps. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3kJMg0_LM0BEh_3ytvLHkVJsF1veIrpp9_G-PM65yJcNNJP9L3Cav3PGQxSDgf_iB3SXMwaDL_kA9OBPkUi8-YAWNiFtCe-AgJmi5rvl4FwLRTRAt9KUBLtOASdPgFBfZ2gc/s1600/11mos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3kJMg0_LM0BEh_3ytvLHkVJsF1veIrpp9_G-PM65yJcNNJP9L3Cav3PGQxSDgf_iB3SXMwaDL_kA9OBPkUi8-YAWNiFtCe-AgJmi5rvl4FwLRTRAt9KUBLtOASdPgFBfZ2gc/s1600/11mos.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
MommyBeacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-77736321940364739142013-09-20T15:26:00.000-05:002013-09-20T15:26:52.896-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 10 Months OldDear Everley,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsYEjXmzpwFAcHc2DdteUpF44GLfiJSpjsUeXP9MzJ1OSjFSLuQJm3wPqypvSnLQk3qRWIMYfvQhlLsQ5h3SNPo8jkgG7gh4qSGBzjps8JhqeATDWh0iGzLltTZGJdMj8bpf3/s1600/10mos2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsYEjXmzpwFAcHc2DdteUpF44GLfiJSpjsUeXP9MzJ1OSjFSLuQJm3wPqypvSnLQk3qRWIMYfvQhlLsQ5h3SNPo8jkgG7gh4qSGBzjps8JhqeATDWh0iGzLltTZGJdMj8bpf3/s1600/10mos2.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
On
July 21 you turned 10 months old. I haven't been keeping up with these
monthly posts. Obviously you've got the big bday fast approaching (omg
tomorrow!) and I'm almost three months behind and that sucks the big one
but here's the truth of it - it's not because we've been too busy,
though we have been making the most of our precious summer together. And
it's not that I am just lazy, though I've definitely put off writing
these in favour of simply lying with you on the living room floor and
watching you grow and learn and well, just be your beautiful baby self.<br />
<br />
No, the truth of it is this - I just have not been able to face it, this
passing of time. Though I love and cherish these monthly letters - and I
WILL complete them all because you deserve to have this record of your
infancy and of our magical year together - they are such a physical and emotional reminder of the damned ticking clock. TICK, TICK, tick, tick... SHUT UP CLOCK. (ticktickticktick)<br />
<br />
I
want to be witty and funny and clever with these letters to you so
you'll look back one day and be all, "Wow, Mom wasn't always such a
washed up emotional disaster after all. She was kind of cool and
hilarious..." but Everley Read YOU HAVE STOLEN ALL OF MY FUNNY.
Seriously. YOU are funny. You are such a clown and so delightful but I'm pretty, pretty certain you got it all from me. And left me with NO
MORE FUNNINESS.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfiveW0JEjYvlkLZxPEyKjYNPWfVHizTNA-Hoo-U6U7_uE-R2qtDii2S6xcW8FYVwWM_1SZhJySWd1kAEvpKyFDUcpJ6RYCGRshiAie1TCCFGUQSe13n7s7KkKBhJV7J6Dd61/s1600/standing.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfiveW0JEjYvlkLZxPEyKjYNPWfVHizTNA-Hoo-U6U7_uE-R2qtDii2S6xcW8FYVwWM_1SZhJySWd1kAEvpKyFDUcpJ6RYCGRshiAie1TCCFGUQSe13n7s7KkKBhJV7J6Dd61/s1600/standing.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here you are being hilarious. Also, STANDING UP!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I
sit down to write to you and all I want to do is get weepy and
philosophical about how special our bond is (very, very) and how much
you've changed my life (beyond what words can describe) and how our
family - immediate and extended - are so bloody in love with you (read:
obsessed) and while it's all true, every word of it, it's not exactly
going to illicit a chuckle in 20 years time is it?<br />
<br />
So
instead, I haven't been writing. And that's not fair. Now I have to catch up and I promise I'm going to do it. All you need to do in
return is promise that in 20 years you'll at least pretend that you
think I'm cool and hilarious.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACINJQL4nDXzn9qD5i_or3K79O5AA9Ph0kQzCeYPlye4kbWxzAhRlLu6XENloq8bLUJSNogeM5dF8J8ym8BdYnKEBRH9X1SDwugcu8iufIAYgT8iF7-MbRqfcGYVuUjJsihKo/s1600/shoulders.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACINJQL4nDXzn9qD5i_or3K79O5AA9Ph0kQzCeYPlye4kbWxzAhRlLu6XENloq8bLUJSNogeM5dF8J8ym8BdYnKEBRH9X1SDwugcu8iufIAYgT8iF7-MbRqfcGYVuUjJsihKo/s1600/shoulders.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy is also cool and hilarious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Here's a speed round up of the incredible things you mastered between nine and 10 months:<br />
<br />
You
gave up your arm-pull-toe-push military drag in favour of a classic
hands and knees crawl, which you can do at super turbo speed. You
started pulled yourself up to standing and within days were cruising
around furniture like it ain't no thang.You started clapping and other
cute mimicking behaviours. You got your first professional haircut,
survived your first heatwave, enjoyed your first shoulder ride (on daddy)
and had your first full day at the beach in Ipperwash complete with
swimming. You finally cut that top tooth, which was a pain in both your
butt and mine and your little three toothed smile was hilarious and
infectious.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguekJLQJyxiQX2BT9hbnAVFvWYDofjzoB2OHNfFt0Ppk1xCJboUi4mU-anZliqcYsVfIheIcwmMdjPLlKR7tr13t0EoiA5UxC1kZ916hKbzuPK7IsOXP5oOqLQMCCalu23l4Ua/s1600/10mos1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPN0GixwUqjbeqUPi3uj0NFXfi_kvp7_Gk2a_aWjRa_EgeOqS6ubBa71OgM24nhudAEQSCtN-zCE7Q82vrrXQgGdMs7z0aFWm2jEZmwR-189D9ZmqALSXMlbd2dsK27H6oy0_/s1600/beach.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPN0GixwUqjbeqUPi3uj0NFXfi_kvp7_Gk2a_aWjRa_EgeOqS6ubBa71OgM24nhudAEQSCtN-zCE7Q82vrrXQgGdMs7z0aFWm2jEZmwR-189D9ZmqALSXMlbd2dsK27H6oy0_/s1600/beach.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach, bucket, boat, baby. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguekJLQJyxiQX2BT9hbnAVFvWYDofjzoB2OHNfFt0Ppk1xCJboUi4mU-anZliqcYsVfIheIcwmMdjPLlKR7tr13t0EoiA5UxC1kZ916hKbzuPK7IsOXP5oOqLQMCCalu23l4Ua/s1600/10mos1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguekJLQJyxiQX2BT9hbnAVFvWYDofjzoB2OHNfFt0Ppk1xCJboUi4mU-anZliqcYsVfIheIcwmMdjPLlKR7tr13t0EoiA5UxC1kZ916hKbzuPK7IsOXP5oOqLQMCCalu23l4Ua/s1600/10mos1.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
Mommy Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-38608203894726110732013-07-27T21:03:00.000-05:002013-07-27T21:03:56.250-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 9 Months OldDear Everley,<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntVVetP98KSyj2dEBSLGrBl0B-v0Hc5QeAEOrQYv3T4oUzRxYDBtiye7O4whxrL4fT0V7cPg8zKTkgxUfJ_j5Tf5tFCK-f8G3TXC1w0YKCqtalCBzcoxQlaJPjJDEmhyphenhyphenwr2zs/s1600/9mos3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntVVetP98KSyj2dEBSLGrBl0B-v0Hc5QeAEOrQYv3T4oUzRxYDBtiye7O4whxrL4fT0V7cPg8zKTkgxUfJ_j5Tf5tFCK-f8G3TXC1w0YKCqtalCBzcoxQlaJPjJDEmhyphenhyphenwr2zs/s1600/9mos3.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
I've been thinking a lot about how quickly you are growing. It all seems to be happening so fast now. On June 21 you turned nine months old. I always feel that nine months is a particularly significant age for a baby because it's when you have been on the outside for as long as you were on the inside. It will never ever cease to amaze me that you once fit so perfectly inside my body. INSIDE. MY. BODY. You fit. It's remarkable. And what's even more remarkable than how you once fit IN me, is how you now fit so perfectly OUT of me.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgIGIhnt-9DD2WJX9E3JnDwuHRxHxZuxTF_AxgduQYml7bcdVfXdrx4YCpgi2rwlonp_mUu1evV5EbTUmXyqNEazpGGw3LYN-Fe8aEmqrYYMnZl0dobHS0N7qdXJEL7i-nBtX/s1600/9mos2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgIGIhnt-9DD2WJX9E3JnDwuHRxHxZuxTF_AxgduQYml7bcdVfXdrx4YCpgi2rwlonp_mUu1evV5EbTUmXyqNEazpGGw3LYN-Fe8aEmqrYYMnZl0dobHS0N7qdXJEL7i-nBtX/s1600/9mos2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
There's something so special about the way your little body fits right onto mine like jigsaw puzzle. When you were a newborn your head would rest in the palm of my hand while your tiny feet curled up in the crook of my elbow. Or you would lie on your tummy across my lap while I gently rocked you back and forth, the fit so perfect that there was no fear that you could fall.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobGOGta9F6vdjzOuI8ii2iyQo-kYtvEOgaROCjve3HOKSmiVy87yFnX47O2jTAjCjHO-ZRhUbOkTsq0V6yPtUrur-vAHQz77TosSNlI6Nh2bxcDCQJ5HBXh_7CTXvBAu3ueQx/s1600/9mos5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobGOGta9F6vdjzOuI8ii2iyQo-kYtvEOgaROCjve3HOKSmiVy87yFnX47O2jTAjCjHO-ZRhUbOkTsq0V6yPtUrur-vAHQz77TosSNlI6Nh2bxcDCQJ5HBXh_7CTXvBAu3ueQx/s1600/9mos5.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Before long you were able to lie lengthwise in my lap, little smiling face beaming up at me from my knees while your scrumptious feet would gently knead my soft postpartum belly. Before I knew it you were sitting on my hip. Is there anything better? Anything in the world better than a baby on your hip? I still get an absolute surge of joy when I pick you up and you snap right onto me with your chubby legs around my waste and sausage arms tight around my neck.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYB1epPW9e5VAHfZgHtZcGrRhVT7WWeunjtzxBKkjye6YDQX75rBVzEYeaNkHltIuPMljMyazaa-PDe3fssQWR5S1MP9I5T_Cjo5VtB7Rvb1EXDR2AXytyaw0VOMtwDrTQutor/s1600/9mos1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYB1epPW9e5VAHfZgHtZcGrRhVT7WWeunjtzxBKkjye6YDQX75rBVzEYeaNkHltIuPMljMyazaa-PDe3fssQWR5S1MP9I5T_Cjo5VtB7Rvb1EXDR2AXytyaw0VOMtwDrTQutor/s1600/9mos1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SAUSAGE ARMS!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And how is possible that when you were one hour old, one month old, half a year, nine months -- you always fit just perfectly against my body when you nurse? Head tucked into the crook of my arm, back snug against my inner forearm and little diapered bum tucked perfectly into my hand. It's almost as if I'm growing right along with you. And there it is, isn't it? Because of course, the truth is, I am. We all are - your dad and sister and me. Not only are you the perfect fit physically, but metaphysically as well.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPA-brNnaO1SwJe8TfVdErupLPLk6Nsr_hkNlP11CCMUSuLuWCX2j5Fm1_HKz0UiCRWCyX9ID6tn5vnnipthwm1z_4Bg3imjYv3znJfdEcKkwI66VmqB0RZhcYENTs_Za48Ia/s1600/9mos7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPA-brNnaO1SwJe8TfVdErupLPLk6Nsr_hkNlP11CCMUSuLuWCX2j5Fm1_HKz0UiCRWCyX9ID6tn5vnnipthwm1z_4Bg3imjYv3znJfdEcKkwI66VmqB0RZhcYENTs_Za48Ia/s1600/9mos7.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
You fit us, Everley Read. You're a perfect fit.<br />
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCiHE7O_5t89OIamZ8JkvpvDusd1O40VaJ_pVg-UlJouIb6KZGB-iLK_cfbgNrIj4kpgNUEzuUOT3famE6zP0sE7k2kCHpNq40Dj1qh-T0gCrsvizo3FuoEqm4H_vALShlJfh/s1600/9mos6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCiHE7O_5t89OIamZ8JkvpvDusd1O40VaJ_pVg-UlJouIb6KZGB-iLK_cfbgNrIj4kpgNUEzuUOT3famE6zP0sE7k2kCHpNq40Dj1qh-T0gCrsvizo3FuoEqm4H_vALShlJfh/s1600/9mos6.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPA-brNnaO1SwJe8TfVdErupLPLk6Nsr_hkNlP11CCMUSuLuWCX2j5Fm1_HKz0UiCRWCyX9ID6tn5vnnipthwm1z_4Bg3imjYv3znJfdEcKkwI66VmqB0RZhcYENTs_Za48Ia/s1600/9mos7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> <br />
Mommy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-6382956128442526432013-06-24T17:17:00.001-05:002013-06-24T17:19:04.749-05:00Pictures by Bella: Mexico EditionFor Bella's fifth birthday Cairn and I decided to buy her a digital camera. I researched a bunch of "kid" versions at first because I was worried that buying a "real" camera for a five year old was certifiably insane because let's face it she's going to drop it out the car window; however, the kid versions of digital cameras are THE WORST. I knew that this kid, after being exposed since birth to a lot of photography both on our good camera and our iPhones, would scoff with all the eye-rolling indignation she could muster (a lot) at these horrible low rez atrocities. Instead, I researched kid-friendlyish (determined by me) grown up cameras instead.<br />
<br />
End of the day I settled on a <a href="http://en.nikon.ca/Nikon-Products/Product/Compact-Digital-Cameras/26319/COOLPIX-S30.html" target="_blank">Nikon CoolPix S30</a>, which is geared towards use for the whole family and you know what? It's awesome. It's waterproof, shock proof and has fun features like borders and filters that are appealing to kids. It's also takes really great video. It's as kid-proof as a 'real' camera can be and I got it on sale so the entire gift - camera, memory card and case - was around $100. Quite proud of myself, can you tell?<br />
<br />
My point? BEST GIFT EVER. I wanted her to have it mainly because we were headed off to Mexico with extended fam and all of us are photo-takers. I didn't want her asking to use our good camera or my iPhone - because clearly they'd end up buried in the sand - but figured that it would be fun to see our trip through her lens as well as my own.<br />
<br />
OMG. I was so right, you guys! She doesn't pick up the camera that often, but when she does the results are pure gold. I recently downloaded her photos onto my computer and the idea for this series was born. I just have to share these pictures. <br />
<br />
In this first installment in 'Pictures by Bella', all photos are from our vacation in Mexico this February. They are in chronological order. Almost all of the photos were taken by Bella herself, but a select few were only art-directed by her - mainly because her arms were too short for selfies. Or because she wanted a few photos of herself that featured more than just a close-up of half her squinting face. I haven't edited them in any way other than cropping a few to save space or remove the odd unsuspecting tourist from the shots. Hope you'll find them as entertaing as I do - enjoy!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfoqGV5YJnZWcF9w3ANOprQa4peBYVWWKCEngtLGpO6Bu46uogWpC0gi37C6-MXU3U4fRrsqnU5tx0xqqx4Q6jaudYyfcYNeqdgQfWyZRrTLO9FcJaaNdx7sEIkwCcNn87ZmC/s1600/momandev.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfoqGV5YJnZWcF9w3ANOprQa4peBYVWWKCEngtLGpO6Bu46uogWpC0gi37C6-MXU3U4fRrsqnU5tx0xqqx4Q6jaudYyfcYNeqdgQfWyZRrTLO9FcJaaNdx7sEIkwCcNn87ZmC/s1600/momandev.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly not my best angle but still a sweet shot of a tired Mommy and adorable Ever on the plane.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMQHmzFxdnsmkLuSCKngUiMPTQwDm9vzzklYQRvfQBqLMUKcoP-JkhJdRhhsdg_LGbwPpAcFep7zsXM2VADtLlDG9uoEfYxC37SC2PmDq4N_xnINgJxX6ZNB2DZ7ME9k-TKTP/s1600/nana.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMQHmzFxdnsmkLuSCKngUiMPTQwDm9vzzklYQRvfQBqLMUKcoP-JkhJdRhhsdg_LGbwPpAcFep7zsXM2VADtLlDG9uoEfYxC37SC2PmDq4N_xnINgJxX6ZNB2DZ7ME9k-TKTP/s1600/nana.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Nana on the plane. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmKs8yKhtWCN9z_geiuTMVygbpqXXv6grAtsJjc373GmzjZMpOPO_wbKQqSPCFzz8g2ceLaFRPx5yjk3_ZeoE-gHr4p4jeZjZfp63ByLT7gpLTRWobkeAt6asaWKfBw0D1cvu/s1600/Evscrib.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmKs8yKhtWCN9z_geiuTMVygbpqXXv6grAtsJjc373GmzjZMpOPO_wbKQqSPCFzz8g2ceLaFRPx5yjk3_ZeoE-gHr4p4jeZjZfp63ByLT7gpLTRWobkeAt6asaWKfBw0D1cvu/s1600/Evscrib.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever testing out the sleeping arrangements upon arrival. She took about 400 in this series but I love the lighting and composition of this one. She's so artsy. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVLW4gf-TiKcSFKAMkwF4T34S_lhjef_Q17QmyV9aa_dGg-LLdHCVWdXZEOlSXC5jT70IvYigw97dIoOmq-l6X8bx_xD93HyhNoaj0w4_05aiNIP9RksRD3ISc6VVMiuB5TOG/s1600/momdoorway.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVLW4gf-TiKcSFKAMkwF4T34S_lhjef_Q17QmyV9aa_dGg-LLdHCVWdXZEOlSXC5jT70IvYigw97dIoOmq-l6X8bx_xD93HyhNoaj0w4_05aiNIP9RksRD3ISc6VVMiuB5TOG/s1600/momdoorway.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A classic back-lit silhouette I like to call, 'Happy Mommy in Hat'.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCje5aJehG39jIzOIGvuDdILBacrDQa7_il_UCVZP0F09hoX-EkeiuxWURVCr0VNFyk3gktJ9qbD7mMfALYFwjfzwwMC9t1OmqrT2hgK7e_tfnlMHQANq5w3TStXdAEq4Sxi75/s1600/dadterrace.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCje5aJehG39jIzOIGvuDdILBacrDQa7_il_UCVZP0F09hoX-EkeiuxWURVCr0VNFyk3gktJ9qbD7mMfALYFwjfzwwMC9t1OmqrT2hgK7e_tfnlMHQANq5w3TStXdAEq4Sxi75/s1600/dadterrace.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad in his happy place. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jDfAxrKDSOtcoDkCmKjtskUdxyFzlX-jSB29yBaDt-WX89Ld444-n7nPXZ2KrCKKBzGTSYW1stCz6eId84Keqd4naHENZanLLhtrJnjdkA5XuI7DEPGI_JX4gxkiYMHlIq7X/s1600/feet1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jDfAxrKDSOtcoDkCmKjtskUdxyFzlX-jSB29yBaDt-WX89Ld444-n7nPXZ2KrCKKBzGTSYW1stCz6eId84Keqd4naHENZanLLhtrJnjdkA5XuI7DEPGI_JX4gxkiYMHlIq7X/s1600/feet1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shots of feet is a recurring theme in her work. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfncssm5g1ZQ4aoD2u7NI16Hd_QmT1Vw5ePSvtemcoajKlGp7wkNTSBPLHV8SAhrlDIz4_HGNAdifipQDNcXMMWDUAyu7_fE67KdtMssZ3ujxFRT-Br81nZe4PE-VSw9hJ76s/s1600/selfiereflection.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfncssm5g1ZQ4aoD2u7NI16Hd_QmT1Vw5ePSvtemcoajKlGp7wkNTSBPLHV8SAhrlDIz4_HGNAdifipQDNcXMMWDUAyu7_fE67KdtMssZ3ujxFRT-Br81nZe4PE-VSw9hJ76s/s1600/selfiereflection.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shots of herself in reflection is another recurring theme. This one is complex. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGnGtNdQ1umSKPjRgbLX_I7byEtLj8i780KhGWS4k7u2jC07jFRXxvqIkhgTM3xa66nGq3M4pRFYZjyJ9KZAUgKN_86DmxoP6Nrm-UrvAeV8ahYSp5PJyAwwyd5SugBY9cq5M/s1600/EvSofie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGnGtNdQ1umSKPjRgbLX_I7byEtLj8i780KhGWS4k7u2jC07jFRXxvqIkhgTM3xa66nGq3M4pRFYZjyJ9KZAUgKN_86DmxoP6Nrm-UrvAeV8ahYSp5PJyAwwyd5SugBY9cq5M/s1600/EvSofie.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I call this one, 'Poor Sofie'.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV_WE98dgRaJCA7C_clW5qRQYbAy0r9U9AN-PKVw-s4ffiI51xstVr3XmGni3p-u3PtK3jWo3oLIAa9wN56FjEh6GdSLPQogWhH-pInKZcetAxPafGY_GGRtkPnR2X9t6aGz6/s1600/dadbella.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV_WE98dgRaJCA7C_clW5qRQYbAy0r9U9AN-PKVw-s4ffiI51xstVr3XmGni3p-u3PtK3jWo3oLIAa9wN56FjEh6GdSLPQogWhH-pInKZcetAxPafGY_GGRtkPnR2X9t6aGz6/s1600/dadbella.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This begins a selfie series: Photo taken by me, art directed by Bella, starring Dad and Bella. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0t9DsBTuLFD1wJZukKCFT76wHefVqt6dGiuuiONxdRL-XB9DYVsBhIqpEu8qFzXYJaubpAvulwoBguhdOp72XnvdZW-iVg5OkR3mLXu4_OC30AxKpUffdBJZvVHhQPy9l-rE/s1600/momdadbella.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0t9DsBTuLFD1wJZukKCFT76wHefVqt6dGiuuiONxdRL-XB9DYVsBhIqpEu8qFzXYJaubpAvulwoBguhdOp72XnvdZW-iVg5OkR3mLXu4_OC30AxKpUffdBJZvVHhQPy9l-rE/s1600/momdadbella.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing family selfie: Photo taken by Cairn, Art Directed by Bella, photo-bombed by that kid drowning his brother in the background. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg4c3lO_NSZ4_MyWxe6E-b0YVzEJ4SmP-7ucg_3eU1ApuQkX9s_Fimbehza4a7T9E9aggh8rcJUWH5LzPwnhQb3mIWSW2e5Dta1sue6ZB3ByhHcHXULik0oPDo7D-0bJz1qrd/s1600/mombella.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg4c3lO_NSZ4_MyWxe6E-b0YVzEJ4SmP-7ucg_3eU1ApuQkX9s_Fimbehza4a7T9E9aggh8rcJUWH5LzPwnhQb3mIWSW2e5Dta1sue6ZB3ByhHcHXULik0oPDo7D-0bJz1qrd/s1600/mombella.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom + Bella selfie on the ferry to Cozumel: Photo taken by me, Art Directed by Bella, Photo-Bombed by the really angry dude behind me. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtjT7M8K02P32x4bxTs4wrLdA3Gh1uMM3mDC_cTMonTcv-iAcl0lSdm4F7ildNbtOwIDLlZtUilUGLhKNf0j_rspZVzLBlTJqwMONZpwY-eeAU6e5GhFGsMOT38MBmkCtsVjM/s1600/shadow.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtjT7M8K02P32x4bxTs4wrLdA3Gh1uMM3mDC_cTMonTcv-iAcl0lSdm4F7ildNbtOwIDLlZtUilUGLhKNf0j_rspZVzLBlTJqwMONZpwY-eeAU6e5GhFGsMOT38MBmkCtsVjM/s1600/shadow.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shadow selfie: Another recurring theme. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVnQZiXMlFO9bk6v0w_rkl3pJ0m0mTw96rCgX1KfXsCjeddVHYXExP8o7-aisThLjMz7slN_kG75vuIGMHkYDEdQpfTUBln0Au4y0-Wq13xP34KUd-IOreoNd1yXalgmXUhJ5H/s1600/viewfinder.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVnQZiXMlFO9bk6v0w_rkl3pJ0m0mTw96rCgX1KfXsCjeddVHYXExP8o7-aisThLjMz7slN_kG75vuIGMHkYDEdQpfTUBln0Au4y0-Wq13xP34KUd-IOreoNd1yXalgmXUhJ5H/s1600/viewfinder.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bella taking a photo of Papa's viewfinder displaying Bella displaying her own viewfinder. Existentialism. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3otUrXabF0bt9wGHQ5jrYzfU27gc-lBeErEn1s4GwoCYDaK-EHS9MT7eB9UPS92PjJaXaSM_VnrJ2Rb1gNRv9xQLqDUAol0hHX1YqHBmW2BueJiVQFDzuruioYzrd1eiZx2Q6/s1600/papa.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3otUrXabF0bt9wGHQ5jrYzfU27gc-lBeErEn1s4GwoCYDaK-EHS9MT7eB9UPS92PjJaXaSM_VnrJ2Rb1gNRv9xQLqDUAol0hHX1YqHBmW2BueJiVQFDzuruioYzrd1eiZx2Q6/s1600/papa.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing photo of Papa. Also that guy's shirt in the background. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODeNU5Rhi2fbIO5fwKE6mygFGYWiYPrF-TGBZAJ6WRaVzF4JzeMflfqgUqxT-18ROQtdBCTl3KfUKndgZQPzGn0TFSe2XuKhTJo3YV80-hkEuvtkY9Hpyypw-z1cppS6yJs_s/s1600/momdrank.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODeNU5Rhi2fbIO5fwKE6mygFGYWiYPrF-TGBZAJ6WRaVzF4JzeMflfqgUqxT-18ROQtdBCTl3KfUKndgZQPzGn0TFSe2XuKhTJo3YV80-hkEuvtkY9Hpyypw-z1cppS6yJs_s/s1600/momdrank.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes I drank the whole thing. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDnJRN7F9N1y2uLCxoESbJGW62RgvNhHlA0n9RMapTbQkakudjFBnGgnsFRc2IIAZ_kJ8W3ZmqkqLEJzB_wNoWx5c8N9JVevvbx-kXkiSqJNRiUbCFCG8WVxpNUb2lowyRqEb/s1600/Bellaselfie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgjwc9OzSOWu47JZhgb3Lnb5mO6qvHD1taVO6c87NvzCbbo_TF8IVH1GnQgItHSIXJ4cd2ZJaFPRCiTLvHoRmYs2M6FgcJwXtC1RhssPj328liyOETEjTYm096wfJAgr-c8vl/s1600/cozumel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgjwc9OzSOWu47JZhgb3Lnb5mO6qvHD1taVO6c87NvzCbbo_TF8IVH1GnQgItHSIXJ4cd2ZJaFPRCiTLvHoRmYs2M6FgcJwXtC1RhssPj328liyOETEjTYm096wfJAgr-c8vl/s1600/cozumel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving Cozumel on the scariest ferry ever. Fear significantly dulled by giant margaritas (mine not Bella's). </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrO2ejTiwnkn8NzfNiEPIqQyXFhyL84vGfhk8n3AaK-iiOKbN866mFz_bhHE1kqjSjei-vCIEFwRhRwkyre6U2CkTNGDqt3-jqMaTkaUey2trPATKTzFU4sb_VKyrrZacLEZ5/s1600/feet2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrO2ejTiwnkn8NzfNiEPIqQyXFhyL84vGfhk8n3AaK-iiOKbN866mFz_bhHE1kqjSjei-vCIEFwRhRwkyre6U2CkTNGDqt3-jqMaTkaUey2trPATKTzFU4sb_VKyrrZacLEZ5/s1600/feet2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another in the feet series. This time, mine and hers in Tulum. