Just Pop the Damn Pill in my Mouth

I have a personal pharmacist who keeps me supplied with my bp medication. The only problem is my pharmacist brought me 100 mg of the meds, and I only take 50 mg.

Her: "So cut them in half."

My mother, who would willingly take my free 100 mg and cut them into fourths since she needs only 25 mg of the same meds, said the same thing.

Mom: "Just cut them in half."

Husband: "Cut them in half. What's the big deal?"

Well, for one, I'm not a pharmacist. I like that my local Target pharmacy gives me my pills whole in a cute little bottle with my name on it. I love that these pills are complete and small and easy to go down. The fact that they cost $25 for 30 pills is the only reason I have sought out a personal pharmacist and am willing to swallow half of a jagged-edged tablet. 

So in following their suggestion to cut the pill in half, I got out a paring knife and lay the tablet on the cutting board. 

Husband: "What are you doing? You can't use that knife. You need the butcher knife to cut that."

Me: "A butcher knife? My god, this pill is tiny."

Husband: "Doesn't matter. It will work better. Trust me." 

So, out came the butcher knife. I placed it into the groove down the middle of the pill, and I pressed down. 

Husband: "No, no, that isn't right. You have to put your left hand at the top while your right-hand holds it here at the bottom. Gently push down at the same time."

Me: "How about you show me, Mr. Big-Guy-Master-Pillcutter-Extraordinaire."

He took the knife, putting his right hand on top like he suggested. Gently he cut the pill in half. I examined the medicine. Overall, not bad except one side had a jagged area I'm sure to choke on.

Husband: "Now, you try."

I took the knife and imitated him.

Husband: "What are you doing? I told you the right hand should be at the bottom."

I followed his instructions, and he approved, nodding for me to continue. I did so. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Nada.

Husband: "What are you doing?" 

I ignored him and pressed as hard as I could with my right hand.

WHOMP! The pill broke into two pieces, one of which flew across the room. The other half fell to the floor, coming to rest beside my shoe. 

The cut, however, was perfect — no choking, jagged edges. 

Husband: "What are you doing?" 

Investing in a pill cutter, that's what I'm doing.

My Top Super Bowl Commercials

I spent the entire weekend watching football. Along with that, came watching commercials. Here is the list of ads that made me gig gig (that's a family hand me down meaning laugh):

• The advertisement for Citi credit cards where the man is dressing. He puts on an outfit, and then his wife brings him another outfit. He keeps putting on outfit over outfit until finally, he looks like the good year blimp, and his wife helps him into his coat and tells him to have a safe trip. I thought it was a commercial about how bad it is to check your luggage, but alas, it is for a credit card where you can earn points to help you get luggage (or whatever else you chose to spend your points on).

• In this commercial, a woman drives into her packed garage. It is so full of extra junk and so disorganized that she can not even get out of her car, so she climbs out of the trunk. The funny thing is that she acts like this is just the usual way all people park in their garages. I think it is for a storage company.

• This ad started with a woman and a kid pulling up alongside a scruffy man and his motorcycle. The lady asks, "Out of gas?" and when he answers in the affirmative, she screams, "Yes," and jumps out of the van to put down the seats in the back to make room for his motorcycle. Once they're all in the car, the woman turns to her kid and says, "Daddy just had to get a motorcycle, didn't he?" I loved it turned out to be Daddy because I was a little worried when she pulled over.

• The American Express commercial where a woman waits for the elevator and when it opens, Ellen DeGeneres is dancing inside to music on her headphones. The lady gets on, rolls her eyes, and the door closes. When it opens again, both Ellen and the lady are boogying down! You go, girls!

• The last one was another Citi commercial. This one had a man in sweats at the gym. Standing on the scale, it reads 249. He gets off, rolls his neck, stretches, puts on his headphones, and runs around the gym equipment in a small circle. He ends up back at the scale where he takes off his headphones and weighs himself again. Still 249. The voiceover says, "Want instant rewards?" I am dieting and exercising, and I felt that man's pain!

Children Shouldn't Play with Tweezers

In my stocking for Christmas, I received a pair of tweezers. They were needed. Santa had been watching through the year when I would traipse next door to borrow tweezers from my neighbor to pull out splinters in my children's hand. I do have tweezers, but they are rusted and thus not something I felt I could use on my children's delicate hands.

The new pair of tweezers are the best. They are coated so they won't rust, and they have a slant tip to make extracting hair easier.

