<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924</id><updated>2011-12-28T14:54:07.201-08:00</updated><title type='text'>From the Inside Out</title><subtitle type='html'>My thoughts . . .</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>48</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2843289178565039884</id><published>2010-12-27T22:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-01-23T20:55:59.375-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Holiday Reflections</title><content type='html'>We just arrived home from my mom's where we spent Christmas.  It was lovely, complete with an entire day in the house playing with Christmas gifts (although I did make it to the shower in order to be presentable for our dinner guests).  We spent the day after Christmas exploring the wonders of the outdoors in Red Rock Canyon where our children climbed rocks and discovered caves, made arrowheads, and danced with the devil of a seemingly bottomless pool of water that was cold, very cold.  But they tromped through mud and water, encouraged each other, climbed rocks that were pretty tough, and enjoyed themselves.  What more could a parent ask for?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We returned from our adventures to a stack of holiday greetings, or should I say holiday pictures.  One of my dearest friends loves getting holiday photos as long as they include the parents.  "Kids are always changing," she says, "but it's MY friends that I want to see."  I agree.  It's nice to see everyone each holiday, if only a snapshot, in their finest attire, with their best smile.  This is the time when everyone wants to look their best, or share their best adventure of the year, or simply sign a card that says Merry Christmas.  Whatever the case may be, it's nice to be the recipient of so many happy faces.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I noticed the same feeling when I sent a text to the people who really make a difference in my life on Christmas Eve.  The responses that came pouring back made me smile, each one.  It is truly a great thing to share your feelings, however simple, with those who are important to you.  It is hard to remember in the thick of things, but that is why I'm particularly grateful for a moment of clarity to compose a message to say, "You matter to me."  I think everyone needs that, no matter what.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So tonight as I opened the cards in our stack of mail (I chose to ignore the bills for now and concentrate on the nice mail), I realized that there was only one "Year in Review."  I wonder why that is . . . are we too busy?  Have the lives of our children overtaken our own and we have nothing to report?  Has this year been one we'd rather not remember?  I don't know, but I realized that I'm in the same boat.  Because of the nature of my business and busyness at the holidays, I just managed to pull together a photo montage with a New Year's message and I too am happy to address and mail away our cards.  I think that's okay, but I still love to write, so I'll blog . . . for now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2843289178565039884?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2843289178565039884/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2843289178565039884' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2843289178565039884'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2843289178565039884'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2010/12/holiday-reflections.html' title='Holiday Reflections'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2180650450862372783</id><published>2010-12-16T22:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-12-16T22:34:21.970-08:00</updated><title type='text'>2010 Soups</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDr3sdj9I/AAAAAAAAAGc/TNTodFvE80k/s1600/Curried%2BCarrot_0001.jpg"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you're interested in making some soups, here are some of our  favorites from this year:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDPe8ux1I/AAAAAAAAAGM/XV8Y7gZK-0k/s1600/WhiteChiChiVegBar%2B.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDPe8ux1I/AAAAAAAAAGM/XV8Y7gZK-0k/s320/WhiteChiChiVegBar%2B.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551534530204976978" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDf573IgI/AAAAAAAAAGU/L-1vXlvZbVw/s1600/ThaiCocoBlaBea_0002.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDf573IgI/AAAAAAAAAGU/L-1vXlvZbVw/s320/ThaiCocoBlaBea_0002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551534812326994434" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDr3sdj9I/AAAAAAAAAGc/TNTodFvE80k/s1600/Curried%2BCarrot_0001.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDr3sdj9I/AAAAAAAAAGc/TNTodFvE80k/s320/Curried%2BCarrot_0001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551535017883963346" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2180650450862372783?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2180650450862372783/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2180650450862372783' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2180650450862372783'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2180650450862372783'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2010/12/2010-soups.html' title='2010 Soups'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/TQsDPe8ux1I/AAAAAAAAAGM/XV8Y7gZK-0k/s72-c/WhiteChiChiVegBar%2B.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5896502948230041564</id><published>2009-12-27T20:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-27T22:56:22.855-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Walk a Mile . . .</title><content type='html'>I've been away for a while . . . mainly because my best friend and I started a business embellishing clothes.  It sounds questionable, but is really fun and occupies the times of my day when I would consider writing a blog post or two.  Here's our &lt;a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/samandsara?ga_search_query=samandsara&amp;amp;ga_search_type=seller_usernames"&gt;site&lt;/a&gt; if you care to check it out, but I digress. . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As an only child, I always wanted 5 children, the first born when I was 25, and every two years after that until I was 33, and then if we wanted more, I'd still be at a reasonable age for more children.  Three has been enough for me and us for now, but sometimes I look at my friends who are unmarried, or have one child, and I wonder what my life would be like if we'd waited to get married or have children. I think about the complications that are magnified by children, (and marriage to an extent). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are many things that complicate a life.  I pay our bills twice a month, do our laundry once or twice a week, pick up umpteen dishes/Legos/shirts/jackets/shoes in a day.  I drive a carpool, shuttle kids to Brownies/soccer/baseball/camp. Make dinner, oversee homework, read stories, shop for groceries. . . The list seems to go on and on and on.  I can't tell you how many times in a day I ask children to do what I asked them to do, or put on their shoes, or be nice to each other, etc.  So naturally, I wonder if I would be more sane if I'd had children later in life, had more of a career, or had a job other than my home and children for that matter.  I dont' have the answer, but I wonder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As a young girl, I remember my dad talking about traveling the world once I left for college.  He suggested joining the Peace Corps, or doing humanitarian work some other way.  I left for college 15 years ago, and until November, he hadn't been out of the country.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My dad recently quit his job, rented his house for a year, and made flight arrangements to India for 6 months.  Really.  His bag was much smaller than those I've seen donned by contestants on The Amazing Race.  He had little more than a rough idea of a few cities he wanted to visit, and was on his way.  Leading up to his departure I was so excited for his adventure because he hasn't been an example of a risk-taker in my life.  It's exciting to see him head off on this adventure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He left in November and I've received one call from him, which I hung up on because I didn't know there was a delay in international calls, but mostly it's been through Facebook (thank you!) that I've learned about his adventures.  Through his status updates, I've been able to view some really cool things (a 4 year old's right of passage getting a haircut, my dad giving school supplies to children in a very poor school, him giving hungry people rice, etc.).  He's posted great photos, and then this . . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was meditating one morning and his shoes got stolen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dang it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No matter how few possessions you have, how altruistic your motives are, or that the only one you are responsible for is yourself, there are still basics of life that require attention.  My children will still need three meals a day, our clothes will still need to be washed regularly, and my dad will still have to somehow watch his shoes while meditating. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know that this revelation on my part helps my dad any, but it sure helps me gain perspective.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5896502948230041564?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5896502948230041564/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5896502948230041564' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5896502948230041564'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5896502948230041564'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2009/12/walk-mile.html' title='Walk a Mile . . .'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1707454094590640281</id><published>2009-09-04T23:16:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-04T23:48:42.340-07:00</updated><title type='text'>If You're Gonna Spew. . .</title><content type='html'>Child #2 begins Kindergarten this Tuesday.  If you didn't already know, it's a BIG deal, for both of us.  For the past 6 years, he's been with me during the majority of each day.  Preschool has never been longer than 5 hours, and never for days in a row.  And while he's had playdates, been to summer camp, and I've been out of town on occasion, we spend the majority of our days together.  Good or bad, it is what is . . . and we've certainly had our share of both.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today was Kindergarten Orientation. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Great! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Right? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WRONG!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hubby is out of town, so I've got no reinforcements.  I wake up early and decide to get ready in the downstairs bathroom, so as not to wake the sleeping cherubs (all three of them).  They eventually wake, and #2 just lies in bed.  He actually looks like he could go back to sleep.  He's a good sleeper, but he always wakes up early, feeling good. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He says his head hurts, he needs a drink of water, he needs help getting out of bed. . . you get the picture.  I took his temperature (normal) but offer him some Motrin in case his headache really could be helped with something mild, which he declines.  I quickly decide this calls for a huge dose of sympathy, so I lay it on thick.  He eventually gets dressed, brushes his teeth, even takes a shower.  He asks for toast for breakfast and can he eat in in the car on the way? Of course.  #1 &amp;amp; #3 are off to the neighbor's house, and #2 and I are off to meet the teacher. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He and I sit through the 45 minutes of school director &amp;amp; K teacher talk.  Fine.  He acts nervous, but if you weren't his mom or dad you'd never know it.  We meet a few other students and parents, and I stand around to talk to the teacher.  I begin my greeting and look over at #2.  It looks like he has a booger on his lip, so I hand him a tissue.  I continue talking and look over again, and he's catching vomit in his hands!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THIS POOR KID!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I shovel tissues his way, wishing I had one of those kidney shaped plastic things that are always in the hospital but never seem large enough to do the job.  As gracefully as I can, I turn to the teacher and say, "It looks like we've got a nervous stomach.  I'm going to step over here and break open those Clorox wipes I brought in today, clean up our mess, and be on our way." I do just that.  His teacher asks him if he'd like to see something in the room while I get myself together.  He agrees and everything is honky dorey.  Really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's the kicker - we get into the car.  He eats the remaining three quarters of his toast and quickly says, "I wish I had another piece of toast."  We head off to Target and he's back to his usual self. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What just happened?" I say to myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the Back-To-School potluck that evening, his teacher asks me if I think he's going to be okay on Tuesday.  I sure hope so ("but I'll be available all day if you need me.")&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1707454094590640281?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1707454094590640281/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1707454094590640281' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1707454094590640281'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1707454094590640281'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2009/09/if-youre-gonna-spew.html' title='If You&apos;re Gonna Spew. . .'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-8043916026295105077</id><published>2009-06-15T20:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-15T21:22:33.095-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sticker Day Revised</title><content type='html'>When I was in high school my friends and I would hold random "Sticker Days."  There was no rhyme or reason as to when they would occur, some days we would just decide, "Tomorrow is Sticker Day."  The evening before the event, we would go to the local grocery stores and steal (yes, I said &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;steal&lt;/span&gt;) packs upon packs of stickers from their stationary department.  The next day we arrived, armed with stickers and proceeded to decorate anyone who wanted stickers with said stickers.  We did not discriminate, all grades, all cliques were adorned by the end of the day.  I seem to remember people seeking us out (which felt nice in high school) to get stickers, and there were some who adamently protested, whom we left alone (I think).  The thing I remembered most was coming away from the day and having a genuinely satisfied and good feeling, that I had been a part of bringing people together and making some people smile.  From my end, it seemed like people generally enjoyed those days, myself included.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fastforward a few years and I just returned from delivering my cookies to three unexpecting friends.  The first, it was her birthday and she had been craving them, the second because she lives across the street from the first and I'd feel foolish traveling that little distance and not spreading the calories (I mean goodness), and the third who hinted earlier that she had a hankerin' for some.  I was able to meet one woman's little girl for the first time at one home and  interrupt bedtime and be threatend with a piece of mind (which changed to a smile) at another. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My day began with a 5:30 am bootcamp (followed by bills, grocery shopping, laundry, making dinner, and the other normal occurrences of a Monday), but ended with my family reaping my wrath over things that were admitidly insignificant, but at the time, I just couldn't take one more thing.   After they all slunk upstairs, I went to visit my friends, if only for a brief minute at the door, it was just the change of pace I needed to recharge my battery.  I know about the adage that when you're feeling sorry for yourself, do something nice for someone else and you'll forget your worries (or something along those lines).  I won't argue with that, at all,  I just wish I could figure out another way to package up the frustration I feel at my family sometimes, and do something nice for them.  Something different than paying the bills, stocking the fridge, cleaning the clothes and dishes, and making meals because those things don't seem very nice until they're not done.  Maybe tomorrow on my way home from my spin class, I'll stop off at some store and buy a few packs of stickers.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-8043916026295105077?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/8043916026295105077/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=8043916026295105077' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8043916026295105077'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8043916026295105077'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2009/06/sticker-day-revised.html' title='Sticker Day Revised'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3296578067383988438</id><published>2009-02-06T20:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-06T20:43:27.174-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Facebook Virus</title><content type='html'>Recently on Facebook there has been a virus going around.  It's not a bad computer virus or even a bad medical virus, just a list of 25 random things you write about yourself, and you tag 25 people and they write their own.  