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZiyzHxv4UsDQ1jgTyj0okEdUnpX7_M6HNdIy1IrMSlxHPB6r8nVoUbd_EmbcZZ2plO8LEjyz93PXNc95n-Hk_uRqtdZPViPU-MMwt7AjmpsggAxSgQ8o1DLJWcb7wnfMJaq_/s1600/Evsstroller.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZiyzHxv4UsDQ1jgTyj0okEdUnpX7_M6HNdIy1IrMSlxHPB6r8nVoUbd_EmbcZZ2plO8LEjyz93PXNc95n-Hk_uRqtdZPViPU-MMwt7AjmpsggAxSgQ8o1DLJWcb7wnfMJaq_/s1600/Evsstroller.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everley cuteness in Tulum.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMsmLRwE7Bn98Oknpxbfmn8kWUtQ0V1qpvsDsC45KwI4q84LDz51_O-WWD2oZK_Cp4nKN6ND5GCUYm8tEr0mhYbCnnTzTiE4yZX7Z0XS1BrRt5-6ZdMRjFlibNs2tUI1HtTqJ/s1600/sandcastlestulum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMsmLRwE7Bn98Oknpxbfmn8kWUtQ0V1qpvsDsC45KwI4q84LDz51_O-WWD2oZK_Cp4nKN6ND5GCUYm8tEr0mhYbCnnTzTiE4yZX7Z0XS1BrRt5-6ZdMRjFlibNs2tUI1HtTqJ/s1600/sandcastlestulum.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandcastles in Tulum: Photo taken by me, Art Directed by Bella. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFC-iQl9RmZYC4ZncXlpFPOzOVaNK6CA2rT0nDlX7TmeQ9byDICdNbmSa6ZcYYjO4WrvEVIKJ-8UJFNbxAtd3BdVbYsp-eHf62cjRcLHq7EKXWNvDE9uQCpHMYGL9xDPfSXE_/s1600/cairn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFC-iQl9RmZYC4ZncXlpFPOzOVaNK6CA2rT0nDlX7TmeQ9byDICdNbmSa6ZcYYjO4WrvEVIKJ-8UJFNbxAtd3BdVbYsp-eHf62cjRcLHq7EKXWNvDE9uQCpHMYGL9xDPfSXE_/s1600/cairn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okay this one is actually just taken by me. But HOT DAD! </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-akiIU3IcGEEA_e15oIz0LGCMos_V1Ot9zY5AZVHd8-KBetC41kY-9730XWpDrjuXooP3gFEYpEe9qn_JyRg8wTsA72Adr8OC-OEq6fQfY4BXAKRVO0DNQMAnRh-i80My-vP3/s1600/momkini.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-akiIU3IcGEEA_e15oIz0LGCMos_V1Ot9zY5AZVHd8-KBetC41kY-9730XWpDrjuXooP3gFEYpEe9qn_JyRg8wTsA72Adr8OC-OEq6fQfY4BXAKRVO0DNQMAnRh-i80My-vP3/s1600/momkini.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes the artists signature "blur" works in the subjects favour. As in this shot, where it is masking a multitude of post-partum imperfections. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDLHDEk-sCq-_KsvRGsU4d0xSJjQWLZSjoheqAilsl4DJKUSE8Ai9ZuCFcNbW4HxgtKHpDM0gSdLckrcwuOe85dQlvn8HSxqN7MxxNJb5nSajMwfVdyKJGjPv8U71WOm49II7/s1600/feet3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDLHDEk-sCq-_KsvRGsU4d0xSJjQWLZSjoheqAilsl4DJKUSE8Ai9ZuCFcNbW4HxgtKHpDM0gSdLckrcwuOe85dQlvn8HSxqN7MxxNJb5nSajMwfVdyKJGjPv8U71WOm49II7/s1600/feet3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Underwater feet! </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh410d1bLLuUqDVuyOH1ORBgilkfmQXmn6SB642ibirJf0DZ6jiQq3v9DmbHq0V_FYLvMDZoP4cDMzOJeR1DJzWxRAt6DqHJHzqj4cHX8EbGISWtFnPN8r0ZK9pxxtta80GtbS/s1600/cozumel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDob7MiqZF7BWOHbzIahTy838MDIjNXDNl_ZgFiBlcvN6i6o-VkxRYR-S62qNUV3HdVrInBJ8RxfvdaiSZXO_wFx8lU2cIsCCa7UPU79wNDJJ4brbihAG5prPyM9naUZTSPWiS/s1600/momevspool.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDob7MiqZF7BWOHbzIahTy838MDIjNXDNl_ZgFiBlcvN6i6o-VkxRYR-S62qNUV3HdVrInBJ8RxfvdaiSZXO_wFx8lU2cIsCCa7UPU79wNDJJ4brbihAG5prPyM9naUZTSPWiS/s1600/momevspool.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unabashed poor parenting and less than desirable water safety. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEP8meQUKcb37Asup5-P7ODq1x1gug5AIcVkCFDRlhFj_T8WgiXu6bHhWm5yhIg7Km3bGyJ3DQTbQM0KyQ4mM7VulCh1wB6GoHPTQSAksZh6_5A_mhLb_dI2u4eVMekXuWb_i-/s1600/evslegs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEP8meQUKcb37Asup5-P7ODq1x1gug5AIcVkCFDRlhFj_T8WgiXu6bHhWm5yhIg7Km3bGyJ3DQTbQM0KyQ4mM7VulCh1wB6GoHPTQSAksZh6_5A_mhLb_dI2u4eVMekXuWb_i-/s1600/evslegs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greatest photo of all time. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknI5g2w05Ni0A7mgG_3893k9QNbvsLFjtoUgWB9b9jtNmGxDqoQR5I5grqrnYIb6zHFrU7rg89vN0Gm2YtXVoDDp_-7I2mwSozQ2oMbYw3E4M8mOHQHTjKE4j73SLxiSG3ca3/s1600/evspool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknI5g2w05Ni0A7mgG_3893k9QNbvsLFjtoUgWB9b9jtNmGxDqoQR5I5grqrnYIb6zHFrU7rg89vN0Gm2YtXVoDDp_-7I2mwSozQ2oMbYw3E4M8mOHQHTjKE4j73SLxiSG3ca3/s1600/evspool.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a less blurry version of this adorbs shot, but it features my bosom in an not-safe-for-work way. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggDLHDEk-sCq-_KsvRGsU4d0xSJjQWLZSjoheqAilsl4DJKUSE8Ai9ZuCFcNbW4HxgtKHpDM0gSdLckrcwuOe85dQlvn8HSxqN7MxxNJb5nSajMwfVdyKJGjPv8U71WOm49II7/s1600/feet3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-65452622572272814592013-06-20T15:04:00.001-05:002013-06-20T15:05:17.784-05:00Happy Birthday To You: Everley Edition: 8 Months OldDear Everley,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w-AhFWFyANdhF9psozDBUMJdQx_4fvnD8ftRmb4e2unXnsfp8ZSLiPluJCIYqA0_P1lRZqR1sUFn21BMsfQSvYqCzGtbbAyZ-gB7TneXOUtaXwMHe6A-pTvUCtoMpH7oKNoC/s1600/8mos3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w-AhFWFyANdhF9psozDBUMJdQx_4fvnD8ftRmb4e2unXnsfp8ZSLiPluJCIYqA0_P1lRZqR1sUFn21BMsfQSvYqCzGtbbAyZ-gB7TneXOUtaXwMHe6A-pTvUCtoMpH7oKNoC/s1600/8mos3.jpg" /></a> <br />
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A month ago you turned eight months old. So here's how it's going to be from now on. I will always be one full month late getting your birthday posts written and I will always be one hour late for absolutely everything else in my life. Let's accept it, deal with it, move on.<br />
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Let's see. The weeks between seven and eight months were packed with a lot of firsts. Here's a run down:<br />
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1. First teeth! OMG cutest little teeth ever. The two on the bottom. They came in together on the same day and took about a week to really poke through. So far, no more to speak of but I'm totally fine with that because those little razors hurt and you're a biter. <br />
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2. Sitting up on your own! Yay! You really hate being confined to any sort of baby-wrangling contraption (except the Jolly Jumper and the stroller both of which you still love) so the fact that you can now sit up unassisted is helpful because I can plunk you down where ever and you're happy because you don't have to lie still. Not that you ever lie still. Ever.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzqlyyi2BQhVbW5MdIK3RglB55wWi8CBdFg3Bthn0xQTpPrNsTTmEXEZJeQ5MlPEkOuignqBTuNR_C8IVpdalLcsaImIwSh9jaX3BHmZnM5p5KIXt3X-4tacjRuG6bY_OGQCc/s1600/sitting8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzqlyyi2BQhVbW5MdIK3RglB55wWi8CBdFg3Bthn0xQTpPrNsTTmEXEZJeQ5MlPEkOuignqBTuNR_C8IVpdalLcsaImIwSh9jaX3BHmZnM5p5KIXt3X-4tacjRuG6bY_OGQCc/s1600/sitting8.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghm8GvkisSRD-Gl9i_Z7tGoobKOMhX8eUDZtOKDt4z3c5q8cI6qEaOxBVBGDgXWF9tO_kOzCkjaOevt60JpTwF0kf2aREfv192fqa1leNAEmr4krv6tMezTb52Gl4DB0GKkvts/s1600/bath8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghm8GvkisSRD-Gl9i_Z7tGoobKOMhX8eUDZtOKDt4z3c5q8cI6qEaOxBVBGDgXWF9tO_kOzCkjaOevt60JpTwF0kf2aREfv192fqa1leNAEmr4krv6tMezTb52Gl4DB0GKkvts/s1600/bath8.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting skills also makes bath time easier and more fun. Splashing is also a fav pastime.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kM9mapS3w6T7VD-YCD0tjzFqpVoY43tTovqViNw3nofqjfX7Mie7nS7EPN-4HN0YhnlQDFiM8QXbFF7DdqDrW3mZH3uB6zYzVhKCdWIS5-kl4mmBmlXTNMsU7thQNddxT95w/s1600/8mos1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
3. "Crawling" everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I call it crawling but it's not really, it's more of an army-style, military drag using your left arm to pull yourself and your right big toe to push yourself. Arm, toe, arm, toe. It's as adorable as it sounds and surprisingly efficient.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9wEJNs2vcdEZ2nT2MwOzfjjB67KR7eqWMYdN1WvtijTtQsw4KJHXZnQb7eREw1dP_MpHSzL3tvEVTbyE5I9QsYG9UdO60XuE9zHolkX1cw39i0hjfuQUEtFJj4Fd87H1HDbB/s1600/stuck8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9wEJNs2vcdEZ2nT2MwOzfjjB67KR7eqWMYdN1WvtijTtQsw4KJHXZnQb7eREw1dP_MpHSzL3tvEVTbyE5I9QsYG9UdO60XuE9zHolkX1cw39i0hjfuQUEtFJj4Fd87H1HDbB/s1600/stuck8.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You need to work on not getting stuck under ALL THE FURNITURE. But I'm sure that's coming soon.</td></tr>
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4. Obsession: magazines! You can't get enough. You will bee line all the way across the room, though a virtual obstacle course of baby toys, just to get to my stack of magazines. You know I don't want you to have them, but you can't resist them. I understand, I have a magazine addiction myself. But I do think you need to stop eating them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghm8GvkisSRD-Gl9i_Z7tGoobKOMhX8eUDZtOKDt4z3c5q8cI6qEaOxBVBGDgXWF9tO_kOzCkjaOevt60JpTwF0kf2aREfv192fqa1leNAEmr4krv6tMezTb52Gl4DB0GKkvts/s1600/bath8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/EzwcT5HnmNE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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5. First swing! So fun. Your big sis hated the swings until she was... well, until about six months ago. She refused to swing! This made visits to the park almost unbearable because really? What's a parent supposed to do at the park if not push the swing? Stand there and watch the kids go up and down the same stupid slide for three hours? Kill me. Swinging is where it's at and thankfully you love it. Small mercies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbSRuFJ6oll7d4LHzeO_colAc2fqCcWBR7mKpzjK_5ueyjy9SdhEhJxg409Y67ZXyangq-MFwGxbrnEZk5VqcSU2KDls3ils44da5bi2EVLRXVeIyR-rblImDCFPrA5obXzG4/s1600/swing8.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQbSRuFJ6oll7d4LHzeO_colAc2fqCcWBR7mKpzjK_5ueyjy9SdhEhJxg409Y67ZXyangq-MFwGxbrnEZk5VqcSU2KDls3ils44da5bi2EVLRXVeIyR-rblImDCFPrA5obXzG4/s1600/swing8.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First swing!</td></tr>
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Aside from all of these milestoney-type things, which are fascinating and exciting for me but probably a full-on snore fest for anyone else, we just had a really fun time this month. You've hit optimal baby age, in my opinion. You're funny, you're entertaining, you've got personality for days. It's a very good thing because you and I spend A LOT of time together. A LOT OF TIME ALL THE TIME SO MUCH TIME 24/7 ALWAYS. You're my little shadow and I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihln8Wzb5v0G7iwDMsgedBvu3jJPvHOsOWVMTGS10SDbqHPeetvQ4yFjxlWPMPDfHSuBcVOL5mEIFk0YXfLuZ6h8J274rlSVtKMJMplLwlr4UJC1rvcnzQKc_fcc5ea2epliGT/s1600/8mos2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihln8Wzb5v0G7iwDMsgedBvu3jJPvHOsOWVMTGS10SDbqHPeetvQ4yFjxlWPMPDfHSuBcVOL5mEIFk0YXfLuZ6h8J274rlSVtKMJMplLwlr4UJC1rvcnzQKc_fcc5ea2epliGT/s1600/8mos2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oh I got tricks in store." </td></tr>
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Can't wait to see what tricks and treats are in store for us next (LOL that's funny because I already know! Because this post is a month late! I bet the suspense is killing you! Or not, whatevs, see you in a month). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kM9mapS3w6T7VD-YCD0tjzFqpVoY43tTovqViNw3nofqjfX7Mie7nS7EPN-4HN0YhnlQDFiM8QXbFF7DdqDrW3mZH3uB6zYzVhKCdWIS5-kl4mmBmlXTNMsU7thQNddxT95w/s1600/8mos1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kM9mapS3w6T7VD-YCD0tjzFqpVoY43tTovqViNw3nofqjfX7Mie7nS7EPN-4HN0YhnlQDFiM8QXbFF7DdqDrW3mZH3uB6zYzVhKCdWIS5-kl4mmBmlXTNMsU7thQNddxT95w/s1600/8mos1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"But wait! What happens next month? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT MONTH??!!"</td></tr>
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I love you!<br />
<br />
Mommy Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-43566963897520359862013-05-13T13:50:00.001-05:002013-05-13T13:53:52.741-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 7 Months OldDear Everley,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFhDwAPCet7Ix-848BumIpufhyphenhyphen5DeCSfAOli5GoZiv4hv2zvsYHNF1pyM_sei0RZziytWaC1hTnV1YBjEyJvZNinBYiA_PRIMTmWXA_t3SjRRxMgAzZgWae4dSKdW55sv4shT/s1600/7_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFhDwAPCet7Ix-848BumIpufhyphenhyphen5DeCSfAOli5GoZiv4hv2zvsYHNF1pyM_sei0RZziytWaC1hTnV1YBjEyJvZNinBYiA_PRIMTmWXA_t3SjRRxMgAzZgWae4dSKdW55sv4shT/s1600/7_2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Hello there honey child. On April 21 you turned seven months old. I don't have a whole lot to say about your development in the weeks between six and seven months, except that you are moving right along hitting your milestones and having fun doing so, but I will report that I continue to be absolutely obsessed with you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08989la0prbRvE2MxtIOVS6YziAZWex_o7CO4C43PsSyYpx8FvZ8it6yWDq9_RDl9OpOCp1_JkzdZyQzS7GM1NSjOVI_s3rF94-oStnJY0d_xoiznOqr0j2wEu062BAGoPKfM/s1600/7_1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh08989la0prbRvE2MxtIOVS6YziAZWex_o7CO4C43PsSyYpx8FvZ8it6yWDq9_RDl9OpOCp1_JkzdZyQzS7GM1NSjOVI_s3rF94-oStnJY0d_xoiznOqr0j2wEu062BAGoPKfM/s1600/7_1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teething is coming along just fine as evidenced by your refusal to remove this card from your mouth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Seriously, one day I hope you'll read this and when you do I want you to know that I'm not sure anyone has ever made me feel utter joy the way that you do. I feel guilty putting this down in words because obviously you have a big sister and I can't possibly minimize how incredibly happy she makes me. She, who has literally changed the very fiber of my being. When Anabella was born she completed me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhM2kg-CQ7QOm10W8lzbsWpIRBbDF11CyOsDOeYYOZpfXyY4JCqqiayXQ7srlwozceoqWUUh9d_-Ds5G9-5HPapGqGrjZqkUwN9jbzE_U7XchBEJoAOJ3QTA3Z-YXPoW6uxh7/s1600/7-6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhM2kg-CQ7QOm10W8lzbsWpIRBbDF11CyOsDOeYYOZpfXyY4JCqqiayXQ7srlwozceoqWUUh9d_-Ds5G9-5HPapGqGrjZqkUwN9jbzE_U7XchBEJoAOJ3QTA3Z-YXPoW6uxh7/s1600/7-6.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full of joy even though you are literally biting off my face. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You? You lift me up; you get under my skin and float me up onto a cloud happiness that hovers just above anything else that is going on in that moment. The feeling that I get when you smile at me? I can't. I can't explain it. It's pure, flawless, spectacular joy like I've never felt before.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cV9ev0ssW6NKf4pUfwSpI4MFT_Xlg2j_-5sezTz4G41UKJCB5lvmTyAp4nD3349FnS5ozNfNEQ8I1vWEZk_k_NGhira5NPZGRlF40VwhkpaocHfYijaAo-A6RANUhfww0G7I/s1600/7-5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cV9ev0ssW6NKf4pUfwSpI4MFT_Xlg2j_-5sezTz4G41UKJCB5lvmTyAp4nD3349FnS5ozNfNEQ8I1vWEZk_k_NGhira5NPZGRlF40VwhkpaocHfYijaAo-A6RANUhfww0G7I/s1600/7-5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this photo because it's so rare to see you sad. That one little tear lasted just a moment before you were happily giggling away at your sister and I again. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Where your sister challenges me to be a better person, a smarter, more patient, more inquisitive person - she's my little sage, my life coach, my professor - you are showing me how to laugh with abandon, how to let go of my worries and find a peaceful place of yummy delight regardless of what's going on around us or what daily stresses might be dancing around in my head.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtBW98V1l0MxYuQ4N3dWlV7HI8SLfpiHSjaeibpGkR8GxL_KdRpX7oWwuSU2cslTn9Qw37AfuhonOo4P_xC5I5HR26PKe1olRR6rFUaElTk12vLjbZ_AJi-A57O1Prv4oIfe_/s1600/7_7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtBW98V1l0MxYuQ4N3dWlV7HI8SLfpiHSjaeibpGkR8GxL_KdRpX7oWwuSU2cslTn9Qw37AfuhonOo4P_xC5I5HR26PKe1olRR6rFUaElTk12vLjbZ_AJi-A57O1Prv4oIfe_/s1600/7_7.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You
make me want to stop whatever obsessive cleaning and organizing I'm up
to, throw my hair in pigtails and dance with you around the house. We do
it every day with abandon and I will miss it so when you're too big to
want to anymore.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Your Daddy calls you Sparkle and that is it exactly. That's exactly what you do and who you are. You are Sparkle.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1nMKvqePNgtrW61LKPBLRgSjHuQrZwN5QsodfaC4MACfteokG6NocrvstPTUIT-kEoYRcgSHIRJ26T9VnL-ULB71G9KpqV9tvLH8of8TzpWSzhnOl1FW5MYTBMKxtLvdMoiP/s1600/7_4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1nMKvqePNgtrW61LKPBLRgSjHuQrZwN5QsodfaC4MACfteokG6NocrvstPTUIT-kEoYRcgSHIRJ26T9VnL-ULB71G9KpqV9tvLH8of8TzpWSzhnOl1FW5MYTBMKxtLvdMoiP/s1600/7_4.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
My amazing little Buddha-baby, my bringer of giggles and lover of life.<br />
<br />
I love you so much,<br />
<br />
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MommyBeacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-89001202069556952152013-05-12T20:24:00.001-05:002013-05-12T20:26:07.078-05:00Mother's Day<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSW278a9sX9osMQs1rerlDBoNJIoHidrBAwUUt5cAXXF8fxsE2pBceZPG5Z5jb69MnrNR7o4JFyut1yFvpbD3SvtNW_VNHbOiG5pUGGRbSs12WvvA-gDuf5X4mcy__5omA6gD/s1600/momday2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSW278a9sX9osMQs1rerlDBoNJIoHidrBAwUUt5cAXXF8fxsE2pBceZPG5Z5jb69MnrNR7o4JFyut1yFvpbD3SvtNW_VNHbOiG5pUGGRbSs12WvvA-gDuf5X4mcy__5omA6gD/s1600/momday2.jpg" /></a></span> </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;">Watching my big girl at the pool this morning and I know she's afraid to jump in but she did it anyway, three times, because I asked her to try. And it occurs to me what a massive blessing this really is, to have two little people who trust me implicitly to guide them in the right direction, trust me completely to keep them healthy and safe and love me unconditionally even when I ask them to face their fears. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje36aZjYp9nPEc8gOTq24Cx8YNOFHd6oQvHam4oQXHpEGVKY5C4cEtz3GLW0II5uZYhJS5Pbu5YgbwPbG29exC_Z8QBZRZ3hBtdeQy6AwfdkOobEuQx4vJ1MB-KZfmT7kEgFDD/s1600/momday5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje36aZjYp9nPEc8gOTq24Cx8YNOFHd6oQvHam4oQXHpEGVKY5C4cEtz3GLW0II5uZYhJS5Pbu5YgbwPbG29exC_Z8QBZRZ3hBtdeQy6AwfdkOobEuQx4vJ1MB-KZfmT7kEgFDD/s1600/momday5.jpg" /></a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;">The exhaustion, the frustration, the stress, the vomit (OMG the vomit), the constant nagging worry that I'll have nibbling away in my brain at all times for the rest of my life. I would not change one second of it. Not one single second. Because being their mom is everything. I know it's out of vogue to admit that these days but fuck it, it's my day and I'm saying it. Being their mom is everything. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DFN_tDpur_T8OdLv3Uvv-VB-jK5idXfvhhCJ_aWxaE-4i28cDQ9kVrJh-89czryLuN5twVJY1d63OS2z2i4FawlGL_MKyvPFf5mXV7tPztYZ9iIySec1Xd5Mpf5uagYc2dIs/s1600/momday1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DFN_tDpur_T8OdLv3Uvv-VB-jK5idXfvhhCJ_aWxaE-4i28cDQ9kVrJh-89czryLuN5twVJY1d63OS2z2i4FawlGL_MKyvPFf5mXV7tPztYZ9iIySec1Xd5Mpf5uagYc2dIs/s1600/momday1.jpg" /></a></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;">Happy Mother's Day to all the women out there who give it all to their babes, every day, not just because we don't have a choice (and we don't) but because being their mom is all the gift we'll ever really need. </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DFN_tDpur_T8OdLv3Uvv-VB-jK5idXfvhhCJ_aWxaE-4i28cDQ9kVrJh-89czryLuN5twVJY1d63OS2z2i4FawlGL_MKyvPFf5mXV7tPztYZ9iIySec1Xd5Mpf5uagYc2dIs/s1600/momday1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DFN_tDpur_T8OdLv3Uvv-VB-jK5idXfvhhCJ_aWxaE-4i28cDQ9kVrJh-89czryLuN5twVJY1d63OS2z2i4FawlGL_MKyvPFf5mXV7tPztYZ9iIySec1Xd5Mpf5uagYc2dIs/s1600/momday1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"></span></a><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijUaBdXYYO50INV1OS1m_O0-pU0HDJMKgQkLZqXYIJyvBbqA7YTMG9eQylsS6oJcPfOoMj8xkCFcp0pQmAV1dV4ieZUHZJ28UZZTyDpAY9X2xNYf8R_KlaXddHfRm3ZC5Ma50/s1600/momday4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijUaBdXYYO50INV1OS1m_O0-pU0HDJMKgQkLZqXYIJyvBbqA7YTMG9eQylsS6oJcPfOoMj8xkCFcp0pQmAV1dV4ieZUHZJ28UZZTyDpAY9X2xNYf8R_KlaXddHfRm3ZC5Ma50/s1600/momday4.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSW278a9sX9osMQs1rerlDBoNJIoHidrBAwUUt5cAXXF8fxsE2pBceZPG5Z5jb69MnrNR7o4JFyut1yFvpbD3SvtNW_VNHbOiG5pUGGRbSs12WvvA-gDuf5X4mcy__5omA6gD/s1600/momday2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijUaBdXYYO50INV1OS1m_O0-pU0HDJMKgQkLZqXYIJyvBbqA7YTMG9eQylsS6oJcPfOoMj8xkCFcp0pQmAV1dV4ieZUHZJ28UZZTyDpAY9X2xNYf8R_KlaXddHfRm3ZC5Ma50/s1600/momday4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-52398676426415504212013-04-21T20:55:00.002-05:002013-04-21T20:55:39.326-05:00Happy Birthday To You: Everley Edition: 6 Months Old<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Author's note: Everley turns seven months old today, making this the latest birthday letter I've ever written. So that's something. Anyway, here's her six month letter. Seven month photos and post to come... soonish?</span></i><br />
<br />