I used them to pluck my eyebrows. First of all, let me say I know nothing about plucking eyebrows. I've never plucked my eyebrows until someone referred to my bushy eyebrows. Plucking to me meant standing in the bathroom before a mirror randomly pulling hairs I thought needed pulling. The results of this were sad brows.

Next, I tried reading magazines on the art of plucking. I watched make-up experts pluck models' eyebrows and attempted to imitate them. It didn't work.

Finally, I read an article that said you should leave your brows alone. The less one messed with brows, the better. I took that advice to heart. I haven't plucked my eyebrows in years until I got the tweezers for Christmas.

I have no idea what possessed me to pick up those tweezers, but when I did my brows began twitching, my eyes went to my mirror image, and I suddenly felt that they needed some plucking.

I started on my right eye. I attempted to channel Carmindy from TLC's What Not To Wear and her advice on brow plucking. I plucked and plucked, and when I stepped back to survey my work, I realized while the ends weren't bad, I hadn't done as well in the middle.

Now, my right brow has a hole in the middle. I debated doing the same thing to my left eyebrow to match and decided instead; I'd tell people I'd been in a fire because no way could I get the same hole on the other brow. I wanted to cry. This incident is the reason why I need an expert to dress me each day.

Lucky for me that I had a friend whose mother really did lose her eyebrows in a fire hazard. They never grew back, and so each morning, she draws on eyebrows with an eyebrow pencil. Unlucky for me, I don't own an eyebrow pencil. I did discover, however, that a dab of mascara in the brow covers up the hole until it can grow back.

In the meantime, I have retired the tweezers for splinter use only, and I've decided that on my next trip to the big upscale mall in Tampa, perhaps I will get some help on eyebrow plucking.

What Is wrong with wanting to watch some football?

I love football. That came to pass as my family watched football every Sunday. I can remember watching football as far back as the 1970s. My team is and always has been the Pittsburgh Steelers. I chose them because they were piped in each week back home in Indiana (the Colts still resided in Baltimore then), and I loved Terry Bradshaw and the 70s Steel Curtain.

When I moved to Florida, I brought my Steelers banner and hung it in my new apartment. Unfortunately, this area already had a professional football team, and my roommate and I (she a Philadelphia Eagles fan) could only watch on television the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. This was during their days of the creamsicle uniforms and even worse their last-place finishing days. We did not, however, give up on our teams. Our allegiance was still active. If the Bucs played the Eagles or Steelers, we rooted for the Eagles or the Steelers.

My husband was okay with my football obsession and understood where I would be on Sundays. Plopped own in front of the television. He usually left me alone and found other things to keep him busy. Each Sunday, I watched the Buccaneers. I was one of the many fans who ran screaming into the night when the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won the Super Bowl. I broke down and bought myself a Tampa t-shirt. But never once did I cheer for the Buccaneers when they played the Steelers. And never once did I not wear my Steelers shirt in the same week that I wore my Bucs shirt.

I will, and always will be, a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.

Last night the Steelers were in the playoffs. I wore my "Go to El" shirt (a reference to Antwan Randle El, a multi-talent for Pittsburgh and an Indiana college boy) and had my terrible towel at my side ready to wave. It was a brutal game to watch. The Steelers played like they hadn't a clue what was happening. I began to worry and started making pacts with the Steelers' God. I paced my living room, and then I swept my living room. I began cleaning my dining room table because sitting still as the time clocked down in regulation with the score tied was not something I could do.

My husband had left. He and the children know me well enough that they cut out to avoid my pacing, screaming, and signature LOUD hand clapping. They think I'm nuts, but they are accepting, and they leave me to my football. In the middle of overtime, my husband called to say he and the girls were at the now-closed mall with a dead car battery.

Are you kidding me? In the middle of overtime of the Steelers game? What was he thinking?

I will admit I did not handle his first phone call well. I told him I was busy, and I may have whined when I did so. I did, however, get back to him with the number of mall security so he could ask them to jump his car. 

By the time he called me back to tell me he was on the road once again, the Steelers had won. I was sobbing, and my legs shaking, and my head was pounding. I could barely talk when I answered the phone. 

Me: "We won. It's okay. We won." 

Looking back on this, I supposed he was expecting, "Are you okay? Did you get security?" 

I heard dead silence. Then--

Tom: "What is wrong with you?"

Nothing! I'm a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, and we're moving on to the AFC Championship game. 

Go Steelers!