Here are my 25 random things:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. I keep pens and chapstick until they run out. I don't lose them. I like Uniball Grips to write with (I hate ball point pens) and I like Burts Bees Beeswax Lip Balm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. I do not like tomatoes. When I was little my babysitter would make sandwiches for lunch with tomatoes. The texture grossed me out, so I put them on the side of my plate. She would shove them down my throat until I gagged. For the longest time I would gag if I accidentally ate a tomato. I'm not compelled for any reason to get over my childhood trauma.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3.  I think Jack Bauer kicks ass!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. I like attending sporting events. My favorite is hockey because it's pretty much all action and not a lot of contrived entertainment. I think it's sad that events like sports have become so overrun with what happens in between the sport itself. Is it too much to ask for a little down time? Do we ALWAYS need to be entertained???&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5.  I will see any action movie with Matt Damon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6.  Of all the habits I've had in my life, smoking has never been one of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. I love watching old people who know how to partner dance. I'd like to learn before my 50th wedding anniversary, but hubby refuses. It's good I've got 39 years to soften him to the idea.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. I took piano lessons as an adult. I stopped to take prereqs for a nursing program. I wish I had a real piano to take lessons again, or get my kids started. I think it's one of the only instruments that sounds good, even when practicing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. I don't listen to sappy music or see sappy movies because I'm afraid of becoming too sentimental about things . . . anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10.  My right pinkie finger doesn't straighten, and I don't know why.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. I have a problem with books. I like how some books feel when I pick them up. This presents a problem when in a store that carries books because I will always look and feel, and sometimes buy, even though my To Read pile is well over 70 now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. I love hot and sour soup, and I'm baffled that every Chinese restaurant has the same recipe, but I can't duplicate it at home, no matter how hard I try.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13.  I appreciate people who say what they mean, and mean what they say, and I try be one of these people myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14. I love overhearing my children play make believe games with each other. I love it when they've organized a show with a performing dog or 3 year old on guitar. I think the thing I like about this most is that they usually get along and two are okay with one being in charge, and they just talk to each other and agree.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15.  I love overhearing my children laugh . . . hard.  It ALWAYS makes me smile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16.  I think a binary world view is a scary thing to have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17. I ALWAYS have a book with me. Hubby makes fun of me when I travel and asks, "How many books did you bring this time?" when I'm leaving overnight and I have 2 books, and 600 pages to go in the first. But what if my car broke down on the side of the road and I had to wait for 6 hours? I'd wish I had my book with me if I forgot it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;18.  When I go home I always go two places:&lt;br /&gt;The Tattered Cover&lt;br /&gt;El Taco de Mexico (7th &amp;amp; Santa Fe) for a smothered Special Burrito &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;19. I have only been out of the country once. Last year for our 10 year anniversary we went to Aruba.  I'm willing to go anywhere, though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;20. I love camping, especially backpacking. I love the idea of having everything I need on my back. I don't even mind being away from showers or toilets, because it's one less thing that needs to be cleaned. (With regards to #17 I would probably only bring the book I'm reading at the time on a backpacking trip because too many books are heavy).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;21. When I watch tv, I cross stitch to stay awake, otherwise the inactivity would knock me out in about 2 seconds flat. That's probably why I almost always fall asleep in the movie theater.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;22. While the act of doing laundry is Sisyphean, sometimes I like the sense of accomplishment when it's all done, folded and put away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23. I was born at home and had #3 at home. It was one of the coolest things I've experienced. I actually delivered him myself (we had a midwife there, but I did all the work).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;24.  There is a vacant storefront in my neighborhood.  I dream of owning a bookstore there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;25. I feel inferior and am somewhat envious of women who work. I know being a stay at home mom is worthwhile endeavor. I know that being with my children is/will be rewarding and enjoyable, like today and yesterday, but sometimes the monotony can be mind-numbing. Sometimes I feel like I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to adult conversations. I think things might be different if I spent the bulk of my day talking to adults, but then again I'm sure some of my friends who work are tired of talking to adults and would just like to be home with their kids. The grass is always greener . . . and I'm working on appreciating my own grass.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3296578067383988438?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3296578067383988438/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3296578067383988438' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3296578067383988438'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3296578067383988438'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2009/02/facebook-virus.html' title='Facebook Virus'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3204101611056986808</id><published>2008-12-02T14:14:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T13:41:21.872-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Should I take a hint?</title><content type='html'>In preparation of our annual Christmas Soup open house on Saturday, I was wiping down the baseboards and walls in our kitchen and was reminded of my preparations for the event last year.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was a rainy Friday morning, and I was running in between our little room in the back of our house where we keep our TV (we call it the back house).  I hadn't showered or gotten out of my pajamas, but was getting the boys set up for a little auto-sitter while I enjoyed my morning routine, uninterrupted.  The boys were happy, entertained and contained, so I made my way back to the house to get ready.  I made my way carefully up the steps, to find the door  . . . locked.  Oh, that's right, I made sure to close it behind me so the rain wouldn't get in.  No problem, I'll just call my hubby at work from the back house to run home and open the door.  Back across the yard, pick up the phone and . . . it's off the hook in the house.  CRAP!!!  Now what? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Plan A:  I pulled on the door handle &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really hard&lt;/span&gt; for about 15 minutes with tears (or was that rain?) streaming down my face.  No luck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Plan B: I grabbed a rock from my backyard and pounded away.   Have you ever intentionally broken a window?  It is a wild feeling. . . the anticipation of hearing the glass brake, your hand going through something hard that should be intact.   Window eventually gave way, I was in the house, cleaned up the mess, then braced for the rest of the day.  I successfully found someone to replace the glass that afternoon and everyone loved our party the next day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now today, hubby has a busy day at work, so he leaves early.  I'm ready to leave the house at 8:35 to get #1 &amp;amp; #2 to school by 9.  We go through the usual business of getting in the car and trying to ignore the plethora of distractions between the front door and the car.  We get in and we're off . . . or so I thought.  The car won't go into gear.  CRAP!!  I call hubby who can't get away.  Now what?  Thank goodness for good friends who were not too far away or too busy to add a trip to our house to pick up kids for school.  Then I remembered I have been paying for Roadside Assistance on my cel phone.  They arranged for a tow truck to our mechanic, and #3 and I are home for the day.  Lucky for me, I bought new makeup yesterday and now feel like I can go out in public again.  Urgh!! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the bright side, I do have everything I need to make the remaining soups for our party on Saturday, and I have all the material to finish the quilt I'm making for my college roommate's baby (who is almost 2 months old now). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not going to think about what adventures next year will bring.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3204101611056986808?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3204101611056986808/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3204101611056986808' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3204101611056986808'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3204101611056986808'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/12/should-i-take-hint.html' title='Should I take a hint?'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5878528275940747879</id><published>2008-12-01T07:22:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-01T07:23:33.055-08:00</updated><title type='text'>But I wove you . . .</title><content type='html'>This is the way #3 tries to get out of doing something he doesn't want to do. He says it in this sweet little sing-song voice and cannot pronounce the L in love and it just melts your heart, kind of. But that's not what I wanted to write about . . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of my favorite programs is &lt;a href="http://thisamericanlife.org/"&gt;This American Life&lt;/a&gt;. In a nutshell, it's thought provoking, in depth journalism, with essays every so often. It's an NPR show from Chicago that is on every weekend, usually airing Friday evening. (It has also become a TV show on Showtime, although I've only seen snippets of that because we don't have that channel). This show has opened my eyes to new ideas, people, ways of looking at the world, authors, etc. I love it. I subscribe to their podcast because I can't possibly ensure that the hour the show is on each weekend (or rebroadcast for that matter) is the precise hour my children are going to be quiet, so I tune in when I'm driving/running/doing dishes, you get the picture.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Episode #293 aired on July 11, 2008 entitled &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;A Little Bit of Knowledge.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Act 2 of the show was an excerpt of a book by &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dan_Savage"&gt;Dan Savage&lt;/a&gt; called &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Commitment&lt;/span&gt;. The excerpt is regarding gay marriage in 2004, and how certain members of Dan's family were in favor of he and his partner getting married, but their son was ademently opposed to the idea, while Dan &amp;amp; his partner weren't sure if they wanted to get married at all. But in the middle of Dan's discussion about gender issues with his son, he has this wonderful discussion about falling in love that just melted me. Here it is:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;It's not a decision you get to make, I said.  It's not a decision I got to make, it's a decision your heart makes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When you're older, I said. One day your heart will let you know whether you're the kind of man who falls in love with a woman or a man. There was a long silence and I thought DJ had fallen asleep. He was curled up next to me resting his head against my side and I couldn't see his face. I stayed very still.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grandma says you're supposed to marry the person you love, DJ suddenly said. He hadn't fallen asleep, he'd just been quietly working through something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's right, I said.  Grandma does say that, all the time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But you love me and we're not gonna get married.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grown up love is a special kind of love. People don't fall in that special kind of love with their sisters or their mothers or their sons. There's something in your heart that makes you go out into the world and find someone new, someone you've never met before, and that's the person you fall in love with.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because that's how new families are made. And one day you'll meet the person you want to make a new family with and that's the person you're supposed to marry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because marriage is a promise that you make to that other person. A promise to stay in love with them forever. To be related forever, so that you'll always be together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;Amen, brother.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5878528275940747879?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5878528275940747879/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5878528275940747879' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5878528275940747879'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5878528275940747879'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/12/but-i-wove-you.html' title='But I wove you . . .'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2708916331593376776</id><published>2008-11-20T15:05:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-20T15:39:09.222-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Reduce - Reuse - Recycle</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SSXy6jWJwpI/AAAAAAAAAC8/aTDSJ6cJS28/s1600-h/IMG_0771.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SSXy6jWJwpI/AAAAAAAAAC8/aTDSJ6cJS28/s200/IMG_0771.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270886026641523346" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know how I got so lucky today, but my children entertained themselves this afternoon by using trash and recyclables to make robots.  They worked together and dug through the trash, and here is what they came up with.   I love it!!!  The two yellow ones have Matchbox cars on the bottom, which they used to race down the hill in front of our house.  What a great afternoon.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2708916331593376776?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2708916331593376776/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2708916331593376776' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2708916331593376776'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2708916331593376776'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/11/reduce-reuse-recycle.html' title='Reduce - Reuse - Recycle'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SSXy6jWJwpI/AAAAAAAAAC8/aTDSJ6cJS28/s72-c/IMG_0771.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-7311595318769826585</id><published>2008-10-27T22:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-29T09:34:50.785-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Giggles</title><content type='html'>#1&lt;br /&gt;One year for Christmas, I took our daughter to the dollar store for her to pick out a gift for Dad.  I know, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;big spender&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;(This was probably the Christmas when she was two.) She chose a small vanilla scented statue of Jesus that had adhesive on the bottom to stick on a dashboard or something similar.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fast forward a few months and we go visit my husband at his office.  I pointed out to her that he had the Jesus statue on his bookshelf.  She took a whiff and said, "Ummm.  It smells like Jesus in here."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;#3&lt;br /&gt;It is a favorite bedtime ritual in our house to read stories.  Sometimes I choose the stories, sometimes the kids do.  The other night I chose &lt;a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0316059625/ref=sib_dp_pt#reader-link"&gt;The Peace Book by Todd Parr&lt;/a&gt; (if you don't have this book, I highly recommend getting it). Each page begins with the phrase: &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Peace is&lt;/span&gt; . . . followed by some action, ie.  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;. . .sharing a meal&lt;/span&gt;, . . .&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;keeping the street clean&lt;/span&gt;,  . . . &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;being who you are&lt;/span&gt;, etc.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The book opens with, &lt;a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0316059625/ref=sib_dp_pt#reader-link"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Peace is making new friends&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt; and #3 says, "Who is Peace?" and starts pointing to each  of the five children on the page and asking, "Is that Peace?"  