Dear Everley,<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtGqvykAVsnpv6r5kzPFoxfO74ibMkhndhoHTEQCNxoti3wnRYGnKSAAmX2QkLBfo1OSu3Gs7J2AMrqaPWT8D3Ktto81_L3yCXiCgxOU3_pXoClnQSjEeKXSkQOtkrJBLtwVE/s1600/6months7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtGqvykAVsnpv6r5kzPFoxfO74ibMkhndhoHTEQCNxoti3wnRYGnKSAAmX2QkLBfo1OSu3Gs7J2AMrqaPWT8D3Ktto81_L3yCXiCgxOU3_pXoClnQSjEeKXSkQOtkrJBLtwVE/s1600/6months7.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My smiling buddha babe. </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">On March 21 you turned 6 months old and excuse me but could you get ANY cuter? I mean, girlfriend, you are just so fucking cute. Pardon my French but I need to really express the level of cuteness here and sometimes you just need a good strong swear word to do that. Cute, cute, cute. I'm obsessed with you.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHR52cMhJjSTDyQ9L-KHve376gA5cF8fT06Hp_KebpKaxs4sZDbgg6ZpDHbR_91_DRgO6_SXT10R9q4XvkHeqgXdIcVlGvjqMSHA4jr6O-U5jaWUpH9WKY8tBA1p49dnmszJzc/s1600/6months6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHR52cMhJjSTDyQ9L-KHve376gA5cF8fT06Hp_KebpKaxs4sZDbgg6ZpDHbR_91_DRgO6_SXT10R9q4XvkHeqgXdIcVlGvjqMSHA4jr6O-U5jaWUpH9WKY8tBA1p49dnmszJzc/s1600/6months6.jpg" /></a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The weeks between five and six months were kind of a big deal. I mean, hello, solid food? Nailed it. Rolling across the room? Doing it all the time. Jolly Jumper domination? Boom.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You especially love to eat, as evidenced by the fact that though I only intended to feed you once a day until you turned six months, you went rabid for solids and ended up eating three squares within two weeks of starting. So here we are. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Fruits, veggies, meats, oatmeal, formula and of course ample amounts of good old fashioned breast milk. You devour it all. Might explain why at your six month check up you weighed in at a whopping 18lbs, 10oz.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9NEdOCrw2RzDgHCGy9EpORtU0YWUvzb0dyZrgHE1_Hpy73bLfGk-FLVw6xvwI9O968atWEB4F0lr4QIUHeuaEWn9zWa8R9STeZhiBHAI-a9yC1raIwbtjfZj1au03lNpRgRV/s1600/6months5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9NEdOCrw2RzDgHCGy9EpORtU0YWUvzb0dyZrgHE1_Hpy73bLfGk-FLVw6xvwI9O968atWEB4F0lr4QIUHeuaEWn9zWa8R9STeZhiBHAI-a9yC1raIwbtjfZj1au03lNpRgRV/s1600/6months5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big and hungry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">But back to the cute thing because I need to harp in this a bit more. Everley, you literally glow with happiness. I don't think there have been too many moments where I can't make you smile or laugh just by looking at you. Even when you're at your most distraught I can make you laugh just by flashing you a grin. Because baby girl, you are full of joy. Big and bursting with joy, my smiling Buddha baby. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0BkEDSML1XZQnHD8S2yWH3YPCgrhUe-rdJ2AdnZT2PUKQmK2BWJiJG8sX4szFE9RsVad45b2Q32imBRK1L4otXFybgaB04Ml15M3D5bKofevJLmyZP0W1qNhiB6mL69GQT4k/s1600/6months8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0BkEDSML1XZQnHD8S2yWH3YPCgrhUe-rdJ2AdnZT2PUKQmK2BWJiJG8sX4szFE9RsVad45b2Q32imBRK1L4otXFybgaB04Ml15M3D5bKofevJLmyZP0W1qNhiB6mL69GQT4k/s1600/6months8.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This joy of yours? It's exactly, EXACTLY, what our family needed. Not to say we weren't joyful before you - we were - but the three of us older Champagnes also tend to lean toward the serious. We are funny, but its a dry funny. We can be silly, but its not our most natural instinct. We are all somewhat reserved, contemplative, dare I say moody. We needed your light, your sparkle, you. We needed you.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAY-rtkSTYKjmqb_F9sjmRUPXYmb8572MR0saQOYTihCS1gWuy0nxT5VWF-lex3eRPimCJekLCwoxtRQ7CvOc7uwdrsHJT0QSTr2cZdsvvAXKtXfADHxIjtxwWVTZDy68BVVZ/s1600/6months9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAY-rtkSTYKjmqb_F9sjmRUPXYmb8572MR0saQOYTihCS1gWuy0nxT5VWF-lex3eRPimCJekLCwoxtRQ7CvOc7uwdrsHJT0QSTr2cZdsvvAXKtXfADHxIjtxwWVTZDy68BVVZ/s1600/6months9.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girlfriend is rockin' this ponytail out. </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Happy half-year my Buddha. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I love you, </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Mommy</span><br />
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Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-19510805007529306822013-03-21T12:31:00.003-05:002013-03-21T12:37:31.668-05:00Happy Birthday to You: 5 Years OldDear Anabella,<br />
<br />
On January 30 you turned five years old.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgks9Ue7DZwXxETRk0kwFQbJbw0huQqlJok4qakSj9ag2oIpTDZ4WEA2kQFol1SRCPQtY9gcD8QXRB2uGGv1te95pxv9j-qOUv45J9piZ_LseTHBHAcX9h7Q-u9zFxWV6Nlzdk9/s1600/bdaygirl.jpg" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday girl at her PJ party. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
I mean where do I even begin? Other than to point out that this year has been huge, HUGE I SAY! I guess I can start with a quick run through of just a few of the tiny little life events that you have experienced this past year:<br />
<br />
<b>January 2012:</b> You turn four years old<br />
<b>March 2012:</b> You learn that in about 6 months time you will become a big sister<br />
<b>July 2012: </b>You say good-bye to your second home, your second family, at Downtown Kids Academy and start at a brand-new daycare at the school next door<br />
<b>July 2012:</b> We lose our beloved <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/07/moet-2002-2012.html" target="_blank">Moet</a>, your furry pal and someone who has been a big part of your life since the day you arrived<br />
<b>September 2012:</b> You start Junior Kindergarten<br />
<b>September 2012:</b> <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/11/everley-read-birthday-story.html" target="_blank">Your baby sister arrives</a><br />
<b>October 2012 through</b> <b>January 2013:</b> You learn to live with a whole new person in our house and in our hearts<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInFPvFf7gN3bnUbovyHVekNo6PVDgiA01NwF5QLfYhxJH3cFxV9PtgAlkeqoV5CUWzFncJNlZXMxAH9U17oMfQ8l6mVcBTXMaAppgCyV4e5ggGdCBEUa9PiZk-Y2yNKqhJMm7/s1600/candles.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInFPvFf7gN3bnUbovyHVekNo6PVDgiA01NwF5QLfYhxJH3cFxV9PtgAlkeqoV5CUWzFncJNlZXMxAH9U17oMfQ8l6mVcBTXMaAppgCyV4e5ggGdCBEUa9PiZk-Y2yNKqhJMm7/s1600/candles.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">January 30, 2013, you turn 5 years old. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yeah. So just a few life-altering, gigantic, massive, confusing, disruptive, exciting, devastating, mind-blowing adjustments. Just a few.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCYoqyFgwDcU2u4Lj8lHzQA2G6UFAMIOVRGjVWsez3nrcfamDCyPdztcRc4pxDvPBDMbXc5SbPbaZwaX0lFtBeXuMLP3J08Ozue_OLIOjKww3mFnKYaoPMS7_N_LrgiJ1Bvvz/s1600/beach.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiCYoqyFgwDcU2u4Lj8lHzQA2G6UFAMIOVRGjVWsez3nrcfamDCyPdztcRc4pxDvPBDMbXc5SbPbaZwaX0lFtBeXuMLP3J08Ozue_OLIOjKww3mFnKYaoPMS7_N_LrgiJ1Bvvz/s1600/beach.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Putting myself in the picture. In a bathing suit. At 8 months pregnant. <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/10/the-eye-of-beholder-my-postpartum.html" target="_blank">Eat your heart out, Allison Tate.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I have to tell you Bella, that although there have been some obvious emotional hurdles to leap, not just for you but for all of us, you are leaping them with as much grace and confidence and style and humour and intellegence that I could have possibly hoped a little four (almost five) year old kid could leap with. I hope you know that your dad and I are accutely aware of how huge this year has been for you. How hard it has been at times. And how obnoxiously proud we are of you for how you are handling it all.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Y6qGV2td9tHaIcDvtRpBAvyHWcs6LoJrA3iXLOBzpDCfI8QutOafOPcbLOi-9XjtN0KClTl9FOPgo-cD_Of5AnEu28duZ2h1R7m_tCvhPYV-SXu7NUN3I_utuPfJatn-w4LT/s1600/preschoolprom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Y6qGV2td9tHaIcDvtRpBAvyHWcs6LoJrA3iXLOBzpDCfI8QutOafOPcbLOi-9XjtN0KClTl9FOPgo-cD_Of5AnEu28duZ2h1R7m_tCvhPYV-SXu7NUN3I_utuPfJatn-w4LT/s1600/preschoolprom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-school prom day and last week at Downtown Kids Academy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFAQ21pXfCWxPGxyTOwtpSGCGrli2ajeFuXfxny9FTp84OL6WJETO2xLS9mKap9k4KRPnXakd5rUu_ssX4errDulzOU7JSgrpWTI4YUxpawl7zoPfae-wkS2a76pSYmgvQV8A/s1600/firstday.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFAQ21pXfCWxPGxyTOwtpSGCGrli2ajeFuXfxny9FTp84OL6WJETO2xLS9mKap9k4KRPnXakd5rUu_ssX4errDulzOU7JSgrpWTI4YUxpawl7zoPfae-wkS2a76pSYmgvQV8A/s1600/firstday.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First day of JK. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Despite the rollercoaster of a year you have endured, you have still blossomed. I don't know if it's just my perspective because we have a true baby in the house again but you have shed the last of your babyness this year. You have stretched tall and ironed out the double wrists and pot belly. Your face is changing by the day and your legs are long and coltish. I know you are still getting used to your new, long, lean body but I love to watch you use it. When you dance. When you stretch out like a lazy teenager on the couch, all draping limbs and rolling eyes. When you demonstrate the yoga moves you've learned at school or hop awkwardly around the dining room table. I marvel at this body you have now. How can it be the same one that I gathered in my arms and fed from my body just a handful of short years ago? I want you to always take care of it, respect it and always insist that others respect it too. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga35i18rz4Mh5fhswZlLPNzMhsM650uryCQC0Dc_tk1qRjFRXjk4ivSgRUmi5JP-vSeVmQMTUHlHKWVmzYUDwbNR-y4Y_mkmYfE3pWegDSrvrIxfr8Bkc_llkIphnT8swXwjG8/s1600/babyfat.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga35i18rz4Mh5fhswZlLPNzMhsM650uryCQC0Dc_tk1qRjFRXjk4ivSgRUmi5JP-vSeVmQMTUHlHKWVmzYUDwbNR-y4Y_mkmYfE3pWegDSrvrIxfr8Bkc_llkIphnT8swXwjG8/s1600/babyfat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring, 2012. See that belly and those baby wrists? All gone. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But more of a marvel is the development of your mind. My God are you smart. This year you learned to read and write. Just like that you can do it now. I don't even know how it happened, except one day you were writing your name, and then you were writing my name, and then you were writing sentences and spelling words on command and asking questions, questions always with the questions. Never stop asking questions, they are your key to true success in this world.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvOlBMSFO4XTVB_k9NOL6cuUzGgXZDfxTBF0phKsFnVf3-mSfo2SCiToEhnn3V0PvYu99tF-7O0THVWHuP2fhqZfhi21-oeNXOzX7_agKBOGvVQZSSNjAOWuD5x11FU-I3crg/s1600/holdingEv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvOlBMSFO4XTVB_k9NOL6cuUzGgXZDfxTBF0phKsFnVf3-mSfo2SCiToEhnn3V0PvYu99tF-7O0THVWHuP2fhqZfhi21-oeNXOzX7_agKBOGvVQZSSNjAOWuD5x11FU-I3crg/s1600/holdingEv.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And yet, despite all the growing and maturing you have done this year, you are still so little. You are my little girl and at times I have to stop and remind myself of this simple yet beautiful fact. You are small, you are sensitive and you are hungry for the attention that until just six months ago you had all to yourself. I get it sweet baby girl. I really do. And I am trying so hard to give it to you. It's true that I'm tired and busy with the baby and that sometimes it's a struggle to give you 100 per cent but I want you to know that you are and always will be my lady, my first, my heart and my soul.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgykIVfZPlK4d1fnNhHDZ4qpWgKby8CG624fEa6SQUOFz37YHkAyoR3Hkjt7knQfJTPzub-ocYFGQ4y4ANre_zJGloyimEFj1b5ic1RXJJMSbHzUtm5UYTK0rQmO3Vev3HBMT/s1600/waiting.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgykIVfZPlK4d1fnNhHDZ4qpWgKby8CG624fEa6SQUOFz37YHkAyoR3Hkjt7knQfJTPzub-ocYFGQ4y4ANre_zJGloyimEFj1b5ic1RXJJMSbHzUtm5UYTK0rQmO3Vev3HBMT/s1600/waiting.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My heart and soul. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sometimes I look at you in a moment of calm, when the light is just right and the family is at peace and I can see both the baby you once were and the woman you'll one day become. In those fleeting moments it's clear that we have done a good job, your father and I. Us and all the other villagers that are helping to raise you and to teach you. You're a good girl, Anabella. You are perfect.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAsOaXoGUBkrp1Vc1F8SvBbXI0Gvw4Qqc0ks8r85h88lNXpif1EjN14avG9crzO7SQS7H_yVvQAXo1oPHk_-wQ1yatbhd7I8lwBr8CQX-is7ceXoDMYW2Zvn_NonhTDpDLyrx/s1600/light.jpg" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When the light is just right. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love you so much.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPKvNrEoByh_Sn12ih7k08IxmNl0Y1u0H8mlIRYX9bx6AnjJGJseIhnD0uouO4BW1-1mY8_Bp-PhGITo3ey1kw5EfWeCAtz_3HhLp7cJTRoD3iENSIwiCrqVqXLO9yPbukQKQ/s1600/mybeauty.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPKvNrEoByh_Sn12ih7k08IxmNl0Y1u0H8mlIRYX9bx6AnjJGJseIhnD0uouO4BW1-1mY8_Bp-PhGITo3ey1kw5EfWeCAtz_3HhLp7cJTRoD3iENSIwiCrqVqXLO9yPbukQKQ/s1600/mybeauty.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You are so beautiful. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mommy<br />
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<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-31195810611849927522013-03-19T11:18:00.000-05:002013-03-19T11:19:25.715-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 5 Months Old<i>Author's Note: OMG I'm so behind on posting and I'm feeling so guilty about it, especially about not having posted about my big girl turning five years old - which happened. She turned five years old. Five. Years. Old. And I will be posting about that soon, even if it's mostly pictures because for some reason I can't seem to find the time to sit here and actually write. And that reason quite frankly is you, my little Everley. That reason is you.</i><br />
<br />
Dear Everley,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dcat9RaPpCUul7ZfKTbIv3D44su26AsIsbMJyVY2r3iF4RmdUhtNpO_AwbVcCAhTvqEneSAY5I9E9yTNx3Wb2bWte5C8Sh8wwPz-AunFSNCNvD2B_GcLTTg206SHd_E83D4H/s1600/5months_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dcat9RaPpCUul7ZfKTbIv3D44su26AsIsbMJyVY2r3iF4RmdUhtNpO_AwbVcCAhTvqEneSAY5I9E9yTNx3Wb2bWte5C8Sh8wwPz-AunFSNCNvD2B_GcLTTg206SHd_E83D4H/s1600/5months_1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating everything all the time. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On February 21 you turned five months old. And just as a fair warning to anyone who might take issue, this will be a post whereby I compare my fresh little newbornish baby to the stinky, snorty late family dog. Because particularly after your fourth month I'm convinced that you are at least partially Moet reincarnated. Here are five reasons why: <br />
<br />
<b>1. How You React When You are Excited</b><br />
It's very easy to get you excited. Basically all one needs to do is a) walk into the same room as you, b) look at you, c) speak. When any one of these three things occur you get very wiggly, you exhibit excessive panting and your eyes light up like firecrackers on Victoria Day. It's pretty much the exact same reaction that Moet had due to the exact same stimuli. If you had a little curly tail, I'm pretty sure it would be wagging right now. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioffJNxMdkJgfohvRitjp2fd1hPwXNnBpedEdjHs2hqQu0ZHaWUx5UWmAUVNBt4LtZEur1aYK0D6lqx5O6KDw67LAQLNkAnXDqQAcqYuXVscZS3iX2cp5aQG0z9Ixad3XlHBca/s1600/5months_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioffJNxMdkJgfohvRitjp2fd1hPwXNnBpedEdjHs2hqQu0ZHaWUx5UWmAUVNBt4LtZEur1aYK0D6lqx5O6KDw67LAQLNkAnXDqQAcqYuXVscZS3iX2cp5aQG0z9Ixad3XlHBca/s1600/5months_3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SUPER EXCITED FACE!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>2. Your Eyebrows</b><br />
If you knew Moet, or you know pugs, you'll know that they have these cute little dots for eyebrows, hovering excitedly just over those big brown eyes. Moet was always very expressive with his dot-brows, if he anticipated something he'd sit, frozen, not moving a muscle, and just raise one little dot, or furrow the two together just slightly. These tiny movements spoke volumes and always made me laugh. You do the same thing. Exactly the same thing with your eyebrows (which are growing in very nicely this month, btw). <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRHWGYw6cvYJ3-sWxpSpM3zX7RhqwT41VmGSYEAK3hXsWAKwf1Jzv4VJZuCOJVTzZ5kXFqDzaYZBZzgd6y6JHI3MikEvHrGtFXinwpZvVw7KEizfZMSyn34b4FlSGD-NKABs2/s1600/5months_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRHWGYw6cvYJ3-sWxpSpM3zX7RhqwT41VmGSYEAK3hXsWAKwf1Jzv4VJZuCOJVTzZ5kXFqDzaYZBZzgd6y6JHI3MikEvHrGtFXinwpZvVw7KEizfZMSyn34b4FlSGD-NKABs2/s1600/5months_2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See those little brows just peeking up over the card? They are saying, feed me soon or I'll start scratching on stuff. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>3. The Scratching</b><br />
Lordy, my Lord the scratching! This is what clued me in to the fact that you are part Moet. One of Moet's most hilarious (and infuriating) habits was to scratch on walls, doors or floors when he wanted something. He used it as a threat, one paw hovering near a surface while he stared you down for a moment and raised an eyebrow, "You gonna move, lady? 'Cause I'm about to scratch the shit out of this wall if you don't get your ass up and feed me." This ruined a lot of walls and caused a lot of laughs. You do the same thing. You scratch the wall while on your change table, the sheets in your crib, my chest while you are nursing. Scratch, scratch, scratch, little deliberate movements that say, "Pay attention to me, please, or I will claw you up until you do." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<b>4. Your Appetite</b><br />
Just like Moet was, you are insatiable. You love to eat. You would eat all day long if I let you. This month we are still exclusively on breast milk but solids are in your very near future because I can't keep up with you anymore. I can't wait to introduce you to the world of food and I know you are going to love it. Just promise me you will always <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2007/09/love-like-this.html" target="_blank">stay away from the wild mushrooms. </a><br />
<br />
<b>5. General Disposition, Attitude and Unconditional Lovemuffinness </b><br />
You are my ever loyal companion. You are such a joy. All you want from anyone is a smile and a pat. You love to be scratched and tickled. You are happiest when I'm sitting with you, singing or chatting or cuddling. This month we had our first family vacation with you in tow and you are an excellent travel companion. Easy going, adaptable and curious, you just wanted to be held and fed (see above: Your Appetite). Moet didn't get the chance to travel much, but he loved the car and would settle in and relax whenever we hit the road.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGISKdL5N8hSej2-Yy0jddFg-ZmVTG6Zs35si9LODH86cXz56oPVjqJVOLB_AnoCfOR2OODnaKCWRKYowBCV6TwAZHVZat2h5c7wGpjNl43_pXpOtfpo06vxS-LPPFfaeOHfj/s1600/5months_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGISKdL5N8hSej2-Yy0jddFg-ZmVTG6Zs35si9LODH86cXz56oPVjqJVOLB_AnoCfOR2OODnaKCWRKYowBCV6TwAZHVZat2h5c7wGpjNl43_pXpOtfpo06vxS-LPPFfaeOHfj/s1600/5months_4.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maxin' and relaxin' in Playa. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm sad that you will not get to meet him, but feel blessed that you are just a little bit like him.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi549xQvz5aSovUVGhSF6rwBAX1i_nWbsD_Q-KxlBZB-Q9ZVhP86RrlSOWY9_68cS7PvTKhygUYWoyutivThx4ngyIqZpDXW8z9eT1suZeX-EbNsCOVvIjUoophDAZ3Vb7vRbJH/s1600/5months_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi549xQvz5aSovUVGhSF6rwBAX1i_nWbsD_Q-KxlBZB-Q9ZVhP86RrlSOWY9_68cS7PvTKhygUYWoyutivThx4ngyIqZpDXW8z9eT1suZeX-EbNsCOVvIjUoophDAZ3Vb7vRbJH/s1600/5months_5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being just a little bit Moet-like with the eating and the eyebrows. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
Mommy<br />
<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-52520169947469376402013-01-31T16:05:00.000-05:002013-01-31T16:05:24.198-05:00Happy Birthday To You: Everley Edition: 4 Months Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifK_AMKoI576ZgC2uiZ_Lr5NQf5bvjWfsobQII1_8sQVARV-0llhTjJeRXFaQYrKeKgAG5qPcqO0P3ejZNQWtHcN_UtjFK_pjIvcLef5Js6i4aB1FDHtTLt7xGAVairxt5hb5q/s1600/P1060531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
Dear Everley,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHFeR-DdTODZc-kuh7maPi-g3nEfYCbXaN5nVSXvpzssGxvOa6NbSk2yGv_QdsXiBWoxVpTlpnYyycQIyHgcRjRQG7m4zYZsLnSDZbTcmNtxZkCPJjz0mLYQ5xl0NU2fpRkLG/s1600/P1060532.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHFeR-DdTODZc-kuh7maPi-g3nEfYCbXaN5nVSXvpzssGxvOa6NbSk2yGv_QdsXiBWoxVpTlpnYyycQIyHgcRjRQG7m4zYZsLnSDZbTcmNtxZkCPJjz0mLYQ5xl0NU2fpRkLG/s1600/P1060532.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh HI!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOr_ITpBaaRiBAu0Gz7vBHolZsue6ftYvnleUobPEj8w7qB7j7xlI-eaqry5T_MMGUg831FV7IeAv4lkU_-1OffocTJc8Lyf2tlq8Jof2ORcZtF39JAg_sXucdLNBl1hz56SX1/s1600/P1060527.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> <br />
On Monday January 21 you turned four months old. There's been a lot going on this past month for you and we've been keeping super busy. In fact, I'm super busy right now preparing for your sister's fifth birthday party. Did you hear that? That loud boom? That was my head exploding into five million pieces, one million for every year that your sister has now been alive.<br />
<br />
Boom.<br />
<br />
But this is about you, so in a very rushed and lazy fashion, here's your four month round up:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifK_AMKoI576ZgC2uiZ_Lr5NQf5bvjWfsobQII1_8sQVARV-0llhTjJeRXFaQYrKeKgAG5qPcqO0P3ejZNQWtHcN_UtjFK_pjIvcLef5Js6i4aB1FDHtTLt7xGAVairxt5hb5q/s1600/P1060531.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifK_AMKoI576ZgC2uiZ_Lr5NQf5bvjWfsobQII1_8sQVARV-0llhTjJeRXFaQYrKeKgAG5qPcqO0P3ejZNQWtHcN_UtjFK_pjIvcLef5Js6i4aB1FDHtTLt7xGAVairxt5hb5q/s1600/P1060531.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'ma take some notes - hit me with it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This month you:<br />
<ul>
<li>Celebrated your first Christmas. Major cuteness ensued. </li>
<li>Rolled over for the first time. Front to back. So agile! </li>
<li>Started teething. Pretty sure. Mucho drooling and finger chomping (your own, or any other finger that finds itself near your face). No teeth yet. </li>
<li>Have really fallen head over heels for your big sister. You will crane your head 'til it just about falls off when you hear her voice and LOVE when she reads to you, plays with you, mauls you like a lion. </li>
<li>Fattened waaaaay up. New nickname: ChubbChubb. 15 lbs, 12oz at your four month check up. </li>
<li>Four month sleep regression? Check. You still go to bed very late, between 10pm - 12am but you are no longer sleeping 10 hours straight. You're more likely to put in about 9 hours with at least one wake up sometime early in the morning. </li>
<li>Naps? Sporadic at best. Zero schedule. </li>
<li>You love being outside and in the stroller or car seat in general. </li>
<li>You love baths. </li>
<li>You continue to barf on me about three thousand times a day. </li>
<li>You are a happy, smilely, giggly baby as long as someone is paying attention to you. You are so adorable. </li>