Shopping at Nordstorms

I went to the big upscale mall in Tampa this week. The only reason I did this was daughter #2 attended a birthday party at Build-A-Bear. The thing about sending your children to a private school is that you get to hang out at ritzy places like Build-A-Bear, where you pay $40 to stuff and clothe a stuffed animal. I have been to this mall precisely three times. Each time I came to Build-A-Bear, and each time I left the mall without ever walking through it.

This time I was determined to explore it. I made sure that this would happen by taking my upscale I-carry-a-Coach-Purse-and-am-from New York girlfriend. She tolerates my ignorance of fashion and brand names and allows me to hang with her while she shops. I knew taking her to Tampa would get me through the mall and into stores, I have never stepped foot in before.

My children each brought their purses stuffed with the money from birthdays and allowances in anticipation of walking the mall. They were more excited about mall shopping than me. Madison purchased an outfit for her newly stuffed bear, Valentine, after the birthday party. She also bought a jeweled hair comb the size of my finger that cost $10. Darcy bought a gold headband, a necklace, and several handfuls of chicklet gum from every gumball machine we passed. My friend went into the Coach store and discussed buying a purse from the saleslady. I stood near the entrance and tried to keep my children's hands off of the merchandise.

By now, the mall was getting ready to close. We made our way back through Nordstrom's, the store where we had parked the car. (We parked it in the parking lot of Nordstrom's, not inside the actual store). My friend veered off into the purse department so that she could talk to another saleslady about another Coach purse, and we followed along. At this point, I began to panic. I intended to purchase something from this upscale mall, and while I did buy some hair products, it was from a well-known store in malls across the country and didn't count. Now was my last chance.

We got into the purse department, and my friend began her discussion. I stood and looked at the purse she was going to have to order as Nordstroms didn't have it in black. I admit I don't understand the need to spend that kind of money on a purse. I'm not sure what I would spend that kind of money on, but it wouldn't be on a teeny tiny bag that could only carry my cell phone and a package of Kleenex. Trying to look like I belonged in this department and didn't have disdain for people who spent fortunes on purses, I nonchalantly scanned items nearby.

My eye caught on a rack of thick, colorful slipper socks. While I live in Florida and wear only sleeveless pajamas and shorts to bed and turn the ceiling fan on so high that my husband wakes in the night and yells, "It's going to land," we do occasionally get some cold weather. Say in January or February, and I'm forced to concede and must cover-up. I'm not too fond of cold weather because my feet are always the appendages that suffer the brunt, and if my feet are cold, the rest of me is too, and if I'm cold, I am miserable.

I counterbalance this problem with warm slipper socks. Mine from last year were in bad shape, and so I made several hints regarding the sad state of said slipper socks, but while I received some lovely, comfy, warm pajamas from my good friend, Kelly, I did not get new slipper socks. Thus the rack of thick, colorful, Nordstrom slipper socks called to me.

Casually I strolled over to the rack, reached out, and dared to finger one. These were no Target slipper socks! Oh, the softness. The bottoms were adorned with various sized rubber dots to prevent slippage, and while only ankle-length, they had a bit of extra material that folded over to look like a real pair of socks. And the folding part was a different color from the foot part! How could I not partake?

I bought two pairs. At $12 apiece. The rail-thin model saleslady dressed in a leather sleeveless shirt coat with two buttons discreetly placed at chest level said to me, "Aren't these the best slipper socks, ever?" I responded in kind, and then she led me over to another rack where she pointed out a different type of sock.

These were in plain black, and while comfy, they were the brand I could get at Target. I own several pairs in various colors like lime green, and so with the full knowledge of a slipper sock expert, I alerted her to the fact that I already had these pairs, preferred the others, and claimed they would match my pajamas.

She rang up my purchases, wrapped them both in tissue paper as if they were Tiffany trinkets, and placed them in a small Nordstrom bag. Which I then twirled as I left the upscale mall complete in reaching my goal.

I can hardly wait to go back when its time for my friend to pick up her new Coach purse. I think I'll compare these slipper socks to those sold at Neiman Marcus.

Making a List is half the Battle

I have decided that I must find something to do with myself during the day besides organizing and cleaning my house. I have a project, but I think I need something weekly. Some of the other SAHMs and I have come up with several ideas:

• Movie Day
• Game/Card Day
• Scrapbooking
• Explore Tampa Day
• Take a cooking class
• Learn another language

At the time, the list sounded good. Typing it out, I'm bored already. It's not that I'm not busy in between that time when the kiddos leave for school and return from school. I am. Most of the time. But there is also time for other things, and I need other things for my mental health.

I'll think about it while I'm cleaning out closets.