The third page reads: &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Peace is listening to different kinds of music&lt;/span&gt; and there's a picture of a person in a turban playing a recorder to a snake coming out of a basket, and he says, "Oh, that's Peace."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't wait for the day he sees a snake charmer on the Travel Channel or something like that and yells out, "That's Peace!!!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-7311595318769826585?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/7311595318769826585/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=7311595318769826585' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7311595318769826585'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7311595318769826585'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/10/giggles.html' title='Giggles'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3551672429219784724</id><published>2008-10-20T14:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-23T21:08:36.471-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Our Sunday Chaos</title><content type='html'>Yesterday was an especially weird day.  #1 and I began the day by cheering on my friend and mother of daughter's friends in a triathalon.  I might have been inspired for a new sport, except I'm not such a strong swimmer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The preschool where #2 &amp;amp; #3 attend is run by a church and yesterday was Preschool Sunday, and the 3 &amp;amp; 4 year olds have been practicing two songs.  So we packed up for church &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;early&lt;/span&gt; and were guests in the preschool's church, and what do you know, the boys wouldn't sing.  We sat in a pew and watched their classmates sing.  Okay, no big deal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then we proceeded to our church.  #3 throws a major tantrum in the middle of Sacrament Meeting and puzzle pieces go flying.  Nice.  I ask #1 if she'll help pick up the puzzle pieces, to which she agrees because she's that kind of a kid (thank goodness).  She's bending down on her heals leaning forward and bumps her elbow and is jolted upright by the pain and then her eyes roll back in her head and she goes over backwards.  I look at her and see her eyes rolling around but she's not responding to me, and I freak out.  Hubby and I jump up and try to get her out of the chapel, get her some water and he takes her to get some food.   After further evaluation, her blood pressure was probably low from being almost horizontal, and then with lack of circulation because she was sitting on her heels, well you get the picture.  She was/is fine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing like having your child pass out to get your heart pumping.  Then when we realized she's okay, I was drained. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We enter Primary, and our behavior problems are in full force, and I was off to the adult's classes to retrieve the parents of said children. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hubby and I came home and looked at each other and said, "What the heck just happened?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"We give up."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3551672429219784724?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3551672429219784724/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3551672429219784724' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3551672429219784724'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3551672429219784724'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/10/our-sunday-chaos.html' title='Our Sunday Chaos'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1158136738561707140</id><published>2008-10-12T22:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-12T23:48:56.458-07:00</updated><title type='text'>To Play or Not to Play</title><content type='html'>One of our favorite things to do is go to the park to have a little family baseball game.  Hubby or I will pitch, and the kids take turns fielding and hitting.  It's usually a pretty enjoyable experience, a few negotiations about "one more pitch" or "one more hit," maybe some tears, but generally, it's fun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT . . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;. . . as is the case with parks in general, there are other people there, which is usually a good thing, except when it comes to the family baseball game (or any ball game we've intended to play at the park).  After we've been going for a little while, a kid who doesn't belong to us, will skirt around the fringes, start shagging some balls, and before you know it, they're struggling with #2 over whose turn it is to bat next.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hubby's point is this, "I came to the park to pitch balls to &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;my&lt;/span&gt; kids, not your's.  I didn't come to the park to referee 6 kids fighting over the next swing (with the bat, we hope), it's tough enough with 3, so would you kindly butt out."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I get it.  Sure I do.  But where do you draw the line?  Our kids will usually ask to play with other kids in their ball games at parks and other parents are gracious enough to consent.  I don't mind so much except when one of our children isn't in the mood for sharing one of his parents.  He does so well with one on one attention, especially when it involves Dad and a ball.  Maybe it's different for me being with them the majority of every day, that I don't mind mixing it up a little and playing with other kids at the park because we do have a lot of one on one time, so the hour Hubby has to play with the kids at the park on a Sunday afternoon is precious to him.  During the week it gives me a chance to speak to other adults at the park during the day, where he's not at the park to make friends, he's there to play with &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;his&lt;/span&gt; kids.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes, we've taken balls and mitts and if other kids don't have a mitt, they usually don't ask to play, but any other sort of ball game seems to be free reign.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I clearly understand both sides of the issue (Economy? War in Iraq?  Equality in marriage? BHAA, we're talking real issues here) I'm just not sure how what the protocol for diplomacy is in resolving this one.  I'm up for any suggestions you have.  Give it to me straight.  I don't need it sugar coated, my skin is pretty thick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I'm serious.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1158136738561707140?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1158136738561707140/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1158136738561707140' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1158136738561707140'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1158136738561707140'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/10/to-play-or-not-to-play.html' title='To Play or Not to Play'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1976844308157976937</id><published>2008-10-11T21:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-11T22:18:09.280-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Recent Musings</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SPGIhQBzONI/AAAAAAAAAAo/wg_4YlqTW3w/s1600-h/IMG_0293-1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SPGIhQBzONI/AAAAAAAAAAo/wg_4YlqTW3w/s200/IMG_0293-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256132344937658578" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;I took my own advise and finally wrote blog ideas down in my little notebook I carry around in my purse.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~~Recently our sons' preschool had a family dinner with pizza and a puppet show.  In principle it was a great activity (. . . here's the BUT), except for the Webkinz raffle.  I'm sure the planners had nothing but good intentions when they decided to hold the raffle.   The dinner and entertainment was all free, so it's not a big deal to hold a raffle for $1/ticket.  No big deal, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WRONG!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My single-minded little 5 year old can't get his mind off the stuffed animals sitting on the table.  My sweet husband took him outside for most of the evening to divert his attention.  The poor kid was ready for nuclear meltdown well before the raffle was to occur.  And then it happens, the raffle and two other kids win.  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No Kidding!?!?&lt;/span&gt;  #2 can't even think straight he's so disappointed.  After a long day and he's tired, this is not a pretty sight.  I think he cried . . . LOUD, all the way home, and then when we got home, and finally just collapsed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Perhaps I'll suggest further raffles be things for the adults, hopefully we can handle ourselves better when we don't win than #2.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But there's a silver lining to this black, black cloud.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next morning, I was recounting the events to my dear friend.  She suggested her children hadn't discovered the evils of Webkinz yet, (but she has a few on hand for when they do) and she volunteered to make a special delivery from the Webkinz Elf to #2 on Monday afternoon.  And "Oh the joy.  The joy, joy, joy!"  (I think that was supposed to be "noise," but I'll take a little poetic licence with that one.)  Thus Alvin joined our family, a quiet beagle, who has brought a smile to one little 5 year old's face that continues to this day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Webkinz Elf!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~~We live in a city where Tuesdays are free days at some of the museums.  The first Tuesday of the month happens to be the favorite of my children . . . &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dinosaur Museum&lt;/span&gt; (aka Natural History Museum), Science Museum, and the Model Railroad Museum.  It's a great way to spend a Tuesday with thousands of your closest friends who also love free things.  I love that we live so close to these great museums and we can go once a month, and I can let the kids wander to whatever interests them that day.  It happened to be the contraption that shot small balls out of the mouth of a frog, simulating the way a &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darwin%27s_frog"&gt;Darwin's Frog&lt;/a&gt; belches its babies from its mouth.  I'm sorry I didn't take a picture because they loved it!  Something else they loved was pushing each other through a conveyor belt intended for produce at the mock grocery store, or shapes in the building department.  I love the way they explore things and figure out what works in their brains.  I usually sit back and watch, and wait for them to come get me and show me what they did or discovered or built.  We spent three and a half hours at the one museum, so we didn't even get to see the dinosaurs.  We'll hit that one first next month.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~~Wednesday morning was the preschool trip to the Pumpkin Patch.  Heaps of fun!!  But we're going through a bit of a heat wave and on the way home we discussed what to do for the rest of the day, and we decided to go swimming.  Yep, it's October and we're going to the pool because it's just too hot to sit indoors in our 100 year old house with no air conditioning, and the sun is just too hot if I'm not in the water, but you won't hear me complaining.  It was a glorious day!  So glorious, in fact, we went back the next day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I LOVE this town!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1976844308157976937?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1976844308157976937/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1976844308157976937' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1976844308157976937'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1976844308157976937'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/10/recent-musings.html' title='Recent Musings'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/SPGIhQBzONI/AAAAAAAAAAo/wg_4YlqTW3w/s72-c/IMG_0293-1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-8778508575303881677</id><published>2008-09-10T20:25:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-10T20:34:00.413-07:00</updated><title type='text'>That'll teach me</title><content type='html'>Yesterday morning I came home from my spin class to a silent house.  I made lunches, breakfasts and was well on my way to a productive first day of preschool for my boys, class for myself and I even had a lovely blog post parading through my mind.  I knew hubby was on the computer upstairs, so I opted to continue my productivity downstairs, passing up the possibility of blogging on my iPhone because the screen is a little too tedious for long posts.  Little did I know that if I waited longer the thoughts would drift away and my lovely images would scatter with the calls for weather reports, lost shoes, pencils, butt wiping and the likes of my day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I know why people keep notebooks on their nightstands and write things down in the middle of the night or whenever things come to them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-8778508575303881677?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/8778508575303881677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=8778508575303881677' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8778508575303881677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8778508575303881677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/09/thatll-teach-me.html' title='That&apos;ll teach me'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-8832252317546423724</id><published>2008-08-28T20:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-28T21:02:38.308-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Your-in trouble!!!!</title><content type='html'>Last Friday, I noticed our downstairs bathroom was starting to smell. . . like an out-house.  So I scoured the toilet.  Hubby washed the shower curtain, bath mat, mopped the floor and scoured the rest of the surfaces.  Smelled like a dream.  Until yesterday when the smell resurfaced.  What the heck!?!?!? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Daughter and I were in the car alone today and I asked her about this.  Not accusing, just to see if she had any pertinent information.  Yep!  "#2 pees in the plant." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"HE DOES WHAT?????"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Apparently, he's doing us a favor by &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;watering&lt;/span&gt; the large potted plant we have in the bathroom.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-8832252317546423724?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/8832252317546423724/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=8832252317546423724' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8832252317546423724'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8832252317546423724'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/your-in-trouble.html' title='Your-in trouble!!!!'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-4356096104021114790</id><published>2008-08-27T08:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-27T09:06:10.090-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm a nerd</title><content type='html'>Yesterday I started a new class.  It's Nutrition 150, a prerequisite for a BSN degree, and one of two classes I haven't taken yet.  I walked onto campus, with my new notebook in hand, complete with a map of the campus and a copy of my schedule.  I went to the bookstore and bought my $121 book to go along with my $60 class.  (Urrrrgggghhhh)  I bought my parking pass and went to sit on a bench and wait for my class to start. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I sat in class and listened to the first day speal, I got excited.  I love learning new things, and taking tests and doing assignments.  Since my undergrad days, I now love multiple choice tests and assignments where there are right and wrong answers, without the essays I used to write for english and political science classes.  I'm turning into a science nerd.  I think I like the order and structure of the hard sciences that I don't have everyday in my life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really like school, having a schedule for myself and deadlines and objectives.  The deadlines and objectives and schedules I make in my planner don't really seem the same.  I think I like the control I have over myself when I'm in class. Or maybe I like the fact that I can sit there for 90 minutes and no one is going to pull on me or sit on me or throw pillows at me.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm not in charge of anyone else but me when I'm sitting in a class.  It seems so much easier to accomplish things in school than it does in non-school-life.  I don't remember feeling like this when I was in school full time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The grass is always greener somewhere else.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-4356096104021114790?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/4356096104021114790/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=4356096104021114790' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4356096104021114790'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4356096104021114790'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/im-nerd.html' title='I&apos;m a nerd'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-130724834301708280</id><published>2008-08-27T08:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-27T08:44:19.361-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Update to the Porcelan gods</title><content type='html'>I think we've got it!!!  