<li>God forbid we stop looking at you or put you down for five minutes. You are a monster. </li>
<li>You are Active with a capital A. Always squirming, always wanting to stand up, kicks, punches and other sweet baby martial arts manuevers. </li>
<li>This month you also started to grab at things. Like my hair, my face, my necklaces, my shirt, my hair, did I mention my hair? </li>
<li>You still hate soothers, all soothers, STOP TRYING TO GIVE ME SOOTHERS, MOTHER. </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkT8Lu087LAv68dSLkxUwJIUsh0DD8VJlK_ydER5nzi8k-6jnjWehU5qSJux-rUEfEuxwZfHFWShtdUUkVzSVUGmuO9A5xNQxkUezu1zEMVHGrFVe6egRAU-H1UsbsWBfqq_J/s1600/P1060528.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkT8Lu087LAv68dSLkxUwJIUsh0DD8VJlK_ydER5nzi8k-6jnjWehU5qSJux-rUEfEuxwZfHFWShtdUUkVzSVUGmuO9A5xNQxkUezu1zEMVHGrFVe6egRAU-H1UsbsWBfqq_J/s1600/P1060528.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And what about you Mom, how are you?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<ul>
</ul>
OH and me? Well I'm just great, thank you for asking. I have about 5 lbs of baby weight left to lose. Okay, fine it's just plain old weight, nothing baby about it. I ate a LOT of ice cream this summer. A LOT. I wish I'd gotten it all off in time for our vacation to Mexico next week, but I am proud of myself for losing almost 40 lbs in four months. And that <i>includes</i> the holidays. Pretty sure I'll drop at least another pound in hair alone because I am currently going bald. Thanks a lot estrogen depletion. <br />
<br />
I think that I have finally gotten through the mild to moderate baby blues and postpartum anxiety that I <i>definitely</i> suffered from this time around. I almost never cry myself to sleep anymore! No but seriously, that sucked. Generally I feel pretty great. Getting out and about helps a lot. I adore hanging with my peeps who are also on mat leave this year. I'm so blessed to have such lovely women and babies to surround myself with. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQiiO1e1pd-bTJ5RebrgWxpPxg_Rny5NdnM0s7jshGRTB2G554iBTXICg5ewb7MPI7ey7Z9UFr58zX4rHLtDGo1wFhTIzSGb7RIYaKDEf0ukicrmm2reGoQ7nrLNx6-Gz64NGm/s1600/P1060533.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQiiO1e1pd-bTJ5RebrgWxpPxg_Rny5NdnM0s7jshGRTB2G554iBTXICg5ewb7MPI7ey7Z9UFr58zX4rHLtDGo1wFhTIzSGb7RIYaKDEf0ukicrmm2reGoQ7nrLNx6-Gz64NGm/s1600/P1060533.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is she still going on about herself right now? Let's bring it back to me...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Most of all, I have fallen for you hard Everley Read. I have fallen for you really hard. You are such a sparkle, such a light, such a glowing little package of wonder and love. I'm honoured and thrilled to be your right-hand this year as you are learning life. Life! It's an amazing thing to see someone learn how to do it. I hope one day you'll read this and understand that you are teaching me every bit as much as I am you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5mg0fBhQQOB6UL8X12SGvyw9TjuKKmrPHWaZV8e5bCuOkKO-JB0qZb99uj7YlmcddYaVHQ_bfJ8BZ_2FRSUJIb9ovW-TQv7zE38tmIGCzPWol22NaEoh0qJ5fePdmYqX6zbX/s1600/P1060534.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5mg0fBhQQOB6UL8X12SGvyw9TjuKKmrPHWaZV8e5bCuOkKO-JB0qZb99uj7YlmcddYaVHQ_bfJ8BZ_2FRSUJIb9ovW-TQv7zE38tmIGCzPWol22NaEoh0qJ5fePdmYqX6zbX/s1600/P1060534.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um? Kind of over it, can we wrap?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
Mommy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-55800628755707086382013-01-24T14:23:00.001-05:002013-01-24T14:23:51.504-05:00Happy Birthday To You: Everley Edition: 3 Months Old<br />
Dear Everley, <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1ftINofRI6tQtZ7WN7qVxj9FRle5UB8AezQ6tcJUsVuZ5dorcWSlt8M-4E6fCh825JGAkmnThkarrJvO0Q9o1z4d9T7BC1tLRK-eIZvQ_O1diQ1vATtjb14Kh_jaEPZvQa0N/s1600/seriousbiz.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1ftINofRI6tQtZ7WN7qVxj9FRle5UB8AezQ6tcJUsVuZ5dorcWSlt8M-4E6fCh825JGAkmnThkarrJvO0Q9o1z4d9T7BC1tLRK-eIZvQ_O1diQ1vATtjb14Kh_jaEPZvQa0N/s1600/seriousbiz.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being three months old is serious business. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On December 21 you turned three months old. I realize that, yes, two days ago you turned four months old and I am a full month behind on this post. You want to know why? Your fault, end of story.<br />
<br />
The good news is we have both survived the
dreaded 100 Days of Hell - or the first 12 weeks or so of life with a
newborn. In fact, as I write this we have successfully survived almost 18 weeks! And you know what? It wasn't perfect but it sure as hell could have been worse. In celebration of reaching this mythical three month milestone
(I say mythical because though I am guilty of telling
people that 100 Days of Hell is real and that things do get way easier when
they are over - this is actually bullshit and I'm an asshole) I
would like to take this opportunity to debunk for you three prevalent parenting
myths so that one day, when you grow up and contemplate children of your own, you will read them and know better. You can thank me
later.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgW6Quax21qK3hxbhh23gA09EtsUuXa56sF330jzU-F1AIgNvCA3XG6NHL4Tokccm4EWvg0fyOpawVX-lDPV5UJq6THjpTQWaMZBN1CcznZ5QiMbcTUJYBRJ0uRMn9AP7Cpbk/s1600/smile.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgW6Quax21qK3hxbhh23gA09EtsUuXa56sF330jzU-F1AIgNvCA3XG6NHL4Tokccm4EWvg0fyOpawVX-lDPV5UJq6THjpTQWaMZBN1CcznZ5QiMbcTUJYBRJ0uRMn9AP7Cpbk/s1600/smile.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I smile all the time now and this month I started to giggle too. Because my mom is hilarious, obvs. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Myth #1 : The Oft Touted 'Sleep When Baby Sleeps' Advice</b><br />
<br />
Anyone who tells you to do this either does not have a baby at home right now, has never had children of their own and therefore should shut the fuck up, or does have kids and is
just a dick head. Perhaps for the first week of life with a newborn some lucky parents can sneak in a quick nap while their baby is asleep. That's because *most* newborn babies sleep all the fucking time. And because usually when you have just squeezed a human being out of your body, people are willing to forgive you for your disgusting house, dirty shirt and smelly armpits for a couple of weeks MAX. But once your baby is around two weeks old or so two things simultaneously happen:<br />
<br />
1. Your baby wakes up! Sad to tell you this but babies do not actually sleep 20 hours a day. Some only sleep around 12 (I'm looking at you, Everley Read) and only fall asleep the minute you are trying to get something accomplished (again, looking right at you, kid).<br />
2. Your life turns back on and you actually do need to get things accomplished. Things like laundry and showers and feeding yourself. <br />
<br />
Now let me give it to you straight, neither of the two situations above allow for lying down to take a bloody nap when your baby is asleep, assuming you are even lucky enough to have a baby who sleeps during the day. God forbid you have another child at home that's demanding your attention or, you know, needs to be fed and bathed? UGH. Hearing someone say, "sleep when the baby sleeps" will make you want to punch them immediately in their face. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisi_9jjoR4z2pY_vJjeX_ew6qazHyh9R6057HEwybwaN6IhhKeJF3aHz0fzIQKQWLJNsLk-C37oa7dGln6_RHW5NtHX5t438RlUJhOETA-N376cD-CCFP-HashPT7dXmLQl_sS/s1600/drool.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisi_9jjoR4z2pY_vJjeX_ew6qazHyh9R6057HEwybwaN6IhhKeJF3aHz0fzIQKQWLJNsLk-C37oa7dGln6_RHW5NtHX5t438RlUJhOETA-N376cD-CCFP-HashPT7dXmLQl_sS/s1600/drool.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It would appear that I've started teething. And drooling is part of that game, leave me alone.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Myth #2 : "You Should Read BLAHBLAHBLAH Baby Guru's Parenting Guide"</b><br />
<br />
If you only take one piece of advice from me let it be this: NEVER READ THE FUCKING BOOKS. The books will do nothing but confuse
the hell out of you and make you feel like the shittiest parent on
earth. I have lived my entire life by my instincts. Did I always make
the right decisions? Nope. Did I turn out okay? Yes, I think I did. Your
heart (that fickle bitch) may lead you astray sometimes, it's true, but your <i>instincts</i>, deep down in your gut, they are
always telling the truth. So forget the 'professionals' and the magazines and the books and listen to your gut. Listen to it closely and you will be okay. <br />
<br />
And what if your gut is telling you that you need some outside help? Talk to your pediatrician, whom you should like and trust, or talk to family members and friends who have successfully raised humans <i>that you like</i>. Chances are, if they raised a good one, they know what they are talking about. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxz94jN021yrgev5mLz8-FBIHRgm8Xs1b9jcQKQ7RTD5LBP5G4dVvfVgOR1kxXNGq3HF-rfMa5TmVvuTemPxAg6lDhgupYaNcLqx8YYuBNaIy90pwQYhNQmKejGc1Pqpm7NYv/s1600/distracted.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxz94jN021yrgev5mLz8-FBIHRgm8Xs1b9jcQKQ7RTD5LBP5G4dVvfVgOR1kxXNGq3HF-rfMa5TmVvuTemPxAg6lDhgupYaNcLqx8YYuBNaIy90pwQYhNQmKejGc1Pqpm7NYv/s1600/distracted.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No seriously, I'm listening... but something over there is distracting me... can't... look... away...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Myth #3 : The 100 Days of Hell and other Stupid Bullshit</b><br />
<br />
Parenting is hard. It's hard on day one and it's hard on day 101.
In fact, it'll be hard until the day you drop dead. But you know what else? It's also delightful, rewarding, awe-inspiring and beautiful. And that's the truth. There will be moments where you will soar to the highest of highs. And then there will be moments when you hate it. You'll fuck
it up constantly. You'll scream, you'll cry and you'll want to give up.
But at the end of the day (just remember that with a newborn your days don't actually 'end' for a number of months) you will be full of the most powerful, profound love. You can't
imagine it. I certainly can't describe it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHLGAqvx955eQx1tYhPoyQxj1Q32WaHb-QPdQI5gHMUXlpXAPTW2PwDdSjJ25-BuJmz8-tjdDWP32K8rVWCZZJkf8mTDWHw3YMAEEHCHqWBwWk_V4W9w-lpiZR85b4BSOQ_cw/s1600/photobomb.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHLGAqvx955eQx1tYhPoyQxj1Q32WaHb-QPdQI5gHMUXlpXAPTW2PwDdSjJ25-BuJmz8-tjdDWP32K8rVWCZZJkf8mTDWHw3YMAEEHCHqWBwWk_V4W9w-lpiZR85b4BSOQ_cw/s1600/photobomb.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big sister photo-bomb and resulting painful love explosion! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2008/03/hard-days-night.html" target="_blank">As I wrote in this post, when your sister was around your age, there are several words we often use as parents that need to be re-invented</a>. Our language is simply not complex enough to convey what it feels like to raise babies or what it does to your heart to watch them grow. So here's another word to add to the list for reinvention - we need a new word for love. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DO7XJ0-9-mN9fd1ZaMxf0gvt0lO6VSmh025T1kHOa71POzzhU6Pua2-aLeJjFaUpULRH6SqnKnBLUK2GTa0OsDTBN2I8hQYYH05nbj8wzLLpvzkYBVvD5Y1f9a2_GRXU4lGR/s1600/sized1.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DO7XJ0-9-mN9fd1ZaMxf0gvt0lO6VSmh025T1kHOa71POzzhU6Pua2-aLeJjFaUpULRH6SqnKnBLUK2GTa0OsDTBN2I8hQYYH05nbj8wzLLpvzkYBVvD5Y1f9a2_GRXU4lGR/s1600/sized1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I "love" you, <br />
<br />
Mommy<br />
<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-46037209893137880162012-12-05T23:19:00.002-05:002012-12-05T23:19:51.826-05:00Happy Birthday to You: Everley Edition: 2 Months Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Dear Everley, </div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BndoCwCCRr34nS4EUIbvdVB2p_Jvmp3vNIk1yLia_2wg3qFd2fr5mkvbZGa0CpUgMas_HjAWFskPwNAj1-TOExE9nqgPGVaoSOA317W1qIXVUA9ZLAv9AQchyphenhyphen_vycK9m91b8/s1600/2mos_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BndoCwCCRr34nS4EUIbvdVB2p_Jvmp3vNIk1yLia_2wg3qFd2fr5mkvbZGa0CpUgMas_HjAWFskPwNAj1-TOExE9nqgPGVaoSOA317W1qIXVUA9ZLAv9AQchyphenhyphen_vycK9m91b8/s1600/2mos_1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why so serious? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On Nov. 21 you turned two months old. That was two weeks ago today and incredibly, sadly, the time before is already getting fuzzy in my head.<br />
<br />
This I know for sure, when you turned six weeks old you started sleeping "through the night." I write that in quotations only because in your case that means you fall asleep somewhere around midnight and sleep solidly for anywhere between six and eight hours. It's a bit of a late bedtime for a baby and the time between 7:00pm and midnight continue to be your most challenging hours, maybe because you are overtired? I don't know. But when you are finally settled just before a new day begins, you sleep and you sleep and who am I to complain about that? <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHXg6IUl1hGPP_MC5adVyiXOJQKNIz5L6tfJkwMhCwoAko2-UflQXAuVIXt26Tr8K_XV_q85hfJSfxSsMLJFwRPyaDa8-9JqqlbEqI45J8D2e2ubH7tjoUvTmb2rgHyTDcVb5/s1600/2mos_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe if you went to bed before midnight you wouldn't be catching so many flies at 10am. Just sayin'. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Usually you start stirring around 7:00am and I pull you into bed with me and nurse you while we both continue to doze, then after 15 or 20 minutes you pass back out and sleep until around 8:30am. You'd sleep longer but I like to get up to see your sister and your dad before they leave for the day. It's important to me, more important even than getting an extra hour or two of sleep. If I didn't wake you at that time you would keep sleeping. Easily until 10:00am or so.<br />
<br />
I usually lay awake after your morning feeding and just stare at you while you are snuggled in tight against me. It's an hour or so where I can just be there with you, drinking you in, watching you dream and reveling in your little facial expressions and sleepy coos. It occurs to me every day that I'm the only one in the entire world that will ever know this piece of your history. I'm the holder and protector of these memories, your perfect, content, stupendously, outrageously beautiful baby mornings. That feels like a huge responsibility but man it's also such a profound gift.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtflqYWOYSpeCVGnjDXLTam-wqNo-hZbv2r6UlQuZXQQUfI2vpz7swGZ-1VAdGtRySs9Q_H70ISg8vvezZZL1zPQjR9uSjaAWMHk3USf17vJodHvfejUXmHwVv2WKv5Z4kM8VF/s1600/2mos_3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those cheeks! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of the last things I do at night, before you and I slip up to our room at the top of the house, is to take a minute or so, locked by myself in the too tight washroom, and just look at myself in the mirror. I take in the circles under my eyes and the fine lines that are starting to maybe not look all that fine anymore. I look at the faint red scratches that criss cross my chest from your finger nails that grab at me when you nurse. My boobs are too big for my frame, my face still a little puffy from extra weight. I know I'm at a place in my life where my physical self is suffering a little so that I can focus my attention on yours. My brain wants to obsess on this and to hate myself for it. But I fight it. I fight it so hard in that minute by myself. Because it's not fair to be so hard on myself for doing this thing that only I am privileged enough to get to do for you. Because these are the demons that I hope you girls will never have to face down in the mirror at the end of the night. <br />
<br />
Instead I reflect on our day together. I remember what we did and why it was special. You've seen, smelled, heard something for the very first time. And I've witnessed it. Another gift. That I get to be there with you for these fabulous firsts. Yes it's exhausting and occasionally frustrating to have so little time on my own. Sometimes I go an entire day with less than an hour away from you. To be the solo keeper of these memories, to be alone in my utter delight over your latest coo or your newest crooked smile. But I tell myself in my head as I stare into that mirror, that I will never regret spending another night alone with you when in exchange I got to hear your very first giggle - a moment that only you and I will forever share. I'll never think back, years from now, and focus on how frumpy I felt, but I will remember how incredible it made me feel to see you sleeping soundly in the bassinet beside me, so peaceful and perfect. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH_jzt4ToID0NOfby0K8FbqwfAQ6ukWakzpyESLlCtwVX6_bwL7P0-9Pk3ytVKjoJVqUN56B2ROYEG2yI0H-BtMguIw2Ck01LIMjY_9tA2PJsSCOqiWpp3C-5enQ4SQHZ6hO-/s1600/2mos_4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That fish really looks like he's out to get you but I'm pretty sure your lobster can take him. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Looking through the pictures I took of you this month it occurs to me that I'm so obsessed with documenting these moments of yours not so that I will always remember them but so that maybe others can delight in them along with me. It can be lonely to have these precious moments all to myself. I have captured some fantastic glimpses of you with your dad and you with your sister, but nobody captures the thousands of tiny moments that you and I share. Those are just for us, I suppose. I hope that one day through these letters you'll get an understanding of this amazingly powerful bond we share, you and I. <br />
<br />
Your second month was full of firsts. First real smile, first breathy laugh, first time sleeping through the night, first movie (Flight), first snuggle with your Auntie Emily, first shots (yuck). I was there for every one of them. A gift, sweet baby girl, it's such a gift.<br />
<br />
I love you,<br />
<br />
Mommy Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-86332948987953254822012-11-26T12:23:00.000-05:002012-11-26T23:37:22.300-05:00Everley Read: A Birth(day) StoryThursday September 20, 2012 started out as normally as a day can when you are one day away from both your 37th birthday and the due date of your second child. I'm going to do my best to describe how this seemingly normal day turned into the kind of day where I thankfully, narrowly avoided becoming one of those women who gives birth at home in her toilet.<br />
<br />
Bare with me - it's a long one and it's not been an easy tale to write nor was it an easy event to weather - but the final results are spectacular and well worth the read:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYib6nIS00bgaTalMyNwCBTJSJMp0grjuu8tS09hxuG5SHlBJqkkXEP4go396SeNxR3cueQCAf5U-KPE5PfvJX9uln0rcHmyHlf0NaRyL7ydjJA4OaXQt8TsLblInpPiwoKS-/s1600/P1060296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYib6nIS00bgaTalMyNwCBTJSJMp0grjuu8tS09hxuG5SHlBJqkkXEP4go396SeNxR3cueQCAf5U-KPE5PfvJX9uln0rcHmyHlf0NaRyL7ydjJA4OaXQt8TsLblInpPiwoKS-/s1600/P1060296.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The results. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>7:45am:</b> Wake up to the sound of the alarm and proceed through regular daily morning routine of waking Bella, getting her fed, cleaned, dressed, hair done, lunch made and out the door for school.<br />
<br />
<b>8:45am:</b> Drop Bella off at her class, kiss the top of her little braided head and tell her I'll pick her up at 5pm.<br />
<br />
<b>9:00am</b>: Reading through my mail from the day before and I open a letter from Service Canada and learn that my maternity leave benefits had been declined. Panic! Cry! Am way too pregnant to handle this situation calmly. Cairn tells me to call them and so I obsessively start collecting all my paperwork and spreading it out on the couch along with laptop in preparation for what I assume will be an entire day on the phone with the government.<br />
<br />
<b>9:15am: </b>Discover an error on my ROE - my return to work date is listed as September 16, 2012 or in other words four days ago. Amazing. I quickly send an email off to my HR representative letting her know about the error and asking if she can have my info resubmitted. I open the email like this:<br />
<br />
<i>Good morning Vanessa, 

Hope you are well. I'm still awaiting the arrival of my baby - due date is tomorrow but looks like this one is pretty comfy in there. No signs he/she is on the way just yet. </i><br />
<br />
I close the email like this: <br />
<br />
<i>Have to run now, but will check back in when I'm home this aft. Hopefully I'll have gotten through to Service Canada. I have a sense of urgency about this because I really need my benefits to kick in and I will VERY soon be in hospital and then extremely distracted with a new little one to care for!</i><br />
<br />
If only I knew then... <br />
<br />
<b>10:00am:</b> Am still trying to figure out paperwork and set myself up with my Service Canada online account when I remember my 40 week OBGYN appointment is in an hour and a half. Leave everything where it is, grab a quick shower and get dressed. Decide to put on some makeup since I'm going downtown where people are fancy. Might take in a little lunch and shopping after. Must look alive. <br />
<br />
<b>11:00am:</b> Grab purse run out the door.<br />


<br />
<b>11:30am:</b> Make it to my appointment just on time. Doc asks me, as always, if everything is okay and I say yes. No change from last week. She proceeds with the exam. My blood pressure is great. Belly measuring normally. Heart rate of baby is... hmmm... she listens a little longer than usual. Lifts up Doppler and spreads on a little more gel. Tries again. Suddenly I'm paying attention to the look on her face which is not quite her usual, "all is good, relax lady" look.<br />
<br />
Finally she looks at me and says, "Okay, heart rate is a bit lower than usual. I'm taking my time because it's slower than I like to see but now I'm getting 120 bpms or so. Normal range."<br />
<br />


But it's not normal for my baby, who has always been in the 150s... suddenly I'm reminded that I have noticed some decreased fetal movement the last couple of days. I have chalked it up to baby slowing down due to lack of room and resting up for the big event. But combined with a slow heart rate, suddenly it doesn't seem so simple. So I mention it to her. She pauses and then says, "Okay. Let's check you out and then we'll talk." We'll talk?! Oh shit. 