Here We Go Again

My SIL Julie will have the aneurysms on the other side of her brain removed on February 24th. We thought we had more time, like several months before going through this again. I'm not sure we are over the first surgery, let alone ready for another. Then I realized how Julie must feel.

She doesn't have any memory of what happened and of what she went through. She has a gap in her life of over three weeks. She can hear the stories and read the website, but what must it all mean? She knows one day she was happily going along with her life, and then the next day, the life she knew changed. Despite coming so far so fast, she is discouraged. She can't do the things she did before. She doesn't look the same way she did before. Add that to being told there is still another surgery; I can't imagine what she feels.

Granted, the surgery this time will be different. Last time it was an emergency with one of the aneurysms bursting, causing damage and making the operation a higher risk. The second surgery should be more straightforward and not so as intense. The recovery will be quicker. But there are still risks, including blindness and loss of smell. It isn't going to be easy. Nothing is when they open up your head.

I read the stories on the websites. People of all ages who have aneurysms. People who have suffered strokes, loss of speech, paralysis. It's horrible reading. Scary. Julie didn't know what was happening in the first go-around, but now she has an idea. Now she's being told of the surgery, risks, and what to expect.

Waiting until the next surgery carries its risks. There is a 41% chance the aneurysm could rupture. When I was a child, a girl in my school had a mother with a brain aneurysm. I remember thinking that that woman had a ticking bomb inside her head. Back then, I guess you left them alone. Now they know better. Julie goes through the motions of living, but she worries about the aneurysm still inside.

On February 24th, she will wait no more. None of us will.

Sucking up

Today my brother called me, and during our conversation, he let me know he has been reading my blog.

Rusty: "My wife is making me read your website."

He told me he expected a daily entry since he was now reading. I was on my cell phone in the middle of the library, and he was somewhere in Indiana. Thus, I could not bow down before him and promise to get right on that.

There are three years, three months, and fourteen days between the two of us. I have always been the eldest. Rusty has always been the one in charge. Had the birth years been reversed, the roles would still be the same.

The first memory of my brother was the day he came home from the hospital. I have a vague memory of leaning over the front seat of the car and staring at this tiny bundle in my mother's arms.

That's it, and honestly, it could be I only know this from a picture and not from my memory. After all, I have very few memories of our days in Pennsylvania or North Carolina. My memories of my childhood begin in Indiana.

My brother was a cute kid. My favorite time with him was when we would swim at the pool at the country club. His little eyelashes would fan out and clump together to make these little stars above his eyes. He would swim up to me and hold on to me and bat his short star lashes at me, and I would melt. He was so cute. That is pretty much the only sweet memory I have of him.

Most of the time, my brother was a tormentor. He would pick on me. He would make fun of me. He would hit me. He loved to hit me with his fist on the side of my arm. To this day, I can pretty much still take that punch.

He would also poke me in my side. He would do it so much and so often that anytime he would circle me, I would jerk. I am ashamed to say that even today I still protectively cover my side when he comes near me. This, of course, makes him feel superior, and it's pretty much the way of our relationship.

There were times I'm sure when we got along. I remember playing board games with him. We had a vast neighborhood full of kids, and we played games inside and out. But most of the time, we fought. We would disagree about everything and everyone and end up fighting. It was a typical brother/sister relationship.

I was very proud of my brother. He was one of those kids that excelled in athletics. There was not a sport he couldn't do. Every single one he tried, he was heavily sought after by coaches.

He finally settled on golf. People would always pat my shoulder and ask me if I was jealous of him or felt left out. I remember being surprised people thought this of me because the answer was no.

I was never jealous of his athletic ability or his successes. I was very proud of him, and there were things he excelled in and things where I excelled. We weren't in a competition, and no matter how I tried to explain this to people, they believed what they wanted.

As we grew older, I desperately wanted a relationship with my brother. I loaned him the money to go on his first date with the woman he later married. And that date occurred on my birthday! Which goes to show you the way of our relationship. I had a birthday. He left to go on a date.  Okay, okay, in all fairness, he did come to my birthday dinner.

 I'm not sure, looking back on it now, what I  wanted. A relationship where we sat down and conversed honestly, maybe? One where he didn't constantly tell me what to do or how I was wrong?
We grew into adulthood and drifted into those lives. We saw each other when I came to Indiana and, later, after the children arrived, he would visit me. We talk on the phone now and then, and we email. He, of course, has no memory of abusing me when we were younger. I'm not sure what his memories are, but I think he wears a halo in them.