Or &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;he's&lt;/span&gt; got it, rather.  He'll take himself, anytime and I couldn't be happier for him (and me).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-130724834301708280?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/130724834301708280/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=130724834301708280' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/130724834301708280'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/130724834301708280'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/update-to-porcelan-gods.html' title='Update to the Porcelan gods'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3746761757517537597</id><published>2008-08-20T20:08:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-20T20:25:08.629-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Praying to the Porcelain Gods</title><content type='html'>A few years ago, this meant something vastly different.  But as the mother of at soon-to-be three year old we're singin' the praises of the potty these days!!!  After day two and only one accident (and even a #2 in the potty), I've got nothing to complain about . . . but is it too much to ask that a trip to the bathroom not interfere with dinner on the table ready for everyone to sit down and eat at 7:45 pm. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's late, it's been a long day, I ran six miles, have been without a husband for three days because he's trying a case this week, we've endured the bank opening savings accounts for three little people, Trader Joe's for apples that weren't there, CVS for potty treats and Walgreens for a certain plastic daggar that #2 had to have and I said he could get if he was good. So dinner's on and #3 decides he wants a "cow tail" and that's a poop treat, so he's off to the potty, but it's not just a &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;sit there and do your business &lt;/span&gt;trip, it's an &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I've got to be completly naked and need my special potty seat from upstairs and I'm just going to sit there and wait&lt;/span&gt; trip.  Oh, and did I mention that I ran 6 miles and haven't showered yet, and I STINK and can hardly stand to be in the same room as myself!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To those of you who are going through the same thing, I'm sorry to complain, I know there are many many many more things to complain about with regards to getting out of diapers.  My life is pretty good, all in all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3746761757517537597?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3746761757517537597/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3746761757517537597' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3746761757517537597'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3746761757517537597'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/praying-to-porcelain-gods.html' title='Praying to the Porcelain Gods'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-7186124875111040818</id><published>2008-08-19T23:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-20T00:12:56.174-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Long Lost Love</title><content type='html'>I'd forgotten how much I love camping.  This past weekend we took the fam up into the hills for a two night camping trip with two other families from our daughter's school class.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;IT WAS AWESOME!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think that since the birth of #2, I'd convinced myself that camping was way too much work and not worth the headache, but boy was I wrong.  While it was a little bit of a chore getting everything together, once we got there, all six kids were off into the woods.  There was a very cool open space that was shaded and had a huge fallen tree in the middle that was across a small road from our campsite, that the kids called their "clubhouse."  They were off exploring and creating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At one point in the weekend, the group divided into groups and #2 was in the cooking group and came to me asking for a plate and knife and Twinkie, to serve to the other groups.  He came back a few minutes later and said, "They loved it!!!"  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Of course they did&lt;/span&gt;, I wanted to say, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;it's a TWINKIE!!!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realized that while staying in a hotel may have some creature comforts:&lt;br /&gt;-many pillows&lt;br /&gt;-soft beds&lt;br /&gt;-a flush toilet within a few feet instead of a few &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;hundred&lt;/span&gt; feet&lt;br /&gt;-a shower&lt;br /&gt;-temperature control&lt;br /&gt;-no bugs (I hope)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BUT there are also a few drawbacks, like:&lt;br /&gt;-everyone in a confined space and when you want to say "go play," they can only jump from bed to bed&lt;br /&gt;-there is usually a TV, which doesn't really work for my crew&lt;br /&gt;-entertainment requires serious effort - packing everyone in the car, making sure we have enough snacks/diapers/water/time to see or do what will fill the time&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm now ready to go at a moments notice!!  Bring on the woods!!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-7186124875111040818?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/7186124875111040818/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=7186124875111040818' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7186124875111040818'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7186124875111040818'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/long-lost-love.html' title='Long Lost Love'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1029253480986375832</id><published>2008-08-01T00:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-08-01T00:28:40.880-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lazy Summer Days</title><content type='html'>I love beginning the days reading stories to my children in bed.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Next, I love it when I ask them for a few minutes, (uninterrupted (ha ha!) on the computer so I can pay bills), and I overhear the make believe game they've created.  Our sons have developed recurring dog characters, Rex &amp;amp; Rover, who visit our house and according to my mom, "it's amazing how they stay in character."  So they'd come up with a dog school, and our daughter was the teacher/principal or something like that.  They entertained themselves for about an hour with this game.  We were all happy as clams.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We were in desperate need of a Costco trip, so we went, came home, made lunch and put away everything while they watched School House Rock.  What is better than getting out of the car and hearing your son sing, "Lolly lolly lolly, get your adverbs here."  I had to put my hand on my head to keep from floating away.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I love having nothing to do.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1029253480986375832?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1029253480986375832/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1029253480986375832' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1029253480986375832'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1029253480986375832'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/08/lazy-summer-days.html' title='Lazy Summer Days'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-7745816305437473418</id><published>2008-07-27T19:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-31T23:34:49.639-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Happy Birthday, Big Boy!!</title><content type='html'>I just returned from #2's birthday gift.  He turns 5 on Tuesday, and this weekend was &lt;a href="http://www.comic-con.org/"&gt;Comic Con&lt;/a&gt;, so being a boy who loves superheroes and action figures, we decided this would be a fun way to spend the afternoon with him.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We planned for my husband to take him yesterday, but after a quick visit to QuickCare for a muscle strain the his chest (my husband, not my son), he was not capable of walking anywhere, let alone a huge convention center, I accompanied my son this afternoon.  We were only there for less than two hours, but that was the perfect amount of time for his attention span.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;His eyes were wide, and he refused to take a picture with anyone in costume, but he was happy to stand next to replicas.  We just wandered and he led me by the hand where he wanted to go.  It was great!!  I love time with one child where they are in charge of what they want to see, and where to go.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We bought some action figures: Batman, Martian Manhunter, Evil Batman (didn't know that one existed), the Riddler, and a free Nemesis Prime.  I found secret pleasure watching him open the boxes on these collectors editions and play with them.  Evil Batman has lost an arm, but oh well, it's a toy!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Happy Birthday to you!!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-7745816305437473418?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/7745816305437473418/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=7745816305437473418' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7745816305437473418'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7745816305437473418'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/07/happy-birthday-big-boy.html' title='Happy Birthday, Big Boy!!'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-7767807951857691000</id><published>2008-07-19T21:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-19T21:28:02.223-07:00</updated><title type='text'>bedtime</title><content type='html'>Like most parents, I read stories to my children before bedtime.  It's one of our favorite times of the day, #2 especially, he'll listen as long as I will read.  Tonight I was reading to all three children, but since I have only two sides, conflict erupted over who could lie next to Mom.  #1 and #2, being bigger won out.  #3being the creative person he is, poked his little head between the book and my stomach and proceeded to lie &lt;em&gt;on top&lt;/em&gt; of me, leaving me just enough room to see the book.  Good times.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-7767807951857691000?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/7767807951857691000/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=7767807951857691000' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7767807951857691000'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7767807951857691000'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/07/bedtime.html' title='bedtime'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2418268174049148771</id><published>2008-06-18T22:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-09T08:00:55.661-07:00</updated><title type='text'>#2</title><content type='html'>Our second child, a son is 4, almost 5.  Beginning last February (2007) we started down a rough road with him.  He was violent.  The first question people always ask me is, "What does he watch on TV."  To which I responded, "Sesame Street, Cyber Chase, BackYardigans, The UpsideDown Show," basically PBS and Noggin, nothing violent.  That is the time my husband relocated to our current location and we finished the school year and tried to sell our house, so I figured it was our son's way of dealing with Dad being gone for two weeks at a time, and the general turmoil in our lives.  I thought the violence would pass when we got back together again.  It didn't.  We made a big move, so I excused it again because it was a fairly traumatic event in the life of a 4 year old.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It got to a point where I felt like I was taking a pit bull to the playground.  I never knew what would set him off, so I was constantly on edge, afraid he would hurt someone badly.  One day, he pushed down an 18 month old neighbor, hitting her head on the corner of our flagstone step and had a giant goose egg on her forehead.  I was mortified.  The next day I made an appointment with two places to have him evaluated by a behaviorist and child psychologist.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A few weeks later, I heard a &lt;a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=19212514"&gt;piece on NPR&lt;/a&gt; about children and their play, and thought, "my kids rely too much on others to entertain them."  That happened to be the same day when I spoke with my dad and he mentioned how kids these days are severely lacking in interpersonal skills because they rely too heavily on video games and TV.  So I turned off the TV.  From then on, they watch &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;maybe&lt;/span&gt; 2 hours a week.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It was a night and day difference with #2.  He no longer lashed out at other kids.  He was no longer irritated by the tags in his shirts or underwear.  He didn't freak out if his socks had a wrinkle in them.  He did whine for the TV every so often, but now he rarely asks.  One of the professionals said that the way images on TV are made these days, sometimes children have a tough time integrating the brain activity while they're watching a show into their body and it causes them to become irritable and hyper-sensitive to things.  When I picked him up at camp today, he and some other kids were playing Candyland, so I waited while they finished.  He didn't win and was really disappointed, and went off and cried.  I know he's just tired from a full day of activities like he's never had before, and he likes to win, but the crying was nothing like a tantrum he might have thrown six months ago, and I'm so glad.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I just checked on him, asleep, and just had to smile for the way things have turned out.  It seemed like a really rough spell with him, but now we get to enjoy each other.  He always asks me why words are what they are, so for his birthday I found a few etymology books for him, and he's excited about it.  Today he asked me if we could make strawberry jam again, and I am so excited to do that with him.   &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My husband and I have struggled over sending him to kindergarten in the fall, and decided to keep him in preschool for one more year, and I am thrilled about that.  This week he's in summer camp.  When I pick him up after 3:30, I realized that we don't really have much time to do the fun things we like to do, like make jam, so I'm extra excited that we get another year to explore together.   &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He's such a cool kid, I'm so glad he's mine.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2418268174049148771?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2418268174049148771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2418268174049148771' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2418268174049148771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2418268174049148771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/2.html' title='#2'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-788595568497576298</id><published>2008-06-14T23:23:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-14T23:29:36.822-07:00</updated><title type='text'>nighttime</title><content type='html'>It's 11:23 pm. according to my computer's clock, my french doors are open onto my balcony and there are birds chirping noisily in the tree on my street.  They seem to do this every night.  They're not owls, mind you, but actual songs and chirping.  I thought they only did this when the sun came up.  I wish I had a way to identify their calls.  Maybe they're telling me I should go to bed, tomorrow is Father's Day and my husband will be gone all day, so it's really "mother's day,"  I have a lot planned and ought to be well rested with lots of patience so I don't yell at three of the four people who are the most dear to me.  Thank you for beautiful reminders.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Good night.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-788595568497576298?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/788595568497576298/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=788595568497576298' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/788595568497576298'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/788595568497576298'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/nighttime.html' title='nighttime'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-4596219993295262836</id><published>2008-06-14T23:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-25T12:47:24.516-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Blogging World</title><content type='html'>I have a friend/acquaintance who has a blog, so I decided to check out her links on the side.  I am curious to know if I am just overly paranoid, or if there are really freaks online who will look at pictures of my children (if I put them online) and track us down if I put too many distinguishing characteristics of us on my blog.  I know a lot of people who really put their life stories online, complete with photos and location.  Am I a paranoid freak for not trusting the mysteries of the online world with my life?  I certainly trust the web with my credit card information when I make purchases.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-4596219993295262836?