<br />
<br />
She checks my cervix and mutters something to herself, which I can't fully make out. I'm starting to feel the slightest hint of panic because my doctor is not a mutterer. She smiles at me and says she'll be back in just one moment, then she leaves the room. She's probably gone about two minutes and when she walks back in, she says this, <br />
<br />


"Do you want to have a baby today?" 

<br />
<br />
Mind goes blank. Seeing stars. Not sure how to answer this most unexpected question. Is 'no' an acceptable answer? Probably not.<br />
<br />
"You mean like right now?" 

<br />
<br />
"Well, yes, today. You are going to take your paperwork right now, walk across the street and admit yourself. You are two cms dilated and cervix is softening. You are not in labour but the combination of a slow heart rate for baby and slowed fetal movement is something we don't want to ignore. Since you are due tomorrow I see no reason to take chances. You'll go, check in, get on a monitor. If baby is okay, we'll have you induced." <br />
<br />
"And if baby is not okay?" I say, <br />
<br />
"Then we'll section you immediately," she tells me with a sympathetic smile. <br />

<br />
"Okay, sounds good," is what I say. HOLY FUCK, is what I'm thinking.<br />
<br />
She hands me some paperwork, tells me to call my husband and sends me on my way. I'm smiling and chatting with her and the receptionist but on the inside I'M TAKING A HEART ATTACK. <br />
<br />
<b>11:45am:</b> I realize that I have left the house without the paperwork that I've been instructed to carry with me at all times. Shitballs. I stumble on quivering legs to the lobby of the building and call Cairn, who thankfully is still at home this morning. He answers with some trepidation and says, "Are we having a baby?" "We are," I reply, and fill him in on what's up. Some cursing ensues on his behalf and I tell him to grab a pen and paper before rattling off a list of things to pack and people to call. Most importantly we need to set up care for Bella. <br />
<br />
I walk myself across the street to the hospital while we are talking and briefly lose our connection while in the elevator on my way up to the maternity ward. Still can't believe this is happening and am feeling slightly in shock, shaky and nervous, especially about Bella and how she'll react when it's not me that shows up to get her from school. <br />
<br />
<b>12:00pm:</b> I register at the desk and they begin the process of admitting me. The hospital is very busy and there is no room for me in triage so instead I'm sent directly to an L&D room, told to get into a gown and quickly hooked up to monitors for baby's heart rate and contractions. Because there is some question about health of baby they are not messing around and it all happens very fast. I have three repetitive thoughts running through my head at this time: <br />
<br />
1. I wish I'd eaten more for breakfast. <br />
2. I'm so glad I shaved my legs today!<br />
3. This is so NOT the bra I wanted to wear for labour. I'm really fixating on this and consider calling Cairn to make sure he packs my intended labour bra. Don't do it because even I know how fucking crazy it sounds.<br />
<br />
The non-stress test for the baby consists of monitoring heart rate and pushing a little button whenever I feel fetal movement. Of course now that I'm here the baby is squirming away like it ain't no thang. The heart rate continues to be somewhat erratic but the nurse assures me that this is good and they are happy to see accelerations even if overall the rate is a bit lower than usual. The test lasts 30 minutes and thankfully everything seems fine. <br />
<br />
<b>12:30pm:</b> The resident doctor and a midwifery student come in to do the ultrasound part of my non-stress test. I can't help but notice that they are both a good 10 years younger than me. This freaks me out. As she is setting up the machine she looks at the tracking on heart rate and contractions and tells me that both seem to be moving along just perfectly. Both? Yes, both. I am having relatively strong contractions every five minutes. I didn't even know it. I have been feeling braxton hicks since about 20 weeks and nothing I've felt today seems any different than that. She shows me on the monitor next time one happens. I feel it but there is no pain, just tightening. Clearly I am rocking this shit out. Am probably in labour and didn't even know it. Am a superhero. <br />
<br />
<b>1:00pm:</b> All my tests are now complete and the baby is looking absolutely perfect. Scores a perfect 8 out of 8. Clearly this is a Virgo I'm carrying, striving for perfection and punctuality. We are going to have a baby today, I'm pretty fucking certain. <br />
<br />
The doctor informs me that since my contractions are steady but not painful and I'm only two cms dilated, they are going to discharge me and I should just wait at home until I feel pain and/or my water breaks and then come back. <br />
<br />
STOP THE TRAIN DOC. I hear the full screeching brakes in my head and everything. DISCHARGE ME? Oh. Hell. No. I'm in the gown. I'm in an amazing room. My husband is on his way. WITH BAGS OF STUFF. Wrong labour bra not-withstanding I am going to stay here and have this baby today. End of discussion. Childcare is handled, I have a hospital bracelet on for GOD'S SAKE DO NOT SEND ME HOME. <br />
<br />
I ask the doctor politely if I can stay. She says no. Explains that the hospital is very busy and they need to the room. Just then I have another contraction - I point out that it's measuring 60 on the monitor (100 is considered extremely strong) and tell her to touch my belly just to feel how contractiony it is. IT'S SO CONTRACTIONY!<br />
<br />
She smiles kindly (patronizingly) and says that the fact that I can talk tells her I'm not ready to stay just yet. I want to tell her that the fact that she's like 17 years old tells me she might not know what the hell she's talking about. But - and this is a very significant but - she says she will check me quickly before she sends me home just to be sure I'm not further dilated than I was when I arrived. <br />
<br />
FULL STOP - Important to understand the significance of this moment right here. This seemingly simple decision, to check me one more time, is the one thing that stands between a safe, assisted hospital delivery and me having my baby at home on the bathroom floor. And I'm so grateful that teen-doctor was in fact brilliant enough to be so cautious. THANK YOU DOOGIE HOWSER. <br />
<br />
<b>1:15pm:</b> Doctor checks me and is shocked to discover that I'm now four cms. I have progressed two cms in two hours. Four cms with contractions like mine can be considered active labour. I am staying. HALLELUJAH I am staying. HOLY FUCK I am staying. <br />
<br />
Cairn arrives. <br />
<br />
I'm immediately set up on an IV and penicillin drip, which I require because I'm <a href="http://www.babycenter.ca/pregnancy/antenatalhealth/physicalhealth/groupbstrep/" target="_blank">GBS positive</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEK6AOgG5AEmSoVUckgOY8uuFfD_9lUG4N32OlxHMlWNrqEtIRv9Q9c8El-0iZZ97jOaiuI2exuf2o0VTJuZkc4H_qEpl_z1BFxzQ9ZuevVYo5ujKJ2uWFiAnJvi3uzuYR0McE/s1600/IV_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEK6AOgG5AEmSoVUckgOY8uuFfD_9lUG4N32OlxHMlWNrqEtIRv9Q9c8El-0iZZ97jOaiuI2exuf2o0VTJuZkc4H_qEpl_z1BFxzQ9ZuevVYo5ujKJ2uWFiAnJvi3uzuYR0McE/s1600/IV_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drag.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>1:45pm:</b> Cairn leaves to go get lunch. I'm so hungry. I haven't gone more than two hours without eating in months and my body is all WTF WOMAN WHERE ARE MY CARBS? <br />
<br />
<b>3:00pm:</b> My nurse comes to check in and tells me that at 5pm they are going to break my water and see what happens before starting me on Pitocin. I remind her, as I do every time that I see her, that I would like an epidural before my contractions get painful. I do not want to feel pain. No pain, please, I'd prefer no pain because I have already felt that pain once in my life and I'm not into the painful pain of it all. She assures me that they'll get me set up before they begin Pitocin, that way I'll be good and numb before any painful contractions (which I do not want to feel) even kick in. <br />
<br />
Just so we're perfectly clear, I do not want to feel any pain. <br />
<br />
<b>3:30pm:</b> Contractions are now coming regularly on their own. Every five minutes or so and still looking strong on the monitor but not at all painful. Baby is monitoring perfectly well. At this point I use the washroom and notice a bit of bleeding. It definitely feels like I'm in labour now without any interventions and I'm hopeful that I won't even need the Pitocin once my water is broken. <br />
<br />
<b>5:00pm: </b>OMG SO BORED. An emergency twin C-section (jerks) is taking place on the ward so my water-breaking ceremony has to be delayed. Instead they start me on a second dose of antibiotics and tell us to sit tight. Cairn and I are playing Words with Friends and thinking that maybe we should have let them discharge me after all. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0xyCzc3zg7OTdjBIGIwLWt7djIiBaFi0rdzuyjKGm3GEUho2SICGpHwoD08kwA-6HSdMKY_g6IkmxPEVYeyhyphenhyphenRaJZvE9L97lMIh6uKnCo1oSgB2Ms2_GHyYdZ_fWFRietlOE/s1600/waiting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0xyCzc3zg7OTdjBIGIwLWt7djIiBaFi0rdzuyjKGm3GEUho2SICGpHwoD08kwA-6HSdMKY_g6IkmxPEVYeyhyphenhyphenRaJZvE9L97lMIh6uKnCo1oSgB2Ms2_GHyYdZ_fWFRietlOE/s1600/waiting.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BORED<b> (but glad I did my hair and makeup this morning)</b>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>6:30pm:</b> Nurse checks vitals and finds that baby's heart rate has decelerated again. They put me back on the monitors and this time they want me to stay hooked up until baby arrives. Boo. I hate the monitors. They are confining and distracting and quite frankly nerve-wracking. My excitement is starting to wane, my frustration is starting to rise. <br />
<br />
<b>7:00pm:</b> Cairn goes to get dinner and not to alarm you but I'm probably dying of starvation. <br />
<br />
<b>7:15pm: </b>Call to talk to Bella expecting heartfelt and teary conversation about the pending arrival of her new sibling. Bella could care less abut me or my dumb baby and would rather play with Papa at his house for the rest of her life. Fair enough. <br />
<br />
<b>7:30pm: </b>Contractions continue to get stronger and more regular, am watching the monitor like a TV. Still no pain, am now convinced that I'll just sneeze and have this baby without feeling so much as a nasty cramp. Am relieved about that but growing aggravated at the lack of attention from hospital staff. I need to pee, am stuck in bed and the nurses are changing shifts so I'm asked to repeat my story and information yet again. READ THE CHART, NURSES. In other news, baby's heart rate is back up and steady. So there's that. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ajvQHEhfdtbMQ0KMNVAYdDqE1sytTL7PCFG26Ry_GqqDrgMYFHQFuejODOJFvX1bFBcTmvg8x0psqkhl9kpvF4EZEXJcmt5TyIvp76davnuyj_KiAOE090A_zI1DATdYZSf7/s1600/contraction_face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ajvQHEhfdtbMQ0KMNVAYdDqE1sytTL7PCFG26Ry_GqqDrgMYFHQFuejODOJFvX1bFBcTmvg8x0psqkhl9kpvF4EZEXJcmt5TyIvp76davnuyj_KiAOE090A_zI1DATdYZSf7/s1600/contraction_face.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's me thinking I'm having a 'big' contraction, when in fact I'm feeling but a wee tickle of a twinge compared to what's yet to come. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>9:30pm:</b> After a failed attempt at napping my contractions seem to have all but stopped. My night nurse Kate has been popping in every hour, but other than that nothing is happening at all. <br />
<br />
<b>10:30pm:</b> Mad at everyone. Hate the monitors. Hungry, cranky, pissed off that they still have not checked me or broken my water, which they said they would do FIVE HOURS AGO. <br />
<br />
<b>10:45pm:</b> As if they could sense my growing discontent the doctor and Nurse Kate arrive to break my water. Because I was already super stoned on a epidural when they broke my water last time, I have no idea what to expect. Just like in the movies, they grab a knitting needle, poke around in there and GUSH. Warm, clear fluid. Thought it's admittedly gross to be covered in your own amniotic fluid, Nurse Kate changes my bedding and brings me a warmed blanket (I'm freezing at this point) and I try to relax and settle in for what I know is now the final stretch (pun intended). <br />
<br />
<b>11:00pm:</b> It's been 15 minutes and not only have my contractions have kicked back in but this time I can feel them. In fact they hurt. Didn't we talk clearly about the pain issue? I mention to Nurse Kate that they are getting painful and she tells me that they'd like to wait 30 minutes and see how I progress on my own before starting Pitocin. In the meantime, she'll notify the anesthesiologist (who is currently busy with another patient) that I'm ready for my epidural. I figure I can tolerate anything for thirty minutes.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1zIHCrrex-T7vCwXGXN8IRC9ufwBpHnArdPjJDb1mfIS6XpfnEPXYXm0z7hkrUUvpS0tmRDUnHBlucW6L24-_6q3JYEmXTwm1Mc_NuXzu2PFSrL0SDBOD6L9TW3ZcTAONFOU/s1600/135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1zIHCrrex-T7vCwXGXN8IRC9ufwBpHnArdPjJDb1mfIS6XpfnEPXYXm0z7hkrUUvpS0tmRDUnHBlucW6L24-_6q3JYEmXTwm1Mc_NuXzu2PFSrL0SDBOD6L9TW3ZcTAONFOU/s1600/135.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>130 is baby's happy, healthy heartbeat; 135+ is my decidedly NOT happy contraction level.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>11:30pm:</b> Apparently I can not tolerate <i>anything</i> for thirty minutes. Contractions are now so painful that I can't talk through them and am instead starting to panic each time I feel one coming. Cairn is watching the monitor and calling out how huge they are. They are huge, topping out at 135+ on the machine each time. Still, I ask him very politely to STOP TELLING ME HOW HUGE THEY ARE PLEASE I'M AWARE OF HOW HUGE THEY ARE. They are also coming about every two minutes and Cairn is questioning why nobody is coming back to check on us. I call the nurse on the button. She helps me get up so I can use the washroom and wash my face - both of which are extremely difficult because of how much pain I'm in. SO MUCH FUCKING PAIN. <br />
<br />
I get back in bed and tell the nurse that I'm feeling the urge to push and lots of rectal pressure. She doesn't want to check me because if she finds I'm beyond a certain amount dilated they will not allow me to get my epidural. OMG I can't believe this is happening to me. I think this is the first time it dawns on me that I'm about to give birth to this baby without any interventions or pain medication. This is not a happy realization. Nurse Kate checks me and tells me she doesn't think I'll require any Pitocin. <br />
<br />
NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. <br />
<br />
<b>11:50pm:</b> I WANT MY DRUGS GET ME MY DRUGS NOW. Nurse Kate is trying to calm me down, tells me in a chipper voice that I'm doing great, epi is on the way! Rainbows and unicorns! Sunshine and lollypops! Forced happy face and crazy eyes!<br />
<br />
I suffer for another 10 minutes and by now I'm baying and screaming like an animal during contractions and panicking like a drowning person in between them. I'm no longer really lucid about what's going on around me. I can hear Cairn questioning why the epidural isn't here yet. I can hear the nurse trying to reassure me that I'm up next and I'll be comfortable very soon. <br />
<br />
<b>12:00am: </b>I vaguely make out Cairn wishing me a happy birthday. I'm very fucking far from happy. I'm in agony. My nurse has actually left the room to go and physically get the epi doc and bring her to me when the sudden and unmistakable feeling of pushing a baby out takes over my entire body. This baby is coming out RIGHT NOW. I grab the alarm and I push that thing like 1000 times. I am officially "that" woman. Screaming, moaning, thrashing about in my bed. I'm quite certain at this point that I'm going to die and the thing about it is, I really just hope it will happen before the next contraction. <br />
<br />
<b>12:05am:</b> Nurse Kate comes running back and tells me my drugs are on the way. I manage to tell her that I'm pushing and she checks me again. She says I'm still only five cms and that I should NOT push. Do not push. What I'm feeling is just the baby moving down, this is good, but I'm not ready to push. Well whoopty doo, Nurse Kate, I'm not ready to push. Thing is though, MY BODY IS PUSHING AND THERE'S NO STOPPING IT NOW. I'm stuck in the fetal position, in searing, gut-wrenching, indescribable pain and now I have the lovely vision of my baby shooting out of my "not-quite ready yet sweetie, but soon" vagina and tearing me completely in half. Wonderful. <br />
<br />
<b>12:10am: </b>Anesthesiologist arrives. And she looks like a clown. No seriously. She's wearing scrubs covered in chilli-peppers (you know the ones) and has these giant pop-bottle glasses on. All I can focus on is those glasses. I'm thinking that anyone with glasses that thick should maybe not put a needle in my spine. However at this point I know something that nobody else in the room has yet to speak aloud. There will be no needle because this baby is coming. out. right. now.<br />
<br />
Still, Nurse Kate continues the charade and tries to get me to sit up to receive my epidural. This is laughable and if I wasn't dying on the bed I'd laugh at her right now. I now have both the nurse and the anesthesiologist talking at me, asking questions and telling me to relax. It's clear they both think I'm just being hysterical, which I am, but it's for good reason. I'm about to do the one thing that I have been saying for, oh, my ENTIRE LIFE that I never wanted to do. Deliver a human being out of my vagina without any drugs. The mere thought of this allows me sit up for about 30 seconds before collapsing again and yelling that I can't stop pushing and that the baby is COMING OUT YOU FUCKERS (minus the fuckers part). <br />
<br />
<b>12:15am:</b> Nurse Kate, bless her heart, finally senses that I am not just fucking around with her for shits and giggles and checks me again. As soon as she gets me into position and takes a peek down there her face suddenly changes and see a flash of fear in her eyes. I am fully dilated and baby's head is right there. Now things happen fast. She RUNS out into the hall and in minutes is back in with an entire team of people including the attending physician, the midwifery student and the pediatric nurse on hand to attend baby at birth.<br />
<br />
I hear her telling them that I'm "quite distressed" (understatement) and that I'm "delivering naturally and not by choice". I hear the pediatric nurse say, "Uh oh." I hear her tell the attending doctor that she checked me just minutes ago and I was only a five. I hear the attending tell her that this baby is coming now. And suddenly she listens. Nurse Kate comes up to the head of my bed, grabs my face and says, "Mia, you are going to have this baby without an epidural." I briefly consider punching her.<br />
<br />
Instead, I BEG her to give me something for pain. I have two clear thoughts going through my head at this moment. The first is of my friend <a href="http://scarbiedoll.blogspot.ca/2007/09/and-on-eleventh-day-she-blogged-about.html" target="_blank">Nadine and her own story about delivering her daughter Lucine naturally on purpose (crazy lady)</a> in the very same room I'm in right now. I remember the part where she received a shot of Demerol. I want a shot of Demerol, or a shot of ANYTHING at all. Nurse Kate calmly tells me that it's too late and that anything they give me won't work on time anyway. Truth be told, Nurse Kate is in her element at this point and I could not have done this without her. She stays right by my face and tells me over and over again that I can do this and that I'll be glad I went natural once baby is here.<br />
<br />
<b>12:20am:</b> I'm pushing out my baby. It's incredibly painful and entirely surreal. The second memory I have from this moment is telling myself over and over again in my head that it's just pain, it's just pain, you are not dying, it's just pain. I'm trying to do as they tell me and push without making any noise, but I'm screaming and groaning at the end of each push anyway, there's no way to control it.<br />
<br />
I'm in more of an upright position for this birth than I was with Bella, much closer to the action, leaning forward and gripping handles on the bed. I try not to look, but keep getting small glimpses of what's going on down there. It ain't pretty. Between contractions I lie back but there's not much time to rest. During one 'break' the doctor tells me that with the next set of pushes she's going to ask me to stop pushing for a moment.<br />
<br />
She says, "You are going to want to do nothing more than push and you'll hate me for telling you to stop, but you have to stop, trust me, it's for your own good."<br />
<br />
Amaaaaazing. I can hardly wait. She tells me that I have some scar tissue from my previous episiotomy and they are going to make a small incision to assist me in getting the baby out. I really did not want another episiotomy but at this point, much like last time, I could really not care less what they do. <br />
<br />
"Just get it out," I tell her. <br />
<br />
<b>12:35am:</b> After only four sets of pushes and about 10 minutes, I feel an incredible amount of searing hot pain followed by an immediate and immense release of pressure as my baby, my beautiful baby who has been safely and securely tucked up within me for nine months but who I have been waiting for all my life, slips out into the world.<br />
<br />
I actually see the baby slide right out and into the waiting arms of the doctor. It's been an hour and a half since they broke my water. It's 35 minutes into my 37th birthday. I have just laboured and delivered my baby naturally in less time than it likely would have taken me to get to the hospital had I been at home when my water broke. And then I go into shock. <br />
<br />
"Dad, don't you want to know what it is?" I hear the nurse ask Cairn…<br />
<br />
"It's a girl!" I hear Cairn say.<br />
<br />
They both sound like they are a million miles away. I look up, shaking like a leaf, and see them carry my baby girl over to the warmer. I start to cry. It's a girl. I have another girl.<br />
<br />
"She's so beautiful," they are all saying. "I bet you say that about all the babies," I reply.<br />
<br />