The last time my brother visited, he and I went out alone to pick up some dinner. He asked me about myself. How was I doing? What was I feeling?

In the course of the conversation, I told him my biggest fear was something happening to my husband and how I worry I'd never be able to support my children since I hadn't worked full-time in several years. He looked at me in disbelieve.

Rusty: "I can not believe you would worry about that. If something like that ever happened, I would take care of you. You're my sister. We're family. I will always take care of you if you need me."

Yep, that day when I peered over the front seat into those brown eyes, I stared at someone who would love me. No matter how little we see each other or how many times we poke and prod each other,and no matter how much we yell at each other, we're connected. We're family.

Plus, now that I know he's forced to read this blog, I thought I should schmooze him a bit.

It's a Beautiful Morning

In the mornings on school days, I love to wake my children by climbing into their beds and snuggling with them. Because they both go to school at different times, I can do this with both of them equally. I wake Madison first. I kiss her soft cheeks, and she puts her arms around my neck, and we lie there quietly talking.

I awaken Darcy next. I slip under her covers and kiss her little cheeks that smell of sleep, and she lets me while she sucks on her thumb. Eventually, she will roll over as if just awakening, see that it is me in bed with her, and she will throw her arms around me and squeeze.

It is one of the highlights of parenting and a fantastic way to start my day. I am determined to continue it as long as I can before they become too old for their mother to climb into bed with them.

I don't remember much about how my parents awakened me until I was a teenager. Then my father would usually do the honors as he was always up first.

My father was a morning person. He would awaken and roll right out of bed whistling. He started his day with a shower and a shave, and he whistled and sang the entire time he was doing it. I found it quite annoying as I was not a morning person. When my father would enter my room to wake me, he would flip on my light and sing loudly, "Wake up sunshine! Oh, what a beautiful morning...."

Now, as many of you know, I have a thing about lights, and this would irritate me to no end. I would snarl and yell, climb out of bed, and turn the light back off. Then, proving how I was the damn boss, I would jump back into bed. 

It never fazed my father. He would laugh, disappear, wait a minute, and then flip the light back on.

Finally, one day he asked me how I wanted him to wake me in the morning. I said softly and gently with minimal noise. 

Me: "Kiss me and quietly say, 'Good Morning, Cara, it is time to wake up."

The next day I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder and a kiss on my cheek.

Him: "Cara, it's time to wake up."

Me: "See, Dad, that is much better."

I stretched and yawned and felt at peace. My father smiled, whispered it was 7:30 AM, turned and tiptoed toward the door. When he got to the threshold, he flipped on my light and sang, "It's a beautiful morning!"

I will admit that I laughed.

Now that story is a favorite of my daughters. I like to tell it when they whimper while I snuggle with them. It is my way of saying I understand their feelings and that I'm gently easing them into the day.

Of course, that is not to say that someday I won't flip on their lights and sing to them. I am my father's daughter, after all.

She is the Miracle

Ever since my sister-in-law has recovered from her burst, aneurysm people everywhere have been telling us what a "miracle" it is. She had people who prayed for her, starting prayer chains all over the country in her name. 

She also had nonreligious people pulling for her. These people started and ended their days by sending healthy and good thoughts her way. Meditation groups formed. Others held healing sessions. 

All in all, she had many friends and family members on her side.

Now that she has recovered, both sides want to invoke the "miracle" label. The religious groups tell the nonbelievers that "miracles do happen" and that God has granted Julie this miracle. The nonreligious groups say the "miracle" is in science and in the team of doctors who worked on Julie.

Webster's dictionary defines a miracle in two ways:

• an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs

• an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

In essence, both sides are correct in their beliefs, according to Webster. 

For me, listening to both parties talk about the "miracle" is how in their hurry to educate each other, and in their insistence on being right, everyone forgets the real "miracle" is Julie herself.

Always Thinking Down the Road

I've decided to wear make-up. I rarely do because as soon as I put the goop on my face, it immediately begins itching, and I want to lie down and rub my face into the carpet. I only wear make-up on certain occasions.

Today while doing my morning swishing and swiping, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I was old. Gray hairs peeked from atop my head, my eyes were puffy with bags beneath them, and my face was blotchy and spotty. And the first thing I thought, well, the first thing I thought was, "who the hell is that?" and the second thing I thought was, "I should put on some make-up." 

Then I stepped back from the mirror and said, "Huh?" And I thought of how my face would itch and how I would have to go through the whole make-up removal process, and when I realized I wasn't going anywhere of importance, I just said the hell with it and decided to avoid mirrors.