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/4596219993295262836/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=4596219993295262836' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4596219993295262836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4596219993295262836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/blogging-world.html' title='Blogging World'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-4471916937194481153</id><published>2008-06-10T08:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-24T07:27:32.004-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Young &amp; Old</title><content type='html'>I don't feel old.  I feel like I'm relatively good with technology.  I know how to send an e-mail, write a blog, find pdf directions of how to put the new bed together, download books and music, etc.  I'm getting better at texting, thanks to my friend who has a real job, and can't always talk on the phone.  But do I need to get a Facebook/MySpace page?  I've never even been to those websites, ever.  (Like the people who say, "You have to watch out for pornography on the internet, sometimes it just jumps out at you and you can't get away fast enough."  When does this happen?  In my 15 years online, I've accidentally come across pornography once.  Yep, I was working in elections, looking for a legitimate website four previous, but had since been turned into a porno site.)  Are these two social webistes what separates the generations?  I'm not sure because my husband invited me to join his LinkedIn contacts.  But I haven't joined because I'm not really interested in networking, unless there are people who can tell me how to add more hours into the day so I can do my laundry, or help me keep my house in order while spending time with my children, or decent people to watch my children while I go out during the day, or who can move my name up on the waiting list for the nursing program that's closest to my house).  I feel like I've done pretty well for myself in a new town, and online.  Maybe it's time I recognize that thirty-something is no longer &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;young,&lt;/span&gt;  but what is the inbetween called, because I certainly don't feel &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;old.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-4471916937194481153?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/4471916937194481153/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=4471916937194481153' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4471916937194481153'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4471916937194481153'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/young-old.html' title='Young &amp; Old'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5910230090375670346</id><published>2008-06-10T08:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-11T15:30:37.378-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Room Saga</title><content type='html'>A week or two ago, our daughter was in tears at bedtime because one of her friends said her room was "small and oldish."  This is my daughter's friend who has a little of a mean girl slant to her, but also has some great qualities, too.  Our daughter has gotten in with her and another girl and the drama ensues, regularly . . . much too regularly for my comfort in first grade.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My husband and I subsequently discussed how the room situation for our children is a little out of whack.  Our daughter sleeps in the small room with a twin bed, but the boys' train table and toys in her room and also the four year old's clothes in the closet.  (When we moved to this house, I had intended for the small room to be the four year old's because he's the middle child and I thought he could use his own space, before our daughter &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;needed &lt;/span&gt;her own room, but he didn't want to sleep in there alone and we haven't yet changed the closets).  In our discussion we recognized the potentially tough situation we'd be putting ourselves in if we immediately bought her what she needed in order to face her friend.  (One of the other complaints about her room was that she doesn't have a tv in her room, but we refuse to budge on that, ever, so she'll have to get over that one).  Also, how do we address the lesson here that there will always be people who have things nicer and better than you, or people who don't like what you have, so what you need is to be happy with what you have/are, and you'll be fine, etc.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;With that said, we found a smokin' deal on craigslist for a bed, 6-drawer dresser and nightstand.  So we bought it.  We put it together last night and it looks great!!  But there's one problem, we have a twin mattress and the bed frame is for a full.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ironically, I think she still likes it.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5910230090375670346?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5910230090375670346/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5910230090375670346' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5910230090375670346'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5910230090375670346'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/room-saga.html' title='The Room Saga'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-6495057148935002679</id><published>2008-06-10T07:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-10T08:00:08.364-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Gender equality</title><content type='html'>On our way home from a picnic yesterday, my four year old asked me, "Mom, is there a Mississippi Road?"&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me:&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;"Yes, there's also a Mississippi River."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Him:  "Is there a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Mister&lt;/span&gt;-sippi River?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Me: "No."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Him:  "No fair."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-6495057148935002679?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/6495057148935002679/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=6495057148935002679' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6495057148935002679'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6495057148935002679'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/gender-equality.html' title='Gender equality'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5266218409928713906</id><published>2008-06-07T20:47:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-09T15:41:29.122-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Chop Chop Ziggy Ziggy</title><content type='html'>Yesterday was haircut day at my house.  I cut the two boys, and then took the scissors to my own hair.  I don't really have the patience to get my hair cut professionally anymore - I hate scheduling appointments, then scheduling a sitter or coordinate with my husband to watch kiddos, and then the cost. . . forget it!!  So I hacked it myself with help from our niece.  I was pleased to have it off my neck and I didn't have to pay from my neck.  Everyone's happy.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Friday night was the auction/raffle for my 4 year-old's preschool, and guess what I won.  You guessed it, not one, but TWO haircuts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"&gt;I think the hair gods are trying to tell me something.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5266218409928713906?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5266218409928713906/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5266218409928713906' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5266218409928713906'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5266218409928713906'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/chop-chop-ziggy-ziggy.html' title='Chop Chop Ziggy Ziggy'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2916883233555182045</id><published>2008-06-06T09:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-06-07T20:47:04.490-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Marathon</title><content type='html'>Well, I did it!  I successfully completed my first marathon, and I loved it (the running part).  Afterwards, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, but the 26.2 was very fun.  I ran most of the race with a friend I've been training with and that was wonderful.  I've never run a race with another person, let alone one I've trained with for four months.  It was a nice capstone.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My dear friend joined me on the course for a couple of miles which was so much fun.  Our club coach and another member of our team came and ran the last couple of miles with us.  I'm pretty convinced that 26.2 isn't such a big deal (mileage itself), it's being alone with your thoughts for 4+ hours (which is extremely rare in my case), so it was great to have people to run with.  It was also great to see my family along the route.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Later in the day, I was exhausted, and slept for three hours, and then promptly forgot that we have a hot tub.  That could have helped the recovery a little.  Monday and Tuesday after the race, I could barely make it down the stairs, my quads were so sore.  Wednesday was even better, and after a massage on Thursday (one hour on just my legs), Friday I feel back to normal.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think I've found a new/old hobbie.  New, because I've never run that far before, and old because I've always been a runner.  When I was a sprinter in high school, I used to fake injury if our training run was anything over a mile, now 8miles is an &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;easy&lt;/span&gt; run.  If my coach could only see me now.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2916883233555182045?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2916883233555182045/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2916883233555182045' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2916883233555182045'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2916883233555182045'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/06/marathon.html' title='Marathon'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3025922032513879847</id><published>2008-05-07T17:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-05-07T18:14:32.798-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Shades of Gray</title><content type='html'>I'm in the middle of my 10 day vacation in the Carribean.  It's wonderful to say the least.  Today we began our day by renting scooters.  After about 20 minutes wobbling along streets I didn't know, almost laying it down, and basically being terrified, I decided to go back.  No problem, because I had plenty of reading material for the beach. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my bag, I had the two most recent issues of &lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/"&gt;The Sun&lt;/a&gt;.  One article in particular struck me, &lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/388/stories_for_an_unborn_son"&gt;Stories For An Unborn Son&lt;/a&gt;.  The gist of the piece was this:  a woman is a carrier for a certain genetic disorder (hypohidrotic ectodermal dysplasia, or HED) that is passed from mother to son, sometimes.  According to the author, it makes life difficult because the particular genetic mutation is that the son is born without sweat glands, and a few other manifestations of the disorder.  The author discusses her desire to have a child, be pregnant, etc., but she struggles with the thought of knowingly bringing a child into the world whose life would be very difficult.  There are tests available now to determine if a fetus has the disorder, or is merely a carrier (as is usually the case for girls) or does not have the disorder at all (which is possible, too).  So she struggles with what she would do if presented with the hypothetical, or the cost of IVF and creating an embryo that does not have the disorder or is a carrier. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This essay reminded me that what we need from other people is love and understanding.  I know of a friend who aborted a fetus with a genetic disorder, and whether it was an easy decision for she and her husband to make, or very agonizing, I have no idea, but who am I to say it's horrible, or wrong, etc.?  What I mean is this: I think we would better as a community, nation, human race if more people gave each other a little leway for the things they do.  Each of us have our struggles, and I think the last thing we need is to add the judgements of others on top.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But here is where I'm stumped.  How do I teach this to my children who live in a very black and white world?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3025922032513879847?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3025922032513879847/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3025922032513879847' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3025922032513879847'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3025922032513879847'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/05/shades-of-gray.html' title='Shades of Gray'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-476137821870884741</id><published>2008-04-27T12:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-27T13:02:13.006-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I ditched church today</title><content type='html'>Well, after an involuntary hiatus (child #3 dropped our laptop) I'm back online. While I was away I had many experiences where I thought to myself &lt;em&gt;I need to write about that on my blog&lt;/em&gt; but I couldn't. So as in my sporatic journaling over my 32 years, I will begin with today. I'm a little rusty at this writing thing, so please be gentle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ran a half marathon this morning. It was great! I finished a tough course, pushed myself a little, and still paid enough attention to my body to know when to take a break when I needed it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few comments:&lt;br /&gt;I woke up at 3:45 am this morning to prepare, make sure I found a parking spot, made it to the shuttle, etc. I arrived at the start before 6am. Which was great for what I thought was a 6:30 start. But no, it didn't start for another hour. My husband said, &lt;em&gt;And you didn't have your book.&lt;/em&gt; But I could have, because they had a clothing drop off at the start and pick up at the finish. I've learned my lesson.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Early on in the race, there was a car driving through the runners. It was somewhat dangerous and a little annoying, but I moved on. There were other runners who couldn't, for whatever reason. They proceeded to throw cups of water on her car and block it from moving any faster than about a 9 minute mile pace. There was probably a time in my life where I might have been one of those runners. (This next statement is by no means meant to be boastful or say &lt;em&gt;Shame on them&lt;/em&gt;, merely to recognize that I've come a long way on the road to being the person I want to be). I commented to the woman I was running with, "Gosh, I'd feel bad if she were trying to get to someone who was injured on the course." And I really meant it. As a runner, in a race of about 10,000 people, cars should not be on the course, or clearly separated, but I'd like to think she really needed to get somewhere and that was her best option, or maybe she was just stupid, but I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Around mile 11 on the course I witnessed a beautiful thing. Picture this: a man in a wetsuit, with a surfboard in one arm and a 2-3 year old little girl in the other, people running by, people cheering, lots of commotion. He bent down for her to capture a butterfly that was landing on the sidewalk. It was wonderful to be reminded me of the way children force us adults to look around and enjoy the moment. I think I need that lesson about once an hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've always run alone, until this past few months when I joined a running club to train for an upcoming marathon. The half marathon today was a warm up, but not everyone from the club ran, and aside from matching t-shirts, we weren't a group today. No set meeting place before or after. I just so happened to find two women from the group that I run the long distances with. One woman was so excited for the race, she was out ahead of us before we reached the first mile. I ran about 7 miles with the other women, and then I needed more liquid, so she went on ahead of me. No problem, I probably would have done the same thing. I found people along the way who had the same pace for a while, but I refuse to be random comment girl and start up conversations with a complete stranger because our feet happen to move at the same pace some of the time. It wasn't until the end when I had no one to congratulate, or congratulate me, that I felt a little sad. I certainly wasn't going to say to my husband, "Husband, arrive at the finish at 9:30, fight the crowds, keep three kids together and happy and come hug your sweaty wife when she crosses the finish line." I've taken three kids enough places to know what's worth the effort . . . this was not. With that said, I still longed to see someone I knew. The marathon will be a different story, with my family, and the running group . . . I hope.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-476137821870884741?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/476137821870884741/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=476137821870884741' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/476137821870884741'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/476137821870884741'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/04/well-after-involuntary-hiatus-child-3.html' title='I ditched church today'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-3222052475553868273</id><published>2008-02-14T21:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-14T22:19:51.785-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I love Valentine's Day . . .