But she is. She is so beautiful, pink and perfect with a thick shock of dark brown hair.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUDXkJqlTCPmwgBkcuzqWXJiaeDNv8imiNnKbhokIiKWZYZrnLAZKtMXELo6F0d-E1pQJRdIg_1Use11LKVBNUVc-GRcYbY3peS-8PH8J5AC1eA6qnHyqbvnIcIA3Om_PdDDF/s1600/hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUDXkJqlTCPmwgBkcuzqWXJiaeDNv8imiNnKbhokIiKWZYZrnLAZKtMXELo6F0d-E1pQJRdIg_1Use11LKVBNUVc-GRcYbY3peS-8PH8J5AC1eA6qnHyqbvnIcIA3Om_PdDDF/s1600/hair.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The hair to which I refer. </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As the delivery team begins the brutal act of delivering my placenta and stitching me back together I waiver between dealing with the pain of that action and stealing glimpses of my baby girl as she is cleaned and weighed and wrapped. They hand her to Cairn and he keeps her in his arms while all the King's horses and men are working their best magic down there on poor Humpty Dumpty.<br />
<br />
The midwifery student gives me a tour of my placenta. "A perfect specimen," she tells me. "I bet you say that about all the placentas," I reply.<br />
<br />
We all have a much needed laugh and I begin to feel myself relax. The team congratulates me again and I finally feel my shaking start to slow as the realization of what just happened sinks in. My baby is here. I have done it. <br />
<br />
<b>12:55am:</b> Cairn hands me my baby girl. We lock eyes this perfect baby girl and I and <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2011/11/summertime.html" target="_blank">I briefly think of the baby I lost just over a year ago.</a> And then I think it's true what they say, that everything happens for a reason. My reason is now in my arms, healthy and perfect. She arrived on my birthday as if to say, "You see Mama? You were waiting for me. I'm the one that was meant to be yours."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0MR6tpr5OF6IX-5YmOjSjwuIVLEwG8sS9KeEzHEdLK51rYZIvYw4MIZJ1H3Oa-T2yYMR8LwBcdeoXNTFZO3_ftqv42ELhZBlMPALquAtB5-Rg0pi29jnrjHMjtgraQV3fgVS/s1600/P1060301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0MR6tpr5OF6IX-5YmOjSjwuIVLEwG8sS9KeEzHEdLK51rYZIvYw4MIZJ1H3Oa-T2yYMR8LwBcdeoXNTFZO3_ftqv42ELhZBlMPALquAtB5-Rg0pi29jnrjHMjtgraQV3fgVS/s1600/P1060301.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
And just like that the last two hours of pain and fear and panic dissolve. The nine months of a long, hot pregnancy are but a distant memory. The sadness over the miscarriage is replaced with gratitude and relief. Nothing worth having ever comes easily but no other work in this world could ever have a greater reward. I'm in love again. My heart is bursting. My girl is here. We are whole. <br />
<br />
Welcome to us Everley Read.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVkjE6vUgzLcI4stRNT88immw1VHwlGCvSZQHT8ftTQ-ah_tgANVd0uAg4riFmF_5ClLXX0MBpmJPCLIn1AI2ObiwvGzMDSKoxtHyT7e1tCejmdzO-604GihKrlTwInNUDUwC/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVkjE6vUgzLcI4stRNT88immw1VHwlGCvSZQHT8ftTQ-ah_tgANVd0uAg4riFmF_5ClLXX0MBpmJPCLIn1AI2ObiwvGzMDSKoxtHyT7e1tCejmdzO-604GihKrlTwInNUDUwC/s1600/us.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Us.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I love you,<br />
<br />
Mommy Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-76678918943013967392012-11-07T18:42:00.001-05:002012-11-07T18:42:25.812-05:00Happy Birthday To You: Everley Edition: 1 Month OldDear Everley,<br />
<br />
On October 21 you turned one month old. I know it's already been two
weeks since then and we're fast approaching two months but FAST is the
operative word here. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ClsWRVG1YBA_IlaqIlLx75Gb4RBJ_I8p2J5u1kPOWnBgXqJYV3TkQGEnXHF4Y4Gvh86B-EQx6Kr6ZhxSmP18qShO_mXNaT7m2wLlVzGpBZ0j5Rxh8RUYAqOQgCbhshvQMKEc/s1600/IMG_2938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ClsWRVG1YBA_IlaqIlLx75Gb4RBJ_I8p2J5u1kPOWnBgXqJYV3TkQGEnXHF4Y4Gvh86B-EQx6Kr6ZhxSmP18qShO_mXNaT7m2wLlVzGpBZ0j5Rxh8RUYAqOQgCbhshvQMKEc/s1600/IMG_2938.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking like fish bait. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
FAST.<br />
<br />
I figure I'd better whip this post out before it's time for the next one, but I do realize that I still have not finished your birth story. It's in progress but it's incredibly hard to find time. I know that anyone who is not home with an infant all day thinks that sounds ridiculous but it really is so difficult to accomplish anything. I never had this much trouble when I was home with Bella, but then again, I didn't have a four year old Bella when I was home with Bella. I also didn't have a three story house to care for. Those two things combined take up every spare second that I have when I'm not busy caring for you.<br />
<br />
And you require a LOT of care! Wow. I forgot how grueling it is to nurse a baby. Don't get me wrong, I love it just as much as I did with your sister. You're a wonderful baby to nurse and have been making it as easy as it can be. You have already gained at least three pounds, maybe more, I'm not sure because you were doing so well at your two week well-baby appointment that your doctor told me not to bring you back until two months. Way to go Chubs. <br />
<br />
At one month old you have grown into a very beautiful baby. You've already lost a lot of that 'old man' look you had when you were born thanks to the rapid weight gain. Your eyelashes are in and they are long and black and beautiful like your sisters - lucky girls. You can thank your handsome dad for that. Your gorgeous head of dark brown hair (again, thank Dad) has not fallen out yet. We're all routing for you to you keep it but it's starting to show some signs of thinning out so you may be on the road to baby-baldness yet. <br />
<br />
Your eyes are a dark greyish blue for the moment and they are tracking things and focusing really well already. My favourite moments with you right now are when you lock those piercing eyes with my own and we just stare at each other for a while. We are talking to each other through those stares, and I hear you loud and clear little sister. I don't take a second of those precious, private moments for granted. If this first month is any indication, I'm all too aware of how quickly they will be gone. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqX0UtwpSJnuH5bBzBa5fdNMg6jwYwZrCnT2uCOyV80l8dZUk54MqQkTYBePKVdGVOyp8GcYcBEVCjf9mHgfMYglUBZaBjnU2Rz7wYWTh4pXV4OCKqcWnBmGJopBHH28keSSr/s1600/1mos_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqX0UtwpSJnuH5bBzBa5fdNMg6jwYwZrCnT2uCOyV80l8dZUk54MqQkTYBePKVdGVOyp8GcYcBEVCjf9mHgfMYglUBZaBjnU2Rz7wYWTh4pXV4OCKqcWnBmGJopBHH28keSSr/s1600/1mos_2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New baby, new chair for our monthly photos. </td></tr>
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Most of our staring contests happen in the middle of the night. You tend to sleep on and off all day in shortish spurts with a big nap in the afternoon and your most active awake period is from around 7pm until 12:30/1:00am. Then you tend to wake up every two or three hours to eat. That's tough on me, I won't lie, but we're dealing with it. When you turned two weeks old you and I moved upstairs to the guest room and we've been hunkering down up there ever since. It's working a lot better for everyone for the time being because it means you can sleep and nurse in bed with me without waking your dad.<br />
<br />
Though I love my snuggle time up there with you, I must admit it can get a little lonely. It's okay though, I can already see your sleep habits starting to change and I know that this time is finite and fleeting. Before we know it I'll be back in my bed and you'll be in yours and then there will be many nights for the rest of my life where I ache to have you back, snuggled in safely beside me, making your precious little squeaks and coos and breathing your sweet milky breath in my face while we sleep nose to nose. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpEV6cl8LcTffyWl0fggjN87Ee2HnuSZcr9w9I0rAc7TG2xXr9QxDdeGBkmgAWJ86Mq7bhpg2mFGkyYoPso4OKyhOMflnuxwaMiTgnc5nGovY7zpwqR6jL5DF459Y7mqPUz9H/s1600/P1060386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpEV6cl8LcTffyWl0fggjN87Ee2HnuSZcr9w9I0rAc7TG2xXr9QxDdeGBkmgAWJ86Mq7bhpg2mFGkyYoPso4OKyhOMflnuxwaMiTgnc5nGovY7zpwqR6jL5DF459Y7mqPUz9H/s1600/P1060386.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh sorry, am I boring you? </td></tr>
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<br />
Some other things about you in your first month:<br />
<ul>
<li>you love to be held and hate to be put down, I repeat HATE TO BE PUT DOWN ALL CAPS</li>
<li> you are pretty much in my arms or sleeping by my side all day every day and when I need to get things done, you go in your carrier or your wrap, I can probably count on my fingers and toes the number of hours you have not been in the room with me since the minute you were born - the incredible significance and intensity of this bond we share is not lost on me this time around</li>
<li>you love your car seat, car rides and walks in the stroller and during these times you will tolerate being on your own</li>
<li>you certainly know how to make yourself heard - your cry is fierce and screamy but you really only use it when you want to eat or have to poop and you are easily soothed in either instance</li>
<li>you have a fussy period between 7pm and midnight when you are trying to settle in for the night, this is the hardest time for me because my clock still tells me it's time for bed and the rest of the family is going to sleep. There have been many tears this month for both of us at this time of day, but I think we're both almost at the point where we can accept that this is part of the "schedule" for now</li>
<li>oh yeah, you don't have a schedule </li>
<li>though I'm trying to force it on you, you are not fond of the soother and would prefer to comfort nurse, for God's sake TAKE THE SOOTHER CHILD</li>
<li>you are a little barfer and spit up at least once with every feed, sometimes randomly in between, but not nearly as bad as your sister and for this I am grateful</li>
<li>all in all you are an easy baby so far and I'm not just saying that to butter you up</li>
</ul>
As for me? One month in and there's only one thing that I can say that I've absolutely learned about parenting a second child. No matter how many children you have, you will always feel like a first time parent. Because every baby is completely different. Circumstances are different. Relationships around you are different. There are many things that I learned from raising your sister so far, and several of them have made the experience with you easier, but that certainly doesn't mean that it's <i>easy</i>. But I don't care. I don't need it to be easy because it is what it is and what it is is spectacular.<br />
<br />
I would not trade the privilege of falling in love with you for all the eight hour sleeps in the world. I will stare into your eyes all night long for as long as you need me to. I'm yours little Everley, I'm all the way yours.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSx8lfL71II_NKz_wHxKMQoUNrTBhbScLLtBgvhsniy2s3hkCsH5qBz1O3a2Ob19CT1QrBJbWfrL7OqN2H_Y560cvdyd7o1g9X_GLITNPPB1ZkUlG8BnsoCYgoh8zA2l9YCI99/s1600/P1060388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSx8lfL71II_NKz_wHxKMQoUNrTBhbScLLtBgvhsniy2s3hkCsH5qBz1O3a2Ob19CT1QrBJbWfrL7OqN2H_Y560cvdyd7o1g9X_GLITNPPB1ZkUlG8BnsoCYgoh8zA2l9YCI99/s1600/P1060388.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totally over this photo sesh. Over it. </td></tr>
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I love you,<br />
<br />
Mommy<br />
<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-76339739669915236822012-10-04T16:13:00.000-05:002012-10-04T16:13:21.077-05:00The Eye of the Beholder: My Postpartum Progress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHyaU7V4E5uDJNAEGNvZDrXsfjmol9lKPaqpQlAYF7fx9i-T3odn3AU-19VKsDS2ouHLYELkuigzgZnoi2s9G_jpOIEKkdmGC6I2pWkFwP62RDCXx3jXo1wmJMp0sz9_9zrlZ/s1600/IMG_2834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
I think maybe it's weird to write about my postpartum recovery before I've published Everley's birth story but man I'm having such a hard time writing it. I'm not sure why other than I just don't seem to be able to do it justice.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2008/02/push-it-p-push-it-real-good_12.html" target="_blank">Bella's story</a> kind of just poured out of me, and when I look back on it it feels like I hit just the right notes of funny and poignant, honest and entertaining. That's just how her birth went down so to write the story about it was easy.<br />
<br />
Everley's birth was... intense. Not what I'd expected. Not what I'd choose if I could do it all again. Not unlike my entire pregnancy, in fact. Yet, it still ended up with the precise ending I'd always hoped for. A beautiful, healthy, amazing baby. And I want her story to be as special as Bella's so that one day she can read it and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was one of the two greatest days of my entire life.<br />
<br />
So that's coming... soon...<br />
<br />
MEANTIME, before I talk postpartum, a warning: there will be brief mention of both boobs and biscuits so if that's not a discussion you want to overhear I suggest you <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/09/finally.html" target="_blank">go here and just look at the pretty baby. </a><br />
<br />
Secondly - please take a moment and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/allison-tate/mom-pictures-with-kids_b_1926073.html" target="_blank">read this article by Allison Tate</a>. She just says so much about what it feels like to be a woman trying to get back to herself after having a baby. Or in my case, two babies. Or in her case, four.<br />
<br />
She speaks the truth in spades about capturing that changed and so-far-from-physically perfect you in pictures during pregnancy and afterwards. Something I avoided like the plague when I was pregnant with Bella and after she was born. I have almost NO pictures of my whole self while pregnant with her - even the <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2007/12/my-lovely-lady-lump-week-33.html" target="_blank">weekly pictures I had Cairn take of me during my pregnancy are of the belly alone.</a> I was mortified about the changes to the rest of me. My skin changed colour, my body ballooned, my face changed shape. I felt awful about myself when I look back and it's so sad. It's just so sad to me now that I wasn't proud of my body and its formidable accomplishment. <br />
<br />
This pregnancy I wanted to do things a little differently. Initially I tried to have Cairn take photos again, and I wanted Bella to be in them with me, but neither were interested <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/09/the-final-countdown.html" target="_blank">so instead I started taking pictures of myself</a>. I wanted my baby to know that I was proud of what my body did to create her. And those pictures were not easy to take. They certainly were not easy to post every week. But I did it. To prove a point to myself I did it and you know what? It worked. Kind of. I can't say I felt beautiful, but I can say that I felt okay with the changes. It was not an easy pregnancy but I worked hard to stay in shape and took care with what I wore and how I presented myself. And I think I did okay. <br />
<br />
But the thing is? The pregnancy is a crutch. It's easy to forgive yourself your flaws when you're pregnant because, well, you're pregnant! Everyone says, "you look great for X months pregnant! You totally don't look pregnant from behind," (what does this mean exactly?! nobody should look pregnant from behind!). They tell you not to worry about the love handles and the skin discolourations and the swelling and the bloat. "You're pregnant!" they say, "You'll bounce back in no time. It'll all be over soon enough."<br />
<br />
Except it's not.<br />
<br />
Because after you are done being pregnant most of those things are still there. The only thing that's actually gone is the pregnancy. And suddenly you're just mom. And your vagina hurts A LOT more than it did before. There's the bleeding and the pads that go along with it. And the underwear that goes along with them. Not cute. And your boobs are leaking. And at night you sweat so badly that you can feel it running down your cleavage. <br />
<br />
Your formerly round, vibrant belly that just days or weeks earlier was full of life and making people smile and pat you and coo with excitement is just a flabby sack that hangs over your torn maternity jeans and refuses to stay shoved inside your stretched out leggings. And you spend every outing terrified that someone will ask you how far along you are. Because you aren't.<br />
<br />
And I don't care how cliche it sounds, you ARE too tired and too busy during the day with a newborn to spend time fixing yourself up. There isn't a product out there that can erase two weeks of no sleep. In my case, I have the added pleasure of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melasma" target="_blank">melasma - the mask of pregnancy</a> - to contend with. Something that can't even be treated while breastfeeding. Right there, all over my tired face that I'm too tired to cover up with makeup that just makes me look more tired anyway. So much for that "being over soon."<br />
<br />
Speaking of nursing, I feed my babies on demand for the first few months, which means it is hard to get out without them. It takes a while to figure out their patterns or to know when they'll be good for a stretch long enough to go to the gym or get my nails done. All things that I did regularly before to keep myself not just looking good, but feeling good too. <br />
<br />
Like Ms. Tate captures in her article, my oldest daughter thinks I'm perfect. She couldn't care less about any of the physical items I've listed off above. She doesn't see those things and if she does, she doesn't care. And I DO want to be present in the photos and memories with my girls, despite how far from perfect I may look. My girls make me feel absolutely wonderful <i>as a mother</i>. In fact, I already know that I'm a great mom. I am. I'm a great mom and my kids make me feel beautiful in a million ways because they are tiny little reflections of me and my God, just look at them. <br />
<br />
But I need to point something else out here. Staying in the picture after having children is not JUST about how your kids see you. Being a beautiful mom is wonderful. But I need to feel like a beautiful <i>woman </i>as well. Kids will always see through physical imperfections to who you are inside, but living up to the standards of adult society? Whole different ballgame. I want to be a beautiful wife. A beautiful friend. A beautiful person. That's where I've still got some work to do. I need to convince myself that I am all of those things even without the flat stomach and flawless skin. <br />
<br />
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that's the principle I've been using to try and maintain and regain my self-confidence during and post pregnancy. I have played the role of my own beholder and taken photos of myself, most of which you've <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/09/the-final-countdown.html" target="_blank">already seen here</a>. As promised I want to share my 40 week bump photo - the only one in the entire series taken by my husband. I had to beg him to do it because we were in the hospital and there was no mirror in which I could take it myself. The others show my physical progress over the last two weeks. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1xSEjUYpwUNtkvEbMZ1FqSOP-ety25SDXo96wPku3taxfKwgLUnp5eYq5FH9QFBGNLRY8-c436N1ZDFZHATiQRMaDfXlO4ZvTQh3CiVblEMK2T_WeIsj9OCXE2D2ymthBRnw2/s1600/IMG_2723.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rocking the gown at 40 weeks pregnant. A few hours before Everley was born. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9n1-ubnCpyXZjQIT-EWGTVfxEJDlgrKJ26sTFQ2yzZ0S1Q7nLZyXuWW1GXSJthNWfboFP7X7o6CEnpYArHcNjkp_7pXbadfz5IBo7XjELT7tJRi1OarCB7uJ6LktZg_TWhy6/s1600/P1060332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9n1-ubnCpyXZjQIT-EWGTVfxEJDlgrKJ26sTFQ2yzZ0S1Q7nLZyXuWW1GXSJthNWfboFP7X7o6CEnpYArHcNjkp_7pXbadfz5IBo7XjELT7tJRi1OarCB7uJ6LktZg_TWhy6/s1600/P1060332.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweats and slippers. 7 days postpartum. Baby accessory kicks this look up a notch. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHyaU7V4E5uDJNAEGNvZDrXsfjmol9lKPaqpQlAYF7fx9i-T3odn3AU-19VKsDS2ouHLYELkuigzgZnoi2s9G_jpOIEKkdmGC6I2pWkFwP62RDCXx3jXo1wmJMp0sz9_9zrlZ/s1600/IMG_2834.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeans! Maternity jeans, but still. 11 days postpartum. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNc8K4QHkr0Qiu0Jskgv7FgugYAfrGxZiPy8ExqUNNbSX1Its_XS24fG1w_OvT3jjf4Wf6JRa_-i-9ITmwj81x8-bkkcMOSWE-3jjqJeXUqEfqw2CRVVrz2L_nsZvlNT4izehi/s1600/IMG_2838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNc8K4QHkr0Qiu0Jskgv7FgugYAfrGxZiPy8ExqUNNbSX1Its_XS24fG1w_OvT3jjf4Wf6JRa_-i-9ITmwj81x8-bkkcMOSWE-3jjqJeXUqEfqw2CRVVrz2L_nsZvlNT4izehi/s1600/IMG_2838.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stretchies and slippers. Two weeks postpartum. </td></tr>
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<br />
And this is where I am today. Am I perfect? No. But am I perfectly okay with that? I'm getting there, yes I am. Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-9940392359595516902012-09-30T20:44:00.000-05:002012-11-23T17:04:06.177-05:00Don't Worry, Be HappyToday has been... Difficult. Early this morning my big girl padded into my room complaining of a sore tummy. I pulled her into bed to snuggle and hoped it was just an attempt at getting into the room that we now share with her little sister. Not so. She couldn't settle down and was increasingly agitated finally asking to go back to her room. I took her to her bed and went to get glass of water for her and that's when the barfing started.<br />
<br />
My poor lady. She's never had a stomach bug if you can believe it. In fact, aside from the 6 months of turbo spit up she had as a baby, she's only puked a handful of times, due to coughing or a secondary infection. She was so scared! My heart completely broke for her - but I have to admit my main concern was for Everley.<br />
<br />
OMG. What if the baby gets it? What if I get it and have to care for the baby? This is not a situation I can handle well. My anxiety levels, fueled by postpartum hormones, are through the roof over it.<br />
<br />
Bella barfed all night and morning and stopped sometime around noon. She feels awful and I'm so sad for her. So far the rest of us are okay I think. But I feel like a ticking time bomb and nights are the worst if I'm dealing with anxiety. In daylight I cope because I can be up with my kids, watching, ever watching for signs of distress. Nights are harder with Cairn fast asleep, Bella in another room and me up alone with the baby.<br />
<br />
I think I only slept an hour or so last night, and I just caught another hour from 7 - 8pm. Settling in now for a long night. The first that will probably be really hard, but certainly not the last. I've had minimal anxiety this time around and have been feeling really great overall. This day has set me back a bit, but I intend to fight back, breathe deeply, keep calm carry on.<br />
<br />
What lightens the mood better than a good dose of baby hiccups? Nothing, that's what! Enjoy:<br />
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<br />