Later while posting pictures on this site, I found a few photos of myself with make-up on my face. I didn't look so darn bad. Even with the extra 15 pounds bagged onto my body, I didn't look so terrible. My hair also looked good. My jeans sort of made me a bit slimmer.

That is when I realized that when I put on make-up, I do feel different — my self-image changes. My face with make-up caked on it doesn't scare me quite as much in the mirror. I tend to stand a bit taller and to feel more confident. Of course, the cosmetic industry has been telling me this for years, but I was young and tan then. Now that tanning has left my face scarred and wrinkly.

I'm not sure that this revelation will cause me to make this a daily habit, but I think that I will experiment with it. I will make myself up on some days and see how I feel, and then I'll compare that feeling to how I'm feeling on the days that I don't wear make-up. Who knows, maybe this will turn out to be a great science project for one of my daughters down the road!

The Horrors of Dieting

I am dieting. I'm on day three.

Today, while at the gym struggling on the elliptical trainer, I was reading a book, and in it, the main character entered her office to find a box of six cream-filled donuts sprinkled with colored sugar. Can I tell you how much my mouth watered?

I SAW those damn donuts in my head. I TASTED those damn donuts in my mouth. I saw the colored sugar and the vanilla cream oozing out one end when she bit into it. None of it described in the book. I just witnessed it right there in the gym.

Then the author did go into a description of the main character picking off some of the donut's colored sugar and putting it on her tongue! Jeez. The picture I had of that! I know that description is a necessity in books, but please, that line had me salivating.

Why is it that every time I go on a diet, I run into food? It's everywhere. On television, commercials show sizzling steaks, roasted potatoes, juicy hamburgers, and tasty desserts. Talk shows have cooking segments where sautéed chicken in a sweet roasted pepper sauce with herb-crusted red potatoes is cooked and tasted. Billboards urge us to visit restaurants and entice with pictures of massive shakes, fajitas, and brownies. Now, I'm reading about food in my mystery book?

When I'm dieting, these images are more intensified. It is endless. I'm doomed unless I cut out television, reading, and leaving the house, but even then, the past is in my head.

The character in my book only ate one donut. Somewhere there are still five left...

Happy New Year's I Realized

I have resolved this new year to spend more individual quality time with my girls. I pledged the same thing last year and did not feel like I accomplished this.

When my oldest daughter was born, we were inseparable. Then along came her baby sister, and my attention focused on her. When Madison went to school, I was able to spend time with just Darcy. Then they both grew older, and my role as a playmate diminished as they discovered friends and how to play with one another.

Now I feel like I'm missing out by not giving them quality "mother time."

Today we went to the library. The girls like to search for movies while I access the library's database. While I look for my books, they go into the children's section and look for their books.

Today after I had my book, I found the girls in the aisle of the children's section. Darcy was seated with a book in her lap, and Madison was over her shoulder, reading aloud to her. I smiled at my two sweeties and sat down at a table in the middle of the room. I opened one of my books and began reading, knowing they would want to work on some puzzles or listen to books on tape when they finished reading.

I was happily reading when Darcy arrived at my shoulder. She had a book and a cassette that went with the book. Our library has tape recorders at the table with headphones so that kids can listen to books quietly. Darcy asked me if I wanted to hear it with her.

Me: "No, thank you. I'm going to read my book."

Darcy: "Please?"

Me: (laughing at her batting her eyes) "No, I want to read MY book."

She sighed, moved to the other side of the table, and started to ready her tape. As I watched her, it hit me how I was missing a great opportunity. I didn't need to read right now. I had hours to read later, so I put my book down and went to join her on the other side of the table.

We put in the cassettes and plopped on our headphones and enjoyed the funniest book ever together. Later I did the same with Madison.

It started me off in the right direction --to accomplish my resolution this year.

Cheers to the New Year & Our Julie

We spent our New Year's Evening at the home of my in-laws. 

What an excellent way to start out the new year sitting at the table with Julie. 

To think back over these last seven weeks to what she has been through is mind-blowing. To see her now and realize how far she has come is remarkable. 

She is physically moving around cooking and cleaning. Her speech is still slow, but now she is carrying on a conversation and speaking in sentences and paragraphs. 

Each time I see her, she has made more strides. It is hard not to throw my arms around her, pick her up, and cradle her. 

I want to tell her how proud I am. I feel like she is one of my children doing something grand--and she has done something magnificent.

She fought for and won her life. 

You can't start out the new year better than that.

Happy New Year!