</title><content type='html'>. . . just like I love every other day (or try to at least).  I love this day, not for the wonderful surprises one might expect, but simply for the opportunity to set apart a day for LOVE.  It's a great thing when you stop to think about it.  I know, every day ought to be about love, but there's just a different feeling when everyone thinks about it at the same time, all day long. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We don't get worked up at our house about big gifts, or gifts at all for that matter.  I like to buy my children a t-shirt they can wear on this day, and I usually find a book for each of them, but not much beyond that.   The real gift is watching my children make their own valentines for their classmates.  I was so excited to watch #2 write his whole name on each heart, about 25 times, and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.  That's a gift in and of itself.  I loved watching #1 heft her bag home and feel grateful that there's a new rule in school, bring a valentine for each child in the class, so it's not a popularity contest like I remember this day as a child.  There are only 15 children in her class, so it's not like there's a much room for a contest, but still.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate the way this day has turned into a frenzy.  Buy these roses, chocolates (my goodness, the lines in the chocolate shops today was unreal!!), pjs, "to show that special someone you really care."   My husband left for work before I woke up this morning, and is still there at 9:53pm.  We took him dinner (a heart shaped pizza with heart pepperoni, salad and cupcake), and maybe I'll see him before I fall asleep, but if I don't, I'm confident in his love for me.  I don't need a day dictated by whomever to tell me I'm loved, I already know that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I've come a long way.&lt;br /&gt;It was Valentine's day eleven years ago when my husband, then, an acquaintance in the apartment complex, called to ask me out.  Well, at this time, there was a popular book called &lt;a href="http://www.therulesbook.com/"&gt;The Rules&lt;/a&gt; out which dictated &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;the rules&lt;/span&gt; of dating.  It was all a big game with rules like: if you didn't get asked out by Wednesday for that Friday, you're busy (that's what you would tell said guy), even if you were going to sit home by yourself.  So he called, and my best friend/roommate told him I was busy (because it was Valentine's day and I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;should&lt;/span&gt; have been busy) and we proceeded to do absolutely nothing.  It was a horrible day because I couldn't grasp these so-called rules, like I'm sure many teenage &amp;amp; twenty-something guys and girls who get so let down on days like this.  Darn those marketers who convince the general population that this day is a big deal, and you better go all out, and if you don't, you're a loser. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How about enjoying what you have and who you have to spend it with, huh?  Isn't that enough?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's Rule #1 in my book.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-3222052475553868273?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/3222052475553868273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=3222052475553868273' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3222052475553868273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/3222052475553868273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/02/i-love-valentines-day.html' title='I love Valentine&apos;s Day . . .'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-8812313000736122480</id><published>2008-02-07T18:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-07T20:27:18.782-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dinner Time!!!</title><content type='html'>I heard a story on NPR this morning that has made me think, all day.  I often hear stories that give me pause, many things are interesting and help me get beyond the minutia of my day, but this &lt;a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18753715"&gt;story&lt;/a&gt; caused me to reevaluate my role as a mother more than anything I have read/heard in a long time. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The story had to do with how time spent at the family dinner table is the greatest predictor of success in a child's life.  I've heard this a lot, but dismissed it because my husband gets home too late from work to eat together as a family.  I realized there's nothing stopping me from sitting down with my children at the table to have a meal with them instead of standing over them at the island while they eat and I do stuff.   I'm sure the results are the same for single parents, the point is &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;time&lt;/span&gt; spent with your children.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the years, I have found many excuses not to sit down with them:&lt;br /&gt;    1.    they think the food I like is disgusting, and I don't really feel like eating Mac &amp;amp; Cheese (even though I claim not to be a short order cook, there are very few meals that all of us like)&lt;br /&gt;    2.   in order for a good evening, I like to feed them around 5-5:30, and I'm not really hungry               that early&lt;br /&gt;    3.    if I sit down with them they constantly ask for things, so I'm standing more than I'm able to sit&lt;br /&gt;    4.    sometimes it's hard to have 4 different plates of leftovers hot at the same time, so "you eat when your food's ready"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sure I could come up with a million other excuses to continue doing what I've done in the past, but I figure I'm lucky enough to start this &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;now&lt;/span&gt; and make it a habit, not when they're 16, 14, &amp;amp; 12.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I started tonight.  This time, the food I made, really was disgusting.  #2 wanted drumsticks when we went to Trader Joe's today, but I hate meat on the bones, (especially chicken because all the veins show through), thus I'm not very skilled at this type of preparation.  I put it in the crockpot with some cream of chicken soup, and it was gross!!!! Despite the grossness, the four of us sat and talked (well, three of us sat, #3 was done before I finished cutting).  #1 told me about her Chinese new year celebration at school, and the significance of dragons and lanterns.  I usually ask her on the way home from school to tell me what was fun about her day, or what she had for lunch, or who she sat next to, or what specials she had (I keep asking until she starts talking), but this time, I could actually look at her face while she was talking, instead of having her look at the back of my head while I'm driving.  I felt like I actually had time for her and the boys, there was no where else I had to be, and it was GREAT!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you don't already do this with your family, I highly recommend it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-8812313000736122480?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/8812313000736122480/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=8812313000736122480' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8812313000736122480'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/8812313000736122480'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/02/dinner-time.html' title='Dinner Time!!!'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2503159984274521561</id><published>2008-02-05T22:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-05T23:33:34.318-08:00</updated><title type='text'>When Yes may mean Yes, but probably means No</title><content type='html'>For the record . . . I HATE ballot measures.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my life before motherhood, I was the Voter Outreach Coordinator for the state.  I worked in the Elections Office and was highly involved in elections on a non-partisan level (even though I worked for a Republican administration). It was there when I realized the craziness of ballot measures, be they referenda or initiatives (there &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;is&lt;/span&gt; a difference).  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;An initiative is a proposal to enact a law. A referendum seeks to repeal a law before it takes effect; the electorate is asked to decide on the law just as the Legislature and governor did &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(from an article on &lt;a href="http://www.latimes.com/news/local/orange/la-me-cap4feb04,1,7958691.column"&gt;California gaming&lt;/a&gt; ballot measures).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My frustration stems from the way ballot measures always seem to be  full of double negatives and legal jargon that the average Joe can't make heads or tails of, let alone decide if they want to vote yes or no.  My husband and I spent so much time talking and researching the language of certain ballot measures that our votes still canceled each other  because  I meant to vote no and voted yes.   He knows people in his office who purposefully skipped over those particular issues because they were too confusing . . .  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;for an attorney&lt;/span&gt;, they didn't even make sense!!!  How is this even possible? (Please no lawyer jokes here, I'm married to one.)  That aside,  how do the election gods expect Joe Average, working at the drive thru at McDonalds, making $8/hour (yes I am making assumptions about people who hold low level service jobs, but insert any job that requires a high school diploma &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;or equivalent&lt;/span&gt;) to vote on something that doesn't make sense to the highly educated, six figure income members of the population (now it may seem like I'm assuming that salary is directly proportional to smarts, but I know better)?  The beauty of our system is that Joe Average's vote counts just as much as the highly educated person, however when it doesn't make sense to either one and no one in between, how does that help anyone???&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having been involved in drafting legislation, I know these things are riddled with attorneys.  I know that members of state legislatures have legal counsel to write and advise when drafting legislation.  Laws go through  many drafts and committees and tweaking, but when I vote for  a state legislator, I subscribe to the theory that I'm voting for the person who I think will do the best job and make the best decisions with the information they have with the best intentions for their constituents.  I expect them to research the issues and use good judgment in voting. I elect someone to do that because I don't have the means to do that myself.  It's not my time or season for serving in that way right now.  It's their job to address the issues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So it makes my blood boil when ballot measures come up on election day because while some people think it's a great way for people to take part, I say "Baloney!!!" Ballot measures are so twisted that people skip them all together, feel one way and vote only to find out later they should have voted the other way, or just vote all yes or all no on principle.  Once again, how does this help us?  I thought we lived in a representative democracy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the record, I politely decline to sign any petitions when approached outside Trader Joe's or place where registered voters may frequent.  And it's not because I may have one to three children with me at any given time sitting patiently/screaming/fighting, I tell them I don't want to vote for anything on the ballot but candidates.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2503159984274521561?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2503159984274521561/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2503159984274521561' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2503159984274521561'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2503159984274521561'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/02/when-yes-may-mean-yes-but-probably.html' title='When Yes may mean Yes, but probably means No'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1879588913262899373</id><published>2008-01-29T15:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T16:43:45.690-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Young and Old</title><content type='html'>Today I watched my youngest son interact with our elderly neighbor, and it was priceless.  Yesterday our neighbor asked us to take him to buy cat food for his cat.  My son wouldn't say a word or even look up at him (and he even bought #3 a donut), but today was a different story.  #3 greeted our neighbor as he came across the street to ride with us to pick up my daughter.  Then while we were getting in the car, #3 sat on the armrest in between the two front seats and talked to him, noticed he had a few scratches and needed a band-aid, tickled his ear.  All this while the other two watched in amazement and they'll barely speak to our neighbor.  He's old, I think he's had a stroke because he drools (which really unnerves #2).  I was touched to see my young child not recognize things that might otherwise bother other children and adults for that matter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1879588913262899373?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1879588913262899373/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1879588913262899373' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1879588913262899373'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1879588913262899373'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/young-and-old.html' title='Young and Old'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5726534797686539784</id><published>2008-01-27T21:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T15:07:26.829-08:00</updated><title type='text'>We Thank Thee Oh God</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://newsroom.lds.org/ldsnewsroom/eng/news-releases-stories/beloved-church-president-gordon-b-hinckley-dies-at-97"&gt;President Gordon B. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Hinckley&lt;/span&gt; has died at 97.&lt;/a&gt;  I am saddened by this news because I loved listening to his words.  He was the kind of man who made me feel like I was doing a good job (at anything) and was always able to make suggestions for improvement in one's life that were reasonable and good.  I feel like I heard on a number of occasions things like:&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;  Husbands, be good to your wife.  Wives, use softer voices.  Children, obey your parents.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(The above are not direct quotes, merely my impression.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I appreciated the way he always seemed to build people up and wanted everyone to feel welcome.  His messages were simple and universal in that we can all be better to each other.  That to me seems like a prophet for the world.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In our last stake conference, (it was a satellite broadcast from &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;SLC&lt;/span&gt;), President &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Hinckley&lt;/span&gt; gave 4 points for a happy home.  (I sure wish I wasn't stopping someone from writing on the wall of the church, or punching another child for touching his toy, but such is my lot right now, and I'm  praying that his remarks will be transcribed and made available online.  I'll post them when I find them.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I will miss his kind and heartfelt words this upcoming April and many general conferences to come.  I will miss the love that I felt in listening to him speak and reading his words.  But what a great day for him to be reunited with his wife of over 60 years who passed away almost four years ago.   Thank goodness there is more than just our time on Earth.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5726534797686539784?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5726534797686539784/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5726534797686539784' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5726534797686539784'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5726534797686539784'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/we-thank-thee-oh-god.html' title='We Thank Thee Oh God'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-4383153725370267422</id><published>2008-01-24T22:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-24T23:29:02.562-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A few more of my favorite things</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/R5mOOT43lVI/AAAAAAAAAAU/Ffq5Ae0uin8/s1600-h/DSCF5342.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/R5mOOT43lVI/AAAAAAAAAAU/Ffq5Ae0uin8/s200/DSCF5342.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159311224637723986" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/R5mNwj43lUI/AAAAAAAAAAM/yKmXb-kKbqI/s1600-h/DSCF5346.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/R5mNwj43lUI/AAAAAAAAAAM/yKmXb-kKbqI/s200/DSCF5346.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159310713536615746" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This past weekend #2 and I flew home to visit my dad for the long weekend.  The first meal I had was at my favorite burrito shack.  I practically fasted for two meals before just to fully appreciate the meal.  