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<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-2145749743591676142012-09-29T15:14:00.000-05:002012-09-29T15:14:25.844-05:00FinallyThe day arrived.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1zts61-Pmg58aX4SV7sQ0TkntMaclIFmM_oPHDrbzBPT-KkhuayCvzway_aR1OvYy_ZKDnpBuNQktxmHB3U__QCqiCfuuy1-JC28iVLIfCcS9Bjuylp7o52EXMIPedydC0-e/s1600/P1060296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1zts61-Pmg58aX4SV7sQ0TkntMaclIFmM_oPHDrbzBPT-KkhuayCvzway_aR1OvYy_ZKDnpBuNQktxmHB3U__QCqiCfuuy1-JC28iVLIfCcS9Bjuylp7o52EXMIPedydC0-e/s1600/P1060296.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These lights are totally harshing my mellow.</td></tr>
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<br />
I'm stewing and brewing up the full birth story, mostly written from the <b>insane-person</b> notes I took on my iPhone in the hospital that day. I'm still trying to piece together the times and events from the jumble of madness in my head. I'll be honest, every second of it melted away the instant I looked up from the mess between my legs, took a deep long breath and felt the shaking that had consumed me slow down and then stop, just in time for my husband hand me this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2QxEgzv5Do2y2Sa30X9LUmIVB9mLYrn41U4vF6-PXXsZSr1grocdpQ60bqVpCrU6a0v_IIdeCwG069JxjAREBZl2657irjBSIIUo9codbyCNBJK7cunohqABRTjEP7KAXZaS/s1600/P1060301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2QxEgzv5Do2y2Sa30X9LUmIVB9mLYrn41U4vF6-PXXsZSr1grocdpQ60bqVpCrU6a0v_IIdeCwG069JxjAREBZl2657irjBSIIUo9codbyCNBJK7cunohqABRTjEP7KAXZaS/s1600/P1060301.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Birthday to me, and Birth Day to her. </td></tr>
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<br />
It's a girl. Her name is Everley Read.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO_LKDum4DSQlnbzx5c0qdRTPdwiU_NtqpPywuXo4hmoZOYTXErFGmcFSBHfRPBeaoT4IdpFmOaQopptK24IlnPDd-6xo-WJNrMhhpJBhUEk1la4IHxudtRL4YlaeoKon7P9e/s1600/P1060318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO_LKDum4DSQlnbzx5c0qdRTPdwiU_NtqpPywuXo4hmoZOYTXErFGmcFSBHfRPBeaoT4IdpFmOaQopptK24IlnPDd-6xo-WJNrMhhpJBhUEk1la4IHxudtRL4YlaeoKon7P9e/s1600/P1060318.jpg" /></a></div>
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For Ever.<br />
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That's how long I've been waiting for her. And now she's here. And she's fucking spectacular. And we are complete.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC3QyRahqCcI7IScv_AYf-hhezrDqtH3i5D0pNdMd9-XbmbViyaLBm9p5MFyD6yUJCP6aS1HAXPrLc-3Kf444IpaAIyCIzbDoR1uiLtgFjhrx1u1U54-k-QGYD-XvBAQCxIfM/s1600/P1060326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC3QyRahqCcI7IScv_AYf-hhezrDqtH3i5D0pNdMd9-XbmbViyaLBm9p5MFyD6yUJCP6aS1HAXPrLc-3Kf444IpaAIyCIzbDoR1uiLtgFjhrx1u1U54-k-QGYD-XvBAQCxIfM/s1600/P1060326.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the gun show. </td></tr>
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Happy one-week birthday baby sister.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpuPB7T01crNPu5O0kUNleqx6snmARRnrQXoTDUo13gr4mps8rTR6NV7gkU7M1SVcjFeZLGAUmf34PtzVJR0i5qtMJv8QC4q5DxhplyaKlGx8Bl77e4HOCOIVJOxDrxSiRWhd/s1600/P1060347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpuPB7T01crNPu5O0kUNleqx6snmARRnrQXoTDUo13gr4mps8rTR6NV7gkU7M1SVcjFeZLGAUmf34PtzVJR0i5qtMJv8QC4q5DxhplyaKlGx8Bl77e4HOCOIVJOxDrxSiRWhd/s1600/P1060347.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This place is a'ight after all. </td></tr>
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Love Mommy<br />
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<a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2010/09/top-40-before-40.html" target="_blank">PS: Top 40 (before 40): #1 - Expand my family - Check!</a>Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-71069729709119854072012-09-18T14:04:00.001-05:002012-09-18T14:05:23.144-05:00The Final CountdownI've been meaning to get on here and write a quick summary of this pregnancy for weeks now, but have not been able to open this blog and face <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2012/07/moet-2002-2012.html" target="_blank">my last post</a> with out drowning in my own tears. Well, here I sit, drowning in my own tears, but at least I can honestly chalk it up to some INSANE hormonal INSANITY now that I'm three days away from my estimated due date.<br />
<br />
Three days.<br />
<br />
THREE DAYS HOLY FUCK THREE. DAYS. three.<br />
<br />
Strangely, as much as it's fun to play up the panic, I feel very calm. For months I've been telling people that this baby was going to come early. I assumed this because first of all, I was hugemongously pregnant this time around by like five months. I simply couldn't imagine that I would continue to grow all the way to term. Incorrect. Still growing.<br />
<br />
Also, Anabella came early by about a week. And first babies are supposed to be the late ones. Everyone says second babies come faster and sooner. Everyone says it so IT MUST BE TRUE. Liars. All of you are hateful liars.<br />
<br />
The fact that I'm actually past the point that I thought I'd make it to has bought me some much needed downtime. Allowed me to get organized both materially and physically. It's calmed me and I'm grateful. <br />
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Today I'm 39 weeks and 5 days and don't have many physical signs that this babe is coming. I'm very tired and have been experiencing semi-regular Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks, there's definitely a change a-brewing in my body, but that's about it. As of my appointment last Thursday, no significant dilation or effacement.<br />
<br />
I know it can happen quickly once things kick into gear and I anticipate that it will, but truthfully I'm in no rush. I've been loving my quiet time at home. It's been quite a whirlwind few months. Just about everything that could happen at one time happened - from the crazy project at work that occupied my time and my mind for months, to the passing of our Moet, to Bella starting JK (owe you a post on that one too) - it's just been so relentlessly chaotic that there's been little time for reflection on this little life I'm creating.<br />
<br />
A blessing in one sense, because it allowed me to get through the hottest summer on record while VERY pregnant without too much time to obsess and whine. It forced me to stand up and wipe the puke of my chin and get my tired ass to work even though I felt like dying for months with nausea and fatigue. It allowed me to grieve the loss of my boy in fits and starts, in small quiet moments that were few and far between. I'm not done with that yet, but I'm getting through it. I miss him no less, but I'm moving past. It allowed us as a family to make the most out of the together time we did have, at the cottage and on non-working weekends, because we understood that time was precious. That being family of three was fleeting. <br />
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I finished working on August 31 and though I've still been keeping (too) busy, tackling all the things that I couldn't get around to because of work, I've finally found some time to focus on this new baby that's about to join our clan (THREE DAYS).<br />
<br />
This pregnancy is so different from Bella's. Not knowing the gender or having a name (that's right, no names yet, full panic) has left me feeling considerably more detached from whoever it is that's growing inside of me.<br />
<br />
With Bella I was able to imagine a little baby girl with dark brown curls and the prettiest name - Anabella - I knew she would be beautiful and tiny and pink. Whenever I thought of her, I thought of her already-born and in our arms. This baby I can picture snuggled up tightly in there. Warm and fat and ready to join us. But I can't imagine what he or she will be like on the outside. I'm excited for that surprise. I'm excited about sharing it with all of our friends and family, but it can be a little frustrating to not know my baby. I feel like I was much more bonded with Bella before she arrived that I am with this little one. <br />
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I'm not going to write too much about the pregnancy itself. I'm worried I'll just sound like an ungrateful complainer and we all know there's nothing worse. Fact is, we got pregnant easily and after <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2011/11/summertime.html" target="_blank">my miscarriage last summer</a> I consider that to be an absolute gift, which I will never ever take for granted. I have been fundamentally healthy and strong throughout even though I'm considered of 'late maternal age' (UGH). Most importantly our baby appears to be strong, healthy and clearly super comfortable in there. Glad I could be so accommodating, Baby, you're welcome. <br />
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I've gained less weight this time (though I still don't recognize myself in the mirror) 35lbs vs the 50lbs I packed on last time. Granted, I started out 10lbs heavier, but HEY THAT STILL PUTS ME 5lbs AHEAD. I'LL TAKE IT. I feel less dread about the body I'll be left with post-partum and more excited about the challenge of getting back to where I'd like to be. It's possible. It's hard work, but it's possible. Besides, this will be my last pregnancy so I'm willing to throw some dollars at myself to fix a few things that I didn't want to bother with last time because I was pretty sure I was going to just fuck it all up again anyway.<br />
<br />
I feel good about where Anabella is right now. I think she's really ready to welcome a new person into our lives. I do not kid myself, I know it will be tough on her - on all of us - at times. But I've tried very hard to include her and to talk to her about it all and I know she's super excited. I'm so excited to see my first baby interact with my second. How mind-blowing will that be? I hope I can write about it here and do it justice.<br />
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I'm absolutely positive that waiting this long between kids was the best possible move for our family. Bella is a well-adjusted and mature little kid with her own life at school and daycare. She's got friends and established routines that are just hers and will allow her individual time with both Cairn and I. Plus, I have the luxury of being home all day with Baby while she is safe and busy at school next door. Right next door! It could not be more ideal. Way to go us!<br />
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This is getting rambly now, that's what happens when you scare yourself
away from your own blog by writing with a giant case of the sads, so
without further ado here's photographic evidence that I am indeed
expecting a (possibly very large) nameless baby in an impossibly very
short amount of time. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4M9HClLFLiLiLB3F2QeaHoyJuzh4h7w62yqePxb5-f_Fxs3dIfOxm8h2K2r-IgaRi-LwhpSPyMs_tAmieBUnPYW84XFzMjYfJ3ZYmE0dZ92c2B48_EVVvHVvla5IFWfI3tma/s1600/IMG_2613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4M9HClLFLiLiLB3F2QeaHoyJuzh4h7w62yqePxb5-f_Fxs3dIfOxm8h2K2r-IgaRi-LwhpSPyMs_tAmieBUnPYW84XFzMjYfJ3ZYmE0dZ92c2B48_EVVvHVvla5IFWfI3tma/s400/IMG_2613.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>13 weeks. 13 week ultrasound. 13 week, 5 days ultrasound. </b>Had some bleeding around this time, hence the second ultrasound. Turned out that my placenta had separated from the uterine wall, but was already reattached by the time the second u/s was taken. It was the only scary moment of the pregnancy so far. Have started taking Diclectin here because of my 24 hour a day nausea and vomiting, which started at around 6 weeks. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGM4vZ0D3XRmLQ0Xd4NxjK2H2AmILN0voLAFrqlSD63u07wlT6yam2ugQuF9x0vQhfdN-6-ToVCrESPoJrsbg0h3LBGOPbI7P2xVO9wW-tv8ioO9VHnaHUp8iw9igAN4H3vps/s1600/IMG_2614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGM4vZ0D3XRmLQ0Xd4NxjK2H2AmILN0voLAFrqlSD63u07wlT6yam2ugQuF9x0vQhfdN-6-ToVCrESPoJrsbg0h3LBGOPbI7P2xVO9wW-tv8ioO9VHnaHUp8iw9igAN4H3vps/s400/IMG_2614.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>17 weeks. 18 weeks. 19 weeks.</b> Still in my regular clothes here, but starting to yearn for elastic waistbands. I finally stopped throwing up daily somewhere around the 19 week mark, but still felt like doing it all the time. You'll see the weight-gain kick in now... still taking 4 daily doses of Diclectin in order to make it through the day at work. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLD5QRGDe4huJEjY_du19bWl6gTCNyax9guXAZ9oLYMfTq9uNFmAIj_6694Eo4h5pxh3HTx44dD3mYbSbbNiXr3fUKrI4o_ljbAWC_NLpoMtdOuJzb1PEmeHm3bSHyI5Jkvigr/s1600/IMG_2615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLD5QRGDe4huJEjY_du19bWl6gTCNyax9guXAZ9oLYMfTq9uNFmAIj_6694Eo4h5pxh3HTx44dD3mYbSbbNiXr3fUKrI4o_ljbAWC_NLpoMtdOuJzb1PEmeHm3bSHyI5Jkvigr/s400/IMG_2615.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>20 weeks, 22 weeks, 23 weeks.</b> Enter maternity clothing. Both pairs of pants and that dress were used during my first pregnancy, five years ago. Goodbye fashion, hello find something, anything that fits. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sAnrCfkbWE8qfpSySSlXVIX-n3h9dlFMFVE-Lf20SMQ7EwLliH4uo-x9ukGQDzUKjDfyUqQ9DdFZP5GprwohcvCCfQYwBQtd50OiC39WH9dVeUs781z2nR8lK7XdqIh6lt9h/s1600/IMG_2616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sAnrCfkbWE8qfpSySSlXVIX-n3h9dlFMFVE-Lf20SMQ7EwLliH4uo-x9ukGQDzUKjDfyUqQ9DdFZP5GprwohcvCCfQYwBQtd50OiC39WH9dVeUs781z2nR8lK7XdqIh6lt9h/s400/IMG_2616.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>24 weeks. 25 weeks. 26 weeks. </b>For some reason pregnant women are compelled to wear stripes. Kind of a can't beat'em, join'em phenomenon. Finally able to ween myself off the medication for morning sickness here. Feeling sooo much better.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNNIOZAxe8QuDmXxKtBRHYVNIDmYFOPIzd1-yvJ48ah5Fjcq8kyqdoFJlYo__05fTMxbv9BcTV1WBgvbdIrrhyVt_ZDm2ZmWj7ySCR-6J7WUquPdvFesoA22Ed-XB7bHsBqRk/s1600/IMG_2617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNNIOZAxe8QuDmXxKtBRHYVNIDmYFOPIzd1-yvJ48ah5Fjcq8kyqdoFJlYo__05fTMxbv9BcTV1WBgvbdIrrhyVt_ZDm2ZmWj7ySCR-6J7WUquPdvFesoA22Ed-XB7bHsBqRk/s400/IMG_2617.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>26 weeks.</b> This is how much better I am feeling. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknHvLYwflVLc6HlBPvmDDk6l3D4NriN41Z50zm0VvZZ5L6e-jcW_H6CGlaTOdwjVEwZ5NccauUXHCu-TkNeZO-puIcOtYKKPkYQBz_dzZML0l-OvDXQ5aw8d-vhMH640UD8UW/s1600/IMG_2618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknHvLYwflVLc6HlBPvmDDk6l3D4NriN41Z50zm0VvZZ5L6e-jcW_H6CGlaTOdwjVEwZ5NccauUXHCu-TkNeZO-puIcOtYKKPkYQBz_dzZML0l-OvDXQ5aw8d-vhMH640UD8UW/s400/IMG_2618.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>27 weeks. 29 weeks. 30 weeks. </b>Have officially given up on pants. Temperatures soar at 35+ degrees every single day and will continue to do so for the next 8 weeks. Our house is a sweat lodge. Have found my spirit animal. It's a pregnant deer in headlights. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WKjVnLlC_LgGRh3QXq_YDwsgyghnOsf4EXb9b9CdZcWtXM58eOFSnvAEhFLPdSEz3rmhjrO-qMesW4cAmTEcKuo90lRUguP1U4ML6FkKHuQyVc7Mw5Up4u1RsQJm8c3XEtMG/s1600/IMG_2619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WKjVnLlC_LgGRh3QXq_YDwsgyghnOsf4EXb9b9CdZcWtXM58eOFSnvAEhFLPdSEz3rmhjrO-qMesW4cAmTEcKuo90lRUguP1U4ML6FkKHuQyVc7Mw5Up4u1RsQJm8c3XEtMG/s400/IMG_2619.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>31 weeks. 31 and a half weeks. 32 weeks. </b>Finally able to convince Bella to join me in a picture! You may notice the sickly pallor on my face in this series. Morning sickness has returned. Am once again not able to get out of the house or up the street without puking. I think it has a lot to do with the heat, which by this time is really starting to wear me down. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2OooX6aKrkaJSgCiV_tkuIklFnXsDW9vcocP9G0qHqqTxWRo99Av4_7F6VxSV5gCJ3pvwd0panO93A6ppyy8G3OFkO_EJ3oL7O2buY5UlJB5RhmlnHJ-Kj6PbS9Z8qFuWJ3k/s1600/IMG_2620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2OooX6aKrkaJSgCiV_tkuIklFnXsDW9vcocP9G0qHqqTxWRo99Av4_7F6VxSV5gCJ3pvwd0panO93A6ppyy8G3OFkO_EJ3oL7O2buY5UlJB5RhmlnHJ-Kj6PbS9Z8qFuWJ3k/s400/IMG_2620.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>33 weeks. </b>Couldn't resist posting all three. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlL6IlYDkptgFinAQGFAIQkZkV45mcA6EUsPBfMd06AEBe_-DPSqkxB9J27bq7rJew4Xq9hHIa3nDO0BKxU-1RnWtKRZLa0mCEvrNYEjFX4WuoH3uRaF3KyUZ7AzNQgB4iJSF/s1600/IMG_2621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlL6IlYDkptgFinAQGFAIQkZkV45mcA6EUsPBfMd06AEBe_-DPSqkxB9J27bq7rJew4Xq9hHIa3nDO0BKxU-1RnWtKRZLa0mCEvrNYEjFX4WuoH3uRaF3KyUZ7AzNQgB4iJSF/s400/IMG_2621.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>35 weeks. 36 weeks. 37 weeks.</b> These three weeks were the CRAZIEST and I can't believe I'm even able to hold my shit together enough to take these shots. We lost Moet, I launched a website and I made it to my last day of work! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Zc8TmN3tyKRydGMsufpcjyNKwVW3Ji5T77VBsP8B-R4Imql4YNPxYz1wk-UZ78nqMV_sz3ndT1SHwbwu1HVzw1RLyY2ZTMUIAc2I7CvZQ_yjmV5TnCiiukChAS9MhmXfLq-J/s1600/IMG_2701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Zc8TmN3tyKRydGMsufpcjyNKwVW3Ji5T77VBsP8B-R4Imql4YNPxYz1wk-UZ78nqMV_sz3ndT1SHwbwu1HVzw1RLyY2ZTMUIAc2I7CvZQ_yjmV5TnCiiukChAS9MhmXfLq-J/s400/IMG_2701.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>38 weeks. 39 weeks. </b>Still no baby. </td></tr>
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I'll hit full term and my due date in three more days on Friday September 21, which is also my birthday. If I make it to 40 weeks, I'll post that bump photo for sure. But here's hoping that maybe, just maybe, these pictures are about to get a whole lot cuter before that day arrives. Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-63424755389461488272012-07-24T12:45:00.001-05:002012-07-24T12:53:20.580-05:00Moet: 2002 - 2012<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOq2z5xJItsHT7U7ebIIYXy1YgKt2bqRkSOIeVIhyAbH3i1Hzl392MWSFUdSBZ1p5A0vw3e51csQoA24QD7Tqsj4W1_A6jHYIcEVsr2GOMOj48kEBKYZhWE2KFQsEEj6HMXvI/s1600/withwinston_550.jpg" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moet at the cottage with his constant companion, Winston.</td></tr>
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We have one of those 'family organizer' calendars that hangs on the wall in our kitchen. It's a handy thing on which there are several columns so you can devote one to each family member. The days of the month run down the side and you can make notes in everyone's individual column and keep track of who is doing what when.<br />
<br />
Our family calendar has four columns filled out. One for me, one for Cairn, one for Bella and one for Moet. I usually fill them out a few months in advance, satisfying my need for order and control via list-making. It helps calm me when I feel things are starting to get out of hand. I rarely look ahead at future months once they are filled in, but the act of doing it settles me down. Makes me feel like I've got a grip on what can sometimes be a hectic work-life schedule.<br />
<br />
As any dog-owner will know, in spring begins flea and tick season. We all haul our pets off to the vet for a check up and drop insane amounts of cash on heart-worm pills and flea prevention meds. They are meant to start taking them on June 1st and take them again on the first of every month straight through until November. In order to help remember, the meds come with stickers. Bright red, heart-shaped stickers that you can put on your calendar to help you remember to give your dog his medication.<br />
<br />
We were late starting Moet on his medication this June. It's so telling of how crazy our lives have been lately. And especially illuminating of the fact that, sadly, unfairly, regrettably, when things get really nuts in our house, Moet is always the first family member who gets bumped down the priority list. His walks get more rushed, his bed gets cleaned less, he gets left for longer periods of time alone while we're out running around like chickens with our heads cut off.<br />
<br />
I remembered mid-month, while digging through Moet's stuff to find his ear-cleaning solution, that he hadn't started his heart-worm and flea routine on time. It was June 14th. We gave him his treatments and the very next day I sat down with my handy calendar and started to "organize" my thoughts. I picked up those cute red heart stickers and I stuck one in Moet's column on the 14th day of every month from June straight through to November. And afterwards I felt better. I crouched down to pat him and scratch behind his ears and I told him, <br />
<br />
"There we go Lil' Boss, now we're all set. Now we won't forget again." <br />
<br />
Well, in true pug fashion, ever striving to be the center of attention and refusing to be ignored for long, our Lil' Boss made damn sure that we were not going to forget about him again.<br />
<br />
He took ill on July 12th. A Thursday. I arrived home late from work that day, as I'd been doing for a while, only this time I went straight to him. To investigate for myself why he was was vomiting up God-knows-what and hadn't eaten his supper. He'd been perfectly fine that morning, or at least, so far as we all noticed. I sat with him for a minute on the floor and tried to convince myself that it was just something he'd eaten. But although our boy had been sick many times in the 10 years he's been part of the fiber of this family, this time for some reason I knew.<br />
<br />
On Friday morning he was worse and we checked him into the hospital at our beloved vet's office. The news was not good, and they told us as much. And I knew. In my heart and my soul I knew this was it. On Saturday it was clear that his organs were shutting down and that no matter what we tried next he was done fighting. We made the utterly heart-wrenching and searingly painful decision that it was time to end his suffering as humanely and swiftly as we could.<br />
<br />
It was July 14th. When we came home from the vet that day -- as a family shy of one -- I leaned back against the kitchen wall gutted and exhausted with grief, and found I was staring right at our family calendar. And there, in the column marked Moet, on the very day that he left us, was that bright red heart sticker.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmXDG0n2Uq_kFbzj1q8ueZ8eNoevp0kNttiOgJ73FzZm1CDBd6Yja82TNFiLV1HzItxgJq_UEYXcWP6SGFMg63DlnkSeWNdku4nFTeSUGFTvq-cl6St0YV-yFRXizofC8l5HX/s1600/firstdayhome_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmXDG0n2Uq_kFbzj1q8ueZ8eNoevp0kNttiOgJ73FzZm1CDBd6Yja82TNFiLV1HzItxgJq_UEYXcWP6SGFMg63DlnkSeWNdku4nFTeSUGFTvq-cl6St0YV-yFRXizofC8l5HX/s1600/firstdayhome_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Moet on his very first day home. September 2002, 10 weeks old. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7wFpBSiKbasrNjCHOj7zwodaVS3Yu5PEdn9eUUbTPx-EV5ZmgD54zJDhJs3VBorfe33t_7vpLFTUZaYCq6eGwydaNCM_N9Y4-6eIkaAMgyYPaLST_ok89JjGVsYGxOEZK5Sv/s1600/asleep_hippo_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7wFpBSiKbasrNjCHOj7zwodaVS3Yu5PEdn9eUUbTPx-EV5ZmgD54zJDhJs3VBorfe33t_7vpLFTUZaYCq6eGwydaNCM_N9Y4-6eIkaAMgyYPaLST_ok89JjGVsYGxOEZK5Sv/s1600/asleep_hippo_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My wee fur baby, sleeping with Hippo. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2n-zKfKsTy-6A4_taxyUbddKh2Mi8K5-0J7w9JQTDWId53pvNLoPEt-qLa6uuJ7VhaRpnu4hlfqiBXbwqKLP7xJ_J7ZoWFLIy8AiF7zG21bjhyphenhyphenndsvOheCoAlXsGsZuW7CqR/s1600/firstwalk_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho2n-zKfKsTy-6A4_taxyUbddKh2Mi8K5-0J7w9JQTDWId53pvNLoPEt-qLa6uuJ7VhaRpnu4hlfqiBXbwqKLP7xJ_J7ZoWFLIy8AiF7zG21bjhyphenhyphenndsvOheCoAlXsGsZuW7CqR/s1600/firstwalk_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On his very first walk, Trinity Bellwoods Park, September 2002. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr-vR3vbuHqUhsDc6w0ZTs6Vt95JuzVxUhipW0UKHmkidIuXRQsyVCF5Y1Nj_uzxorBFVexiY7en1kEYtGzdw50PBMhc_mQDgSOXh7q0Xb2l3Yqv-wM_OjjMPRtTO6nnKN7wL/s1600/runningwithC_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnr-vR3vbuHqUhsDc6w0ZTs6Vt95JuzVxUhipW0UKHmkidIuXRQsyVCF5Y1Nj_uzxorBFVexiY7en1kEYtGzdw50PBMhc_mQDgSOXh7q0Xb2l3Yqv-wM_OjjMPRtTO6nnKN7wL/s1600/runningwithC_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running with Cairn. Thanksgiving 2002. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKKL8oYkAulOYiK9JDM_KoN4OdUaEAyxhh6Q4PnRxy0OY-luBOFdI5UIfJdAFOXMZxcHKXL3U0HOqOhGB7vrha_zaUyVGdp-Orj9E03V7JH3dCZXH10hUPz-isA3eAxlQY5k3/s1600/windy_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKKL8oYkAulOYiK9JDM_KoN4OdUaEAyxhh6Q4PnRxy0OY-luBOFdI5UIfJdAFOXMZxcHKXL3U0HOqOhGB7vrha_zaUyVGdp-Orj9E03V7JH3dCZXH10hUPz-isA3eAxlQY5k3/s1600/windy_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A windy day at Ipperwash Beach. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhkTSmYjST4Z9RgMV4u9kpG-aNlZ_W3Au7GVbRnFGrbYmxoZSjyAEQz-wTdhzdiNNCDQouq6XCpFt3HMCnRjfYtIPNH4Cc5GZqjpxgWnzLTFtY2gk3Cvp0cSYsCRsr35YTIum/s1600/moeta_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhkTSmYjST4Z9RgMV4u9kpG-aNlZ_W3Au7GVbRnFGrbYmxoZSjyAEQz-wTdhzdiNNCDQouq6XCpFt3HMCnRjfYtIPNH4Cc5GZqjpxgWnzLTFtY2gk3Cvp0cSYsCRsr35YTIum/s1600/moeta_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pay attention to me, or give me a cookie. Now. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoudAJrwwhPARtxHOR6BSmfJIUW25rLPYHRWyaq4sHTt7_YvLHXeG6iWKZ06AIwpx6nkdySzdhbKXbskaxhxFiFYvsxiLpL0A68po70xh2hxK6z1idbRM4s7UG6svfciSUlFJA/s1600/Cairnbeach_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoudAJrwwhPARtxHOR6BSmfJIUW25rLPYHRWyaq4sHTt7_YvLHXeG6iWKZ06AIwpx6nkdySzdhbKXbskaxhxFiFYvsxiLpL0A68po70xh2hxK6z1idbRM4s7UG6svfciSUlFJA/s1600/Cairnbeach_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man's best friend, Moet was never far from Cairn's feet. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwz6Gm5jbNo1dOWoZfLmLFzKkwk4vpTR64TZYnmCXK0NED-xNvJi9bEQ5zE7zJ89z6IFglLgkwY4wGmB_Ej1Az5Oi6GWS1MJQvOu0hNHQ2eghKCWSbsKqBirSqUTvF_PxG9p4/s1600/snow_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwz6Gm5jbNo1dOWoZfLmLFzKkwk4vpTR64TZYnmCXK0NED-xNvJi9bEQ5zE7zJ89z6IFglLgkwY4wGmB_Ej1Az5Oi6GWS1MJQvOu0hNHQ2eghKCWSbsKqBirSqUTvF_PxG9p4/s1600/snow_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sums up exactly how he felt about the winter. Took after me that way. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirfNhdxKZTA8OOZvQ1TMt2lOuBfTRcFifuN_mXOItjI3zJWfQH_H385lL8mbkZIjE5jRtazFxbF1rggcojYOaSi9-0YXxoHIRJZAm1SjgwAMo0fHCj-wI50ufZxY0MnY-S0KUj/s1600/cottagesteps_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirfNhdxKZTA8OOZvQ1TMt2lOuBfTRcFifuN_mXOItjI3zJWfQH_H385lL8mbkZIjE5jRtazFxbF1rggcojYOaSi9-0YXxoHIRJZAm1SjgwAMo0fHCj-wI50ufZxY0MnY-S0KUj/s1600/cottagesteps_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sure did love the cottage though. Also took after me on this one. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fiU0lyjIdkuvFp__AQE-VJQKtLTxhMsLeZiKEpi8xoMF85nIDgo7i3Q8koXNON2EvHyAhnEKThBha94IT_T9wdU6qJ38KngCXM3RhG9MzyiKTTUqGEm-dNMMJGAR4-57L7OL/s1600/exploring_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fiU0lyjIdkuvFp__AQE-VJQKtLTxhMsLeZiKEpi8xoMF85nIDgo7i3Q8koXNON2EvHyAhnEKThBha94IT_T9wdU6qJ38KngCXM3RhG9MzyiKTTUqGEm-dNMMJGAR4-57L7OL/s1600/exploring_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exploring Ipperwash Beach. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPsgP-cHEWrAE2ym60wbIwHUUa9daSpbi_2VghAZ7AHO80YL6bCAO_KlPTelPNcSSRb9SWZ7s0AiKQj42uE0mXjJpPw1ZL2qwXWSuXuXCgmM9fCAX4U0mfPcSvkexWewDBctH/s1600/bandana_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbPsgP-cHEWrAE2ym60wbIwHUUa9daSpbi_2VghAZ7AHO80YL6bCAO_KlPTelPNcSSRb9SWZ7s0AiKQj42uE0mXjJpPw1ZL2qwXWSuXuXCgmM9fCAX4U0mfPcSvkexWewDBctH/s1600/bandana_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barely putting up with his jaunty scarf on grooming day. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cygvQ1cdQd7cR23Y0pASfk-vHMXOhZIFuTRHf_jv4VECGbr-OqnKqAjso23pfUSWeoSx33O5XZZy-qNgDzjGXdCHSYIYHrMnyL3BMNvqYdXQ_BScWynE66XvHZt26zWy8mep/s1600/inbed_525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cygvQ1cdQd7cR23Y0pASfk-vHMXOhZIFuTRHf_jv4VECGbr-OqnKqAjso23pfUSWeoSx33O5XZZy-qNgDzjGXdCHSYIYHrMnyL3BMNvqYdXQ_BScWynE66XvHZt26zWy8mep/s1600/inbed_525.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never strayed far from his much-loved bed for long. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BnCpplmgd9_fZryWf8rLtOwIlsNviw9aS4JHgR_-_r_AwbZ2csPHheMxl3I9n8TfxNOPa24YxPLK9qP7Rewbu1vLS36518sDXLg9Dc9XR8KWGbJc3xqJie9FD-XMmeBEazQW/s1600/withBella_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BnCpplmgd9_fZryWf8rLtOwIlsNviw9aS4JHgR_-_r_AwbZ2csPHheMxl3I9n8TfxNOPa24YxPLK9qP7Rewbu1vLS36518sDXLg9Dc9XR8KWGbJc3xqJie9FD-XMmeBEazQW/s1600/withBella_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ever-loyal companion, he sure loved him some Bella. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFU-Vp_EpnGih2W63Q7_JrrYZ2VOESU5urPgJgO-O6vkqhm0LJGRlD5yhpOh6m5e5fhEACa4hb_8icf5XlmSQOtzBgxmBk6zmA3E28T8UCAJ2fDjJ9q0E9iQacUHygS_9oq2uJ/s1600/withMatt_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFU-Vp_EpnGih2W63Q7_JrrYZ2VOESU5urPgJgO-O6vkqhm0LJGRlD5yhpOh6m5e5fhEACa4hb_8icf5XlmSQOtzBgxmBk6zmA3E28T8UCAJ2fDjJ9q0E9iQacUHygS_9oq2uJ/s1600/withMatt_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gazing longingly at another of his favourite humans, Uncle Matty. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzM-ArrNN_4YV-glcN90zjCG-a58xmqb1MX8S_3cT91JufQP8jq70UlJnm9qwqPBlrjUKtPwZY0o8nzzJ0caeI43nWbua0BnwDPiI-n7ux3JZMxr45e5aBAauEFUOP9zaQFzRk/s1600/handsomeboy_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzM-ArrNN_4YV-glcN90zjCG-a58xmqb1MX8S_3cT91JufQP8jq70UlJnm9qwqPBlrjUKtPwZY0o8nzzJ0caeI43nWbua0BnwDPiI-n7ux3JZMxr45e5aBAauEFUOP9zaQFzRk/s1600/handsomeboy_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll always remember him just like this, my handsome, handsome boy. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ft0seGHJL-cfv3lxb2kPJoKZB5Smglwd0FD8T2R-19aH4XOC3enPUW9PhJAdmhAgE4_UZIK1R9vD3Z29_vwEQV4MIzYOtykdodgDnJg9o3Fn-8hwi-XJhiq13x13Zl3AMeNq/s1600/begging_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ft0seGHJL-cfv3lxb2kPJoKZB5Smglwd0FD8T2R-19aH4XOC3enPUW9PhJAdmhAgE4_UZIK1R9vD3Z29_vwEQV4MIzYOtykdodgDnJg9o3Fn-8hwi-XJhiq13x13Zl3AMeNq/s1600/begging_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snack time will never be the same without this hot little fuzz ball underfoot. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw_mcHDPK4_4lfvoyopGBv_8owaCdUq1vKPY7J9H1FZOVn3nnrNf-nYZYkfREcJBYuNqNt4Drvm1VUkalOZ2gTAbUsGFVfz7QpIXSZBC3AhH4eqnNdnrLiFq_EX-a9-or9fjS/s1600/thefamily_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw_mcHDPK4_4lfvoyopGBv_8owaCdUq1vKPY7J9H1FZOVn3nnrNf-nYZYkfREcJBYuNqNt4Drvm1VUkalOZ2gTAbUsGFVfz7QpIXSZBC3AhH4eqnNdnrLiFq_EX-a9-or9fjS/s1600/thefamily_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My loves. Our picture is not quite complete without him, but he's forever in our hearts. </td></tr>
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Moet, Momo, Lil' Boss, The Momes. I loved you like crazy, everyday, even the ones where I was too fucking busy or distracted to let you know it the way that you deserved. And I know you loved us too. Through thick and thin you loved us the way only an animal can. Fiercely, loyally, without judgement or jealously or remorse.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUig7h2a-UhrIgn5x8Cd6dVaE-fq9rZmgcyWV3qSh2v2gHt9C_5a6YVIeExfUEQwb9LmnoMRPshyphenhyphen43zbicgeMJ_NXmKlzE1aUGsyFptgn0Q35DifATmn4xvhhyphenhyphenYXQfY5sW-H-/s1600/atthedoor_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUig7h2a-UhrIgn5x8Cd6dVaE-fq9rZmgcyWV3qSh2v2gHt9C_5a6YVIeExfUEQwb9LmnoMRPshyphenhyphen43zbicgeMJ_NXmKlzE1aUGsyFptgn0Q35DifATmn4xvhhyphenhyphenYXQfY5sW-H-/s1600/atthedoor_550.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good-bye my old friend. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We'll never forget you.<br />
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Love, Mommy <br />
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<br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-30677292208172034362012-06-29T13:07:00.000-05:002012-06-29T13:56:02.086-05:00A New Day Has Come<div>
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I still remember the day that I first took her to them. It was very cold and very bright. It was January 2009 and my beautiful baby was 11 months old. I can still conjure up with acute accuracy the emotions I was feeling leaving my love - my heart and soul - alone with a room full of strangers for the very first time. I was deeply sad and anxious and more than a little bit lost without her attached to my body, where she'd been safely snuggled every single day since the moment she was conceived. It was hard.<br />
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Today is hot and very bright. It's June 2012 and my beautiful baby is four and half years old. The acute emotions I'm feeling today are not that much different from those I felt three and half years ago. My baby has grown. She's been out of my arms for some time now and embraced during the week by a whole separate family. One that has loved her and nurtured her and prepared her for today, probably much better than her father and I could ever have hoped to do on our own. It's still hard. </div>
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Today is Bella's last day at Down Town Kids Academy, the daycare where she's been enrolled in full time care for the last three and half years. Next Wednesday, after a much needed reprieve and rest, she will start the full time summer kindergarten program at her new school. </div>
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Just like we did on that cold, bright day back in 2009, I will walk with her to her new beginning. I will hold her close and kiss her face and tell her how proud I am of her. She'll cling to me for a while and I'll let her, for a while. And then it will be time to let her go. She might cry. I will for sure. But I'll walk out into the summer day with a smile, knowing my big girl is more than ready to walk her next steps and that she will thrive, that she will blossom, that there is no looking back now. </div>
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Thank you DTKA Family, for your love, support, kindness and friendship. We will never forget you. </div>Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-87624166900283466882012-05-16T20:58:00.000-05:002012-05-16T20:58:11.962-05:00Two of Hearts<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHrBpCpEdCH7n15IILYF7pA1DFq0jPidsjG-2bOqGf-PdyogsMXht75b5NslSk-WmgYRGVTMnSQoaVzuGnOKOMkGe3d4ifZ_8cO7eAKBDWCB8OXzZt_zq8BZOQoDPsssLV-Lj/s1600/meandb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHrBpCpEdCH7n15IILYF7pA1DFq0jPidsjG-2bOqGf-PdyogsMXht75b5NslSk-WmgYRGVTMnSQoaVzuGnOKOMkGe3d4ifZ_8cO7eAKBDWCB8OXzZt_zq8BZOQoDPsssLV-Lj/s1600/meandb.jpg" /></a> <br />
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I've been thinking a lot about my daughter these days. An awful lot. Not just about her, but about us. About us, as in her and I. About us as in me and her and her father. Us. As in the three of us and a dog. Because in less than 20 weeks 'us' as we know it now it is going to change.<br />
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Before I got pregnant with Baby2, I could literally cry at the thought of having another child in the house and stealing that spotlight away from my girl. I struggled with the big question that I'm sure most, if not all, parents struggle with at some point before having a second child - Can I love them as much as I love her? Not <i>will I</i>, because of course I want to, I will try to, I need to, but <i>CAN I</i>? Because honestly I could not imagine, before I was pregnant again, that I could/would ever love anything as much as I love her, in the way that I love her.<br />
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Since becoming pregnant and having the pregnancy progress to a point where I'm pretty confident that there will be a happy, healthy baby at the finish line, my doubts about it have disappeared and in there place are certainties that seem as though they should have been obvious all along. <br />
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I will probably never love anyone the same way, maybe even the same amount, that I love Bella. My love for her is just like her, it's just like us. It's unique, it's powerful, it's ever-changing and ever-growing. There is no way that this love, our love, could ever be diminished, or duplicated, by our new addition.<br />
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Neither will my love for our new baby be diminished, or duplicated, by my love for Bella. Rather it will be, in fact it already is, a love all unto itself. As unique and powerful, ever-changing and ever-growing, as the love for my first daughter. Just different. I have had the opportunity to love Bella as my only child and as my first child and that is incredibly special. That's a special layer that I will only ever have with "us" as we know it now.<br />
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This new one will be the baby in the family. The last child. The little brother or sister. And that is something special that I will only ever love about him or her. All the incredible traits and character that I'm discovering as my daughter grows, I will now get to discover and love about my second born. Probably not the same things, maybe not even the same amount of things - maybe less, maybe more. But love there will be, more than enough, more than I have now. Twice as much. Two of hearts. Love squared and then some.<br />
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This morning I was lying in bed, cuddled up around my beautiful daughter, tickling her back and awash in my love for her. At the same time my new baby was waking up, tickling me from the inside. And with every kick and flip and jab, my heart swelled and grew. My love multiplied. <br />Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9082305.post-48311078081115183712012-04-02T20:34:00.000-05:002012-04-02T20:34:44.082-05:00Oops. I Did It Again.Sorry for the recent radio silence, friends. I've been wanting to at least post about my Bella turning four (FOUR!) years old and put up the last set of <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/search/label/Birthdays" target="_blank">pictures of her in the white chair</a>. The thing is? She will NOT SIT for pictures in the white chair. No way, no how. She is definitively and absolutely DONE with PICTURES IN THE WHITE CHAIR. (Sound out the all caps in a determined four-year-old voice for best effect.)<br />
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Hmph.<br />
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And the problem with that is? She's totally old enough now to make that call. I won't lie and say it doesn't break my heart into 17 million pieces, because it does it so does it hurts and I cry and I want to grab her and stuff her inside my shirt and not let her exercise that damn freewill and keep her as my baby forever, but that's not very rational or logical now is it?<br />
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So instead? I've been spending the last four months or so growing one of these:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5O673sRlfwU7ToEAKg-FC9-_JXrVla9SKganYZPnb1zcQnAIuZ-nC4b2Q-vGgdwaxS1QfC1_coy4zhTe-oNj83jJ_QZpPS4nUj-mmHvLGvLmoulTqOzU8nMdFqpJWcS4IeaU/s1600/13_weeks_US_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5O673sRlfwU7ToEAKg-FC9-_JXrVla9SKganYZPnb1zcQnAIuZ-nC4b2Q-vGgdwaxS1QfC1_coy4zhTe-oNj83jJ_QZpPS4nUj-mmHvLGvLmoulTqOzU8nMdFqpJWcS4IeaU/s1600/13_weeks_US_2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby2 at 13 weeks. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKhjqWAlKLWUyFGeLD2spmUU33lnLoQqHR90SV5Ut8qk9p6y9Qk2EYn3cSZCUu6Ci4ZWghXVQIbeHCjOb6rMwy3L8JoGD0DzMeJD0Mjl2IUBtf4Sr9khqB8P4BT_DPGytqF-Xo/s1600/13_weeks_5days_US3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKhjqWAlKLWUyFGeLD2spmUU33lnLoQqHR90SV5Ut8qk9p6y9Qk2EYn3cSZCUu6Ci4ZWghXVQIbeHCjOb6rMwy3L8JoGD0DzMeJD0Mjl2IUBtf4Sr9khqB8P4BT_DPGytqF-Xo/s1600/13_weeks_5days_US3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby2 at 13 weeks, 6 days. </td></tr>
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AHA! Take that grown-kid-freewill-exercising Bella! You don't want any more chair photos? I will merely create another small human who will have no choice to but to pose for me for at least another 3.5 years. Of course they also won't sleep more than two hours at time, require a great deal of personal attention and will shit on me a lot. Literally.<br />
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*HEART ATTACK*<br />
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Anyhoo. That's what's up. I'm in my 16th week now and my due date (for what those are worth) is September 21. Some people will recognize that date because it also happens to be my birthday. FREAKY RIGHT? I KNOW.<br />
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It's pretty exciting stuff but in light of <a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2011/11/summertime.html" target="_blank">what happened last summer </a>I've been incredibly nervous to share this news on any public forum. I'm still not sure it's the best move but like most things in this life sometimes you just have to breathe deeply and leap. And given the length and extent of the symptoms I've been experiencing this time around, I'm feeling pretty certain that this kid intends on making a very healthy and happy appearance in around six more months.<br />
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Because I risk coming off as a whiny ungrateful loser, I'll spare you the specifics on how sick this pregnancy has been making me. Actually fuck it, it's my pregnancy and I'll whine if I want to.<br />
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The day I reached the six week mark (on the dot) I woke up thinking I had the worst stomach flu ever. Then it lasted for eight weeks. WITHOUT GOING AWAY AT ALL. At seven weeks I called my doctor sobbing from my office and begging for relief claiming that I was surely going to die. She prescribed me Diclectin immediately and I ran not walked to her office to collect it. I've been taking it four times a day ever since and though it's allowed me to get up and drag my ass to work (in fact I've only missed one day of work thus far, that very first day when I thought I had the flu, stupid me). It did not curb the nausea and it only mildly reduced the vomiting. I have done some spectacular puking. Highlights include, three times on my street one morning in front of a construction crew. Once in a garbage can at the Dufferin Mall. And once in someone's recycling bin on garbage day. (Sorry neighbour).<br />
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Gladly, thankfully, blissfully, miraculously, amazingly, somewhere around 14 weeks the nausea started to subside. It's been getting steadily better, though I continue to throw up usually in the morning but at other random times as well. The puking is not fun, but it's no longer preceded and followed by the relentless, endless, pitiless nausea that I experienced in the first trimester. I'll take random barfing over that special brand of hell any day. <br />
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Besides, I've been having some really fun symptoms as well. Ever since I stopped feeling nauseous (a week ago), I'm really enjoying food in that OMGthisisthebestthingI'veevertasted pregnancy kind of way. I still have several aversions, but anything that's on the okay list with my hormones is tasting pretty fucking great. I'm also feeling the baby move all the time now. This is much earlier than I ever felt it with Bella.<br />
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And there's this, the funnest of all the symptoms:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9RfGJwJEmbP3lHKTf5pXYJKs84GjL0tqF60t0bG_m_ZNQeavciBDo1AzFH7oZnN7KeMmvplylS-VjjF-u-Yvo3KyJK3fdK6BxckECbJQHNY1AmUKdj0lrQ9927Eb7yA2F2je/s1600/14_weeks.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9RfGJwJEmbP3lHKTf5pXYJKs84GjL0tqF60t0bG_m_ZNQeavciBDo1AzFH7oZnN7KeMmvplylS-VjjF-u-Yvo3KyJK3fdK6BxckECbJQHNY1AmUKdj0lrQ9927Eb7yA2F2je/s1600/14_weeks.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bump at 15 weeks. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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And by funnest, I mean fattest. I gained 50lbs with Bella and I'm pretty sure I'm setting, if not surpassing, that pace this time around. I'm definitely showing way more. A friend described second pregnancies as "blowing up a balloon that's already been inflated at some point". Yes. That.<br />
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Pretty sure this 15 week bump is the same size as my<a href="http://beachesspeeches.blogspot.ca/2007/09/my-lovely-lady-lump-week-20.html" target="_blank"> 20 week bump from last time around.</a> I know I'm going to have a hell of a fight on my hands to get back into shape after this baby is born but you know what? I'll deal with it when the time comes. For now I'm going to stop being hard on myself. Do my best to eat as healthy as possible without denying myself the simple delectable pleasure that pregnant eating can be. My doc has advised that I refrain from working out (I have had some bleeding which has now completely stopped), but I can't and I won't unless I see a return of the bleed. I really need the exercise for my physical and mental well-being. </div>
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This will be my last pregnancy. I'm about 95% sure. Crown is 2179% sure. I refuse to take any of it for granted and want to share it and savour every minute of it. It's given me a hell of a time so far but I'm already so beyond in love with my bump and my wee baby. Beyond, beyond, beyond. </div>Beacheshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086934847141503314noreply@blogger.com1