And it was all I've hoped for and waited for over a year.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While I was home, I was able to meet my college roommate and her husband for lunch one day. She and I were assigned to a quad our freshman year and since we were both from the same town, I called her before we arrived on campus.  After hanging up the phone, I thought, "Oh no, what have I gotten myself into?"  She sounded terribly boring on the phone.  She told me later that I'd woken her up and she was a little disoriented.  Anyway, she has become one of my favorite people.  I love her sense of humor and her honesty.   She is a true friend, who I could not talk to for a month or more, and we'd just pick up where we left off.  The thing that makes me smile is that her husband has the same dry sense of humor and mild manner that she does.  I feel like I've known him forever because they just seem like two parts of the same whole.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My best friend and I have recently started making ponchos for little girls.  The two most recent ones are pictured above (I'm not quite the blogging genius I might like to be in order to put the images right where I'd like them, oh well).  I love being creative and useful.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-4383153725370267422?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/4383153725370267422/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=4383153725370267422' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4383153725370267422'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4383153725370267422'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/few-more-of-my-favorite-things.html' title='A few more of my favorite things'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g-Xz6MnNF1w/R5mOOT43lVI/AAAAAAAAAAU/Ffq5Ae0uin8/s72-c/DSCF5342.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-754225148922724066</id><published>2008-01-14T21:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-14T21:27:15.206-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Out of the mouth of babes</title><content type='html'>#2 has been complaining that his head hurts and he said his eyes hurt when he closed them.  I suggested that maybe he has what I had yesterday. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, “What did you have yesterday?”&lt;br /&gt;“A head cold,” I responded.&lt;br /&gt;“Oh, I guess I have a head hot, and an eye hot, too.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yep.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-754225148922724066?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/754225148922724066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=754225148922724066' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/754225148922724066'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/754225148922724066'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/out-of-mouth-of-babes.html' title='Out of the mouth of babes'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-1731526486336170734</id><published>2008-01-13T16:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-13T17:11:05.166-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Things that I look forward to</title><content type='html'>Here's a list, in no apparent order, and by no means exhaustive:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/"&gt;The Sun&lt;/a&gt;  - a magazine&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://brainchildmag.com/"&gt;Brain, Child&lt;/a&gt; - a magazine&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://www.chinaberry.com/"&gt;Chinaberry&lt;/a&gt; - a catalog/website with cool stuff&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://www.tatteredcover.com/NASApp/store/IndexJsp"&gt;The Tattered Cover&lt;/a&gt; - a bookstore in Denver&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://thisamericanlife.org/"&gt;This American Life&lt;/a&gt; - a radio show on NPR&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/"&gt;A Prarie Home Companion&lt;/a&gt; - another radio show on NPR&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://www.ted.com/"&gt;TED Talks&lt;/a&gt; - interesting ideas&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://abc.go.com/primetime/lost/index?pn=index"&gt;Lost&lt;/a&gt; - a TV show&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://www.fox.com/24/"&gt;24&lt;/a&gt; - another TV show&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-  &lt;a href="http://alpha.cbs.com/primetime/amazing_race12/"&gt;The Amazing Race&lt;/a&gt; - another TV show that satisfies my desire to travel (right now)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just thought I'd share.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-1731526486336170734?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/1731526486336170734/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=1731526486336170734' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1731526486336170734'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/1731526486336170734'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/things-that-i-look-forward-to.html' title='Things that I look forward to'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-2722239835006012077</id><published>2008-01-08T17:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-13T16:32:49.902-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Your life vs. the one you were given</title><content type='html'>At what point in an &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;adult's&lt;/span&gt; life does it become your own? What I mean by this is it seems like people spend a lot of time explaining away their behavior as a function of the way they were raised. I'm not sure there is a person out there who had a perfect childhood, whose parents fell short of the ideal, large or small. So when is it no longer okay to blame it on your upbringing, and time to take control of what you are and what your life has become?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've heard recently from people who were raised in the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;LDS&lt;/span&gt; church that they've become disillusioned with the church itself. For instance, what happens when you've been raised to see the Bishop of your ward as "the judge in Israel" (which some people translate into somehow a perfect person) and he ends up being a child molester, or something not as &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;heinous&lt;/span&gt;, maybe he has an affair or whatever happens to people. Or if your bishop tells you and your spouse you should have children, when you think it's none of his business. They're not perfect. But what do you do with the information that your Bishop is not the perfect person you were raised to believe him to be?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or what about if someone gives a talk at General Conference (bi-annual meeting of the entire church broadcast via satellite where talks are given by church leadership) that you don't necessarily agree with? Case in point, this past October Julie Beck, General Relief Society President gave a talk entitled &lt;a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=2354fccf2b7db010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&amp;amp;locale=0&amp;amp;sourceId=dba62bce258f5110VgnVCM100000176f620a____&amp;amp;hideNav=1"&gt;Mothers Who Know&lt;/a&gt;. There are many who view this talk as putting women back in the home, barefoot and pregnant. That's a little exaggerated, but you get the picture. I heard the talk and read it later and viewed it as an ideal, something to aim for, but consciously avoided internalizing it in any way because I feel like I'm doing the best I can and am not in a position to pile on anything else right now. I think she may even make some statements that I flat out don't agree with, and I'm okay with that, too, so I basically ignore it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not being raised in the church, I have a different perspective on church leadership. Joining as an adult, I think I have enough sense (I hope) to know what is right for myself, and enough sense to figure out when I need to pray about a certain principle to find out what is true. Isn't that what the church is based on? This is one of the reasons joining the church made sense to me, I didn't have to believe anyone just because they said it was true (and still don't have to), I can find out for myself, as can every member of the church.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With that, what is one to do when they disagree with something someone says at General Conference, or one of the church's positions on something? I don't have the answer, but I have come across something that until today, I wasn't aware of as a philosophy, but think there's real value in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A friend of mine recommended an article in a magazine, &lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/"&gt;The Sun&lt;/a&gt; (one of my favorite magazines) regarding a Japanese philosophy called &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Naikan&lt;/span&gt; (which I'm not going to explain, simply say "read the &lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/348"&gt;article&lt;/a&gt;."  It's the interview with Gregg &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Krech&lt;/span&gt;.)  It resonates with me in that if we concentrate on the things we've been given in our lives from the people around us, we're in debt.  I think this can be translated into an &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;LDS&lt;/span&gt; perspective in that if we attribute everything we've been given, people, things, opportunities, to God, we're still in debt.  Even further, no matter if we're Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Atheist&lt;/span&gt;, we have many things in our life to be grateful for, and if we acknowledge how they came to us, and recognize them as sources of gratitude, our lives will be enriched, and we will stop being concerned about the potential misconceptions we were raised on, and start looking at what we can contribute to the whole with the knowledge we now possess.  The knowledge is that we are in debt to God, to the universe, to the people around us for where we are today, and there's no time like the present to move forward and be a positive force instead of look back and complain.  Like it or not, we cannot change the past, but have all the power in the world to change the way we act in the present and look forward to the future.&lt;a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/348"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-2722239835006012077?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/2722239835006012077/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=2722239835006012077' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2722239835006012077'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/2722239835006012077'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/your-life-vs-one-you-were-given.html' title='Your life vs. the one you were given'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-910253827163363695</id><published>2008-01-08T17:12:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-08T17:30:09.319-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Good Times</title><content type='html'>The last few days have been great, mostly because I've had the patience and peace of mind to enjoy what's going on.  For myself, I've been able to run, catch a few chapters in my book while the kids are playing on the playground, and manage to keep on top of housework.  I've also been able to laugh with my children while they dance, read stories at the library, watch a movie with them, and just BE with them. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The irony of the evening occurred when we came home from making birdhouses at the library.  Child #3 fell asleep in the car, much to my chagrin because I've recently discovered that naps=late late bedtime for him.  I got him out of the car and he proceeded to cry about everything, the show on TV, the location of his new birdhouse, the color of my hair (not really, but it sure felt like it), on and on.  In the car earlier I gave the kids the option of pizza, mac &amp;amp; cheese or soup for dinner.  #1 chose mac &amp;amp; cheese, #2 chose pizza, and #3 wanted mac &amp;amp; cheese.  The older two were more than happy with their choices, but #3 was of course a wreck, too hot, too cold, so I offered him pizza, but the plate was the wrong color.  By this time I just pulled out some spinach for myself, and he went crazy.  He had two bowls before he even attempted his pizza.  Oh, and he stopped crying, and is now happily playing with his brother &amp;amp; sister.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Good times.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-910253827163363695?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/910253827163363695/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=910253827163363695' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/910253827163363695'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/910253827163363695'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/good-times.html' title='Good Times'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-6135618124874006205</id><published>2008-01-02T21:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-02T21:42:09.951-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I've created a monster . . . Part 2</title><content type='html'>I admitted in my previous post about purchasing small things for my children, that sometimes it's worth $3-5 to avoid a struggle.  Today, I sadly realized this is much more my problem, than it is my son's. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This morning I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;ran&lt;/span&gt; into Target (is it ever possible to run quickly into Target?) to purchase a change of clothes for my youngest son who threw up in the car on our way to a funeral.  Just inside the door was the $1 Spot, and what did I do?  Picked out a small thing for each of my children.  Why!?!?!?!  No one was with me begging and crying for a toy, just me and my purse and my mission for an emergency change of clothes in case he vomited again.  I walked out feeling pretty good about my purchases (I also found a cool fancy jacket for myself on sale for $13), and it was about an hour later when it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I'm the one in need &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;of deprogramming&lt;/span&gt; just as much, if not more, than my son.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I'm the monster that needs recreating.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-6135618124874006205?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/6135618124874006205/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=6135618124874006205' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6135618124874006205'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6135618124874006205'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2008/01/ive-created-monster-part-2.html' title='I&apos;ve created a monster . . . Part 2'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-6336625510498912703</id><published>2007-12-25T12:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-25T13:23:48.565-08:00</updated><title type='text'>So many books . . . so little time</title><content type='html'>I love to read.  It's no secret that I have had books for years that I haven't been able to get to because every time I hear of a new one or see one at Costco or Borders (darn those 3 for 2 deals) I pretty much buy them.  It might be considered a problem, but I'm not in debt and I don't neglect my children or my life in general, but I definitely have a real aching for books.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm currently in the middle of one that's the first of three.  The third one I picked up at Costco because it had the designation from &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The New York Times&lt;/span&gt; as the best book of the year (&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Lay of the Land&lt;/span&gt;).  I thought that might be worth reading,  but when I opened it, I realized it's the third with the same character, although I can't tell if it's a series, or just the same main character.  Not wanting to be left out, I promptly ordered the first two (&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The Sportswriter&lt;/span&gt;, and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Independence Day&lt;/span&gt;) from paperbackswap.com and began reading.  Shortly thereafter a dear friend suggested we read &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Water for Elephants&lt;/span&gt;, which I picked up along with &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Love in the Time of Cholear&lt;/span&gt;, and she recommended Ann Patchett, so I bought &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Bel Canto&lt;/span&gt; which was on the "buy 1 get the 2nd for 50% off" table at Borders, and I picked up another Jodi Picoult (one of my favorite contemporary authors).  And my stack keeps building, but I don't have any more time in my day, darn it!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then we arrive at Christmas morning.  Wow!  Everyone is pleased with their gifts, all three children are happy (whew!!), my husband and I each bought the other an iPod nano, totally unexpected, and then there was a book from my sister-in-law to both of us.  It's called &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The New Kings of Nonfiction&lt;/span&gt; edited and introduced by Ira Glass.  He hosts a show called This American Life on NPR that is one of my favorite things to listen to.  I read the introduction and immediately thought, "What do I have to do to occupy everyone else in my house for the remainder of the day, so I can just read?"  (By the way, the premise of the book is pieces by journalists who have empathy for their subjects and get into the story in a way that is really unique for non-fiction writers.  I'm not doing it justice, but believe me, I was trapped) &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I read the introduction, Ira speaks about the authors and immediately I made a mental list to look for other things by those authors to get my hands on.  So not only am I in the middle of one book, with two more to follow, then I pick up this new one and have a mental list of umpteen authors to look for the next time I'm out or online. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Could this be the source of my inability to &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;be here, now&lt;/span&gt;?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-6336625510498912703?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/6336625510498912703/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=6336625510498912703' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6336625510498912703'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/6336625510498912703'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2007/12/so-many-books-so-little-time.html' title='So many books . . . so little time'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-5820930144719303153</id><published>2007-12-24T19:44:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-30T17:17:28.421-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I've created a monster</title><content type='html'>My child #2 is a mystery to me in many ways, but I'm afraid I've turned him into a retailer's dream, but a parent's nightmare.  A day doesn't go by that he doesn't ask to go to a store and buy something he wants.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the past we'd go somewhere and I would buy him something, a toy, a piece of candy, a book, whatever.  He would ask, and I thought to myself, "$3 (or some small amount) versus the fight if I say no . . . sure, no problem."  I hated to go out with my children and always say NO when they ask for things, so I would say YES instead. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, that has backfired on me.  Now #2 is so accustomed to buying something when we go into a store that he throws a fit, and not just whining and complaining, he goes into complete meltdown if I don't purchase something he wants.  Apparently he's a creature of habit, and I think it's time to form a new one.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-5820930144719303153?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/5820930144719303153/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=5820930144719303153' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5820930144719303153'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/5820930144719303153'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2007/12/ive-created-monster.html' title='I&apos;ve created a monster'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-4914596223187765231</id><published>2007-12-21T00:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-21T09:16:58.720-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Club Cards</title><content type='html'>Shopping gods, please tell me why I must have a club card in order to receive a deal on certain items in any given store. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not only am I opposed to having a key chain full of tabs to receive discounts, but I'm opposed to every store tracking my purchases.  I feel like they're following me around the store, looking over my shoulder as I shop and I don't like it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't think it's fair that in order to get a deal, I have to give the store all my information and swipe my card (or input my phone number) every time I shop.  They don't turn away people at the door, so why can't they just give everyone the sale price? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I certainly have the power of the purse, however I can't buy everything I need at Trader Joe's, or the neighborhood grocery store, selection is just limited.  I also shop at Costco, which my husband thinks is the ultimate "club card" that I'm rebelling against.  But I disagree and here's why:  in order to shop there, I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;must&lt;/span&gt; pay the fee to become a member.  They don't let anyone walk in the door, load their cart and then say, "Do you have a club card?  Oh, sorry, you'll have to leave now."  While they probably track my spending, they don't send me coupons &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;tailored&lt;/span&gt; to what I buy regularly.  Some people see the special coupons as a favor, I see it as Big Brother watching over me, or trying to steer me in certain directions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My solution . . . every time I shop at a grocery store that offers club savings, I arrive at the register and the checker &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;inevitably&lt;/span&gt; asks if I have a club card, to which I respond, "no." They will either swipe one they have at the register, or ask me if I want one. If the latter occurs, I say sure, walk out of the store and promptly dump it in the trash.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't figured out how much money I'm wasting for the huge corporation every time I throw  their card away, but I do recognize this as a flaw in my plan.  I don't want to waste resources, so maybe next time I'll recycle the card.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-4914596223187765231?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/4914596223187765231/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=4914596223187765231' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4914596223187765231'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/4914596223187765231'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2007/12/club-cards.html' title='Club Cards'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-7875597144585869966</id><published>2007-12-20T16:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-21T00:21:52.051-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Christmas cards, newsletters and the like</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"&gt;As long as we've had children, we've sent a Christmas photo and a letter or a card.  I like the opportunity to reflect on our year and share some highlights with 100 of our closest friends and family.  I love reading the letters as they pour in during the month of December.  Since we have lived in three different states during our married life, we have made many friends, and Christmas letters seems to be our only way of keeping up with many of them.  So I do it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"&gt;My best friend from high school and college has begun sending a Valentine's letter since Christmas is too hectic for her.  In one of those letters, she wrote about loving people;  people who loved her, (or sucked it from her as the case may be with two young children), and it was the first letter that I didn't read and say, "Oh that's great.  I'm so happy for them.  Thanks for catching us up," and then proceed to toss it into our box of cards.  I sat and pondered her letter, really thought about ways I can be more loving, give more people the benefit of the doubt, care more genuinely about those around me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"&gt;So last year, I decided to go for the non-traditional letter.  Here it is:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;Dear Family &amp;amp; Friends,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;    As I sit down to write this end of year letter, I am reminded of all the things we have accomplished as a family and individually.  It’s great to have a minute to pause and reflect.  I feel like those moments of reflection are few and far between because of our hectic and busy schedules.  I wish that &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;weren&lt;/span&gt;’t the case.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;    I love the mornings when we have small visitors to our bed and we can enjoy being together without rushing out the door to work or school.  This happened just the other day and we headed off to explore.  It was really cold, and we &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;couldn&lt;/span&gt;’t find one of child #3's shoes, and child #1 &amp;amp; I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;didn&lt;/span&gt;’t have a proper jackets, but we were able to find some caves to explore that were protected from the wind.  And the ground was mostly red sand, so it was soft enough for #3 to walk in, in only a sock (he had a shoe on his other foot).  We found caves that we boosted children #1 &amp;amp; #2 into where they threw rocks from their perches.  Husband played hide and seek with the older two while I played with #3 in the sand.  We drove home, had dinner, family night and everyone went to sleep without protest. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;    These are the days I wish I could catalog, not to say that the accomplishments &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;aren&lt;/span&gt;’t worth mentioning, but the true joys come from the days, hours, minutes when we are present with those we love.  When we can see the joy that emerges from #1's face as she sings with her local singing group.  Or when I steal a moment and overhear #2 say, “#1, I really like your skirt,” unprovoked and unprompted.  Or when #3 wakes up in the morning and just about jumps out of his skin to see me and gives me the biggest hug.  There’s nothing better than feeling his little arms around my neck.  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;    As we begin the new year, we will each continue to do things we love  (husband will go rock climbing and/or hiking early on Saturday mornings, I will run, cross stitch and read everything I can get my hands on, #1 will continue singing and doing gymnastics, #2 will try his hand at new sports, and #3 will melt everyone’s heart with his sweet personality), and the things we do because we’re human (husband will go work, I will start nursing school, #1 will continue with Kindergarten, #2 will continue in the 3s class, and #3 will still continue to melt everyone’s heart with his sweet personality).  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" &gt;    I wish each of you time each day to stop and recognize the beautiful gifts we’re given in the people that surround us.  I hope each of us can have times where we’re not running from one thing to the next, and we can take advantage of that time and enjoy the moment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:times new roman;"&gt;So when it was time to sit down and compose this year's letter, I read last year's, and just wanted to say "Ditto" and send out the same letter again.   I still want to enjoy the people around me.  I still hope I can take the time to be present in each moment I have, because I know I won't get them back.  I still hope to appreciate the things I have and not take them for granted.  Most of all, I wish life would slow down a little, that I didn't feel like I have to rush off to do anything, except play a game with my kids, or read them stories, and still be able to find time to do the things for me, like run, read and cross stitch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After assembling our cards this year, I didn't have time to come up with a new letter that reflected my feelings while wording them differently.  So I didn't send a letter, just a recent photo of our children in a nice card that took a long time to assemble.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I'll feel a little more creative around, oh maybe,  Valentine's day.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-7875597144585869966?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/7875597144585869966/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=7875597144585869966' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7875597144585869966'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/7875597144585869966'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2007/12/christmas-cards-newsletters-and-like.html' title='Christmas cards, newsletters and the like'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1371845817053724924.post-907388229120106053</id><published>2007-12-19T01:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-12-28T14:54:07.223-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What you might find at a Van Halen concert</title><content type='html'>Last night my husband took me to the Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Halen&lt;/span&gt; concert.  It has been a dream of his to see the "original" Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Halen&lt;/span&gt; since he was about eleven, so when tickets went on sale he was poised and ready for the best available seats (which just so happened to be in the 12&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; row).   I knew of Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Halen&lt;/span&gt;, prior to meeting my husband, but I am nowhere near the fan he is, but enjoyed it nonetheless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  We discussed the most recent shows we've seen: U2, Tool, and now Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Halen&lt;/span&gt;.  U2 has an incredible light show along with &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Bono's&lt;/span&gt; political message.  Tool was a little bizarre for me: disturbing images and I felt like I should have been home on my couch watching MTV because their video presentation took away from their live performance.  And then Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Halen&lt;/span&gt;, we decided they are just a party band, no agenda.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  When you're at the show, you will probably get a contact high from the four people around lighting up joints every 40 minutes.  You'll probably see ladies in red &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;bustiers&lt;/span&gt;, barely there leather mini skirts and five inch heals.  You'll probably see Diamond Dave in skin tight leather pants gyrating all over the stage showing off his sweet bow staff skills with the mic stand.  Or you might notice what I did. . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  This show featured Eddie Van &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;Halen's&lt;/span&gt; son, Wolfgang, on bass guitar.  &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;Wolffie&lt;/span&gt; is 16.  Yea!  Sixteen, touring with his dad, uncle and Diamond Dave.  WOW!!!  The thing that came through just as loud as the sex in the lyrics, and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;DLR's&lt;/span&gt; showmanship, was Eddie's love for his son.  It's not often that I see or notice a parent of a 16 year old the way I noticed them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  At one point the two were playing next to each other and went to part ways, but not before Eddie reached his arm around &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;Wolffie's&lt;/span&gt; shoulder and kissed him on the head.  Really!!  There were other times when Eddie gave him 5 and then waited awkwardly for the return that was a little late.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  There's always a point in the show where Eddie is on stage by himself.  It's basically a jam session with himself interspersed with bits and pieces of songs that have been on albums.  He came to 316, which is a guitar solo he wrote about/for the birth of his son, the very one that is now on stage with him.  (On a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;sidenote&lt;/span&gt;, 316 is &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;Wolffie's&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;birthdate&lt;/span&gt;.)  Anyway, when he started this section, he pointed to his right shoulder where his son's name is &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"&gt;tattooed&lt;/span&gt;.   During this part the big screen showed "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"&gt;EVH&lt;/span&gt; Wolfgang" on the guitar head, Eddie's line of guitars.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  Now I know we all love our kids and show them in different ways, so I guess when you're a rock star touring around the world, you show it in front of thousands of people, because that's where you happen to be at the time.  But how many of us can take our children to work and play alongside them as equals.  Maybe that's what happens when your dad is a rock star.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  What I didn't see was a teenager who was embarrassed by the things his dad did, but I wonder if he does.  I wonder if he ever rolls his eyes when his dad asks/tells him to pick up his room because no one can see the floor through the clothes.  I've seen the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"&gt;Osbornes&lt;/span&gt;, and this didn't look like that.  I wonder if Eddie ever went crazy with 2 year old &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"&gt;Wolffie&lt;/span&gt; because he poured milk on the table where his guitar was, or maybe he missed those times since he is a rock star.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1371845817053724924-907388229120106053?l=fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/feeds/907388229120106053/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1371845817053724924&amp;postID=907388229120106053' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/907388229120106053'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1371845817053724924/posts/default/907388229120106053'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://fromtheinsideout-me.blogspot.com/2007/12/what-you-might-find-at-van-halen.html' title='What you might find at a Van Halen concert'/><author><name>Sam &amp;amp; Sara</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17690449358733410968</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
